Lucimia checked the back of Desty’s head, her gaze smooth as moonlight on water; a bruise bloomed like a crushed plum, with blood beading like cold dew.

“External head trauma, plus intracranial bleeding? No clue how long it’s been…” Her voice fell soft as mist, then steadied like a drawn bow. “Forget it—try first.”

She raised her hand like a reed reaching for wind, then froze mid-air like frost on a blade.

“Uh.” She glanced back; the little girl stared, eyes round as full moons, curiosity fluttering like sparrows.

“You. Turn around.” Lucimia’s tone landed like a pebble into a still pond.

“Oh…” The girl drooped like a wilted leaf, yet she turned obediently, as quiet as snow.

She knew Uncle Anjelo never let people crowd in when treating patients, like a healer guarding a hearth; maybe all doctors had rules like a fence of bamboo.

Not really. Lucimia just didn’t want anyone seeing her use Authority Power, her secret coiled like a snake in a hollow log.

She was in a strange place, a lone boat on unknown currents; showing a Dark Deity’s power in front of others might stir hornets.

Well, not a misunderstanding. She was a Dark Deity, a shadow behind the lantern; she simply didn’t want people knowing, because that would be a storm of trouble.

She targeted the bleeding in the skull, thought sharp as a needle, and used the Devouring Authority.

Black shadow slid from her palm like ink in water, circled Desty’s head like a dark halo, then flowed back to her hand like a recalled tide.

Soon, Desty’s fingers twitched, a leaf trembling at a breeze.

“As expected? Hmph, of course it’s me.” Warm pride rose in her chest like tea steam.

While waiting for Desty to wake, Lucimia let her eyes drift to the girl, calm as starlight on a well.

“You. What’s your name?”

“Shebelle.” The answer snapped crisp, like a twig.

“Oh. Nice name.” Her voice fell quiet, thoughts curling like smoke.

She weighed her next steps, stones on a go board under rain.

She’d solved the octopus incident while wearing Elyssus’s face, a borrowed mask glittering like frost; the aftermath would roll in like a tide.

If the Church decided Elyssus was Lucimia, what then? Family would be lanterns in the wind. Would she be wanted, hunted like a stag?

Someone must’ve seen her devouring that octopus and saving Desty, eyes like lanterns along a river; maybe it wouldn’t go that far.

Even if not, Desty could… testify, a shield like an umbrella in sleet.

Then there was the Dark Deity who could revive Yuna, a star somewhere behind clouds; or she could try to complete the rules of the [Space-Time] Authority Power, a clock she might coax to turn back.

These “rules”—were they a passing of the torch, like fire from torch to torch? If not, were they the seed and soil where Dark Deities sprouted? Were Dark Deities born from human shadows, like night from dusk?

The Dark Deities here weren’t quite the same as the ones in stories from her last life, echoes in a different cavern.

Oh right. One last thing.

She needed to go home, a compass needle tugged by the pole star.

Yes. That was that, a knot pulled tight.

With her goals set like stakes in earth, Lucimia returned her mind to the present, a boat nosing back to shore.

First, find out where this was. Then ask around for anyone with miraculous powers, like sparks in the dark—best tied to time, to healing, to pulling souls back like fish from a net.

She blinked, a firefly flash, and looked at Shebelle. “Was it you who hauled us from the river?”

“Mhm!” Shebelle nodded hard, like a drumbeat.

“Oh, thank you.” Her gratitude was a small lantern offered in rain.

“No need to thank me, Savior-sister!” The words rang like a bell in a quiet shrine.

Lucimia frowned, a ripple crossing still water.

She crouched, hands on her knees like a traveler by a campfire. “Why do you call me a savior?”

Shebelle gathered words like grains of rice before speaking. “Because I made a wish to the river god, hoping this plague would be wiped out. Then Sister floated across from the far bank, like a flower on the current. And the way you helped that other sister just now—that’s how a doctor moves. Uncle Anjelo treats patients like that too.”

“And you cured her in a blink; I saw her fingers move, like spring shooting through frost. You’re stronger than Uncle Anjelo—sometimes he can’t fix people. Doesn’t that mean you’re the Savior? The river god must’ve sent you to save us!” Her excitement hopped in place, two little jumps like sparrows on a branch.

What on earth…

Lucimia’s mind went foggy, like a boat lost in morning mist.

River god. Plague. So—there was a plague here?

She straightened and scanned the area again, her gaze sweeping like a cold wind; beyond the desolation, the corpses’ twisted states did look like they’d been gnawed by a virus, teeth like frostbite.

Wait—plague!

Fear stabbed first, quick as lightning; she hurried to use Authority Power, weaving protection for herself and Desty like a thin, clear veil.

Good thing that kind of warding didn’t cost much energy, a candle’s worth; still, it spooked her like a startled deer.

Doctor, savior—she was neither. She wasn’t a doctor, nor a saint; truth was, she had her own path to walk, a narrow trail in a dense wood, and she didn’t want to linger.

She wasn’t noble; dealing with Elyssus had been for herself, a blade sharpened for her own knot.

And wishing to a river god… that was too neat, like thunder after a cue.

Thinking that, Lucimia said, voice flat as a calm lake, “River gods aren’t real. There’s no river god—just coincidence. So I’m not a savior.”

The words fell—and she regretted them at once, a pebble sinking fast.

What if there was a river god? Who could swear by the sky?

Even if not, maybe “river god” was a local custom, reed-flutes and all; breaking others’ beliefs felt like snapping a sapling.

She wasn’t a good person, but she wasn’t a bad one; she wouldn’t stomp a nest for sport.

Before she could add a gentler line, the girl spoke first, bright as sunrise.

“You think so too, Sister? Uncle Anjelo says the same. He says there are no gods, never believed. He only trusts his medical skill, like hands steady as rock. He also says only doctors can end plagues. Uncle Anjelo is a doctor. He doesn’t believe in gods. You don’t believe either. That means you’re a doctor. Doctors end plagues, so you’re the Savior!”

“….” Lucimia went silent, her thoughts a tangle of reeds.

Did this girl come born with a talent for sophistry? It looped like ivy but somehow held.

“Sigh.” The breath left her like wind through chimes. She really didn’t want to stay, yet she didn’t want to crush this child’s spark.

And this Uncle Anjelo the girl kept praising—who was he, a lone lantern in the dark? Didn’t people here all worship the Purification Deity? So there were doubters, stones poking above the stream.

Speaking of the Purification Deity—why hadn’t the Church come to deal with the plague? With their reach, it should be easy, like lifting a curtain.

Thinking that, Lucimia asked, voice cool as shade, “Why hasn’t the Purification Church come to end this plague?”

“Um…” At that, Shebelle faltered, words snagged like cloth on thorns.

After a small struggle, she spoke, slow as sap. “There… isn’t a Church here…”

“?” Doubt pricked Lucimia, a thorn under skin; then a bad hunch chilled her like drizzle.

“Hold on. Another question. This is Luke Village, right? Which town governs it? And which country?”

The girl bit her lip, brow knotted like twine. “Grandma said to the west is Jaha Town, managed by some Count Jaha. The country… seems to be the Bannubi Empire.”

“Bannubi Empire…” Lucimia’s heart sank like a stone into deep water.

How far had she drifted, a boat carried by a black tide?