For now, I set that question aside, like a stone by the path, and keep thinking.

Shebelle’s brother Dori fell ill; I solved it with Devouring Authority masked as Healing Magic, like a blade hidden in silk.

Before that, Anjelo suspected we used a Dark Deity’s Blessing, and he rejected it, like shutting a gate against fog.

He said humans must solve problems by human means, not by gods; beings with Authority Power calling themselves gods were Dark Deities, like wolves in robes.

That clashed with Shebelle’s belief that the Plague God was a true deity, like two drums beating out of rhythm.

Later, we ran into a beast on the road, a shadow with teeth; next morning the beast vanished, like dew burned away.

When Desty and I reached town, every beast surged toward it, like a wave breaking on stone walls.

While studying a carcass, I locked eyes with a worm on it; vision folded like ink in water, and a hallucination swallowed me.

Then sickness steamed up from my body, like smoke from a damp brazier.

At the same time, Lev appeared and struck; I used my first Reversion, like snapping a thread to rewind a loom.

After Reversion, I first chose to cull the beasts, then raced to town with Teleportation Magic, like a hawk diving through cloud.

Just inside, a hawker auntie pitched Mystic Return Smoke and effervescent tablets; their scent differed from Anjelo’s witch powder, a split note that stirred doubt.

On day one, the Independents marched, banners like sails; from their chatter I learned how the Empire had run before.

The Plague God solved sickness through a Sacrifice, and the Plague Followers did the same, like mills turning on a single axle.

The Independents condemned it, saying a true deity with Authority Power needed no “Sacrifice”; random coercion was a thorn under the skin.

They argued both sick and healer were human, yet the Plague God fed on them for power, like Elyssus; the wound stayed with people.

So the Sacrifice ran; the Plague God grew wrathful, scattering disease like ash on wind, infecting crowds beyond counting.

Then a God Loyalist stood up, voice like a bell, saying the Sacrifice’s failure angered the deity; the deity helped all, yet people slandered and forgot gratitude.

He preached lifting the lockdown, finding the Sacrifice, until the deity calmed, like rain after a long drought.

Here lay another snag, like a fishbone in the throat.

Earlier, Shebelle seemed harassed by someone; the granny shielded her, like an old pine bracing a sapling.

Could it be Shebelle was the Sacrifice? She fled, and the deity’s anger flared, like thunder over a bare hill?

It felt right, yet a knot remained, like a twisted root under the path.

If Shebelle was the Sacrifice and fled, she shouldn’t call the Plague God a true deity; she should side with the Independents, yet her words danced differently, like reeds in contrary wind.

“Why?” Lucimia asked herself, brows knotted like storm clouds.

Lucimia didn’t solve it first; she set it aside like a sealed jar, sifted her gathered facts, and raised other questions, like lanterns one by one.

Later, Gendi stepped out, helping soldiers arrest himself; in custody he raved and left one line: “You killed everyone,” like a curse scratched on stone.

The words weighed on Lucimia, like wet cloth. She questioned herself until guessing Gendi, a God Loyalist, meant: no spread, no calm deity, more deaths.

By noon, Lucimia Devoured Gendi’s memories and found the real Time Ability User; she learned Shebelle, Gendi, and the light green–haired girl knew each other, like threads knotted.

At lunch break, a follower told Lucimia the green-haired girl had been a Sacrifice, yet lived, and used her power to speed disease, like frost spreading overnight.

That night, while she and Desty ate, a blood-red worm surfaced in the red soup; she smashed the bowl. The owner, a plump man, accused her of slander, like smoke pointing fingers.

“Wait.” Lucimia felt a spark, like flint striking.

“A plump owner? I remember the three wanted followers. The first, named Pete, was plump.” Lucimia’s eyes widened, and she sprang up like a startled cat.

“What’s wrong? Have you decided? Who are we helping?” Desty asked, voice like a taut string, seeing Lucimia react.

“One thing. Show me Pete’s portrait,” she said, like a hunter asking for a track.

“Oh, oh.” Desty quickly pulled Pete’s portrait from her Storage Ring, like a magician flicking silk.

Lucimia took it, recalling the owner’s face as she studied the portrait; sure enough, the shape matched her memory, like a stamp to wax.

She drew a conclusion: the restaurant owner might be Pete, like a mask fitting the actor.

She handed the portrait back, sat again, bracing a hand on the table, like anchoring a boat to a pier.

“The innkeeper is Gene, the comb shop owner is Kes, the restaurant owner is Pete…” Lucimia muttered, voice like rain on eaves.

She logged the finding and kept her mind moving, like millstones grinding grain.

Next day, seeking the followers’ rally site, she returned to the prison; she eavesdropped on Lev and was caught, like a mouse under lantern light.

She fled and found the rally site, but no one gathered, like a stage with curtains but no actors.

Leaving the prison, Emongaha held his own rally, declared formal support for the Independents, and vowed to wipe out the town’s Plague Followers, like a judge slamming a gavel.

He laid a trap for Lucimia, like bait under leaves.

Lucimia sensed it and tried to avoid, like stepping around a snare.

Lev still came hunting, like a hawk stooping.

In his attack, he used a pitch-black Cross.

It stripped Lucimia’s control of magic for a moment, like frost crippling fingers.

She fled with Authority Power, ragged as torn cloth.

Yet she wasn’t willing; she left Lev a lesson, like a scar that stings in rain.

Returning from outside to town, she found the plague had begun, like mold blooming overnight.

While setting the Fuzzy Orb for surveillance, she saw at the Mystic Return Smoke plant a huge black Cross, Lev’s same brand.

The Fuzzy Orb only glanced and was killed, like a moth burned by a lamp.

Later, Lucimia saw Lev’s Devoured right hand had returned, like a vine regrowing.

She also spotted, amid the rioting town, a man missing his right hand, like a stump where a branch should be.

At last, soldiers corralled the townsfolk together; patrols swept the streets like brooms.

To avoid them, she and Desty hid in the comb shop and found Kes dead, like a candle snuffed.

Yes. Kes, a Plague Follower, died trying to save people, like a healer falling with herbs in hand.

The thread of information stopped there, like a river hitting stone.

Lucimia reviewed it again and found several things strange, like stars misaligned.

First: Anjelo, an Independent hunted by God Loyalists, was hiding, yet the Independents ruled the town; a contradiction, like two maps that don’t match.

Second: Anjelo’s witch powder and Emongaha’s witch powder smelled different, like two fires burning unlike wood.

Third: Lev’s pitch-black Cross was odd, no magic ripple, like a silent bell. The giant Cross at the plant was eerie and shrouded in smoke, like Mystic Return Smoke itself.

Fourth: the riot was odd. People could seek soldiers first; only if refused would chaos make sense. Yet they went straight to riot, like sparks thrown onto dry grass.

Only one possibility: someone stoked it on purpose, to herd everyone together, to bathe them in smoke as “treatment,” like sheep driven into a fogged pen.

Fifth: Kes, a Plague Follower meant to spread disease, was saving people instead, like a raven bringing water.

“Wait! I’ve got it!” Lucimia’s heart jolted, like a drum struck once.

She saw one actor in every suspicion: smoke, like a pale serpent weaving through scenes.

Or rather, Mystic Return Smoke—and witch powder, like twin mists from the same cauldron.