The moment the words landed, the crowd blew up like oil hitting a hot pan.

“So Count Emongaha answered head-on and declared he supports the Independents?” A man stared, ears ringing like struck brass.

“Yes! Before, he invented Mystic Return Smoke, but never owned his stance. Now it’s clear—Count Emongaha’s with the Independents!”

“Great! We used to look away like fog over a swamp. Now it’s official. Announce it, and purge those Dark Deity lackeys.”

“Yeah—hit them hard, like winter wind scouring rot.”

Lucimia dipped lower, a shadow on the air, the chatter rising like sparrows taking off.

From their voices, she learned the Count had never stated his position, always hazy like mist, and this was his first clear reply.

Many believed he had hesitated, then, after seeing the evil of the Plague Followers, chose to stand with the Independents like a banner raised at dawn.

In their mind’s theater, they painted the Count as a great man, bearing pressure like mountains, yet stepping to the people’s side.

Waves of feeling rolled, a tide licking at the seawall.

Seriously? Lucimia felt a dry, speechless sigh, like grit on the tongue.

She didn’t buy it; to her, the Count smelled like an Independent from the first spark.

The first Independent voices in town were a few young men shouting like flares; then they drew a crowd, turned to a march, their tight logic flowing like a clear stream, convincing hearts.

That awareness spread through the people like seeds on wind. Then the Count swiftly rolled out Mystic Return Smoke, smooth as a brushstroke.

To Lucimia, those first youths might have been his chess pieces; a leader needs roots like a tree needs soil.

It’s easy to see: if the Count had stood up alone, believers in the gods would have pushed back like a wall.

But if he set the rhythm, sowed ideas like grain, let them sprout in minds, then stepped out at harvest—he’d reap strong support.

He’d even harvest a fresh bundle of hearts.

“…Political tactics.” The word rose like a cool breath in Lucimia’s chest.

From Emongaha’s mouth, she’d learned the Empire’s royal house was split in two camps, and victory needs the people like sails need wind. So this was no surprise.

Lucimia wanted no part of that storm; she watched from the shade.

Ahem. Emongaha let the crowd simmer for a spell, then coughed twice, sharp as knuckles on a door, drawing eyes like iron filings to a magnet.

“Lev.” His voice cut cold, like a blade through silk.

“Yes.” Lev straightened like a spear, took a burlap sack from a soldier, and reached inside like into dark water.

Curious eyes turned, wary as deer at a stream.

“What’s… that?”

At the first look at that sack, Lucimia guessed the weight within, metallic and grim as old blood.

Lev gripped the thing with ease and brought it out, motion smooth as pulling a fish from a net.

The crowd jerked back, a flock startled into flight.

As expected, Lev held Gendi’s severed head, crusted with dried blood, the torn neck raw as chewed bark.

He wasn’t done. Lev took a spear, set the neck to the tip, and rammed it down; the head hung there, swaying like a lantern in a bad wind.

Then he drove the spear into the soil, and the grisly pole stood before the people like a frost-bitten milestone.

Faces blanched; the crowd stepped back a few paces like tide retreating. A few women covered their children’s eyes with trembling hands.

So bloody? Lucimia’s brow tightened, a taste of iron spreading like dusk.

Emongaha stepped forward, momentum rolling off him like thunder, and he shouted, “Everyone! Look close—this head is the thief who’s been plaguing our town!”

At that, the crowd returned their gaze to Gendi’s face, staring hard as judges, studying the features they never caught when he ran like wind.

“With a mage’s help, we caught him clean. I sincerely thank these mages. Without her, we couldn’t have caught this thief—truth is, a Plague Follower steeped in sin.”

Emongaha’s words struck crisp as hammer on anvil, carrying strong presence yet staying clear as noon light. The crowd buzzed again, whispers weaving like reeds.

“What? That thief was a Plague Follower?”

“Terrifying. But he’s dead now, and a mage caught him!”

“So badass—when did Jaha Town get a mage? We mostly have Swordmasters. I only know the royals have a Ninth Rank Mage—crazy strong!”

“Exactly. I was right there. The mage was a girl, black hair like ink, a balanced figure, and those legs—tch—slender and white as jade. She looked like a noble lady. She even glanced my way; I caught her face, cool as moonlight, with a strange distance, a rare charm. And the Frost spell she pinched out like it was nothing—beautiful and deadly. I think I’m in love.”

“Really?” The bystanders traded looks like sparrows pecking seeds.

“Of course! Why would I lie to you?”

Yup, true. In mosquito guise, Lucimia gave herself a neat nod, smug as a cat.

Seeing the murmur swell like surf, Emongaha raised his hand, and quiet fell in waves, like wind settling after rain.

He swept his gaze around and said, calm as a slow drum, “Is that mage here? Step forward, and I’ll reward you personally.”

A soldier lugged a small box, flipped the lid, and inside lay gold coins blazing like sunlight on water.

“Whoa, so many coins!”

The crowd lit up, eyes darting left and right like minnows, searching for a black-haired girl to step out and claim the shine.

“Huh? Why’s the Count handing it himself, and here in public?” The question floated like a leaf.

Lucimia didn’t drown in the glitter; money meant little, and her mind turned like a hawk in high air, tracing the Count’s intent.

He wants to pull me into the game. The thought landed heavy, like a stone in a calm pond.

They can tell I’m from out of town, and this is bait to keep me here, like honey set for a bee.

Of course, there’s another net.

Count Emongaha wants to fish.

Don’t forget—his political craft is no dull knife. He might use me to draw out the Plague Followers like lures pulling shadow fish.

Push Lucimia into the open, declare she caught Gendi, and the hidden Plague Followers will likely strike back like vipers from grass. When they show, Emongaha’s soldiers will swarm like hornets.

If I show to take the money, the Count will press me hard, make me say I support his stance, tie the coin to the vow, force me to declare I’m with the Independents, then drop my name onto the Plague Followers’ kill list.

I have to admit, the Count has some game; with one move, he can lay a road of steps, neat as bricks.

But Lucimia didn’t like him; the taste was bitter as burned tea.

He wants to drag me into the board. I hate that.

Worse, it’s an open scheme—sunlight on the blade. My choices are a big loss or a small bleed.

Big loss: show up and take the coin. Small loss: stay hidden, but my features already scatter like dandelion fluff; the Plague Followers will track me by scent.

It stings, like nettles on skin.

Lucimia drifted farther from the Count and Lev, wary as a moth near flame, not wanting them to sense another invisible mosquito in the air.

Hmph. I’m not going. Try to rope me in? No way.