If Lucimia stepped out and took the money, they still wouldn’t lose. Before a tide of onlookers, they’d force her to back the Independents. Refuse? Then she’s God-faction—strike on the spot.

Support them? Perfect. She’s an Independent, easy bait. Hang her on the hook and fish up the rest of the Plague Followers; fake or not, the net will tighten.

If she’s also a Plague Follower and already coordinated with the others—fine. By voicing support she walks into the open ranks; they can “protect” her and watch her like a shadow.

If she won’t take the money, better still—start the killing.

Whichever door she chooses, the corridor still leads to their goal.

When the Plague God realized the Jaha Town plan failed because of this black‑haired girl, his gaze would fall like a black sun. If he singled her out, the trouble would be colossal.

Thinking back, Lucimia felt the chill of that open conspiracy, like a knife laid in sunlight.

She just didn’t know whose idea it was—Emongaha? Or Lev?

“People up high have filthy hearts,” Lucimia muttered, voice thin as a reed in wind.

Either way, the signs said they weren’t here with friendly intentions. The wisest choice was to disappear for now, like mist slipping into bamboo.

She couldn’t let this break her plan—watch the Plague Followers and perform Reversion.

“Hey? Hello?” Desty waved a hand in front of her face, red hair bright as a torch.

“...” Lucimia came back to herself, gave her the look one gives a lovable idiot, then sketched out Emongaha and Lev’s open trap.

Desty’s head throbbed; she scratched at her crimson hair like raking sparks.

“In short,” Lucimia repeated, “leave with me first.”

“Alright, you’re the smart one. Your call.” Desty accepted her role with a shrug, tucked away the three portraits, then asked, “How? Where to?”

“To… ugh, just follow me.” Lucimia caught Desty’s wrist, ready to use Teleportation Magic toward the great tree, like a deer aiming for cover.

Talking too long here felt risky; the soldiers were still planted downstairs like rooted pines.

And when you fear a storm will break, the thunder usually answers.

Boom—!!

Like an explosion, a huge iron ball blasted through the window and hurtled for the two of them, a dark moon falling.

It came fast; an unprepared person would be paste under a cartwheel.

Good thing Lucimia had expected a rush up the stairs. The instant the iron ball burst into the bedroom, she tackled Desty to the floor, a swallow seizing its mate.

Thud—!!

The iron ball missed and hammered the rear wall instead. Stone blew out in a crater, bricks clattered down, dust billowed like ash from a kiln.

“W-What’s happening?!” Desty stared, panic bright in her eyes like startled deer.

All of it took less than two heartbeats.

“Trouble…” Lucimia breathed, and clamped Desty’s wrist again, forcing Teleportation Magic to bloom.

White light rose around them like dawn pooled on frost.

At the same moment, an armored hand latched onto the window frame. With a heave, a whole man flipped into the room, heavy as a storm cloud.

He was broad, wrapped in glossy black armor. Paired with that iron ball, Lucimia knew him at once.

“Lev…”

He really had seen her while she was invisible? Normally only the Magic Eye can pierce that, and the Magic Eye is the craft of an Eighth Rank Mage. Was he Eighth Rank?

He had an iron ball and a greatsword; was he dual‑path? And not low in either?

Questions sparked through Lucimia’s mind like sparks under bellows.

His combat power was fog on a river. Best not to clash head‑on. And with friend or foe unclear, Devouring was a bad move.

This was plainly a misunderstanding.

Retreat first.

Lucimia pushed Teleportation Magic harder; white light swelled and wrapped them like silk.

As the magic fully covered them, Lev, calm as still water, drew out a black Cross and raised it before her.

The Cross flashed once, like a camera’s bulb from a world she once knew—cold, sudden, blinding.

Bang!

A crisp crack of glass rang in Lucimia’s ear. The Teleportation Magic she’d just triggered shattered like crystal struck by a hammer.

The misty white light fractured into glittering shards, then hung around them as floating motes, like fireflies blown apart.

Her teleport failed—cleanly cut.

“...?!” Lucimia’s eyes widened, fear pooling like ink.

No time to hunt the reason. She snapped an ice spell outward, hoping to pin Lev and buy herself a breath to flee.

But when she pulled on the magic in her circuits, panic sliced through her—her mana wouldn’t answer. The current slipped from her fingers like water. Ice wouldn’t form.

“How is that possible?”

While her shock still rang, Lev moved. Lightning danced along his right hand, and a spear of thunder took shape, bright as a storm lance.

In that flash, Lucimia knew he was indeed a mage. Before her first Reversion, he’d also enchanted the iron ball with lightning.

Lev stamped forward. Right hand tight on the spear. Stray arcs crawled his knuckles, but he seemed numb to pain.

He aimed the spear at Lucimia, coiling like a panther. A beat later he kicked off; the wooden floor cracked under his heel, a gust bursting outward, and he lunged.

Lucimia’s heart lurched; she couldn’t fathom how he’d shut her magic down. That black Cross—its flash like a guillotine.

So that’s their confidence in targeting an Eighth Rank Mage?

Her thoughts flickered like birds scattering. Lev was already in her face.

What now? Devouring? Or Reversion? Lucimia bit her lip, tasting copper and snow.

In two breaths the thunder spear was on her. Then Desty moved. She drew the new longsword; the blade glowed white, clean as winter sun.

A red figure flashed. One hand on the hilt, she traced an elegant arc into the spear’s path, a crane’s wing cutting rain.

Steel kissed lightning. White light flared. The magic spear sheared in an instant.

Lev reacted fast. Magic gone, his left fist clenched; lightning tangled over his knuckles. He drove a punch at Desty, a thunderclap in a gauntlet.

“Ugh!” Desty, thrown into post‑swing stiffness by the cut, couldn’t dodge in time.

With Desty’s interference buying a heartbeat, Lucimia snapped back. Seeing Desty couldn’t avoid the punch and with her own spells dead, she kicked Desty’s shin.

Desty stumbled, lost her footing, and toppled backward like a felled sapling.

The fall saved her. Lev’s massive fist crashed into the wall instead, blasting another hole. Bricks rained down and thumped Lucimia’s head; she threw up her arms, a sparrow caught in hail.

It wasn’t over. With the gap closed to breath and heat, Lev reached out and seized the iron ball that had first smashed in. He caught its chain, swung, and hauled it toward Lucimia, a comet on a leash.

Lucimia saw the motion. A thought sparked. Her Devouring Authority stirred and ate the wooden floor beneath them; the planks vanished like bread to a fire, and she and Desty dropped to the level below.

At the same time, with that sliver of room, Desty swept out a White Sword. A white blade arced toward Lev; he threw up an arm to guard.

The strike only sparked on the glossy black armor, leaving a scored line like a claw mark.

“Tsk. That armor’s a rock,” Desty hissed.

They crashed onto the first‑floor stone, breath punched flat.

Lev lowered his arm, whirled the iron ball, and brought it down in a killing arc.

“Damn…” A coldness ran through Lucimia like winter water.

She and Desty were in a bad knot—Desty sprawled across her, her own limbs pinned. The iron ball was already falling—

Boom—!!

The iron slammed into the first‑floor tiles, power wrapped around it like a storm. Dust geysered up. Stone shards flew like startled birds.

If stone breaks like millet, imagine flesh.

“Hm?” Lev frowned. The feel in his hand was wrong.

When the dust thinned, he saw he’d smashed not bodies but two shredded wooden chairs, splinters like dead leaves at his feet.