For a heartbeat, he thought Lucimia flickered like a candle guttering in a storm. The flicker was needle-fast, yet the old man caught a sliver, like a fish-scale glint.

A clot of black mist seethed there, like night boiled down to tar. Countless twisted eyes opened like knots in old wood. Tendrils uncoiled like cold eels. The shadow split like a blade through silk, then knit again like mending skin.

The vision flashed for less than a second, like lightning behind cloud, then the maiden’s face returned like moonlight breaking free.

He looked at that delicate, cool-tinged face, a porcelain bloom rimed with frost, and he didn’t dare speak, like a sparrow under a hawk’s gaze.

D-Dark Deity…? The words rose in his mind like bubbles from a drowned bell.

The way her gaze pinned him was the same as a Dark Deity’s, like iron nails through shadow. Not similar—identical, like mirror to mirror.

Yet she hadn’t used any Authority Power, like a still pond without ripples. Unless… her gaze was the Authority Power, like a sun that burns by simply shining?

He didn’t dare move, like a deer freezing at a twig-snap. He stopped blocking Lucimia and could only watch her leave his sight, like a tide rolling beyond the reef.

A Dark Deity from the Bloodkin side? Did she come just to strike the clock tower, like thunder choosing one lonely tree? Right, there was a Cross inside. She smashed the Cross, like a hammer through old bone. Then what? What was that Cross?

Strange. I know what that Cross is, like a name at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t recall it, like mist slipping through fingers. Why can’t I remember, like a door refusing its key?

“Wait, I remember! I know that Cross is—!” His shout rose like a flare.

His eyes went hollow in an instant, like lamps blown out by wind. His body dropped straight down, like a puppet with its strings cut.

The young man saw it and cast a Flight Spell again, like a hawk stooping on prey. He caught the old man with effort, like grabbing a falling log, and found no breath left—no life at all, like ash gone cold.

He’s dead! The thought froze him like winter in the marrow.

“Teacher? Teacher?! What happened?!” His voice cracked like a splitting branch.

How could this be?! One glance with that Bloodkin and dead, like frostbite in a blink? Impossible. Unless… she’s a Dark Deity. Die under a gaze, like ants under a lens?!

The young man had no idea what had happened, like a traveler lost in white fog.

Elsewhere, Lucimia watched the falling old man from a copse, like a cat at the edge of a clearing. Through the Fuzzy Orb left behind, she grasped the gist, like reading ripples on water.

Even she felt puzzled, like a needle stuck in cloth.

“How did he die? I only scared him, like a clap behind a door, and he died? That’s absurd.” Her doubt cooled like dew on stone.

He wasn’t some sickly elder, like paper in rain. He was a Ninth Rank Mage, storm-tested like an old pine. How could a scare kill him, like a feather felling a bull?

Obviously impossible, like fire refusing to burn.

So the problem lay in his last words, like a hidden hook in silk.

Before dying, he shouted, ‘I remember, that Cross is—’, and died before the end, like a song cut mid-note.

It was like a defense mechanism triggered, a blade under velvet, killing him to keep the secret sealed like a tomb.

“I see…” Lucimia thought for two seconds, like beads clicking on an abacus, and grasped it roughly like a net catching fish.

The old man had long been a puppet, like a mask worn under skin. The puppet effect hadn’t triggered yet. He was seeded like Gendi, bound by invisible rules like threads in shadow, and he had self-awareness until the trigger, like a bell that hasn’t been rung.

No wonder he didn’t recognize Lucimia, like a blindman missing the sun. A Ninth Rank powerhouse should’ve known her name, carved like a sigil—but a puppet can’t, like a locked box lacking a key.

“Then… the other young female Ninth Rank Mage is a puppet too?” Lucimia weighed it, like a jeweler testing silver.

The royal family are puppets as well, like marionettes behind a curtain. What about Rexi? Is she standing with Ment, like a kite tied to his hand, or not with Ment but seeded too, like a field sown in secret? Or no seed at all, like bare earth after rain?

