“Then let’s go now.” Desty yanked out her longsword, urgency snapping like an uncoiled spring.

“Hold up—did you just get dumb right after I praised you?” Lucimia snagged her arm, grip tight like a hooked anchor.

She pressed the restless Desty back into a chair, pinning her like a colt in a stall, then said, “Even for now, we need a plan.”

“Mm.” Desty nodded, eyes bright like a student under lamplight.

Seeing that, Lucimia slipped into the role, teacher calm as a still pond. “First, define ‘for now.’”

“For now means buying time—letting their clash drift like sand in an hourglass, ideally until the Church arrives.”

“Mm.” Desty nodded again, rhythm steady like a drum.

Lucimia went on, voice smooth as a blade drawn in moonlight. “We take down Lev and the Plague Followers. The Plague God Niral likely won’t strike first. We cut them before it even stirs.”

She thought so because before the first Reversion, she’d seen Lev unscathed, calm as a candle untouched by wind.

If the Plague God moved, Lev would be hit hard, a flame smothered before battle could breathe.

“After that, here’s the crux—the hardest piece is Niral. Only if it stays still can we stretch time; if it strikes, the town will be scythed down in seconds.”

“Why?” Desty asked, curiosity pricking like a thorn.

“Simple.” Lucimia blinked, a glint like dew. “Another way to keep the town alive for now is to help Lev. He’s likely raking in coin by selling drugs. If they win, the town lives in that haze like swamp fog. People will die, but slower. Once the Purification Church arrives and uses the Purification Blessing, clean rain can wash it away.”

“But here’s the snag.” Her tone dipped, like a current catching on rock. “That path means killing the Plague God. We can’t. Hard to execute—and plunging the people into a drug mire isn’t what you want.”

“Mm…” Desty answered, thoughts rippling like water in a bowl.

Lucimia paused, breath steady as held silk, then continued. “If we help the Plague Followers and kill Lev, Niral will go berserk, a storm tearing the dam—the town will die fast.”

“So the key is on the Plague God Niral. We need to leash it, or…”

“Or?” Desty leaned in, curiosity prowling like a cat at dusk.

Lucimia’s mouth curved, a crescent like a hidden smile. “Or we make it think its plan succeeded, while it didn’t.”

“Huh?” The word hung, a moth lost in lantern light.

Make Niral believe it won, while it didn’t? The more Desty listened, the thicker the mist in her mind, her grasp sliding like fingers through smoke.

Yet Lucimia’s eyes flashed sharp, a blade under the sleeve—she already had a plan.

Suddenly, Desty remembered Town of Tranquility, the way Lucimia dealt with Elyssus, that night like a door opening on the void.

She didn’t know the details, but Elyssus, meant to descend, became Lucimia instead—she stepped from the emptiness, and tendrils bloomed behind her like midnight vines.

Desty almost caught the answer, like trying to net moonlight—close, but never held.

Right—Lucimia intended to use Elyssus’s Disguise Power, painting a stage where disease ravaged the town like locusts, so the Plague God saw triumph in a mirror and believed.

She’d called herself a God of Deception before; time to do what such a god does—a shadow play across a paper screen.

Truthfully, the hardest part for Lucimia wasn’t fooling Niral, but facing Lev, a tiger behind a curtain.

Lev’s strength was a deep well, unseen and cold, and that black Cross that forbids magic was a chain on the wind—she wasn’t confident.

If she had Elyssus’s Deception Authority Power, she could trick the black Cross—make it think her magic was locked while it flowed like a hidden stream, then strike when Lev believed her blade dull.

Unfortunately, the Fuzzy Orb was still gnawing at that Deception Authority Power, a moth chewing silk in the dark.

“You sure?” Desty asked, voice tight as a bowstring.

“Kinda. Fifty-fifty.” Lucimia kept it light, words careful like stepping stones.

“Alright, then that’s it. I’m joining the fight.” Desty rose, her sword catching light like a shard of dawn.

“Mm…” Lucimia thought for a beat, a cloud crossing the sun. “You take the Plague Followers. I’ll handle Lev. That work?”

“Good.” Desty nodded hard, a drumbeat in her chest.

As they sealed the plan—

“Bang! Boom!!” The sound cracked like thunder splitting a cliff.

A violent tremor rolled through the town; the ground shuddered without end, like a beast clawing up from beneath. Lucimia felt it underfoot, the earth breathing hot and close.

“What’s happening?!” Desty grabbed the wall, clinging like a sailor in a squall.

Lucimia did the same, her brow knotting like twisted rope, eyes cold as iron.

Through the Fuzzy Orb’s sight, a lantern lit the dark—she saw the source.

The innkeeper locked in the underground cells… no—call him Gene now. Since his confinement, he’d sat silent on the floor, a pond with no ripples. Just now, he blew himself up, a volcano under skin.

Yes—self-detonation, a black blossom blooming in three heartbeats.

His body swelled fast, then burst; blood and flesh sprayed the walls like thrown paint. It didn’t end—those fluids twisted and writhed, the blood becoming scarlet worms, the meat turning into blazing-red rats. Their numbers swelled like a tide piling into hills; the cramped cell couldn’t hold them, and the iron door went down under the press like reeds trampled by boars.

The prison’s alarm Magic Array screamed, a shrill wind through wire; not far off, boots pounded like rain.

By the time the soldiers arrived, the place was already a “paradise” for worms and blood‑rats, a writhing carpet over stone.

They swarmed into other cells, drilling like augers, eating the people bit by bit. The trapped could only watch despair bloom, flesh torn mouthful by mouthful; in a few seconds, a bare skeleton grinned like winter branches.

Screams rose and fell, a tide crashing in a narrow bay.

“Ah!! What is this, what is this?? Where are the soldiers? Save me! I’m only in custody!”

“Aaaah—don’t eat me, don’t eat me!”

“…”

“Wh-what is going on?!” One soldier staggered back, fear frosting his breath.

“No idea!”

“You two idiots—use fire! Burn them!” The third barked, voice sharp like flint.

“Oh—right!”

Prompted, the first two snapped back to life like sparks in dry straw, casting the simplest yet surest Fireball Spell.

The fireballs slammed into worms and rats, then bloomed wide, drowning the corridor in roaring flame like a hungry furnace. The vermin shrieked, notes slicing air like knives.

The fire crackled and popped, and smoke rolled out in thick waves, storm clouds under a ceiling.

“Good, it works! Cough, cough…”

“Cough… The smoke’s getting thicker, a curtain of soot. We can’t stay—we need to get out.”

“You fools! If it spreads, the blaze will only grow. It’s cooked enough—use water magic and drown it!”