Lucimia drifted before the iron door of 1201, circling like a shadow in a lantern’s glow; behind it, the silence felt padded, like wool-lined stone.

By the blond boy—no, he had a name now: Gendi—silence made no sense, like a storm cut from the sky.

At his capture, he’d raved like a wounded wolf; caged, he shouldn’t have lain quiet as a winter pond.

Irritation pricked first, like sand under the eyelid; then thought followed, slow as an old clock’s hand.

She had Devoured the boy’s gift, like a tide taking sand; if she used Reversion, what he’d done with time might wash away.

Or the true Time Ability User might grant him again, like a candle relit from a hidden flame, and nothing would shift.

She hadn’t Devoured the time acceleration ability, only its acceleration effect, like scooping firelight rather than coals.

She could control the Devouring Authority now, like reins in sure hands; she could take power into herself without erasing its trail.

Before this, her Authority Power had slept like a stone under snow; those she killed had been wiped out, swallowed like ink in water.

Now awake, she could choose, like a judge by a brazier, whether to Devour a being’s existence or let it stand.

One thing gnawed, like a rat in the walls: she Devoured an effect, not the root—so why couldn’t she run with that borrowed wind?

It felt as if the Time Ability User sensed her, reclaiming the gale like a kite on a string; but could a Time Ability User pull gifts back?

Or did time’s own rules allow recall, like a river taking back a stray branch after flood?

Her mind snapped back like a bowstring; she fixed her gaze on the iron door, cold as a night river.

What should I do? The question rose first, like mist; the plan formed after, like footprints in dew.

Open it outright? Probe for alarms, mark their nests, then use Reversion and Devouring to swallow the alarm like a moth eats cloth?

Yes. That could work, like a needle slipping silk.

She moved as the corridor lay empty, like a fox on snow; her body folded back into a girl’s shape, hair falling black as ink.

She kept the Invisibility Spell tight as a veil; Imagerecording Stones watched like glass eyes, patient as owls.

She reached out and pushed the window-slit in the door; the little square gave way with a soft clack, like a shell pried open.

No alarm sang, only stillness, like a bell held in a gloved hand; it made sense, since she hadn’t opened the main door.

Good. Through this slit, she could Devour the boy’s memories, like drawing water through a reed.

Right—why wait for night like a timid cat? Why scout again when the fish already rose?

Pleased with the spark, she crouched, breath tight as a knotted ribbon; she put one eye to the window and peered in.

Her pupils pinched hard, like ice biting glass.

What she saw slapped her chest cold as river water—the boy named Gendi lay dead inside, like a candle crushed under a heel.

He hadn’t just died; he’d been brutalized, like grain pounded to paste—everything but the head was hammered into meat.

Blood and shredded flesh clung to the walls like red moss; the lone head sat on the floor like a dropped stone.

On that young face, terror had dried like frost; it stuck to his features, brittle and pale.

The blow of it shoved Lucimia back two steps, like wind off a cliff; she clapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed bile like smoke.

“Gendi’s dead? No process at all? And… this was torture?” Her whisper felt thin, like thread over a blade.

Now the quiet made sense, like a snuffed wick; silence always follows when breath leaves the room.

Did the Bannubi Empire handle murderers with torture, like wolves running the court? No process, just the axe?

Then what about the others here, like fish in the same net?

She popped open the window of 1202, quick as a sparrow’s peck, and looked in like a lantern’s eye.

A man lay sleeping on the floor, chest lifting like tide; his breath drew and fell, steady as a saw.

How was he fine, like a stone in the stream that water spared?

Her notes had marked 1202 as a serial killer, a many-times butcher, like a thorn bush of crimes; yet he still breathed behind bars.

A sour scent rose in her heart, like milk turned; something was wrong.

The blond boy might not have been a simple robber, like a pickpocket in a crowd; he might have stood with the pro-deity faction.

The soldiers looked like Independents, steel bright and hearts hot; they might have carried a grudge and swung a private hammer.

