Lucimia drew an Evil Entity to her palm. A Fuzzy Orb quivered there, like a puff of winter dandelion, and her mind tightened like frost on glass.

The rules for Monster Control say only this: eat raw flesh. They never say how much, right?

Right. That’s how it reads.

Then have the Fuzzy Orb devour only half. If that fails, I’ll…

A chill crawled down her spine like a thin snake. If pollution is why that bear carcass suddenly looks “delicious,” will humans start looking the same?

Forget it. Experiment first. She shook her head, snowflakes shedding from thought, and lofted the Fuzzy Orb toward the demon bear’s corpse like tossing a downy seed on wind.

“Eat only half. No—fine, you can eat more, but leave a portion.” Her voice was calm, a pond under moonlight.

The Fuzzy Orb obeyed. Its mouth opened like a shadowed gate. One bite, and the bear’s upper body slid away like mud in a flood, leaving only a hind leg on the stone.

When the Devouring finished, Lucimia closed her eyes, reaching with her senses like roots feeling for water.

“How is it?” Desty leaned in, a curious sprig breaking through snow.

Lucimia said nothing. She opened her eyes and looked at Desty, her gaze steady as a quiet lake.

“W–what is it? Why stare at me like that?” Desty pulled back, awkwardly retreating two steps, like a startled deer.

“It’s nothing.” Lucimia smiled, a peach blossom after frost. “The experiment worked. Turns out I do need animal-type beasts.”

“Really? That’s great! So you can control monsters now?” Desty brightened like dawn. “We won’t need to keep searching. We can make monsters come to us. That’ll be way easier.”

“Mm.” Lucimia nodded, then spoke softly, the way snow falls. “Controlling monsters takes a lot of focus. I don’t want interruptions. Can I ask you to keep watch outside the cave?”

“No problem.” Desty nodded like tapping a drum once.

She backed to the mouth of the cave and glanced at Lucimia. Her gaze slid from Lucimia’s smiling face—a lantern in fog—to the bear leg at her feet, red as fresh maple bark.

She stayed silent for two breaths, then lifted her eyes back to Lucimia and smiled. “I’ll keep you covered.”

She hopped out into the white.

Once Desty was gone, Lucimia’s smile melted like thin ice. She turned, crouched, and fixed her eyes on the leftover hind leg, crimson pooling like a winter sunset.

In truth, the experiment had failed.

She couldn’t use the Fuzzy Orb’s Devouring to exploit a bug. Maybe the Orb’s Devouring doesn’t count as “eating” under the rules.

Two paths lay open, like forks in a forest trail.

One: refuse eating. Don’t use this ability. Explore on her own, or burn energy and send the Fuzzy Orb to scout. That path was slow, a trek through deep snow. The rat swarms and insect swarms behind her would catch up in days—gnawing tides, sent to eat her, marked as she was. And Ment’s pursuers might find them too, iron boots on ice.

Then the two of them would face rat and insect swarms and Ment’s hunters—a black storm on two fronts. She’d need Authority Power to answer, burning energy like oil in a lamp.

Sure, she could use Reversion to dodge calamity. But her gut said Reversion had turned strange, like a clock losing ticks: it hurt, it slowed. It now needed ten seconds to start. In a tight spot, if she lost every offensive move and had only Reversion, the startup would blind her sight like a curtain dropping. Ten whole seconds—she’d be a lamb to the slaughter, soft throat under a raised knife. Bad things would bloom in that window.

So, her next steps had to be careful. Reversion needed a ten-second safe space, a sanctuary carved from chaos.

Two: eat raw meat.

With Monster Control active, she could find the Cross quickly, like spotting a beacon through mist. It wouldn’t demand much energy, and it might keep the pollution from deepening.

Rationally, the second path was best. She only had to stomach the disgust. People eat sashimi, don’t they? Ancient humans tore meat raw, hair wet with blood. If she thought of it that way, the second choice gleamed like a straight road.

But…

Her intuition whispered that eating this meat would hatch something bad, like a seed of night cracking open.

She feared one bite might trigger some hidden gear in her Devouring Authority.

Lucimia looked at the hind leg, red and white like marbled winter stone, and couldn’t choose.

“Why,” she murmured to the meat, “can’t you be braised bear paw?”

As she wrestled with choice, she felt a cool thread slip from the corner of her mouth—drool, silver under cave light. Hunger surged like wolves through a ravine. Her stomach rolled and clawed, pain curling her like a leaf in fire.

She grabbed steaming roast from her Storage Ring, heat fogging the air like a kettle. She bit, swallowed, hoping warmth would quiet the wolves. It didn’t. The hunger grew sharper, iron hooks in the gut. She toppled to the ground and folded over, jaw clenched, riding the tide.

“You… really have to make me eat, huh?” Her voice was thin, a reed in wind.

“Fine… you win. I’ll eat. Who’s afraid?” She snatched the bear meat. Blood shone like lacquer. She drew a breath, clean and cold, and shoved the flesh past her teeth.

Disgust hit like a black wave.

It was gamy, fishy—rank wind off a swamp. Raw meant bad texture: her bite slipped, teeth grinding on something like soggy cloth. Unknown juices welled up, stinging like rot.

Lucimia fought the urge to retch, throat burning like a rope pulled tight. To make it bearable—maybe to cut the silence—she muttered around the mouthful, half joking, words smeared: “I’m an idiot. Should’ve gone for sashimi…”

—

Desty squatted at the cave mouth, watching the white world like a painter staring at blank paper. Calm on the surface, but inside, her thoughts churned like a hidden stream.

Is she really a fool?

Obviously not. After so long with Lucimia, she’d learned to read small signs, to pull threads and find patterns. From Lucimia’s words, the pauses like snow settling, she guessed the trigger for Monster Control.

Eat beast meat. That was the rule inked behind the veil.

She’d already guessed the “experiment”: try using Devouring Authority to glitch the rule. The result was plain as a footprint in fresh snow—probably no go.

Lucimia sent her out so she wouldn’t see. So Desty played along like a sparrow leaving a branch, went outside to guard, to keep people and monsters from breaking the moment.

She looked over the snow-white slopes and the tight black pines, a scroll of ink and snow. She drew a deep breath of cold, then let it out weakly, like steam fading. She plopped onto the drift, burying her head against her knees, a small mound in the white.

“…If only I could do something for you,” she whispered, soft as falling ash.