The soup was indeed excellent. Steam curled like morning mist over a pond.

The tomatoes were peeled, skins shed like autumn leaves. The potatoes were stewed soft, melting like late snow. The beef matched, tender as dusk clouds.

Desty ladled a bowl and took two cautious sips, like testing lake ice.

"Wow. This soup beats any I've ever had—each sip just pulls me in."

Her eyes lit like lanterns in dusk, and she drank again, greedily but shy.

The two sank into the simple joy of eating, warmth pooling like hearthfire.

A soft dizziness rose, like a tide in her skull, as they reached the last bowl. Lucimia felt her view twist, like heat haze bending the world.

"Uh—what’s going on?"

She bowed her head, fingers pressing her temple, waiting for the wave to pass like a receding tide.

"Why did I just get dizzy?" She breathed.

"What’s wrong?" Desty asked, worry bright as wet glass.

"I just felt a bit dizzy."

"Eh—don’t tell me you caught a cold?"

Lucimia didn’t answer. The fog thinned; she raised her head again.

She set her gaze on the steaming tomato-beef soup, cupped it in both hands. Just as she moved to drink, she went still.

The soup looked wrong—its color deepened, redder than pomegranate, red like fresh blood.

She blinked, put the bowl down, and stirred with her spoon, poking at tomato and beef.

The spoon rose, and shock bit her spine: not tomato or beef, but a blood-red worm and a chunk of rotten flesh.

Goosebumps raced over her skin like frost.

The worm still wriggled, a scarlet thread alive. Her hand jerked; the spoon snapped free and clattered to the floor.

It was like triggering a trap. From that blood-red "soup," countless crimson worms wriggled up, mouthparts clacking, creeping toward her like a cold swarm.

Lucimia jolted to her feet and hurled an ice spell at the bowl.

Boom!

Half the dining table shattered, tipping to one side. Plates skimmed off like sliding ice sheets, smashing into a messy scatter.

The crash cut through the lively room. In a heartbeat the restaurant fell silent, eyes turning to Lucimia in puzzled frost.

"What got into you?" Desty shrank back in her seat, still cupping her bowl.

Lucimia panted, then said, slow and steady, "I saw worms in the soup. Lots of them."

The words blew the room open. Guests scrambled to check their bowls; Desty did too. No one found a single worm.

"Nothing here. Where?" Desty frowned. "Did you not sleep and start seeing things? Or are you getting sick?"

Me? Hallucinating?

The thought snagged her for a beat. She swallowed, eyes sliding to Desty's bowl.

In that blink, the soup looked normal again—no blood glaze, no worms, just tomato and beef.

Did I mis-see?

She checked other bowls. Nothing odd.

She looked down at her own—only a slick of spilled soup and smashed tomato and beef littering the floor.

Everything on the floor spelled one word: hallucination.

But.

"No. I don’t buy it." Lucimia frowned, a storm knotting in her brow.

She had seen those scarlet worms, and it wasn't a fever dream. Her Devouring Authority let her shrug off tricks for a moment—someone had smothered the room’s sight.

Blood-red worms—just like in her last Reversion. That was an Evil Entity of the Plague God. Was the Plague God meddling again?

Right, they’d guessed what he'd do after the monster plan failed. So the Plague Knight laced the food with those worms?

But plague Authority Power shouldn't veil a room’s eyes.

Maybe not that at all… maybe Elyssus used Deception Power to twist what she saw.

She flicked the thought inward. "Your doing, Elyssus?"

She expected silence. Instead, Elyssus slid back online with that sly laugh.

The voice smirked. "Heh-heh-heh, Lucimia, why would I waste Authority Power to trick you here? I barely have energy to spare. I’m using it all resisting your Devouring. Why would I do something so pointless?"

That… sounded about right.

"Hmph." She cut him off and set her eyes on Desty.

"Don’t drink it." Her tone left no room for argument, cold as steel.

"Why? It’s so good. Not finishing feels like a waste," Desty murmured, soft as cotton.

"I said don’t. Understood?!"

Desty flinched, set the bowl on the floor, and whispered, "Okay. You paid, so if you say no, I won’t."

Lucimia shot the bowl a hard glance, then seized Desty’s wrist. "With me. Now."

"Hold it!"

As they turned, a shout hooked them back.

"You two haven’t paid. You smashed my table." "And you smeared our food with talk of worms. You’d better explain."

The first line came from the male server. The second from the owner—average height, a bit stout, a longsword at his waist, face sour as old vinegar—walking toward them.

Lucimia looked back, cold as frost. "Your name?"

"What?" The owner blinked, not catching her meaning.

"Who’s your chef? Where do your ingredients come from?"

His face sank even darker. "Still trying to slander me? Let the guests see—do any of these soups have worms?"

He yanked the sword from his belt, swagger rising. "Little girl, don’t get cocky! You slander me and act righteous? Don’t think a bit of magic scares me. In my youth I was a Tier Five Swordmaster!"

"Tier Five?" Lucimia’s scorn flashed.

He came at her with the blade, and her eyes bled cold intent. Ice-element magic rippled out. A killing chill knifed through cloth, making the warm room shiver like a winter river.

At the center, the owner took it full into his bones. His steps stuttered, joints aching with frost.

"You! You!" He pointed, rage stuck under a layer of fear.

Seeing his venom drain, Lucimia flicked a gold coin from her ring. It spun and landed at his feet like a fallen sun.

She grabbed Desty and hurried out of the restaurant.