Gene’s body burst apart, blood and meat flung like a crimson storm; seconds later the scraps twitched alive, writhing like river eels, birthing rats and worms that swarmed and hatched a flesh orb.

Grief struck Nirael like winter wind; she stood shaking, breath snagged, murmuring, “Sorry… I’m sorry,” like a broken reed in rain.

The sob finally broke free, a small bird beating against a cage of ribs.

Lucimia froze, hands empty of comfort; she watched like someone lost in fog, not knowing Nirael’s tie to Gene, not knowing their first thread of meeting.

After circling the thought like a moth to flame, Lucimia asked, “What was he to you?”

The sob thinned, like rain easing; Nirael found her breath and said soft as dusk, “A friend.”

“Not my followers—my friends,” Nirael said, each word a stone set in place. “Every so‑called follower is my friend. I’m no Dark Deity; they’re not worshipers.”

Friend… The word drifted through Lucimia’s chest like a quiet bell.

Feels like I’ve only got Yuna… well, Desty counts too; two lanterns in a long night.

Time slid by like sand in a cold glass before Nirael lifted her gaze. “Let’s head back. Tears water nothing. We plan next—those who’ve finished absorbing energy come here and self‑detonate; those not done keep absorbing.”

“Mm.” The sound fell like a pebble in still water.

Back at the inn, Nirael spoke fast, voice a drawn bow. “I’ve summoned everyone who’s finished absorbing. I’ll need you casting Teleportation Magic without pause. I also called Gendi—told him the handler for rats and worms changed to you. He’ll serve as guide.”

“Fine.” Lucimia’s tone was cool springwater. “Don’t tell anyone our true plan. Only tell them the steps.”

“Mm? Why?” Nirael’s surprise flickered like a candle in a draft.

“To guard against moles,” Lucimia said, eyes skimming the rat’s red glow like embers. “I’m not doubting your bond with your friends. This is just a shield. As a strategist, remember—let the surface plan show like a banner, but keep the true plan buried like roots.”

Nirael held the thought like a stone under rivercurrent, then nodded once. “All right.”

Night spread like ink when Nirael finally brought Gendi in.

The blond boy cut Lucimia a glance like a quick arrow, then turned away, folded his arms, leaned against the wall like a wary cat, and held his tongue.

Nirael laid out his tasks, words neat as stacked tiles: hide yourself when you poison later; once the wall breaks, you lead the way, guiding Lucimia and Desty along the marked route.

She added a thorn among flowers. Gene would choose self‑detonation to break the wall; the beast plan would serve as a feint, smoke over a river.

She didn’t tell Gendi Gene had already self‑detonated; she said Gene would choose it then, a curtain held up at Lucimia’s advice. Outside of Nirael, Lucimia, Desty, and Gene, no one knew the true weave—not Gendi, not Pete, not Kace.

To keep the river looking smooth, Lucimia set a Fuzzy Orb disguised as Gene at the inn’s front desk, a puppet lamp to fool the night.

And for every follower who came to self‑detonate, Lucimia would spin the same illusion, shadows arranged so Ment wouldn’t spot a thinning crowd.

After hearing it, Gendi’s brow tightened like a drawn string. “Her? Can we trust that? At the next spot, we’ll need real force to punch through and break the wall. Without Gene’s power, are we truly fine?”

What? Doubting my strength? Before Reversion I caught you like a fish in a shallow net.

Lucimia felt the spark and let it cool like water on iron; no need to quarrel with a kid—facts and steps would speak like dawn.

She let the comment fall, and Nirael picked it up like a shield. “Of course. She’s strong—stronger than any of us. But she doesn’t know the Empire; you do. You know the routes and layouts, so—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Gendi cut in, words crisp as snapped twigs. “I lead the way, tell her the next Cross location, enemy defense points, that kind of stuff. I got it.”

“Mm.” Nirael didn’t bristle; her calm was a lake. “Gendi, I’m asking your help.”

“Oh…” Gendi answered, drifted back to the wall, and leaned like a shadow.

After a spell of quiet, the boy spoke again, voice skimming the surface. “What about Shebelle?”

He aimed the question at Nirael like a thrown pebble.

“Her… leave her be.” Nirael let the words drop, then silence pooled like ink.

“What happened to her?” Desty asked, curiosity bright as a lantern.

Lucimia’s gaze slid to Nirael, a memory stirring like mud underwater. When she used Devouring on Gendi’s memory, she’d seen Nirael, Gendi, and Shebelle playing together, sunlight on young faces.

Shebelle had told her she hoped the plague would be ended, and that the Plague God was a true god; the two lines crossed like tangled reeds, and the tangle had haunted Lucimia for a while.

With what they had now, the shape grew clearer like dawn through mist.

Maybe Shebelle hated Nirael absorbing energy by harming others—hated that path like thorns—and didn’t want Nirael to die.

Nirael’s way, stripped of flowers, was an even trade with Ment, a blade for a blade.

She was gulping energy, riding the edge like a cliff in storm; even if she won a death match with Ment, victory would still cut deep.

The basement fell quiet, silence thick as damp earth.

After another long minute, Gendi’s gaze drifted to Lucimia, then to Desty, then back to Nirael, eyes moving like swallows; he thought, then said, “I’m heading out.”

He didn’t wait for replies; his feet tapped quick, a rabbit up the stairs.

“Uh, what’s with him?” Desty asked, frown like a dark cloud.

Lucimia didn’t know; she watched the stairs like a wooden spine, counting breaths.

“Mm…” Nirael weighed it, thoughts clicking like beads. “Maybe… he got shy?”

“…What is that,” Desty muttered, exasperation like a hand to the forehead.

“I don’t know; I guessed,” Nirael said with a small shrug, a leaf in wind. “He used to talk a lot. When I found him, same thing. But the moment he saw you two in the basement, he went quiet, words tripping, a bit hurried—like he’s trying to act cool.”

“…” Desty let the silence answer, a flat stone on water.

Lucimia kept quiet, eyes on the stairwell, thoughts drifting like smoke.

“Lucimia, what are you thinking?” Desty tugged her back, voice a tug on a sleeve.

“Ah, nothing.”

“Hey? Don’t tell me you fancy Gendi!” Desty teased, laughter like silver bells. “Do you, do you?”

“Please.” Lucimia cut her a look like a flicked fan. “No.”

“You’re lying—I saw you blushing.”

“That’s the red glow from Nirael’s rat!” Lucimia snapped, words sparking. “Idiot!”