What’s he trying to pull?

Lucimia’s mind sprinted like arrows through mist, thoughts flickering like fish beneath ice.

If the squeeze tightens, what would I do?

Kill? Then he’d smear the Bloodkin like flinging ink across a wall.

But how’s he sure he won’t die? Such nerve, like a cliff walker with no rope.

He hasn’t even gauged my strength, yet he swings for blood?

Anyone who can weave slander like a net wouldn’t leave a hole that big.

This isn’t some cannon-fodder tale; people with real weight think like mountains.

He wouldn’t gamble I’d snap at slander, then flee like a spooked bird and nail myself.

What if his bet fails? Dice lost in a ditch.

So it’s strange—does he hate Bloodkin enough to butcher an innocent granny like chopping wet wood?

He chooses hate when other roads are open, smoke where there’s clear sky.

Besides that, what else would I do?

Obvious—set the Bloodkin label aside, I’d trigger Reversion, like rewinding a river.

After Reversion, what does he gain?

A flash—our first meeting, me and Rexi. I killed him, then rewound. Rexi kept his memory like a sealed jar.

...?!

Shock rippled, a pebble in water. A bold guess rose like fog: after Reversion, if he can keep memory, my time art stands naked.

So, is he a Time Ability User? Is he testing my identity?

But why lock on Reversion? Even if he suspects time, how hits that bullseye?

Or does he test everyone alike, bait scattered wide?

And how did he tag me, hawk’s eye on a hare?

The more she thought, the more the roots took hold.

And it’s an open play, sunlight on a blade. If I revert, he confirms me; what he does next is fog.

If I don’t revert and let myself be taken, and he’s fine killing a granny, he might try a quiet kill to test me, knife in the rain.

But there’s a snag. He hasn’t probed my power, yet dares to strike? Doesn’t he fear the trap flipping him?

Wait. Comb the threads like wet hair.

Back earlier—he clocked me before I boarded, eyes like hooks. If he can lock onto my power, maybe back in the kingdom and the empire, he already knew me.

In theory he’d know I’m a Dark Deity, and know my weight like scales.

Unless he has a glance-that-sees gift, a mirror that unmasks.

Maybe he saw time on me, just not which branch, so he tests the worst thorn—Reversion.

Then he wouldn’t know my combat reach, ship in fog.

That makes less sense. If he knows my strength, he’d lose outright; if he doesn’t, he should tread soft like snow.

How does he ensure he can kill me? That bridge looks rotten.

Maybe he believes a Reversion user leans on Reversion, fish on water.

Then what? Say I revert; he confirms me. Then what? He can’t beat me; does he fear no payback, or melt away like smoke?

If I don’t revert and accept capture, does he think easy capture means weak strength, then swing like a butcher?

But if I break my binds like snapping reeds, isn’t he the prey and I the hawk?

Is he really gambling, dice on a storm-tossed table?

Or maybe he still does nothing; the test is enough; he carts me to the Lowegar Kingdom like hauling a crate.

And Lowegar teems with Time Ability Users, stars on a winter night.

Hold on... could it be...

Lucimia felt a thread slip into her fingers like silk.

She suspected the spiky-haired man never planned a next move for her. He might be a Time Ability User, or not, or just a hand for someone else.

His aim is simple as a blade.

First, confirm Reversion. If confirmed, he does nothing more, and in some unseen way, he tips off a certain Time Ability User in the Lowegar Kingdom.

Second, if I’m not Reversion but some other time art, the threat shrinks; bind the girl, reach Lowegar, hand me to local guards like passing a baton.

And the one he assists—could they be knotted to those guards?

Lucimia knew her guess was bold, a kite against wind. But her guard was high; paranoia shadowed her; doubt iced the ground. With no proof, she still had to trust her map.

Is there a fix? Yes. Brutal and clean—Devouring him on the spot, then have Rexi reshape every memory like wet clay.

The fallout—someone far in Lowegar might feel a ripple in the floorboards.

Rexi can edit memory at a distance, but needs the target’s identity and name, key for the lock. Face-to-face is different; the lock yields without a key.

So scrubbing the helper’s memory is out; he stays behind the curtain.

Want less violence, fewer oddities? Then try to argue, stones in a stream.

Let’s test it. If it fails, I’ll switch paths. I also want answers...

Time dripped like rain. The bearded man grew restless, shoulders twitching. As he readied his hands again, Lucimia cleared her throat, a bell in fog.

She said, You want my explanation. I’ll give you one.

Ears tilted like reeds. The spiky-haired man jammed his hands in his pockets, glaring at her like a thorn bush.

First thing—I’m not Bloodkin. You won’t buy that, so treat me as Bloodkin. Also, I have a Storage Ring.

Lucimia lifted her hand. The ring glinted like a cold moon.

Point one. If I’m Bloodkin and don’t eat human food, I’d stash it in my ring. I wouldn’t gift it to the granny and leave proof I avoid human food. That logic leaks like a cracked jar.

That... makes some sense. Heads nodded, a field of wheat.

But the spiky-haired man didn’t yield. He chewed a thought, then snapped like a bowstring. That meat was your excuse, he said. You needed a pretext to get her to open the door.

That... also makes sense. Heads swayed back, tide turning.

Quick on his feet, fox in brush.

Alright, I’ll continue, Lucimia said, breath steady as a lake. Suppose Bloodkin truly don’t eat human food—then why would I snatch the eggs?

That... because... The spiky-haired man stalled, tongue a stuck cart.

Heads nodded again; murmurs rose like bees. Makes sense. It’s contradictory.

His eyes spun like marbles, then sparked. Got it! Folks, she planned this. She took the eggs to create friction, a shield for her defense. She left the meat to fake a trail of not eating human food. And stealing eggs makes people assume the killer is human, not Bloodkin.

Also makes sense. The crowd swung back yet again, a pendulum.

Hiss—alright, this spiky-haired man’s got chops, mind like a knife. Lucimia marked him as no simple weed.

Alright, then—

Before she could finish, the spiky-haired man shouted, Folks, next she’ll say where the eggs are. Whoever has them is the killer. But I know where they are. They’re in my room! You know I went to the restroom. She must’ve planted the eggs in my room to frame me. The door doesn’t lock. Easy to slip in.

Good grief. He’s predicting my lines, step by step, like reading a script.

So thorny. So hard to chew.