“You coughing?”

Two men chatted by the roadside, one bearded like a bristling thicket, the other thin as a wind-bent reed.

“Cough, cough… yeah… cough, cough…” The man raised his collar like a shield, coughing into a pocket of fog.

“Why not smoke Mystic Return Smoke? Heh, effervescent tablets work too.” The bearded man drew a cigarette from his pocket like a twig plucked from brush and offered it.

Joy lit the man’s eyes like lanterns; he took it with shaking hands, rubbing up a spark of fire element magic like a firefly.

Gray-white smoke drifted out like morning mist; he jammed it between his lips and drew deep, like a breath of damp forest.

When he exhaled the smoke like a pale veil, color rose to his cheeks like peach blossoms in spring.

“Phew—nice, I feel much better. Friend, thank you, let me pay you.” He fished out silver coins that chimed like river pebbles.

“Heh-heh, no need, no need, helping you is enough.” The bearded man laughed like rolling thunder, clapped his shoulder like dusting a coat, and walked off.

Lucimia watched the small scene like a cat at a window, eyes narrowing to knife-thin slits.

She stared a beat longer at the cigarette pinched between his fingers, then let her gaze fall away like a closing fan and headed for the prison.

If that smoke really cured disease, wouldn’t the Plague Followers’ plan crumble like a sandcastle in rain?

A knot tightened first in her chest like a pulled bowstring, then thought followed like arrows in flight.

No, that smoke shouldn’t block the Plague Followers’ plan, like reeds can’t dam a river.

She’d looked into it lightly; it’s made with magic-fed herbs, like roots steeped in moonlight.

It should only treat ordinary sickness, not the worms the Plague God sends down like rotten seeds.

Truth is, the town’s sickness begins with that worm, like rot at a tree’s heart.

Kill no worm, and disease returns like weeds after harvest; smoke treats the leaves, not the roots.

Of course, a bolder guess beat its wings in her mind like a moth near flame.

What if these smokes are the source of the sickness, like sweets hiding poison?

Don’t blame Lucimia for thinking too far; after Elyssus, she feared reversals like cliffs veiled in fog.

She wanted every path mapped like lines on a palm, every possibility turned over like stones in a stream.

Hiss… it’s not impossible, she thought, heart quickening like a drum under silk.

Maybe the so-called Independents still worship, like shadows still tied to the body.

Maybe the Plague God self-directs and self-acts, like a puppeteer behind a screen.

His Authority Power is Plague, like winter that withers and salves by turns.

So he could spread and cure at will, like wind that scatters seeds and gathers clouds.

He could seed disease first, then “cure” it by smoke, like a cycle wheel grinding for his own gain.

Done for, she thought, the more she traced it, the higher the chance rose like tide.

Yet her guess had holes, like nets torn by stones.

Yesterday at the plaza, the Independents really slaughtered a Plague Follower, like hawks tearing a hare.

And after Gendi was caught, he was tortured to death, like meat hammered to pulp.

If that was staged, it pressed too hard, like ink bleeding through paper.

Besides, Gendi’s capture wasn’t in their script; it happened because of Lucimia, like a stray spark on dry grass.

If it were staged, they’d have freed Gendi, not killed him, like actors sparing a prop.

Who did they kill for, and whose eyes were they feeding, like masks turned to a silent crowd?

Before her first Reversion, she hadn’t slain the demonic beast, and it invaded, ruining the city like a flood through gates.

If the Plague God could cycle energy, why wreck a town, like a farmer burning his own field?

So this guess had gaps, and the logic didn’t stand, like a bridge missing planks.

Forget it, one step at a time; at least she had Reversion, like a safety net under a tightrope.

She tucked away the thoughts like folding paper cranes and slid into a deserted alley like mist.

She cast an Invisibility Spell, soft as gauze, then used her Disguise Power to become a mosquito, light as a seed on wind.

She flew toward the soldiers’ barracks, wings buzzing like taut strings.

Mid-flight, she spotted something she’d missed before, like a hidden mark on old wood.

Invisible and mosquito-shaped, she slipped past the electric grid and sensing magic like rain through bamboo.

Nothing triggered; she moved unimpeded, like a fish in clear water.

Because a mosquito’s flight is carried by its own body, like oars in the hands, while the sensing Magic Array only flags a Flight Spell, like lanterns lit by spellfire.

Maybe so, she thought, mind stitching threads like a loom.

She skimmed over the barracks’ buildings, roofs dark as slate under cloud, then saw a familiar figure like a mountain breaking fog.

That man wore pitch-black armor head to heel, two meters tall, built like a cliff.

Standing still, he was a peak; at his hip hung a huge iron ball like a chained star.

It’s him? Lucimia’s surprise flickered like a matchhead.

That heavy-armor soldier had appeared when she and Desty reached Jaha Town after the demonic beast invasion, like crows to a field.

Desty greeted him—he said nothing, and the iron ball flew like a meteor.

It smashed Desty to shards in an instant, like glass under a hammer.

Before Lucimia could question him, he attacked her too, like lightning seeking the next tree.

Lucimia judged that one-on-one, without Authority Power, she might not beat him, like a fox sizing up a boar.

