Strange—why isn’t Lev fighting back, like a rock sunk silent in a black river?

Lucimia had laid her cards bare, saying she knew Lev would resurrect elsewhere, so she stopped Desty from killing him. Yet under that banner, she still chose to kill him herself, like raising a blade under a veiled moon—didn’t that mean she had a way to keep him from reviving?

Lev had to know that; why not resist? Has he accepted his fate, like a leaf surrendering to frost? Could that be?

She stared at his midnight helm, iron hiding his face like night shutters, only thin slits left; the “man” within was a sealed lantern with no flame. A cold bead slid down her spine; she didn’t dare to use Devouring.

But the next thought cut through her like a wind-chime’s ring—was Lev performing? Borrowed thunder, painted bravado, an empty-city ruse; doubt coiled around her like smoke, making her hesitate to strike.

Seconds dripped like icicles. Lucimia didn’t use Devouring; to stop any twist, she snapped her hand and cast Frost—ice bit Lev and sealed him, then her small palm clenched, and solid ground melted to mire, swallowing him like a peat bog.

When it was done, she glanced at the smoke piling in, like crows flocking tighter around a harvest field.

“These fumes… what do they do? Is this his trump card against my Devouring?” Her voice was a flake of ash in a storm.

Thick fog squeezed their world to a three-meter box, edges blurred like wet ink. The gusts from her earlier spell couldn’t push it back—too strange, like wind trapped in a jar.

No good. I can’t just wait. I have to move. She bit her lower lip, tasting copper like rusted snow.

Fine—try the Fuzzy Orb. Devour his left hand first, see how the river runs.

She summoned the Fuzzy Orb; the little maw gaped wide, then swallowed Lev’s left hand in one clean bite, like night gulping down a candle. He didn’t make a sound—no grunt, no hiss—only silence like a grave.

In the next heartbeat, terror burst like a blood-red chrysanthemum. Lucimia’s pupils snapped tight; blood mist bloomed across her sight, and waves of pain hammered her skull like iron bells. The pain was hers—raw and immediate.

“Eh…?” The word fell from her lips like a snowflake.

She turned stiffly and looked at her own left arm—gone, devoured, like a page torn from a book.

She stared at the scene, disbelief dangling like a kite with a snapped string; thought stopped, leaving only pain gnawing her nerves like winter rats. The air itself felt cold as river water, and every breath she drew made her bones heavy, her eyelids heavier.

Her strength poured out like sand; she slumped down, soft as wilted grass.

“Lucimia!” Desty’s voice cracked, fear bright as a struck gong. She didn’t know what had happened; she could only shout and rush in, catching Lucimia before she hit the ground hard.

Lucimia leaned into Desty’s arms, brow knotted, eyes half-lidded, teeth clenched; pain burned so hot she couldn’t notice Desty’s usual scented warmth. Her own blood smeared across Desty’s clothes, replacing perfume with iron and salt.

No good… if I bleed this much… I’ll die… The thought flickered like a candle in wind.

She tried to will the Fuzzy Orb to devour the bleeding wound, or devour the moment itself with Reversion—she knew it would cost a mountain of energy. But even that thin thread wouldn’t move; her mind thickened like syrup.

This isn’t normal. Back in the Town of Tranquility, even when Elyssus’s tentacle pierced my chest, I still could use my will; now I can’t. Sleep claws at me like soft snow.

“Lucimia, Lucimia, use Healing Magic—now!” Desty wanted to shake her, but the blood flowing like a broken spring stopped her hands; she could only call, voice trembling.

You’re… saying something? Odd… why can’t I… hear clearly… Her senses drifted away like fog lifting; she lay against Desty’s chest, yet Desty’s shout sounded farther and farther, like a bell at the end of a road.

Panic skittered inside Desty like trapped sparrows. If she knew Healing Magic, wouldn’t she save Lucimia right now?

She didn’t. She could only watch Lucimia’s eyes dim like embers going gray.

On the other side, Lev’s left hand sprouted back fast as black vines; his legs reknit too. He pressed his right hand to the ground, broke the binds like ice in spring, and hauled himself out of the mud.

Through her blurred vision, Lucimia caught a detail that chilled like frost—Lev’s new left arm and legs wore armor already, not flesh under metal; it was as if the armor itself grew, a dark carapace birthing more dark.

His movement pulled Desty’s gaze like a magnet. She shoved her sword forward, no mage’s blink to flee, no spell to carry two—she backed away step by step, dragging Lucimia like a wounded deer.

Lev rolled his shoulders, bones creaking like cold branches. He picked up the Cross and the greatsword; he set the Cross with care like placing a grave marker, then dragged the heavy black blade, striding for Desty with storm-fast feet.

Desty kept retreating and whipped out a White Sword, a gleam like frost-flight. Lev’s greatsword snapped sideways, cleaving the white arc like splitting driftwood. His walk quickened to a trot, then to a sprint, a thunderhead breaking.

The greatsword slammed toward Desty. She had to drop Lucimia, plant her feet, grip her blade with both hands, praying to meet steel with steel.

Her sword weighed less; her strength was lighter. When the twin blades met, the shock bit her palm like a tiger’s jaw; instinct pried her fingers open. Sword and body flew together, skidding across dirt for several meters before she stopped, rag-doll limp.

“Cough, cough… it hurts…” Desty braced herself on her right arm, tried to stand, then failed again and again, legs like wet paper.

The field turned one-sided like a tilted board.

Lev held his greatsword at the center. He glanced at Lucimia—she lay still, like a corpse left to snow—so he chose Desty first, walking toward her with executioner calm.

No… this is the end… Lucimia sucked in thin air, weak as moth-wings, and watched Lev’s blade rise and come.

Reversion… Reversion… She reached for the thread, then froze—her Fuzzy Orb is Devouring itself; even if she rolled time back, her left arm wouldn’t return, a page eaten not erased.

Fear returned, old and absolute, like the first time she saw Elyssus—only despair, no stars.

“Cough…” She coughed, understanding like black ink spreading.

What do I do?

What do I do?

How do you fight something like this? Why does Devouring him wound me? Is he truly one of the Plague Followers, and have I unknowingly become the Sacrifice?

If that’s true, letting the Fuzzy Orb devour him again is useless. Unless… the Orb devours my Sacrifice identity. But the energy cost would be a sun-devouring, and Elyssus might break free.

Wait, wait, Lucimia—why are you still weighing costs? You’re dying. Why care about energy at the brink? Just use it. Let it go. If we burn together, release Elyssus, drown the world in more chaos.

“But… I don’t want that…” She swallowed pain like hot ash, refusing tears. “I still haven’t… saved Yuna yet…”