Tap, tap, tap—high heels clicked like a metronome on stone, a chill ripple moving in from the distance.

Desty’s heart tightened like a drawn bowstring before her body moved; she sprinted toward Lucimia’s ice statue to shield it like a lone pine against storm.

She’d barely taken two steps when her muscles locked; cold surged up from the floor like winter iron, and she looked down to find her legs sealed in ice.

Her gaze flashed to Gendi, the fake Gene, and Nirael—every one of them trapped like insects caught in clear amber.

As the footsteps drew near like tidewater, Desty finally saw the newcomer’s face.

A tall, seasoned woman approached, draped in moonlit-blue mage robes, her posture elegant as swaying reeds, with soldiers in black heavy armor shadowing her like a stormfront.

“You’re…?!” Shock skittered across Desty’s chest like startled sparrows; the uniform alone told her who this was.

The mage Lucimia had warned her about: a Purification Church caster, the one from the merchant ship, a mind-cleansing Purification mage—sixth-tier—named Joanna.

Crimson lips gleamed like wet lacquer as Joanna folded her arms; disdain settled on her features like frost. “How does a Holy Knight of the Purification Church serve a Dark Deity?”

“Pot calling the kettle black.” Desty’s anger sparked like flint. “Aren’t you serving Ment, the Deity of Curses? Honestly, I’m starting to suspect the Purification Church is tangled with curses too.”

Joanna shook her head, voice drifting cold as drifting snow. “I thought you were led astray. Turns out it’s willing treachery—serving a Dark Deity and doubting the Purification Deity. I’ll excise you like rot. But first…”

Her gaze slid to Lucimia’s statue like a blade catching light. “I’ll snuff out this girl.”

Joanna lifted one hand, fingers tightening in the empty air toward the ice statue like a hawk’s talons closing.

Crack—the clear shatter rang through the open space like a bell struck with ice.

Lucimia’s ice form burst apart, drifting as glittering shards like winter fireflies swirling in the air.

Everyone stared, stunned, as if the world had tilted; could Lucimia be ended so easily, like a candle pinched in the dark?

“Tch, nothing more than that.”

Joanna flicked her hair; shards haloed her like cold spotlights, and she sauntered toward Desty with a hand on her hip, hips swaying like a cat at prowl.

Desty couldn’t name the feeling knotting under her ribs like twisted rope; she only raised her sword and faced Joanna head-on like a cliff against surf.

“Heh. Let me give you a quick end.” Joanna lifted her right hand; magic stirred like a glacier waking, and the flowing shards obeyed, spiraling inward to her palm.

They drew tight, rotating like a tiny cyclone, condensing into a sphere that breathed cold, an orb that shed mist like a winter moon.

Its presence pressed outward like a mountain of ice; Desty feared she couldn’t withstand its weight without breaking like thin glass.

Nirael watched the sudden turn of fate, thoughts racing like mice in the walls, trying to find a path.

She could use Authority Power to stop Joanna, but it would burn her dwindling fuel like a lamp guttering in wind; most of it had gone to gathering worms.

If she killed Joanna, the worm-gathering would fail like a collapsed hive; with Lucimia’s fate unknown, she couldn’t trigger Reversion, and the plan would die.

Her best move was to sever her possession of the mouse, leave everyone like a bird fleeing a sinking ship, and rush to gather worms to break the wall.

Yet she hesitated, doubt flickering like a candle—Lucimia’s wit wasn’t a thread so easily cut; dying like that felt wrong.

Soon, Joanna shaped a biting vortex, cold wind howling like knives; ice-element magic thickened into a crystal orb as clear as a frozen tear.

It glowed pale blue, cold stars winking along its skin, hovering above her palm, spinning gently like a planet of winter.

Crosshatch textures crawled over the surface like runic snowflakes, an ancient rhythm thudding like a sealed drum beneath ice.

From that alone, her mastery was obvious—ice-element magic under iron control, an aura sharp as a predator’s breath, the power anything but small.

“Die.” Joanna’s voice fell like a guillotine.

But just as she moved to fling the orb like a comet, it exploded first, a traitor star breaking in its own sky.

BOOM—!!

The blast unfolded instantly, flipping the inn like a game board; dense ice-element magic surged over Joanna and her soldiers like a flood.

In a blink they were ice statues, and the trees, the road, every visible thing wore a thick coat of Frost, like winter claiming a kingdom.

And yet the tide halted cleanly at Desty’s toes; the Frost stopped there like a drawn line, refusing to cross.

Desty stared, hollowed by shock, at the spectacle rising before her like a mirage that cut.

The only one not frozen among the attackers was Joanna; she had raised a defense at the first heartbeat, but it hadn’t saved her from the storm’s teeth.

Ice shrapnel had ripped her left face open, teeth glinting like tombstones beneath torn flesh; one eye shattered, left arm and leg slicked in blood, a sight to chill marrow.

“Heh-heh, nothing more than that.”

“Who?” Joanna ground her voice through pain, hand clamped over half her face like a broken mask, looking toward the sound.

Everyone turned like compass needles swinging to north.

On the back stair of the inn, a girl descended with one hand on the rail, slow as night settling, dressed in black tones like deep water.

She stepped into view and smiled at Joanna like a blade sheathed in silk.

It was none other than Lucimia, the appearance Nirael had been waiting for like dawn after long snow.

Desty’s eyes widened a fraction, surprise opening like a fan.

“You?!” Joanna’s disbelief broke like thin ice. “Weren’t you dead?”

“Naïve.” Lucimia’s smile was spring after frost. “You killed only my substitute.”

“You thought I wouldn’t predict you’d use some hidden card to find me and strike?” Her voice was cool as shadow. “I’ve been in that trap before. I don’t step twice.”

“Substitute…” Joanna’s spirit drifted, a kite cut loose.

“Substitute… substitute…” Desty murmured, thoughts spinning like leaves. “Wait—so the one who came out with us wasn’t you at all? It was Fuzzy Orb?”

“Yes.” Lucimia nodded, the motion small and sure as a pebble dropping into still water.

“When did you switch?” Desty’s shock crawled like frost under skin; she’d been with Lucimia all day and never saw a moment free.

Lucimia blinked, playful light like starlight on ink. “Take a guess.”

“How am I supposed to guess?” Desty’s bafflement hung like fog.

“Hehe. I replaced myself from the very beginning.”

“The beginning?”

“At the moment we entered the city, I completed the swap,” Lucimia said, unhurried as drifting snow. “Every ‘me’ you saw afterward was Fuzzy Orb in disguise.”

“In the basement planning, sharing food with you, shopping at your side, and finally walking out of the basement together—every single one was Fuzzy Orb’s masquerade.”