Lucimia’s face tightened like frost on glass; she was sure the man wasn’t some gutter thug.

Think on it: a street tough doesn’t reach third-tier mage, like a weed trying to pierce stone.

In this world most folk top out at first-tier, like streams drying in summer.

Even many academy kids end at first or second, like candles stuck half-burned.

Third-tier means schooling and a mentor, like a lantern and a guiding hand.

His brain isn’t dull; he has backing, not a common hood, like a wolf in a stray-dog crowd.

The bearded man flicked a glance, a pebble skipping water; a guard slipped into the hothead’s cabin.

He soon returned with a bag of eggs swinging like pale moons in a net.

"Where’d you find it?" The bearded man’s voice knocked like a spoon on a bowl.

"In the drawer," the guard said, words flat as a plank.

The hothead flared like a torch. "See? I knew it!"

"This brat tried to frame me!" His words cracked like dry twigs.

"If I were the killer, would I stash eggs in my own drawer, like bait left in my own trap?"

"Even if I kept quiet, that bearded elder would sweep rooms, like combing reeds for fish."

"Would I paint a target on my door like a fool?"

The crowd rustled like wind through bamboo; his logic felt solid as bricks in a wall.

The bearded man’s belief settled like a stone in a pond, ripples fading fast.

The hothead shot Lucimia a smug look, a thorn aimed to prick; he was sure she couldn’t answer—unless...

Lucimia breathed down the wildfire in her chest, a tide turning; she still refused to use Reversion.

Maybe she felt using Reversion was a bowed head; she wouldn’t bow, like bamboo that bends yet doesn’t break.

She swept the room like a hawk over fields, then spoke slow as dripping eaves.

"I think... you’re being a little stupid." Her voice landed like a cold pebble.

"Bloodkin, is that what you should be saying?" The bearded man stepped up, voice like a drumbeat.

"Shouldn’t you explain?" His brow furrowed like plowed earth.

Rexi darted before Lucimia like a startled sparrow, fear fluttering yet wings spread.

Surprise flickered through Lucimia like lightning under clouds; fearful Rexi actually stepped up.

Lucimia patted Rexi’s shoulder, a leaf brushed by rain, and signaled her back.

She stepped forward; her words came like a cold blade.

"What, you don’t think you’re being stupid?" Her eyes were winter water.

"Brat, say it clear," the hothead growled, a cur with raised hackles.

Lucimia snorted like a plucked string. "As I said first, I have a Storage Ring."

"Storage ring, so what? Storage r—" He stalled, realization splitting like dawn through fog.

"Looks like your guess misfired," she said, voice clean as spring water.

"I have a Storage Ring. Why leave the tray? Why not store the eggs on me?"

"On paper I held high ground in rain; why waste moves?"

"When you search, you can’t find it; you can’t look into a ring’s belly, can you?"

"I could store the tray, store the eggs, then play dumb like a passerby in fog."

"You’d lose your hook to hang me on, and the wind would shift."

"Guards would search every cabin, like turning out pockets one by one."

"When they reached me, they couldn’t confirm I’m the killer; at most a shadow of doubt."

"More important, I’m not the only one with a Storage Ring," she said, counting like prayer beads.

"The girl beside me has one; the captain and the rich bearded man likely do."

She turned to the hothead, gaze a needle in silk. "And you do too."

Silence fell like snow across the deck, muffling breath.

The bearded man glanced at his hand, a flint-spark; the hothead jammed his hands deeper, lazy as a stray cat.

"Me? You say I have one?" His protest rang like a tin bell.

"If I had one, why keep eggs in my room? I could do what you said," he rattled, words like thrown stones.

"Because you wanted to smear me," Lucimia said, calm as a lake before storm.

"Then I can say you planted them to smear me," he snapped, a thorny vine lashing.

"Then who jumped out first to accuse the killer?" Her question dropped like a temple bell.

He froze like a deer in lamplight; the crowd froze too, breath taut as kite strings.

Right—he did. The realization rolled through them like a low wave.

Lucimia’s presence rose like a tide; she didn’t yield an inch.

"If I wanted to smear you, I’d have done it earlier." Her certainty sat like an anvil.

"You stood up first to accuse me." The order was ink on paper.

"Under the same sky, who carries the heaviest suspicion?" Her words blew like cold wind.

"You..." He gagged on the word, like fish snagged on a net.

"Hah, that’s just your guess, right? Where’s proof—iron proof?" He scraped for footing like a climber.

"Evidence? I have it." Her answer sparked like flint.

Shock beat in him like a trapped bird, wings thudding.

Lucimia pressed in, steps unhurried like falling snow.

"Look at Granny’s wound," she said. "Two holes at the neck, not a Bloodkin bite."

"Tch, that’s your big proof?" the hothead cut in, voice a rasping saw.

"Obvious, right? You bit her, then drove a weapon through to cover it," he said, weaving smoke.

"Oh? You sound very clear," Lucimia replied, face blank as a white mask, eyes like cold wells.

Under that gaze, pain bloomed in his skull like distant thunder.

"Don’t bluff me," he snapped. "Anyone with a brain can guess that," he tossed, like pebbles at a wall.

"Mm. True," Lucimia said, words neat as stacked tiles.

"The holes came from a sharp tool, a physical strike, not magic." Her tone cut like a chisel.

"If it were magic, the noise would crack like thunder."

"Casting stirs mana ripples other mages can sense, like heat on a road."

"That exposes you fast; many guards here can use magic." Her logic marched like soldiers.

"So the neck wound points to a blade." Her finger jabbed air like a stylus.

The bearded man shot a look to a guard, a silent arrow; the guard shook his head, water-still.

Lucimia pinned the hothead with her gaze, steady as a nailed plank.

"So here’s the question: where’s the murder weapon?" Her words rang like steel.

"Weapon..." Sweat pearled on his brow like dew under sun.

He knew the tide was turning; he knew what she’d say, and he had no oar.

This woman... how sharp is she? The thought flashed like heat lightning over fields.

Could my teacher win a Duel with her? The doubt hung like mist.

His mind spun like a mill wheel, grinding chaff.

When he stayed mute, Lucimia spoke, voice a quiet river.

"The weapon sits in your Storage Ring. Am I right?" Her words hooked like a barb.

"You can’t hide it elsewhere on this ship; crew and guards know these boards like their own palms."

"You can’t toss it into the river; deck eyes watch like gulls, and you’d be seen."

"So one place remains—the Storage Ring." Her verdict fell like a stamp.

"No outsider can tell whether you’ve emptied it or not," she said, cool as moonlight.

"Heh..." The hothead’s tongue wet dry lips, a lizard in drought.

"Fine, I do have a Storage Ring," he said, surrender seeping like damp.

He drew his hand from his pocket, slow as sap; a ring gleamed like a cold moon.

"But if no one can tell I emptied it, how can you be sure I’ve got the weapon?" he said, clutching reeds.

"Break the ring?" he scoffed, a brittle laugh.

"Don’t forget its hardness, its materials, and the defensive Magic Array carved on it," he warned, words like iron filings.

"It shrugs off high-tier magic like rain off stone. How will you be sure?" His challenge hissed like steam.

Lucimia’s mouth curved, a crescent over calm water.

"I have a way," she whispered, a blade sleeping in its sheath.