Ugh, why chew on this, like a cow on dry straw?

Am I really planning to help them, like throwing a candle into rain?

No—my time’s a shrinking dusk, and my patience a cold ember.

Lucimia has knots to untie: Elyssus’s faithful and their Magic Array, and that Time Ability User, all like thorns in a sleeve.

She can use Reversion, but the truth must be pinned within five days, like butterflies to paper.

On the last day, she’ll board a boat that cuts the mist like a silver blade.

How could she spare hours to cure this place’s plague, a gray fog clinging to the trees?

Besides, she can’t, her skills a cup that won’t hold that storm.

Oh? Help Desty investigate, like chasing shadows?

Help that ungrateful wolf, teeth white as frost?

No, not a chance; she still hasn’t apologized, the word stuck like a fishbone.

Right—I’m still mad, anger coiled like a snake; I’ll ignore her, stone-cold.

Humph, a tiny spark popping in the air.

Thinking that, Lucimia gives Desty a dainty snort, then quickens her steps like rain on slate, leaving her behind like a trailing leaf.

“Hey? Why are you walking so fast, like wind through reeds? We haven’t even rested.”

Desty hurries after her, feet drumming like small hooves.

Lucimia doesn’t answer; she walks on alone, gaze straight as an arrow.

They stand where a forest once breathed, a ribcage of land.

All around, withered trees rise, leafless as bones, only trunks and scattered branches.

Some branches peel off before Lucimia’s eyes and drop to the ground like brittle glass.

Without leaves for cover, the view opens wide as a lake.

Anjelo had said to go straight.

See a towering tree, then turn left and keep going, like following a river.

But at a glance, Lucimia sees no giant ahead, only empty horizon like bleached silk.

Or rather, no towering dead giant, bark gray as ash.

She suddenly realizes something, a pebble striking the pond of thought.

“How long to reach that giant tree, if we start from here, like ants crossing a field?”

Great—she forgot to ask Anjelo the time, the question blown away like dust.

He never said how long, his silence flat as a stone.

If night falls and no silhouette shows, they’ll sleep on the spot, like foxes curled under stars.

Worst of all, they can’t fly, wings clipped like paper cranes.

Lucimia lifts her face to the sky, a porcelain bowl of blue, and sees no grid or sensing Magic Array.

So we walk, feet ticking like beads.

Thinking the road might run long, her calves go soft like wet clay.

“Sigh—guess we walk,” she breathes, voice drifting like steam.

At least the air is clean here, clear as washed linen, with little rot pricking the nose.

They’re far from where people live, so fewer corpses lie around, the ground quiet as a shrine.

One thing is odd; a forest should teem with animals and beasts, yet none appear, only a silence like hoarfrost.

“Ran off, did they, like deer before thunder?” she mutters.

After another long stretch, Desty finally falters, steps wobbling like reeds.

“Wait, Lucimia,” she calls, voice thin as thread.

“What is it?” Lucimia turns, her shadow swinging like a pendulum.

“Why don’t you stop? You’re a mage, right? How aren’t you tired, when the sun beats like a drum?”

Desty pants, breath clouding like a kettle’s steam.

She feels like a fake Swordmaster, edge dulled like a rusty blade.

Lucimia snorts, a thin blade of mockery. “It’s just you being weak, like paper in rain.”

Desty braces her knees, breath rasping like a saw, speechless.

Truth is, it isn’t Desty’s fault; Lucimia used a small trick, sly as a cat.

She’s running a buff to restore her stamina, sly as a wisp.

It turns body drain into mana drain, like swapping buckets in a well.

Her mana is full, a deep well that won’t dry.

Mad at Desty, she refuses to cast it for her, a neat little punishment like a pinch of salt.

The sun hangs over them, a bright coin at noon.

Grumble-grumble, a hollow drum in her belly.

“Um… Lucimia, what do we eat for lunch, when shadows are short as knives?”

