Exhaustion weighed on Lucimia like wet sand; with only a few threads, she spun the most reasonable tapestry she could.
On one side, led by Emongaha and Lev, the true carriers skulked like rats in grain. Not a hundred percent certain, but the odds feel heavy, like clouds before rain. Maybe the smoke isn’t the illness; it’s the seedbed of it. When they stop inhaling, symptoms bloom like frost, but it’s withdrawal. One drag, and they smooth back to normal like waves over sand.
Lucimia grew more convinced, especially seeing Mystic Return Smoke users with cloud-drift eyes.
She didn’t know their aim yet; maybe it’s coin, like grain measured in dark rooms. But what’s that pitch-black Cross, an obsidian stake under a moonless sky?
On the other side, the Plague God loomed like a storm behind a mountain. To shield people and rescue others, it spent Authority Power like a flood. It lost control and fell to madness like a wildfire roaring through bamboo.
Likely the chessboard is set like this, pieces jittering in a storm.
A thorn rises under the nail: why do the Plague Followers help spread disease with a mad Plague God?
Either their minds are empty bowls; the god speaks, they pour it down like soup. Or they wear ankle chains—reasons that drag them forward like iron.
Why not speak straight, like pulling a blade from its sheath? Why claim the Sacrifice fled, the god rages, and lifting the seal to spread disease is needed? To cool its fire like water on a furnace?
Did the Sacrifice bolt like a startled deer, or did the Plague Followers lay the snare?
Is Shebelle a Plague Follower, a shadow in their ranks? As the suspected Sacrifice, did she flee on purpose, raising a painted veil over the god’s loss of control?
So she begs Lucimia to quell the plague, while her tongue sways like a reed in crossed winds: the Plague God is righteous.
Seen this way, the scale tilts to the latter like a feather on steel.
If so, Lucimia’s heart knotted like rope; covering the god’s loss by letting it spread disease, hurting so many?
Wouldn’t they find a way themselves, instead of dangling hands like broken vines?
It still reeks of contradiction, like smoke trapped in a jar.
Or my guess has flaws, she thought, like a map missing a river. But the outline feels right; a key piece hides in shadow like a fox.
After all this circling, the question returns like the tide to shore.
“Who should I help?” Lucimia’s whisper rippled like a leaf on water.
If she helps Emongaha and Lev, arrogance swells like a flood; the town sinks into an endless hell. If she aids the Plague God, Emongaha’s plan breaks like clay pots, but the town’s lives snuff like lamps in wind.
Either path is a cliff; the only way is to find the Plague God and soothe its madness. Or… solve both at once, like cutting two knots with one blade.
But Lucimia can’t; she struck Elyssus only while he was cast outside the world, and not fully. Plague God Niral stands in the real world, a Dark Deity wielding full Authority Power like a storm. Lucimia’s Authority Power is spent on Elyssus; facing a Dark Deity head-on is a death leap.
Turning the problem like a stone in her palm, Lucimia felt one choice must come first.
Should she open the knot and tell Desty her guess?
She helps only because she promised Desty to guard the town for a time, then leave together like travelers at dusk. Tell her now that either side kills the town, and she can’t face a Dark Deity. The best move is to run—will Desty accept, like a sailor reading storm signs?
She should accept, right? She won’t be foolish enough to step off the cliff into the blade, right?
The Time Ability User… if it fails now, let it go like a kite released. We can find another first; it’s fine, like changing roads at dusk.
Yes, let it be; who wins or loses in this town isn’t her concern, like rain over a distant field.
Whoosh—Lucimia let out a long breath like winter mist, rose from the chair, and set a hand on Desty’s shoulder.
“W-what’s wrong?” Desty saw the change and asked, uneasy like a sparrow in rain.
“If I tell you either path kills the town, and I can’t solve both,” she asked, eyes steady like still water. “If the best choice is to run—what do you do?”
Desty froze, mind stalling like jammed gears; she grabbed Lucimia’s hand. “What are you saying? Explain.”
Lucimia licked her dry lips, then laid out her guess like cards on a table.
Desty stood rooted for several seconds like a tree in wind. When she understood, she spoke softly, “It’s… just a guess, right? No proof.”
“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, the motion small like a pebble drop. “It fits the revealed facts; the logic lines up like parallel tracks.” “All right, one or two contradictions, but the outline won’t change.”
“How can it be like this…” Desty’s gaze drifted like smoke.
Lucimia didn’t press; she stepped aside and gave Desty a cushion of time like a quiet alcove.
After a moment, Desty let out a slow breath like wind through pine.
“Can I ask why you can’t solve both at once?” her question rose like a lamp in fog.
Why? Do I need to say it? I can’t beat them, like a sparrow against a hawk.
Lucimia hesitated, then explained, “First, Lev is about fifty-fifty with me, balanced like scales. But he’s got hidden cards; I might not finish him.”
“Second, I deduced Plague God Niral is likely in the real world. If we move against the Plague Followers, it won’t spare us. You know a Dark Deity’s power—like a mountain falling; we can’t withstand it.”
That also explains why, before Lucimia’s first Reversion, Lev—strong, with the black Cross—still lost to the Plague Followers. A god stepped onto the board like a thunderhead, and the match was over.
When a Dark Deity rides out in person, how do mortals fight, like ants against a storm?
After hearing, Desty lowered her head, biting her lip, eyes flickering like lanterns. Then a spark lit; she looked up and said, “We don’t need to completely solve them.”
“Huh?” What is she saying? Lucimia was puzzled like a cat staring at rain.
Desty shrugged, her shoulders rising like small hills. “We agreed before, right? Just keep the town safe for now, like a roof against rain.” “We can tell them the truth and let them choose, like handing them a lantern at night.” Desty smiled like dawn behind clouds. “We can’t do nothing and run. At least do what we can, then notify the Church.”
“You…” Lucimia stared, stunned like a deer; she blurted, “You’re not rushing to die?”
“What do you mean ‘not rushing to die’?!” her eyes sparked like flint.
“I thought you’d throw a fit and insist on dying on the front line, like a firecracker.”
“Tch.” Desty curled her lip, sharp as a blade. “You make sense, like stones settling. Reason fixes roots; charging in saves a moment, not a lifetime, and might cost ourselves.”
“Good. I’ll refrain from calling you an idiot, for now.” Lucimia patted Desty’s shoulder like brushing ash.
Desty didn’t retort; she only turned her head, like a bird showing its profile.
