Consciousness washed back like a returning tide; Lucimia’s eyes opened like dew-slick petals.

Fresh from the dark, dread clenched like frost around wire; she thought of Yuna first.

“Yuna!” She shot upright like a startled deer, gaze snapping to her side.

No pink-haired girl—just empty space cool as a snuffed hearth; a Fuzzy Orb tilted its head like a puzzled sparrow.

It looked at her as if chirping, “Yuna? Is that my name?” like a bird trying on a crown.

Not your name, she sighed inside like wind through reeds; you’re just Little Fuzzy Orb, fine.

Weight pressed down like rain-soaked wool; Lucimia hugged her knees and sat like a lone stone by a stream.

Yuna was gone, the fact cold as a winter well.

Her breath poured out like fog; grief spread in her chest like ink in water.

She didn’t even want to face Elyssus; weariness hung on her bones like wet iron.

But if she turned away, that storm would land; the world would repeat the first Great Reversion like a cracked bell ringing again.

She steadied the tremor first, emotion a shivering candle; then tossed thoughts outward like stones skipping a lake.

That rule… what even is it, she wondered, the question a net hurled into dark water.

She meant the rules of Reversion, trials twisting time like braided rivers.

Kill other testers, seize their abilities, pass the trial—each clause a thorn on a vine.

What is that even supposed to be, she thought, irritation snapping like a dry twig.

Are there others with powers like Yuna’s, hands on time and space like fishermen hauling a current?

How many are there, she asked the air like counting crows; would they come to kill Lucimia and take the prize?

What happens after the trial, she asked, breath thin as mist; do you gain the [Time-Space] Authority Power?

And who issued these rules, she thought, the thought a stone sinking; did the god of time and space decree them?

Is it a passing of mantles, or the making of a Dark Deity, the victor’s name storm-crowned?

If so, is something above the Dark Deity, like a mountain behind cloud?

Another realization flickered like a firefly; she could control Reversion, not trigger on touch like Yuna’s sparking fuse.

The cause was murky as silt; maybe Yuna’s eyes were hurt when she gained it, a scar that misfired.

She had no answers, only moth-like questions; she’d hunt them later, one by one.

She would do it to save Yuna, the vow nailed like iron to wood.

Authority-level Reversion might draw Yuna back like a net lifting a lost lantern from a river.

Whatever it took, she’d try; but one task loomed, a mountain before dawn.

Elyssus.

Now she held [Devouring], an Authority Power settling in her like a newborn star.

A newborn Dark Deity, yes, but her reach finally brushed the clouds where gods walked.

To solve Elyssus, she needed two answers, each a lock on an iron door.

First, the Magic Array.

From the start, everything circled arrays like moths around a lamp; she had to break them and stall Elyssus’s plan.

But Elyssus was sly as a fox in snow, plans layered like stacked masks in shifting wind.

She combed the last loop’s memories like fingers through wet grain.

She had devoured Val Town’s Magic Array and devoured Bazeroth, yet victory was smoke; Elyssus used Deception Power to ink over their memories.

It all looked neat and straight, a road laid like a spear.

It wasn’t; a crack ran through the logic like ice splitting on a pond.

First flaw: to use Authority Power, Elyssus needed the Sacrificial Ritual, possession anchoring like a hook in flesh.

If Bazeroth hadn’t triggered the array, how did Elyssus swing that power like a blade?

Two paths opened like forked trails.

One, other Deceivers had started Sacrificial Rituals, hidden in Val and Anding or sown farther off like seeds in foreign soil.

It could speak across distance like rolling thunder; ordering far Deceivers to light arrays was easy, and Lucimia couldn’t reach in time.

Two, it no longer needed a Sacrificial Ritual to wield Authority Power, a storm no longer needing sails.

It kept drinking energy, its grip on the world deepening like roots cracking stone.

It dared to guess Lucimia erased things like chalk; why couldn’t she dare her own guesses, knife for knife?

Second flaw: Elyssus itself.

Repeated Reversions thickened its reach like sea fog; arrays felt simplified, its descent swift as a hawk’s dive.

At this rate, it might cast off arrays, chains sloughing like a serpent’s skin.

So smashing arrays wasn’t enough, only buying time like sand piled against a tide.

In Yuna’s gifted memories, after they fled, four years drifted; Elyssus descended by its own power, a storm learning to walk.

That meant the needed energy was small, a thin wall ready to crack like brittle glass.

Two solutions stood like twin cliffs.

First, swallow Elyssus’s energy as in the first Great Reversion, a thorned path where she might lose control.

Second, destroy or bind Elyssus, a hammer or a cage under a cold moon.

The current prison’s bars were failing like rusted reeds; shove it into a new cage, and the wind might still hold.

If she could erase Elyssus, she could ignore zealots and arrays scattered like traps in tall grass.

But certainty slipped like a fish in shadow.

[Devouring] and [Deception Power] clashed by nature, two tigers on one mountain.

From testing, she saw the rule: when matched, both suppress, effects halved like dulled blades.

When unmatched, the stronger lands first like dawn drowning stars; the weaker lags or never strikes.

That’s how Elyssus deceived her while [Devouring] bit smoke.

So she couldn’t claim a sure kill, not yet.

She also couldn’t absorb Elyssus’s energy; that road veered toward madness like a bog path.

She knew too little of her Authority Power and the Dark Deity; skill and intake were fog and echoes.

One reckless pull, and she might snap like a bowstring.

Only one road remained—trap Elyssus in a new prison, chain on chain.

But how do I trap it, she thought, the question cool as rain on the tongue?

Lucimia leaned on the wall like a tired reed, head tilted to a sky washed blue as porcelain.

Trap it, and its followers would still toil like ants for their descending god; was she to scour the world like a broom through leaves?

If the energy stayed the same, a new cage might only hold longer, like thicker ice over a fierce spring.

No answer came; fatigue pooled heavy as dusk, and she only wanted to sit, to let the sky drift.

“Yuna…” she breathed, the name a warm coal; the girl’s shadow rose like a lantern behind silk.

Memories followed, bright as festival stalls; on the run, the end soured, but the days tasted sweet.

“Hey, this place is new—so much food,” Yuna had laughed, eyes curved like moons.

“Mmn,” Lucimia had answered, the sound small as a pebble in water.

“This one’s good, try it,” Yuna said, steam curling like morning fog from her hand.

“Tasty,” Lucimia murmured, happiness cracking like sugar.

“This one’s good too,” came the grin, cheeks blooming like peaches.

“Mm,” she replied, warmth spreading like tea.

“And this, and this,” Yuna insisted, piling delights like little moons.

“Mmph,” Lucimia managed, full as a cat in sun.

“This one, this one—these are all so good,” words tumbling like beads.

“C-can’t… eat… any… more,” she gasped, belly round like a drum.

As the reel of memory spun like a prayer wheel, Lucimia finally saw the root of Yuna’s easy fondness.

After devouring Yuna’s memories, she held the girl’s reasons like pressed flowers.

Yuna chose Reversion to save her because, in the first Great Reversion, she’d tasted a good life like spring after frost.

She wanted Lucimia to taste it too—magic academy days bright as banners, new friends like fresh wind, a new life like dawn.

Toward Lucimia, Yuna felt gratitude, thanks, and a budding like, each emotion a petal on one branch.

Lucimia had filled days Yuna never had, mending old winters like quilts over thin shoulders.

Maybe that’s because Lucimia herself was mending a past life, needle working in the dark like a quiet star.

“Hmm…” Lucimia stared out the window, thoughts drifting like clouds with nowhere to land.