Lucimia took Desty and used the Teleportation Array again, the world folding like a ripple as they landed near the town’s drop point.

This time, she didn’t wipe out the beasts; she let them pass like clouds skirting the moon.

She invoked the Disguise Power, turned both of them into mosquitoes, and skimmed toward the town like tiny shadows over a sunlit stream.

“That’s the Disguise Power, right? Elyssus’s?” Desty asked.

“Yeah.”

“Figures… you told me it was just magic before…”

“Mm…”

They swept into town and dropped into an empty alley, ash settling after a spark.

Lucimia altered their faces first; their clothes matched the locals, reeds blending into the riverbank.

To sell the act, she drew two lollipops from her Storage Ring, sweet sticks like trapped suns.

She disguised them as Mystic Return effervescent tablets, dull coins hiding a pulse.

She took two cups of water, let the false Mystic Return fizz, and pretended to drink, bubbles rising like captive fireflies.

With the scene set, they strode out of the alley, like cats claiming a sunlit wall.

Passersby gave them a single glance and moved on, eyes drifting like autumn leaves.

They blended well now; before, their look had screamed outsider, bright flags in a gray crowd.

“Sugar-water tastes great, so why does candy in water taste so weird?” Desty muttered, rain over a hearth.

Her mind was heavy as low tide; Lucimia ignored her, chose a bench, sat, and sipped the “sweet water” while thinking.

She still hadn’t decided whether to help Nirael—no, she had no choice. Refuse, and Nirael would self-detonate; in her current state she couldn’t stop it, a blade at her throat.

It felt like there was only one path—a narrow bridge over a chasm—help Nirael spread the plague.

She felt arranged from the start, chess moved by an unseen hand.

“Honestly…” Lucimia let out a heavy sigh, breath leaking like steam from cracked stone.

She tried to blank her mind, watching the flow of people, reeds bent by twin winds; they were innocent—scarred by the Curse God, gnawed by the Plague God.

But it wasn’t her affair; if others killed them, she wouldn’t intervene. Making her kill innocents herself put a thorn under her heart, against her first beliefs.

Yet without her, two endings loomed: the Curse God overruns the Bannubi Empire, or the Plague God breaks the wall and worms and rats devour everything, storm or flood.

If she helped, rats and worms would follow her chosen routes, not spill elsewhere, her footsteps carving channels like dikes to minimize casualties.

As for why they rampaged without her lead, she guessed the Plague God’s loss of control ran high, a fire unbanked.

From the larger view, helping was best; her heart just couldn’t cross that ridge, a mountain in the chest.

Besides, she hadn’t figured how to stop Ment’s settled haze; she couldn’t just stand up and say the haze was wrong—words would scatter like sparrows.

The people had rooted the Independents deep and hated the God-backing faction; they’d brand her a God-believer, pitch-sticky labels, accuse her of lying to make them abandon treatment.

Then the crowd would rise, and Lev, Emongaha, and Ment would notice, hawks stooping on a hare to strike her cleanly.

Use the Devouring Authority to drink the storm, swallow all the haze?

She’d thought of it, but didn’t know the volume—a river too wide for a cup—afraid she’d lose control.

Still, her focus should be to stop new haze settling in four days, not drain what Ment already laid down, cut the spring, not the lake.

If someone could share the energy cost, shoulders to share the yoke, she could just devour the haze.

But that seemed unlikely—no lead, no one to share it—unless she spent while absorbing, and absorption would fray the rope as she climbed…

This plan felt wrong, but she could park it. Lucimia shook her head, turning the compass to another angle.

If she couldn’t devour the haze, she had to target its production or the energy itself, cut the root or divert the river.

Haze here seemed to come from Mystic Return Smoke alone; the smoke itself shouldn’t generate energy. People had to inhale it, then breathe out energy-laced haze, lungs as bellows for the wind.

If she could stop people from using Mystic Return Smoke, she could halt the settling haze, stop the flute, silence the snakes.

Hmm… what approach works, picking a path through fog?

She couldn’t just say “don’t”; people would push back. Twist it—create another cure so they choose it over Mystic Return Smoke. Count Emongaha would object, but that’s a later fight, offer a new well when the old is cursed.

Or let them keep using Mystic Return Smoke while she worked a trick to steal the energy in the smoke. As for the stolen energy… she couldn’t absorb it herself; a thief with a burning purse.

Wait—could she send the stolen energy to Nirael, let her share the burden, pass the lightning to the storm god?

In theory it might work. Ment stole Nirael’s energy; isn’t it fair for Nirael to steal Ment’s, balance the scales?

The problem was how to steal it, then hand it to Nirael, draw wine from one jar to another without spilling.

Her Devouring Authority could help, but not as raw as before; it needed tweaks, a blade rehoned for a finer cut.

Thinking it through brought another snag: Devouring needed a link to the Mystic Return Smoke people inhaled, or it couldn’t steal energy, no bridge, no crossing.

Fine—she had to create something new for the people, since she couldn’t meddle inside Mystic Return Smoke, build a new loom when the old is locked.

It circled back to plan one: make a substitute, or a parallel product. Its effect must beat Mystic Return Smoke—true cures from Lucimia’s Devouring, pulling the weed with the root.

Sadly, devouring disease produced no energy. And the cost… she didn’t want to burn her own power, a lamp draining its oil.

Strange thing: the Plague God healed disease and absorbed energy, but Lucimia’s devouring didn’t. She’d confirmed it before Reversion, using the Fuzzy Orb to swallow worms and Dori’s illness, two wells—one brimming, one dry.

So she had to figure how to shift the energy she’d spend away from herself, move the weight to another axle.

Fine, the thread curled back: could someone share the cost of devouring the haze, a snake biting its tail?

Hiss… let me think. Each idea had strengths and knots. What if she fused them, braid cords into a rope…

After a while, Lucimia finally caught a thought, a fish flashing in dark water.

Aren’t the people Independents? Use that. Declare the new product human-made, no gods involved, raise a banner of our own hands.

In truth, Lucimia would weave in Devouring. To stop it draining her, let the people power it with their own energy, a mill turned by the villagers’ feet.

It sounded scary, but it could work, a sharp path along a cliff.

She could craft a Magic Array to stir their mana and teach everyone—give them oars instead of a ferry—so they wouldn’t wait on Mystic Return production.

In fact, the array would make them Lucimia’s followers; then, when they used Devouring, the drain would be their own, a shrine hidden inside a school.

It would outshine Mystic Return in effect and throughput, sunrise against lanterns, and replace it.

As for Emongaha, Lev, and Ment noticing? Simple—you call yourselves Independents, champions of human agency, hold you to your own seal.

Someone believed and acted, creating a new self-made product. That’s reasonable; one tree doesn’t make a forest. There can’t be only Mystic Return Smoke.

If Curse believers attack, the people will resist and question whether they’re truly Independents, stones thrown back at the wave.

After long thought, Lucimia set a rough plan. She’d still need time to confirm and test; it might change. For now, it was a sketch before the ink.