Then how colossal must a Cross be to blanket an entire valley, like a monument grinding against the sky?

If it’s that vast, why can’t we find it, like a whale sunk in its own sea?

Every clue pointed the same way, like rivers seeking one mouth—the Nach Valley itself might be the Cross.

That spark came to Lucimia from the swarm of demon ants, like black thoughts crawling over a map.

Only that explains why the mist barrier gathers so fast, like breath drawn in one deep lung—because the valley is the Cross, and the mist around it is the Cross’s own exhalation.

Raise the vantage, and the pattern settles into place, like clouds parting over a hidden glyph.

Lucimia felt a bright click of certainty, then she traced the land in her mind: hills to the left like piled knuckles, dense forest to the right like a dark pelt, a river slicing straight down the middle like a blade.

Put together, it looks like a Cross—like the character for ten, a stark, simple stroke across the earth.

In other words, the valley under her feet is the Cross itself, like standing on a sleeping giant’s chest.

But she also knew the Cross’s size couldn’t be arbitrary, like a shadow that won’t stretch on command; Ment has no Disguise Power, so size marks how thick the energy runs.

If this guess holds, Nach Valley still matters to Ment, like a root he won’t cut; even so, he didn’t come to stop her, like a wolf held back by a thorn—was it because of Nirael?

Relief first, then a wry taste: Nirael’s still worth something; whatever’s happening there, he’s slowed Ment’s steps, like tar on the heel.

Which also means that even without the Purification Deity’s protective veil, Nirael’s poisons might not touch this Cross, like rain sliding off oil—dump it all and it still might not bite.

So Lucimia truly has only one path left, like a bridge appearing in fog—Devouring the Cross.

She let the fear drain, then let air in. Calm first, then action. She closed her eyes and exhaled long, like a kettle letting off steam.

After a long beat, she opened them again, and whispered to herself, like drawing a map on her tongue: So the target of Devouring should be Devouring Nach Valley. No wonder it wants thirty to forty percent, and even more to refill.

Using Authority Power burns energy, like tinder feeding flame; the cost rises with the target’s resistance, like pushing upstream through ice melt.

Only one way to know.

She stopped caring about the sensing spells in the sky, like ignoring gnats at dusk; before, she feared the drain, but now fear had no teeth.

Her toes kissed the ground, then she rose. Joy first, then motion. She called on the Flight Spell she knew by heart, and her body lifted quick as a hawk on a thermal.

Her sight widened with altitude, like a scroll unrolling, and high above it all her chest loosened, like doors swung open on wind.

The moment her spell breathed, the higher sensors bit, and the sky turned bruise-dark, thunder and lightning snarling like chained beasts.

A Ninth Rank Mage’s lightning would tear most mages apart, like spears through silk, but Lucimia didn’t spare it a thought.

She raised her hand, and a black shadow poured from her palm like spilled ink, spreading until it wrapped the whole sky like a mourning shroud.

The next second.

Crack—!

Glass-shatter rang out; the shadow thinned like smoke in sun, and the sensing Magic Array broke apart like frost under a heel.

Now Lucimia could use the Flight Spell without a leash, like a bird off the tether.

Thank you, Desty. Gratitude first, then steel. She shaped the thanks in her heart, like a candle cupped against wind.

With Desty’s gift in her veins, her options bloomed like night flowers.

Devouring… Nach Valley.

Her voice fell like a seal pressed to wax, and shadow surged from her slim frame—part smoke, part running water, part slime-thick ooze—black and chaotic as a moonless tide.

It poured into the valley below and spread fast, like flood ink eating parchment.

Soon the whole valley lay under her darkness, like a lake under winter ice; not long after, warm currents rose through the shadow and flowed into Lucimia, like spring water up a well.

But warmth flipped to knife-cold, and whispers crawled along her ear, like moth wings in a dead room.

Those whispers carried rancor, hatred, fear, despair, and pain—a hive of black bees in her skull.

That sealed it for Lucimia—she was Devouring Ment’s energy, like drawing venom from a wound.

The uproar was a bonfire in the night; Nat and Lev looked up at the lone figure in the sky, and dread settled, like ash on the tongue.

Ment and Vosh felt the loophole snap shut under Lucimia’s feet; ignoring Lev and Nat’s thoughts and safety, they forced themselves in, like storms taking over empty houses, trying to cut her off.

Ment struck first. He wouldn’t let Lucimia steal his energy, like a miser guarding his vault; but he knew he couldn’t beat her—she was his natural bane, like salt to rot.

So he chose to pull the Cross’s energy back, like a general calling home his scouts.

There was no better move; he had many reasons not to withdraw, like knots on a rope, yet watching Lucimia Devour his power, he couldn’t just stand and watch, like a statue bleeding in the rain.

Lose an arm, or lose a few fingers—he chose the smaller pain.

As Ment slowly reeled his energy in, Vosh’s face fell like a storm front.

Simple math: Ment pulled the medium energy that fed her Magic Array, so Vosh’s array sagged shut, like a loom with its threads cut.

That meant Vosh could no longer fling her Authority Power with abandon; all that sustained output to hold back Lucimia’s Purification Power would falter, like a dam sprouting cracks.

For instance, the Purification that had been blocking Lucimia from Devouring the curse on Reversion—its effect waned as the Cross’s energy ebbed, then vanished, like tide withdrawing from rock.

That was Lucimia’s design, an open gambit laid in sunlight.

She knew no enemy would wait to die while she Devoured, like wolves watching a fire grow; Ment and Vosh were not of one heart.

If he let her keep Devouring, Lucimia would become terrifying, like a night without stars; no one here could win, and Purification would be sealed again, like a door slammed with iron bars.

So he could only pull back. He’d cut his losses and keep her from swelling too much—yet even so, Purification would still be locked away, like a lantern snuffed in a shrine.

A daylight scheme, and Lucimia wagered that Ment wouldn’t stomach being Vosh’s dog, wouldn’t let Purification invade his source, like rot eating the heartwood.

And now, the wager paid.

“Fool! Ment, do you know what you’re doing?” Vosh spat the words like sparks, then arrowed toward Lucimia, trying to break her rhythm.

Lucimia turned her gaze on the “Nat” flying at her. Fear first, then flinch. The instant Nat met her eyes, his body jolted, like a string yanked taut.

Her eyes were pitch-black, and beneath the right one a third eye had opened—lifeless, indifferent, tired, sunken, and strange—rings of malice rippling around her like oil in water.

That gaze stirred fear in Vosh’s gut, like ice cracking underfoot; she had seen those eyes before, carried by Olivya, and those same eyes had chained her and hurled her into chaotic space, like a judge casting sentence.

Lucimia parted her lips, voice airy and far, like bells heard through fog. “It’s my attack phase now, Vosh.”

“Then let’s see if you’ve got the bite,” Vosh shot back, and she dropped the idea of striking Lucimia—useless, like throwing stones at night.

With her experience against Devouring, she had considered this shape of battle, and she had answers ready, like knives hidden in sleeves.