That morning, a thin man of the pro-deity faction had faced the Independents like a sapling against wind; a soldier kicked him to death in the dust.

Gendi had stepped out and killed that soldier, blade clean as winter light; he’d said the soldier skipped due process, but he’d exposed his own banner.

This smelled like a struggle between two camps, like two rivers grinding one bank.

She let out a long breath, like steam from a kettle, smoothing panic that fluttered like moth wings.

“Forget it. Not my affair.” The thought came first, cool as rain; the logic followed, hard as stone.

“He died ugly, but he did kill; the way he took that soldier down was neat and practiced, not a first spill of blood.”

“I won’t step into that fire,” she told her chest, patting it like calming a skittish horse.

Still, discomfort crawled back like ivy; blame coiled in her gut like a small snake.

It felt like she’d helped kill the boy, like a shadow nudge; but he had killed, too, like a blade answered by a blade.

And truth be told, the pro-deity faction guarded the Dark Deity like priests of a black altar; they were believers, not innocents.

Drop it. Don’t meddle. Just gather the threads like a weaver; dead or not, a mind still held memory to Devour.

She sent her shadow across Gendi’s brain, thin as smoke through reeds; it drifted back into her body like a tide returning.

Memories of the Time Ability User bloomed in her mind, like lanterns kindled along a path at dusk.

She saw Gendi and a girl leaning back-to-back under a giant tree, trunk vast as a tower and leaves like layered jade.

The girl wore pale green hair, soft as willow shoots; her body looked young, eight or nine springs at most.

Gendi spoke first, voice rough as a scraped knee: “Ah, what a shame. That rabbit ran too fast. I couldn’t catch it.”

“If I got it, I could sell it for coin, buy you treats,” he said, scratching his hair like a guilty pup. “You finally came back, and I brought nothing.”

The girl tilted her head, small yet composed like a little elder; her tone was oddly mature, like tea stronger than its cup.

“Gendi, do you want to outrun a rabbit?” she asked, words light as falling leaves.

“Want to? Of course!” His grin broke bright as sun through cloud. “If I could run fast, catching critters would be easy.”

“I’d show everyone, too,” he laughed, boyish as a brook. “Ha!”

“Is that so?” the girl said, eyes calm as still water. “Gendi, I can use magic. I can make you very fast.”

“Really?!” His surprise sprang like a fish.

“Mm.” She nodded, stood like a reed rising, then bent and touched his legs with careful fingers.

White light flared, clean as fresh snow; Gendi felt his body shift like a bow pulled true.

He jumped up and ran, feet like arrows; he was so fast he became a streak, a shadow smeared by wind.

As he ran, he shouted, laughter ringing like chimes: “Ha! Great! I can catch rabbits and buy you something tasty!”

The girl said nothing; she only smiled, gentle as moonlight on a pond, watching him run.

Watching that warmth, Lucimia’s chest tightened, like a knot tied under the ribs; the sight and the iron door clashed like steel on stone.

Then she remembered the killing, the Dark Deity’s shadow, the believer’s mark; calm settled again, cool as night rain.

She hated believers, truth etched like a scar; especially Deceivers, whose lies had burned her like oil.

“That girl is the real Time Ability User?” The question fluttered first, like a moth; guesses followed, like birds.

“Who is she? Sister or elder? The hair says otherwise; maybe a childhood friend?” Her thoughts wandered like paths in fog. “Where is she now?”

The memory rolled on like a slow river; another figure stepped in, familiar as a face in a mirror.

A little girl with long brown hair came near, young features soft as new clay; Lucimia knew her at a glance, like a bell recognizing its own note.

It was Shebelle.

Shebelle hugged a few pastries to her chest, sweet as fresh steam. “Gendi, if you don’t come eat, I’ll finish them all.”

“No! Save me one!” His protest popped like a seed.

“Hehehe~” The green-haired girl laughed, sound light as rain on leaves.

The memory snapped off there, like a candle pinched between fingers.

Lucimia stood where she was, mind blank as a wiped slate, while the corridor breathed cold as a cave.