Lucimia let it go, like dust off a sleeve. She couldn’t be bothered to think; she only needed to make sure the rat swarm besieged the city, like a tide of gray stones. After that, she’d go to the Royal Capital and, with Nirael, cut Ment down, like a weed at the root. Then it would be over, like a door closed.

She’d had enough. Once she got the intel, she’d hunt the remaining Time Ability Users, like wolves running down the last deer.

—

In an unknown cave, damp as a lung.

“Mm…” Rexi opened sleep-blurred eyes, like petals unfolding at dusk.

She yawned, like a cat in sun, then stretched, her curves flowing like a river over smooth stones.

“Mmm~” The sound drifted like steam.

She blinked herself alert and scanned the cave, like a sparrow checking rafters, but Lucimia’s figure wasn’t there, like a missing star.

“Huh? Where’d she go?” Rexi got up and stepped outside, like dew-tip feet on moss, but didn’t see Lucimia there either, like an empty path after rain.

She returned to the cave and noticed the blanket still here, soft as clouds. Understanding struck like a match.

“Oh~ I get it. She must’ve gone hunting or picking fruit, like a forager at dawn. She’s making breakfast!”

Rexi felt sure her reasoning was right, like a puzzle piece clicking in. The blanket was still here; it felt soft and tender, like milk in velvet, not like those coarse silks, sandpaper on skin. Such an expensive blanket—no way she’d abandon it, like throwing pearls to swine.

If it were Rexi, she’d never toss it, like a magpie with a shiny thing.

“Ahem, what’s this like? Like… a wife waiting for her husband back from the hunt? No, Lucimia’s a girl too. So, wife-and-wife,” she muttered, like sugar in tea.

Rexi sat obediently on the blanket, like a kitten curling on a cushion, and waited for Lucimia to return.

She waited a long time, like shadows dragging, and her legs went numb, like pins in wool.

“Could she have run into a nasty beast? But a nasty beast would make a racket, like drums in fog. It’s so quiet here. And she’s strong, right?” Doubt gnawed like mice at grain.

“Did she leave me? Dump me here?” The thought stung like nettles.

“No, impossible. She trusts me now, right? Then why leave? Aren’t we friends?” Her heart fluttered like a trapped moth.

“Mm… maybe she didn’t dump me. Maybe she really went hunting and accidentally… got swallowed in one bite! That’s better… better my foot!” She snapped at herself like a twig.

Rexi’s runaway thoughts tangled her up, like vines around ankles. She grabbed her hair and ruffled it hard, like wind in thistles.

“She might’ve really left me. She’s so suspicious, like a fox sniffing every track. Maybe she doesn’t trust me and went to find Bevi herself.”

“But without me, she can’t find Bevi, like a ship without a star. And the city right now is… no, I’ve got to go back.”

She jumped up and ran out of the cave, like a doe on a trail. After two steps she braked hard, like heels scraping gravel, and rushed back.

“Almost forgot the blanket!”

She snapped it up and flicked the dust, like a banner in wind, then rolled it tight, like a scroll.

“I’m coming to find you, Lucimia,” she said, a promise like a knot.

—

Lucimia hid in a belt of trees, like ink strokes hemming a page. The city roared loud, like a pot boiling over. The old man’s death kicked up huge waves, like a boulder into a pond. From the young man’s words, the city lord learned there was another Bloodkin inside, like a shadow under a lamp.

The Bloodkin lady who killed the old man and wrecked Erwei City’s landmark was looking for Bevi. That was the young man’s report, laid out like cards.

So the city began a sweeping hunt, like a rake combing straw. After some searching, the city lord quickly locked onto an information broker whispered about among adventurers—Bevi, a name like a coin passed hand to hand.

Through the Fuzzy Orbs she’d left in the city, Lucimia watched the flow, like eyes in the eaves.

She learned everyone had thought Bevi was human, not Bloodkin, like a wolf in a wool cloak. Buyers said every time they met Bevi, it was a different person, like masks changing on a stage.

Using the adventurers’ descriptions and the population registry together, the city guards found the people who’d met with the adventurers before, like threads gathered into one knot.