Eating—you only think about eating, like a sparrow pecking nonstop.

Lucimia wants to snap that, but she swallows the words, like a stone sinking.

She flicks her left finger and draws from her Storage Ring a slice of strawberry cake, pink as dawn.

Its aroma coils like spring wind, and Desty looks even hungrier, eyes shining like wet grapes.

“Wanna bite?” Lucimia’s mouth quirks, teasing like a cat’s paw.

“Want,” Desty says, swallowing, throat bobbing like a buoy.

“Here,” Lucimia says, hand steady as a branch, offering the cake.

“Really? Thanks!” Her smile blooms like a small flower.

Just as Desty reaches out, Lucimia snaps the cake back and stuffs it into her own mouth, quick as a sparrow.

Her cheeks puff like buns, and she mumbles while chewing, “Mmm, so good.”

Desty’s hand freezes midair, stiff as a dry branch.

Swallowing, Lucimia pulls a bottle of honey yuzu tea with ice from the Storage Ring and takes a happy gulp, like drinking sunlight.

“So good, sweet-sweet,” she says, sneaking a look at Desty, eyes fox-bright.

Desty quietly pulls her hand back, motion small as a fading wave.

She’s about to cry, tears bright as dew.

Enough—no more teasing; the wind in Lucimia’s chest settles like dust.

She drains the last sip and asks, “Don’t you have food in your Storage Ring?” Her voice cool as water.

“…No,” Desty says, voice low as embers.

“Then what do you have?” Lucimia asks, one brow lifting like a feather.

“I have…” Desty empties her Storage Ring, items tumbling out like shells.

Some casual clothes, a comb, a towel, a few novels, a couple of silvers, and even undergarments, lace thin as frost.

Wait—it looks like her whole life, poured out like a stream.

Could it be the Church’s Purification Knight is actually poor, pockets hollow as gourds?

Her priciest thing might be the Storage Ring itself, shining like a lone jewel.

No wonder at Lucimia’s family banquet, Desty kept wolfing down food, like a starved cat; maybe she’d never eaten like that.

It makes sense, tracks marked like footprints in damp sand.

Seeing her reach for the last intimate piece, Lucimia waves her hand to stop her, swift as a sparrow.

“Stop! I get it. Put them back,” she says, voice crisp as snapped twig.

“Oh.” Desty packs the items back into the Storage Ring, motions neat as folding paper.

Lucimia sighs, a thin breeze slipping past her lips.

She draws out a skewer of roast meat and hands it over, aroma curling like smoke.

“For me, for real?” Desty asks, eyes wide as moons.

“For real,” Lucimia nods, firm as a nail.

“You won’t yank it away?”

“I won’t,” she says, words solid as stone.

With that promise, Desty reaches out, careful as a deer, and devours it, like fire catching dry straw.

Afraid she’ll choke, Lucimia gives her a cup of water, clear as a stream.

“Mhm, so good! It’s even hot,” Desty says, delight sparking like fireflies.

“Yes, still hot,” Lucimia answers, smile small as a crescent.

That’s the Storage Ring’s wonder; once inside, time sits like still water, and nothing changes.

Lucimia’s ring holds money, food, and pretty clothes, all packed for a runaway path she’d planned, like bread for a journey.

Now it finally proves its worth, shining like a well-used blade.

“Wait—Time Halt?” Lucimia’s eyes widen like lanterns.

She looks at the ring on her finger, thoughts rustling like leaves, and a question rises.

Who invented the Storage Ring, this little pocket of sky?

Space magic alone can store things, yes, but why doesn’t time move, why does rot freeze like winter?

Lucimia knows space magic; a ring of only space would open a spare room, yet time would still flow, like a river.

Rot would still rot, mold would still bloom, like moss on stone.

Thinking of her own Reversion, Lucimia forms a bold guess, sharp as a beak.

Was the inventor a Time Stasis Bearer?

Lucimia murmurs to the ring on her finger, words falling soft as ash.