Of course, he might not beat her either, like blades that nick but don’t break.

In short, a ruthless piece, like iron set in bone.

Lucimia opened her Magic Eye like a second moon and studied him.

Blood had crusted on the iron ball like dried paint, with a string of flesh left like torn cloth.

In a blink, she linked it to Gendi’s death, smashed to mince, like meat under a pestle.

Was he the one who tortured Gendi, like a butcher at midnight?

Honestly, she couldn’t read this soldier’s heart, like ice under ash.

He looked like an Independent, yet the first thing he did on seeing Lucimia and Desty was kill, like a gate slammed shut.

Aren’t the Independents supposed to protect humans, like watchmen on walls?

Even if Lucimia was sick, shouldn’t he offer smoke or a cup with effervescent tablets, like a neighbor sharing tea?

Or… he knew the true source was the worm, like rot beneath bark.

He knew smoke couldn’t cure it, so he killed them to stop spread, like firebreaks carved in a forest.

Uh… not impossible, she thought, like rain that might turn to snow.

She watched the heavy-armor soldier a few beats, eyes still as ponds.

He headed into the building, another black-armored soldier shadowing him, less burly, like a sapling beside a trunk.

Lucimia weighed it a moment, thoughts fluttering like moths, then followed to see his aim.

She beat her wings and slid after them, quick as a dart, into an office like a box of dim light.

The burly soldier slumped into a chair like a boulder on a stool; the other sat opposite like a crow on a fence.

Lucimia perched above the doorframe like a speck of soot, watching their hands and voices.

The shorter soldier—short only by comparison, like a hill under a peak—drew a file from his belt like a knife from a sheath.

“Commander Lev, these are the suspicious people,” he said, words flat as slate.

Lev took the file and flipped through it, pages whispering like dry leaves.

Suspicious people? Plague Followers? The question rose like steam.

Lucimia wanted to see, but her angle was wrong, like a mirror turned away.

She buzzed to the opposite bookshelf and looked down, like an owl peering from rafters.

The file listed suspected Plague Followers, letters marching like ants.

“Peter, Kace, Gene…” Names trailed with portraits, charcoal faces like shadows on paper.

Two men and a woman; Lucimia studied them and found no familiar lines, like roads she hadn’t walked.

Lev tapped the file twice like knuckles on wood, then tossed it onto the desk like a stone on a pond.

In a low, gravelly voice like rocks grinding, he said, “At noon, by the Count of Jaha’s will, call an assembly.”

“Post these notices, and whoever gives a solid lead gets gold like sun-bright coins.”

“Or Mystic Return Smoke,” he added, like a second path through a gate.

“Understood.” The shorter man nodded like a reed in wind.

“Found Gendi’s hideout?” Lev asked, words clipped like cut rope.

“No.” The shorter soldier shook his head like a rattled gourd. “We searched the town and found nothing likely.”

“We suspect it’s outside the walls, like a burrow past the hedge.”

“Outside…” Lev murmured, thoughts sinking like stones in a well.

Silence settled in the room like frost on glass.

After a moment, the shorter soldier asked softly, “Commander Lev… did anything come out of Gendi’s interrogation?”

“No.” Lev answered clean as a blade. “That kid’s mouth was tight like a sealed jar.”

“We used every method, and he never spoke, heh,” Lev said, a dry chuckle like gravel.

“I haven’t seen someone that hard in years, like iron that won’t bend.”

“I see…” The shorter soldier nodded again, careful as snow on branches.

“I’ll send men outside the town; his hideout should hold a Magic Array for contacting the Plague God… no, the Plague Dark Deity.”

“Mm,” Lev replied, cold as iron.

Suddenly, he lifted his head like a fox scenting wind, and his gaze inside the black helmet met Lucimia’s like flint striking steel.

Fear bit first, cold and sharp like a snake’s fang; her heart skipped like a missed drumbeat.

Her body jolted like a sparrow startled; she beat her wings hard and shot out the window like a streak.

Hiss… what was that? Why did he look up, like a hunter hearing rustle?

Can he see through me, like sun through thin paper? Or did he just notice a mosquito, like a dot on the pane?

A prickle of dread stayed in her chest like a burr; she sped for the prison like rain pushed by wind.

After Lucimia left, Lev slowly lowered his gaze like a shutter closing and looked at the shorter soldier.

“Uh, Commander Lev, what’s wrong?” the man asked, voice small as a pin.

“Nothing,” Lev said, waving a hand like brushing off ash. “Just a mosquito.”

“Heh. A mosquito that knows the Invisibility Spell,” he added, like a joke with teeth.

“A mosquito that knows an Invisibility Spell? A magic beast?” The shorter soldier frowned, eyes probing like needles.

Lev gave no answer, silence weighing like lead.

Confusion crept up on the shorter man like mist at dusk.

Mosquitoes? Near winter, and still around, like stubborn flies?

Sigh… mosquitoes grow more troublesome, like thorns thickening on vines.

Maybe the commander was joking, like a wink under a mask…

No. Wait. I get it, he thought, a spark flaring like tinder.

The commander means those hidden Plague Followers are mosquitoes with Invisibility Spells, like pests you can’t see but still feel.