By their accounts, their memories were smoke in wind; when asked Bevi’s face, they all shrugged, said it had slipped like rain off stone.

The trail snapped like a frayed string; the city’s rumor-web went slack, its threads breaking under dawn frost.

No one found even a shadow of Bevi; he hid like moss under old bricks, trading whispers, plotting with a silent tide beneath the streets.

So the City Lord raised a verdict like a banner in a storm: Bevi was a Bloodkin mole in the Empire, and that woman outside was likely a scout for maps, powerhouses, machines, and coin-flow.

He sat in his castle office, quiet as night water, drew a quill like a raven’s feather, and let ink walk across parchment.

“Second Era, Year 304, Twelfth Month,” the script flowed like a winter stream, “Bloodkin break the truce unilaterally. A mole infiltrates Erwei City for years; unknown intelligence stolen. A descendant of the Progenitor bloodline slays the Empire’s oldest Ninth Rank Mage…”

He sealed the missive with magic like frost-lacquered wax, then sent it to a guard who slid into darkness like a fox, sprinting for Royal Capital Luo under a moon-pale road.

Erwei City shifted into wartime like iron ringing; Magic Arrays lit like constellations along walls, soldiers ringed the perimeter like pines around a lake, fearing a gathered storm and a sudden full assault.

Lucimia watched, heart tight like a snared bird; guilt rose like smoke that stung the eyes.

Did I make this explode? Her fear was a cold ripple; she hadn’t expected a Bloodkin guise to summon thunder like this.

And who knew two tear-mark moles meant Progenitor lineage? Her little masquerade had become a banner, a move read as official thunder from the Bloodkin court.

Just my luck, she thought, like stepping on a loose tile and waking the whole house; the mess felt bone-deep.

A worse chill slid in: if the Bloodkin traced the spark back to her, would they come like wolves, would they knife her under a red moon?

Her thought barely finished when the night answered with soft leather wings; a bat skimmed into her sense like a black petal drifting.

She turned, breath steady like still water. The bat hung upside-down like a dark fruit, its eyes twin embers staring at Lucimia.

Bat, she thought, mind a blade under silk. Bats and Bloodkin shared shadow; was this Bevi, or a puppet of his hands?

Her face stayed smooth as jade; she watched the bat with a cool mountain gaze, aloof as frost on stone.

Panic didn’t rise; calculation did, like a quiet loom. If Bevi came to her door, and disaster already spun wide, why not cut thread clean—snatch Bevi, drag secrets out like pearls from mud?

Silence stretched, a thin string under a winter sky. Then the bat spoke, its voice flowing like song, words dancing like dew on tongues, sorrow threading through as if a lute wept.

She heard beauty like river-light, but no meaning; the language was a silver flute from a far court, a Bloodkin tongue her ear couldn’t catch.

This was bad, and the con couldn’t even begin; her plan felt like a boat without oars on a black lake.

So she chose silence, a mountain’s posture; there’s a saying, she thought, don’t speak and let the mist paint you tall.

She took a high seat in her own bearing, gaze half-cold and half-slight, like a queen viewing flawed work, as if to say: you failed, I’m displeased, fix it or be ash.

Her guise wore the Progenitor’s tear-marks like a crest; height in stance fit the mask like a sleeve fits an arm.

Facing her chill, the bat also fell quiet, like a statue under moonlight; two pairs of red coals stared, and the night held its breath.

Lucimia’s thoughts moved like black water. Devouring memory wouldn’t work; something here blocked it like stone; she couldn’t draw the past out.

So Devouring Bevi’s secrets through memory was a dead road, a door nailed shut.

But if memory was stone, ability was wind; she could steal the Bloodkin language itself like a thief taking a bell at midnight.

She’d Devour the tongue’s skill without triggering Devouring Existence; then she’d use Reversion, let his ability return like a tide, while she kept a perfect, accentless Bloodkin voice.

That path gleamed, yet danger hissed like grass hiding a snake; she couldn’t rush. She needed a silent cut, a clean steal.

Her shadow poured out like ink, gliding with night’s cloak toward the tree where the bat hung like a lamp.

Her gaze never wavered, an icy lantern fixed on the target, while the shadow climbed like a cat up the rough bark into branches.

To tilt odds toward a sure strike, she stepped forward like a cloud’s slow drift and sighed, a soft blade of sound.

“Ah—” The sigh fell like snowflakes. The bat’s body quivered, confusion fluttering like wind through leaves, and in that ripple, her shadow leapt like a panther.

Dark swallowed the bat in a gulp, Devouring turning the small body into night; Lucimia sent the hunger backward like a hook through thread, found Bevi wherever he hid, and pulled the Bloodkin language from him like dye from cloth.

Knowledge flooded her skull like a river breaking a dam; dizziness spun stars behind her eyes, while Bevi sensed the wrongness like pricked skin—his bat-shell swelled, ballooning like storm-pressed clouds.

Lucimia cut doubt and acted; Reversion flashed like white dawn, and she layered Devouring Authority over it like iron under silk, to ensure his memory reset to clean snow.

Rexi had kept memory because Authority Power beat raw ability; Lucimia hadn’t shielded before, but now she armored the reset, blocking any trick Bevi might carry against memory wipe.

White light swept like a curtain; the view snapped back like a bowstring, and she stood again, facing the city’s distant lanterns.

At this time-point, the bat hadn’t flown in; the world felt freshly painted, edges crisp as frost.

She tasted her new tongue, the Bloodkin language ringing like crystal; she whispered a few words, notes smooth as river glass.

“Mm, hello? I’m Lucimia.” The phrase rose like song, vowels curved like crescent moons.

“Mm, good,” she murmured, nodding like a reed in wind. She tested again and again, each line clean as silver wire, and when it felt right, the bat brushed her senses once more.

This time, she didn’t snap her head like a spooked deer; she turned slow as a drifting cloud, timing it with the bat settling like a pendulum on the branch.

Eyes met, embers to frost; the bat spoke, and the tongue flowed like a lyre: “Who are you? Why haven’t I seen you?”

So that’s what he said, she thought, relief lilting like sunlight on water. The memory in him was clean; the reset had held like iron bolts.

She softened inside like warm clay, then focused on Bevi’s words, weighing tone like metal in a hand.

There was no reverence, not even with her tear-marks blazing like a crest; was Bloodkin culture this level and cold, or was he high-born enough to bite back?

Maybe old tales had misled; this world’s rules were mist, not marble.

Fine, assume he ranked high, a hawk among ravens; a false high-born act could snap if pressed by someone who’d met true pillars.

She chose a curve over a wall; lips parted and the Bloodkin song spilled like honeyed wine. “You forgot me? Ah! My heart aches, my sorrow spills, and I kept you bright in my memory…”

She drew a mask of grief like rain across a peach blossom, eyes closing as her fingers wiped phantom tears, yet one lid lifted a sliver, a sly moon peeking to watch the bat’s face.