“Hey, slow down—slow down—I’m gonna fall; ow, easy, easy, you’re gripping me like iron tongs.”

Lucimia latched onto Desty’s wrist and ignored the pleas, striding for the inn like a storm dragging a kite.

Urgency spiked like a thorn; she had to get Desty back, then use her Devouring Authority to purge what they ate, especially that blood‑red worm.

She would not treat what she saw as a trick of light; the Elyssus mess still burned like a brand, and her gut said the soup was foul.

One pebble still troubled the pond: why did it surface for a heartbeat, then sink like a shadow?

Could the plague’s Authority Power seed hallucinations, and hoodwink the eye like fog over a road?

It shouldn’t—her mind balked like a horse—then softened; it wasn’t impossible under a sky this strange.

Don’t read “plague” as a single word, she warned herself like a bell; its Blessing can scatter many kinds of disease like windblown seeds.

Some illnesses paint visions on the mind, or smear another’s sight like grease on glass.

The vision was tomato beef soup; the truth was worms and carrion, like roses hiding thorns.

Wait—cold ran like water—then everyone’s already infected? Me included? When did the rot seep in?

She bristled at the insult; she stood at Authority Power, yet the haze clung like damp cloth for so long?

Two paths split like a fork in the woods. One: most of her energy had fenced with Elyssus, so she couldn’t Devour the mirage at once, letting a Blessing brush her.

Two: what touched the crowd was also Authority‑level, like a thunderhead; the spreader wasn’t Plague Followers, but the Plague God itself.

Just like when Elyssus handed down that Authority‑tainted Holy Water, a mirror dark as ink.

Maybe the Plague God did the same, gifting Authority‑grade trinkets to its faithful, then salting food and water like poison in a well.

Here, common folk draw water from public troughs like birds to a pond, unlike the Town of Tranquility with its neat tap lines.

I think I see its hand, she thought, like tracks in snow; let followers carry blood‑red worms, sow disease, topple city after city, and drink the ruin for power.

The board revealed itself like a map unfolding, and Lucimia felt the weight of its lines settle like dusk.

Best move: have the captain leave now like a ship before a storm; yet a stubborn spark wanted to find that pale‑green girl like a will‑o’‑the‑wisp.

Back in the inn room, she tugged Desty inside and said, voice flat as steel, “Close your eyes.”

Confusion fluttered like a moth, but Desty obeyed and let the dark fall like a veil.

Lucimia let the Devouring pour through skin and marrow like a black tide, swallowing inside and out for them both, stripping away any seeded blight.

Only then did she ease, breath flowing out like steam, and she sank onto the soft bed like a cloud.

Desty’s whisper tiptoed out like a cat. “What’s wrong?”

She remembered Lucimia’s Exorcist Family blood like an old crest, and tested the waters. “You really saw worms? What kind?”

Lucimia glanced back, cool as moonlight. “Blood‑red worms.”

“Worms?” The word hung like a thread.

“Mm.” Her tone was gravel. “I suspect an Evil Entity of the Plague God. We’re all carrying something, and it paints hallucinations like dye in water.”

She laid out her guess like stones on a path: the Plague God grants Authority‑level gifts to followers, they spread disease, cities fall, and the god drinks the flood for strength.

Shock flashed in Desty’s eyes like lightning, but the logic nested like a bird; it wasn’t nonsense, and Elyssus proved the point like a scar.

She trusted Lucimia, a trust steady as a lantern in fog, believing she saw things others missed like fine threads.

“Alright, I believe you. So what do we do? How do we stop the followers from wrecking the city? I kinda like it here,” she said, voice soft as rain.

At that, Lucimia shot her a look like a knife’s glint. “Stop them? I’m not going. I’m giving you intel, that’s all.”

“Huh?” Desty blinked, lost like a boat in mist.

“Aren’t you investigating?” Lucimia’s words clicked like beads. “Here’s the shape: the plague began when the so‑called Sacrifice ran, the Plague God raged, the people woke up and preached life without Dark Deities.

“It flipped the table like a gambler, spread disease like locusts, and gorged on the chaos to prepare its descent.”

“The method’s likely what I said—taint food and water like ink in a well; the sick pass it on like sparks in dry grass. The city falls.

“They could also ride animals like fleas on dogs. Different carriers, same core—spread, swell, shatter.”

She spelled it out for Desty, piece by piece like stacking bricks, then added, “Now you’ve got your case. You can sail with me, right?

“Use this pretext. Have the Purification Church come purge the Plague Followers. The locals don’t worship, but you can work in shadows like moles.”

“Hm…” Desty sank into thought like a stone. “You’re right… but if we leave, by the time the Church comes, won’t the city already be ash?”

“How about this. I write another letter, you deliver it to the Church, I stay and handle the followers. How’s that plan?” Her resolve stood like a spear.

So I’m your runner? Lucimia’s face darkened like a stormcloud, and the complaint curled in her chest like smoke.

She didn’t answer. She drew a second ticket from her ring like a coin from a well and tossed it; it skittered across the table like a leaf.

“This is your ticket. Go or don’t, your choice. I’m done babysitting,” she said, voice flat as a blade.

She shrugged off her coat like a shed skin and walked into the bath with a heavy tread, a cloud dragging rain.

Clothes fell away like fallen petals; water slid from her crown like silver threads.

Eyes shut, her thoughts circled like ravens, and a sigh slipped out like wind through reeds.

She couldn’t grasp why Desty wouldn’t leave, why she’d plant herself for these people like a tree in a storm.

It wasn’t that she scorned that faith of lifting the weak; she wouldn’t force another’s creed like bending iron.

She just didn’t get it: you can’t win, so why swing the sword like a moth to flame?

One on one, Desty had a shot like an arrow; but this town held more than one Plague Follower, and the invisible blight crept like mold.

As someone who prized her own small joys like warm tea, Lucimia couldn’t fathom Desty’s self‑burning lantern.

If you help, you help with a net, she thought, under safety or a perfect plan like a bridge; not charge when you know the cliff ahead.

It isn’t running; it’s a strategic retreat, like tides pulling back to surge again.

Desty, though, called herself a guardian of humankind, a wall of flesh; even before higher tiers, she’d raise her sword like dawn, and abandon no one.

Different roots, different branches; the rift opened like a crack in ice.

“Isn’t that just suicide? It’s stupid. I swear I’ve got a phobia of idiots,” Lucimia muttered, voice low as a ground wind.