Cross? That girl was nailed to a Cross?

Lucimia’s curiosity pricked like a cat’s ear; she gestured for the blonde woman to go on.

The blonde understood and continued, voice low as fog. “The Empire’s Sacrifices are usually taken into the Mist Domain. I think that girl might be one of the Sacrifices. I found other Crosses around it, a forest of timber in wet gauze, each one nailed with bodies.”

“But one thing puzzles me,” she said, doubt pooling like rain in a basin. “Every Sacrifice around her was infected without exception—some rotted like fallen fruit, some blistered with pus like toad-skin. Only the pale green–haired girl had none of that. Her skin was porcelain-white, flawless, just a little pale in the face. Oh, and there’s another point.”

She drew a breath, then spoke again, words steady as a drawn line. “The girl’s Cross stood at the exact center of the Mist Domain. Everyone else circled her like a wreath, one ring around the heart.”

When the blonde finished her report, Lucimia finally let her thoughts unfurl like ink in water.

That pale green–haired girl—was she the chosen Sacrifice? That would explain her sudden leaving, the rare sightings, and then nothing at all, like a swallow swallowed by mist.

Maybe the blonde had seen her just after she became a Sacrifice, body still sound. Then time would coil around her like thorned vines, disease creeping in, death closing the door, no return to Jaha Town.

A bell struck in Lucimia’s chest. Another question: if a Time Ability User is killed by someone without that gift—or dies by accident—where does her power go, like a candle’s flame in wind?

Suppose the latter makes the time power scatter and choose again. Would the former drag the killer into the game of the Authority Power of spacetime, like a gambler pulled to the table?

Or would it be the same as the latter, the flame snuffed and rekindled elsewhere?

Lucimia’s face dimmed like a sky before rain.

She had to brace herself and accept it: the green-haired girl might be dead, the time ability reshuffled like cards to another hand.

So all that work was poured into sand?

It felt like she’d wasted two whole days, hours dripping away like a leaky jar.

But she couldn’t conclude yet; she needed a nail to pin this truth to the board.

“Slip in again soon,” Lucimia murmured, voice thin as thread. “See if the girl’s dead. Contact me the moment you have news.”

“Understood.”

Lucimia cut the link; her consciousness sank like a stone in a pond. After a long drift, she opened her eyes to the inn’s white ceiling, pale as bleached bone.

She glanced out the window. The sky had turned ink-black; orange lamps spilled onto the street like warm honey.

She turned—and jolted, as if brushed by cold water—finding Desty half-crouched, staring at her in a daze.

Left foot on the floor, right knee pressed to the bed, right hand braced by the pillow, left hand hanging midair and frozen like a stopped clock.

“What are you doing…?” Lucimia’s voice was cool as shaded stone.

“Uh… I was just about to wake you…” Desty withdrew her hand like a cat caught stealing fish, stood, then sat onto her own bed.

Lucimia didn’t answer. She sat up, stole another glance at the window, and asked, “How long was I asleep?”

“Not long. It only just got dark.” Desty smoothed the awkwardness like a wrinkled sheet, her tone calm.

“Oh. Then let’s get dinner. Maybe try the local stuff.” Lucimia slipped off the bed and into her shoes, the motion neat as folding paper.

“Mhm, mhm!” Desty nodded hard, like a sparrow pecking grain.

This girl… she woke me just to eat? Lucimia could only shake her head, a helpless leaf in wind.

They returned to the market. Night made it livelier than noon, a tide of people flowing between stalls; families strolled in casual clothes, lantern-light stringing the street like amber beads; cries to sell, wine’s soft burn, and food’s fat scent drifted like steam.

Afraid to lose Desty in the crowd, Lucimia reached and caught her wrist. Desty flinched back at the touch, a spark from dry wood. “What are you doing?”

“Ah… sorry.” Lucimia licked her lips, awkward as a kid with ink-stained hands. She’d reached by reflex, mistaking Desty for Yuna.

She refocused on the storefronts and found a tavern-restaurant, full to the brim like a hive.

Peering in, she saw every guest, besides their own dishes, nursing a steaming bowl of soup—reddish as sunset, with chunks of meat—a clear local specialty.

Lucimia nudged Desty with her elbow. When Desty looked over, she pointed. “Wanna try that?”

Desty followed her finger; her eyes lit like two small lamps. “Yes, yes! The weather’s turning cool, a hot bowl sounds perfect.”

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, then froze, mind snagging like thread on a nail.

Turning cool? She hadn’t felt it. Wait—what date was it again? She only knew winter was near; she never marked the days, a calendar left blank.

Tch…

Great. She’d really become a pampered miss, head in clouds, living on food and fun.

She quickly caught Desty again, plucking the question like a leaf. “What’s today’s date? I haven’t paid attention lately.”

Desty blinked, then answered, words clear as chalk. “November first.”

“November? New Year’s close…” The words left her mouth, and a fresh thought hit like cold water down the spine.

She didn’t even know the year.

Wonderful. She shook her head hard, scattering the thought like sparrows, then grabbed Desty again. “What year is it?”

Pulled back mid-step, Desty stared, puzzled as a tilted head. “You don’t know?”

“I…” Lucimia groped for footing on slick stone. “I’m just checking if I remember right.”

She couldn’t let Desty learn she didn’t even know the date. That would brand her a fool in ink.

Desty still looked doubtful, but she let it pass. “Year 304 of the Second Era. After New Year, it’ll be 305.”

Second Era?

The phrase opened like a hidden door in Lucimia’s mind.

If there’s a Second, there’s a First. What happened then? She barely knew this world’s history, her map missing half its lands.

So now she wasn’t just heedless; she was unlearned too, an empty bookcase where shelves should groan.

Desty was Church, a well to draw history from. Should she ask?

Maybe the First Era held traces of Olivya—she still had side threads to spool: the origin of the Dark Deity, what it is, and who Olivya truly was.

Come to think of it, Olivya hadn’t shown in a long while, and those followers’ Sacrificial Rituals had gone quiet, embers gone to ash.

How to ask Desty? A commoner not knowing history is normal, but she was of the Exorcist Family—one slip and the mask tears.

Right. She’d say she was buried in magic study, no time for chronicles. That would do, a paper screen to hide behind.

Ask tonight. Now was dinner, the stomach beating its drum.

Plan settled, Lucimia returned to herself and smiled at Desty. “Got it. Thanks. Now, dinner.”

She stepped into the restaurant first, like a blade sliding through a beaded curtain.