Lucimia felt the words weighing on her; her breath cooled like steam fading from a teacup, and after a pause she spoke slowly.

“Before the first Reversion, was your plan to use Gendi to poison the Mystic Return Smoke site, wreck production like a blight on a field, then unleash magical beasts to storm the walls, spread disease, and harvest the energy?”

“Then gather that energy into a colossal worm,” she went on, “have it spit toxic fluid like acid rain to corrode the city walls?”

“Yes,” Nirael said, her voice steady like a night tide. “But after your account, and what came before the second Reversion, I don’t think it’s sound.”

“Even if you hadn’t disrupted it, the beast plan wouldn’t work. We’d have to use Evil Entity worms and rats. That means sacrificing Gene.”

“I’d planned to have Gene and Gendi spread it in your stead,” she added, as if setting stones on a go board. “Now that you’re here, so…”

Nirael didn’t finish. Lucimia caught the drift like a hawk catching wind.

It was nothing but this—this time they’d choose to sacrifice Gene. His self-detonation would call up swarms of worms and rats. These Evil Entities split like mildew, not dying like beasts when cut. Stopping them would be hard as holding back floodwater with a broom.

“Rest easy,” Nirael said, her tone calm like winter light. “Everyone’s long prepared to sacrifice. They aren’t my believers; they’re my friends. They chose this road, for saving.”

“After Gene dies, I’ll have Gendi guide you. You don’t know the streets.”

“Enough of that. Have you decided how to counter Ment’s change of strategy?”

Lucimia blinked, her lashes casting fans of shadow. “Of course.”

———

Jaha Town, Pete’s restaurant.

Everyone drank tomato beef brisket soup, warmth blooming inside like a small hearth.

A man’s body suddenly locked up. He hacked a mouthful of blood like spilled ink, toppled straight backward, his skull hitting a wooden chair, then slammed to the floor with a bang.

The room went still, fear thick as frost.

The man clawed at his throat; a rasp scraped out like rusted iron. “It hurts… it hurts… the virus is flaring. Smoke—who’s got smoke?”

Heads tilted left and right like reeds in wind.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“I don’t.”

“I do…”

“Quick, give it to him.”

“No! I’m keeping it for myself!”

“How can you watch him die?”

“I can’t help it! He’s sick—means all of us here got exposed. I have to keep my stick for me!”

“Wait, you said he’s sick… right! He’s sick, doesn’t that mean we’re all infected? This—this—”

The talk spiked panic like sparks in dry grass. Bowls clattered, chopsticks fell, and people rushed for the door.

The first person hit the door and shoved. It didn’t budge. Ice magic had frozen it, clear as a winter pond.

“What’s going on? Let me out!” He snarled, kicked the door. The wood held like iron; one kick didn’t crack it.

“Damn!” He kept kicking, boots thudding, but the door stood unmoved, a stubborn cliff.

Out of options, he grabbed a chair to smash his way through.

He raised it high, ready to bring it down—when a melodious girl’s voice rolled from a corner, ringing like a bell with its own amplifier.

“Do you want to carry the virus into the whole town?”

“Huh? Who said that?” The man lowered the chair, eyes hunting the sound. The room hushed and everyone looked back.

A petite figure sat calm at a table. A magic hat shaded her brow; a long robe draped her like evening water. She cupped her hot soup, sipped, set it down with a quiet clink, then stood and walked toward them.

Seeing her approach, the man spoke, desperation fluttering like trapped sparrows. “You say I’ll spread it to the whole town, but what choice do I have? I can’t wait here to die. If I get out, maybe I find a whole stick of Mystic Return Smoke.”

“Yeah, yeah,” people echoed, hope thin as paper.

The man swept his eyes over the girl’s classic mage attire, the fabric expensive as moonlight silk. “You’re a mage, right? You iced the door frame?”

“Yes,” the girl said, nodding, voice clear as spring water.

“Remove it! While the virus hasn’t hit us, we can find Mystic Return Smoke and still be saved!”

“Hasn’t hit you?” The girl tilted her head, fingertip pointing toward the first man on the floor. “Look at him.”

Eyes turned. A cluster of worms crawled from the fallen man’s mouth, writhing like knotted cords, spreading toward the edges like spilled oil.

“Aaaah! What—what is that?!” Panic cracked, raw and loud.

“Let me out!” someone shouted, voice fraying like torn cloth.

“Open it?” the girl said, calm as a lake. “If we open the door and the worms escape, then what?”

“Then what do we do—wait to die?” The man threw up his hands, helpless as a leaf in rain.

“Heh.” The girl hummed twice, playful as chimes. She tipped a finger to the brim of her hat and lifted it, revealing eyes black and bright as polished obsidian. Confidence settled on her like starlight. “Do you want to try a new way to cure it?”

“…A new way?”

“Yes. Do you want to try?”

The man stared at her smile, at that robe rich as a night sky. His head nodded on its own, like a puppet tugged by a hidden string.

———

Afternoon, the Jaha Count’s estate.

Emongaha stood on the rooftop, hands clasped behind him, surveying the town through the floor-to-ceiling glass like a hawk over fields.

The roof door knocked, a sharp rap like knuckles on stone.

“Come in.”

With a squeak, the ornate door swung open. A soldier in black heavy armor, two meters tall, strode in like a moving bastion.

It was Lev.

He scanned the wide rooftop, then walked to Emongaha’s back at a measured pace. He sank to one knee, devotion solid as a carved statue. “Lord Ment.”

“Mmm.” Emongaha—no, Ment—nodded, a brief dip like a pebble touching water.

The real Emongaha was long dead. This Emongaha was Ment’s puppet, a shadow dressed in velvet.

The original Emongaha had been half a high-ranking lord, and he knew whether Nirael was truly a Dark Deity, and who had been helping the people. He’d planned to let Nirael break the wall like a thunderclap. Ment tricked him; that plan fell like leaves in autumn.

“How’s the plan?”

“It was going smoothly,” Lev said, steady as drumbeats. “But a variable showed up this morning.”

“A man collapsed mid-meal at a restaurant, struck by sudden illness. Only one person there had Mystic Return Smoke. He refused to share, said everyone present would be infected.”

“Some tried to break the door, rushing to escape,” he continued. “But a mage froze it, saying leaving would spread disease across town.”

Lev paused, letting the words settle like dust.

“A mage?” Emongaha—Ment—frowned, doubt darkening like a cloud. “There aren’t many mages in this town.”

“Yes. But she is one. A girl,” Lev said. “She calls herself a Ninth Rank Mage. She favors the Independents’ ideals.”

“Using that creed, she reshaped Healing Magic,” he finished. “She taught everyone there an extremely simple Magic Array, and cured the first man who fell.”