Anjelo’s words echoed in their ears, like a bell struck in a quiet hall.

So that’s how it was; Anjelo stood like a lone pine in wind, believing in his own hands instead of bowing to gods.

To Lucimia, in a world overrun by Dark Deities like weeds through ruins, that mindset felt ordinary, not shocking.

And he had guts; he called the Purification Deity a Dark Deity, like tossing a torch into dry straw, even after guessing we’d treat with a Purification Blessing.

He said it to a Purification Knight’s face, like drawing a line in wet clay and daring it to set.

Desty flared up first; anger surged like a spark on oil, and she reached for her sword, only to find the hilt gone, so she clenched her fist like a stone.

“The Purification Deity has helped countless people,” she said, her voice like a shield raised at dawn. “It kept them from living under a hanging blade; are those not facts?”

“Mm, they are,” Anjelo said, his tone as steady as slow rain. “But I still don’t buy it; what if it’s a Dark Deity’s ploy, a hook baited with mercy?”

“What Dark Deity helps humans?” Desty shot back, a steel wire twanging in her chest. “Our Blessings demand no price, no blood tithe hanging over us.”

“Some prices don’t show at once,” Anjelo replied, like poison steeping warm in a cup.

“Unreasonable,” Desty said, her breath like frost on glass. “It’s all your guessing. You’ve got no proof, while the Purification Church guarded humans for a century, as plain as daylight.”

Anjelo nodded to her retort, his gaze calm as a still pond; he didn’t ripple. “Yes, I’ve got no proof. I don’t need proof; I choose to think this way, like a traveler choosing a road at a fork.”

“You think a good deed proves a good heart,” he went on, like listing stones on a shore, “but I think it’s a team play with other Dark Deities.”

“Team play?” Desty blinked, confusion drifting like mist over fields.

“Tell me this,” he said, tapping the question like a drum. “Does the Purification Church target followers of Evil Entities?”

“Yes,” Desty said, her nod as crisp as a snapped twig.

“Then picture this,” Anjelo said, voice low as dusk wind. “Other Dark Deities spread taint and death to drink power like wolves at a stream, and the Purification Deity slaughters those Evil Entities and followers to drink power too.”

“In other words,” he continued, the words falling like black seeds, “they struck a pact. The Purification Deity clears other Dark Deities’ filth to grow itself, then trades intel like shadows passing notes.”

“It plants them elsewhere, gathers believers like nets gather fish, and it feeds. Then it unleashes its own believers to cull the others, grinding a cycle like a millstone.”

“All the victims are humans, like straw under the wheel; not one Dark Deity falls. Have you heard of the Purification Church slaying a single Dark Deity in these hundred years? Even a lesser one?”

He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking like an old boat on a gray lake.

“So this world runs under Dark Deities’ strings,” he said, his tone like a curtain falling. “They direct the stage, and we dance as puppets.”

The claim cracked over Desty like thunder; she stood frozen, thoughts stalled like a wheel in mud.

Lucimia, though, felt a flicker of wonder, like finding a mirrored moon in another well; she hadn’t expected to meet someone who shared her storm.

Yes, the same thought, like two paths meeting at a bridge.

Alvis once asked her if the Purification Deity might also be a Dark Deity, a question laid like a blade in velvet; he dealt in proof, so he kept it a guess, unlike Anjelo’s bare steel.

If the guess held, one knot came loose like a thread pulled from silk.

Why could Bazeroth slip into the Church so easily, and why did Elyssus seize on the Lancelot Family like a hawk on a hare? Because they wanted that thorn plucked.

Olivya was the first in history to slay a Dark Deity—uh, a Dark Deity? The word hung like smoke.

“Impossible. Absolutely impossible,” Desty snapped, shaking her head like a branch in gale; she felt her faith splinter like ice at thaw. “The Church’s books say Dark Deities are hostile; they can’t cooperate.”

“If the Purification Deity is a Dark Deity, it can write the books,” Anjelo said, the thought sliding like ink.

“This—” Desty faltered, tongue caught like a fish in net, then reached again. “Then you don’t believe in the Plague God? It’s this nation’s deity, and it helped the people here.”

“Oh, that one? I don’t buy it either,” Anjelo said, shrugging like a man shedding rain. “Why do you think I’m hiding here?”

Hiding here… Lucimia’s mind flicked like a lantern; he must be hunted.

She finally understood why a man who looked rich as jade was tucked in a remote village like jade in a clay bowl.

Anjelo tapped the table with his index finger, the rhythm like a woodpecker on bark. “Tell me, why did you become a Purification Knight?”

“Because—” Desty’s voice hesitated, like a kite tugging in mixed wind.

“Because what?” he pressed, gaze steady as a plumb line. “Faith in the Purification Deity, or to shield the weak and guard humans?”

“Because… the latter,” she said, the words settling like a stone in water.

“Then there you go,” he said, the answer neat as a knot. “Why speak for the Purification Deity?”

“This…” Desty felt the sense like a lamp lighting at dusk, yet something still snagged like a burr. “But the Purification Deity granted people the power to fight Evil Entities…”

Anjelo shook his head, the motion quiet as grass in breeze.

…

Lucimia stood aside, watching their debate spin like a mill with no grain, her patience thinning like tea poured thrice.

She didn’t come to hear arguments, to juggle truths, to clash beliefs like blades; she came to heal, then find the Time Ability User like a star in fog.

She would resurrect Yuna, settle Elyssus, then go home, and share a calm life with those who mattered, like sitting under a warm eave in rain.

She had no interest in any of this, like a traveler stepping past market noise.

Before they bled more time, she raised a hand to stop them, the gesture clean as a knife cut.

“Stop.”

Both of them turned to her, their eyes like lanterns swinging in a draft.

Lucimia drew a deep breath, steady as a tide pulling shore, then said, “I’m not here to hear you debate. I’m here to heal. Got it?”

“I know,” Anjelo answered, his words even as a level beam. “But I told you already. I refuse help from the Purification Church.”

Lucimia shook her head, the refusal falling like leaves. She pointed at Desty. “She’s the Purification Church. I’m not. I never once said I was with them.”

Anjelo searched his memory, riffling pages like wind through a book, and found she’d never claimed it.

He nodded, thoughtful as a craftsman at his bench. “All right. How will you treat me? I won’t accept power from any Dark Deity.”

Won’t accept? You’ll accept, she thought, the certainty hard as iron under silk.

Lucimia didn’t care; what she Devoured turned into her own strength, like rain sinking into soil. She wasn’t like other Dark Deities doing harm, so there was no fear.

But she couldn’t say she was a Dark Deity, nor that she held other Dark Deities’ power; she chose another path like water finding a low place. “I use Healing Magic.”

“?!” For the first time, Anjelo’s eyes widened, pupils bright as struck flint.

“Huh? Hu-huh?!” Desty’s mouth fell open, like a door blown by wind; she stared at Lucimia as if at a beast from legends.

What? Was it that shocking? The gaze pricked her skin like sleet.

Could it be… Healing Magic is truly rare here? Then Bazeroth, who used Healing Magic, was that impressive?

Oh, he was strong, like a thorned vine in a narrow path. That signature magic of his was a snare.

She only beat him because she caught an opening and used the Devouring Authority to swallow it, like a black tide taking a candle; that’s why he looked so useless.