The old man was a fox in worn fur, bending like a willow to any wind.

That put thorns on the path.

But not for Lucimia, whose smile hid a blade under silk.

She licked her dry lips, and while their eyes drifted, her spell flashed like a dart of sun, straight into Desty.

White light flooded Desty like a lantern flaring, and in the next heartbeat she vanished like a snuffed candle.

“You can use Teleportation Magic?” Bazeroth stared, eyes wide as moons, helpless as a tied hawk.

Where did Desty go? The answer was written like tracks on fresh snow—Lucimia had sent her to the Magic Array.

Lucimia had utterly mastered Teleportation Magic, calling it like a coin flicked from a sleeve.

You thought Yuna’s repeated Reversion only let her learn the Magic Eye and empowered high‑tier magic; under the lamplight of repetition, she’d flipped through other spells too.

Book learning has a ceiling, a roof of clay; without the academy’s stores, it’s wiser to polish the blade you already hold.

That was her thought, a still pond with one clear ripple.

“Hmph. You fighting me now, or waiting for Desty and making it one against two?” Lucimia hung above like a hawk on a cliff, looking down at Bazeroth.

She felt different from before, a winter knife of a mood; the scent of a Dark Deity clung like cold incense.

No more fretting over faces or whispers—she moved when her heart stirred, like thunder without warning.

You thought she’d trade words with Bazeroth to win Desty’s trust; once she might have, but now she’d upended the chessboard with a single throw.

Even the way she hovered carried that shrine‑cold poise, a deity’s mask with no warmth.

Olivya’s shadow had seeped into her, like dye into silk, and even she hadn’t sensed the color changing.

Right now she wanted only to cut down Bazeroth and Regino’s father, like felling two trees with one axe.

Kill them, and vengeance would be sated; who knew, the giant octopus crisis might crack like ice underfoot.

If Bazeroth were swept from history, his footprints would wash away like tide on sand; even the Magic Array in Val Town would be gone.

Her strange effect seemed to brush past even Elyssus, like fog swallowing a road; those she swept away would be forgotten, even by the giant octopus.

Unless Elyssus had set his veil beforehand with Deception Power, a curtain drawn before dawn.

Once the plan collapsed, it had to rebuild, like ants carrying new earth to a ruined nest.

That wouldn’t be Lucimia’s burden; rebuilding would take ages, a long winter’s weave, and she could lie low like a sun‑lazy cat.

She’d play and feast, filling the empty bowl left by her past life with warm soup.

“Wasn’t the Lancelot Family’s young lady a shut‑in hedonist, blind to the world?” Bazeroth edged back like a crab at tide, wary of a sudden bite. “Why do you look like an Eighth Rank Mage?”

A mage fears a blade at the throat; distance is a rampart of air.

“You’re right,” Lucimia said, nodding once like a bell struck clean. “I really don’t care for the world, don’t study, and only chase pleasure.”

“You think I’ll buy that?” he snorted, a bull stamping frost.

Feeling the tilt of status like a misbalanced scale, he tapped his staff to the grass; his body rose smooth as a reed lifted by wind, meeting Lucimia in the sky.

“As an Exorcist Family, you’re wrecking the Purification Deity’s Magic Array,” he went on, words coiling like smoke. “I know your exorcist tricks, and the Exemption Deity is a true Dark Deity.

It tolerated you because your Blessing had no side effects; maybe you’ve worshiped the Exemption Deity all along.

You’re an evil house, and keeping you at a mere count was right as rain.”

“Heh.” Lucimia’s laugh rang light, like beads clicking on a string.

Even now he kept acting, a stage with no audience, curtains flapping in an empty wind.

“Drop the act. You’re the cultist, aren’t you? A believer of Elyssus, a Deceiver,” Lucimia said, blade‑plain. “Misdirection plus a Deception Blessing to mask the Magic Array—you think I don’t see the paint under the varnish?”

“You—!” Bazeroth’s finger shook like a twig in a gale. “Fine. No wonder. My lord chose well—your Exorcist Family must be uprooted.

You’re a nail in the eye and a thorn in the flesh.”

He struck first. The staff tapped the air, and flames curled up like snakes from a brazier; the swirl thickened and birthed a colossal firebird, wings beating like a forge, diving at Lucimia.

He knew when Desty returned, it would be a two‑wolf hunt; she was only a Fourth Rank Swordmaster, but with Lucimia tugging his vision, their fangs would find purchase.

No war of attrition—he needed lightning, not rain; so he opened with thunder.

Lucimia moved quick as a startled swallow; she pulled the gathered stormclouds over her head, and heavy rain hammered the firebird like a waterfall, trying to drown its flame.

“Dream on,” Bazeroth smirked, floating like a spectator at an opera, hands folded. He didn’t even lift a second spell.

Rain pounded that flaming bird, but the expected hiss and die never came; the flames roared higher, bellows feeding a forge.

The firebird shrieked, wings thrashing like burning banners, then arrowed for Lucimia.

“What the hell?” Lucimia’s heart dropped like a stone in a well. “Water can’t douse fire? Aren’t elements supposed to counter?”

“Hahaha. Didn’t see this coming, did you?” Bazeroth’s laugh snapped like dry kindling. “This fire carries an undying trait. Common water does nothing—worse, it feeds it.”

Elements with traits? The thought shocked her like cold rain; she’d never seen that in any book.

Of course the books don’t spill every secret; the academy hoards the real scrolls behind carved doors, teaching only those under its eaves.

Bazeroth reeked of that school’s incense.

She eyed the firebird, face set like stone. Its flames climbed fiercer; her rain vanished to steam that coiled up like ghosts.

With a sigh, she banished the cloud, folding the sky like a closed umbrella.

If she couldn’t break the spell, she’d cut the root; no need to wrestle branches in the wind when you can fell the trunk.

As the firebird was about to crash down, she used Instant Movement—whoosh—slipping away like a fish through water.

She blinked into place behind Bazeroth, a Wind Blade shaping in her palm, a glass guillotine scything for the back of his skull.

For Lucimia, a single hit would trigger her miraculous effect; after the fight with Cole, in case Bazeroth sprouted tentacles, aiming at the brain was the surest cut.

“?!” Bazeroth’s nerves snapped tight like bowstrings; adrenaline flooded him, and he wrenched his head ninety degrees like an owl, letting the blade hiss past.

He shot away at once, a loosed arrow seeking empty sky.

“Whew. That scared me. Instant Movement is nasty,” he muttered, laying Healing Magic on himself as green light set his neck back like a jointed toy; sweat gleamed like dew on his brow.

Lucimia’s breath hitched with regret, a pebble missing the pond’s heart by an inch.