Auril paused again, letting his words settle like dust after a drumbeat.

Lucimia thought the rule was fine, but Anliena’s mind rippled like wind over a pond.

“I think the sixth rule isn’t fair to me; the board’s tilted,” she said, voice tight like a drawn bow.

Auril sent her a questioning look, lantern-light turning her way.

“If I choose Time Halt and she knows, she’ll counter me like rain on a spark,” Anliena said, breath clouding like winter air. “But if she uses Reversion, knowing won’t save me, like watching chalk wiped clean.”

“Say I’m the Investigator,” she went on, laying pieces like stones. “I find her evidence, she hits Reversion, and the trail resets like footprints in surf. What can I do?”

“Flip it,” she said, eyes sharp as frost. “If I’m the serial killer, and after I kill one she chooses Reversion, what then? The scales feel too heavy on her side.”

Auril nodded, tapping the thought like weighing a coin. “So, what rule do you want?”

“…When I use Time Halt, she can’t know,” Anliena said, voice wrapped like a veil.

“No.” Auril cut it cleanly, like a blade severing rope.

“If you could Time Halt and she couldn’t know, the balance shatters like glass,” he said, tone steady as iron. “If you’re the serial killer, you freeze the world and snuff seven candles in silence. You win, and the game’s a corpse.”

Anliena fell silent, a sealed jar under moonlight.

Auril thought a moment, eyes steady as a clock face. “We modify Rule Six,” he said, voice like a gavel. “Lucimia’s Reversion only reaches two hours back, like an hourglass turned twice. Your Time Halt holds for ten seconds, a snowflake’s pause. Neither side can sense when the other uses their ability, bells muffled under cloth. Any objections?”

“None,” Anliena said, like a knot pulled tight.

Lucimia shook her head, a calm tide under starlight.

“Next, the identity rules. First, the Investigator,” Auril said, each word etched like runes in stone.

“One. An Investigator can’t kill anyone but the criminal, the blade sheathed before innocents like lilies.”

“Two. An Investigator can’t forcibly detain their Duel opponent, no chains on a rival under the same moon.”

“Three. An Investigator may not abuse their office, no riding their badge like a storm over wheat.”

“Four. An Investigator can’t use Duel rules to foresee the next victim, no oracle fire; they must walk alleys and lantern-lit clues.”

“Five. After the Duel starts, they can’t reveal their identity to anyone, the mask stays on like lacquer.”

“Now, the serial killer,” he said, voice cool as river stone.

“One. The gap between murders can’t exceed three days, a drumbeat that must not falter.”

“Two. The serial killer is fiercely proud, a peacock at the scene, leaving a signature and crumbs to tease the Investigator.”

“Three. I choose the seven targets, seven lanterns named by me; any order is fine, but only when all seven go dark do you win.”

“Four. After confirming identity, they learn the targets, but once the first dies, both they and the Investigator lose that memory, like a page burned. They can’t write the names, and Memory Power can’t read them, ink turned to fog. Yet the seven are tied by a single thread.”

“Five. After the Duel starts, they can’t reveal their identity to anyone, the mask lacquered shut again.”

“That’s all the rules for this Duel,” Auril said, voice like a bell fading in snow. “If there’s no objection, Anliena, confirm your second participant, then we’ll draw identities at random.”

“No objection,” Anliena said, breath steady as a held flame.

Lucimia nodded, a quiet wave against a pier.

“Then the Duel begins. Anliena, who’s your other participant?”

“The rules don’t say I have to tell, right?” she asked, eyes like shuttered windows.

“Right,” Auril said, calm as a still lake. “But the person in your heart right now will be fixed as the participant, the name carved from water into stone.”

“No problem,” she said, a flint spark.

“Then we draw identities at random.”

A white light rose on the tabletop, spilling like milk and covering the wood.

“Your identities are written there,” Auril said, voice cool as rain. “Only you can see your own.”

Rexi looked down, eyes widening like dawn breaking. “This…”

Across from her, Anliena froze, a deer under torchlight.

Lucimia only frowned, a crease like a knife cut in silk.

None spoke their identity, each guarding it like a candle in wind.

“Next, we confirm who carries the identity,” Auril said, words falling like pebbles.

The air held still for a few seconds, a held breath in winter.

“Confirmed,” Auril said, tone low as a drum. “Now I’ll tell the serial killer who they must kill.”

Silence fell again, a snowfield unmarked, and the girls didn’t move a finger.

“Done,” Auril said at last, voice like a door closing. “You have three minutes to discuss strategy.”

The moment the words landed, Anliena flashed away with Instant Movement, a swallow into cloud, leaving her office empty as a shell.

Lucimia glanced at Auril’s cold profile, an ice cliff against night, then at Rexi’s blinking eyes, two stars in fog.

“Go,” she said, and seized Rexi’s hand like catching a kite string.

She triggered Teleportation Magic, and their figures bloomed in a tavern guestroom like lanterns flaring to life.

“Uh… Lucimia, how do we even do this?” Rexi blurted, words tumbling like marbles.

“Only three minutes—how do we talk?” she said, breath quick as sparrows.

“What day is it, what time?” Lucimia asked first, voice a calm stream.

“Let me see… ah, December thirtieth, five in the afternoon,” Rexi said, like reading a sundial.

“Mm.” Lucimia frowned, thoughts turning like gears, then fixed Rexi with a solemn gaze, two blades meeting.

“Rexi.”

“W-what?” Rexi asked, throat dry as paper.

“Can I trust you?” Lucimia asked, the question hanging like a bridge over mist.

“Of course!” Rexi answered, clean and bright as a bell.

“Good. I need your help for this Duel,” Lucimia said, eyes steady as anchors. “I’m going to set a trap, a very big one, a net over the sea.”

She set both hands on Rexi’s shoulders, warm as hearthstone. “Olivya and Auril used you to lay a board; then I’ll seek your help to lay mine, a mirror over their game.”

“Wh-what?” Rexi said, scratching her head like a puzzled cat.

“Listen. You’ll do this…” Lucimia leaned to her ear, whispering a long plan like ink flowing.

Rexi’s face shifted from blank to shock to fear, like clouds racing over the moon. “Can that really work?”

“Yes,” Lucimia said, a nod like a metronome.

“Think it through,” she added, fingers tapping like rain. “After the serial killer takes the first life, we all lose that memory, the slate wiped. Our first task won’t be to find the killer or keep killing, but to confirm who we are, like checking a name seal.”

“That means the time before the first death is crucial, a fuse before the blast. We have to use it well.”

“An Investigator can’t kill innocents,” she said, voice cool as steel. “So if the Investigator mistakes herself for the killer and kills, she loses the Duel, a candle drowned by her own hand.”

“Likewise, if the serial killer mistakes herself for the Investigator and fails to take a second life within three days, the Duel fails, a drum that misses its beat.”

“And what I told you squeezes the most from that hinge, like a door swung wide.”

“R-really…?” Rexi asked, doubt fluttering like a moth.

“Really,” Lucimia said, steady as a lighthouse.

“What if we mess up in the gutter?” Rexi asked, voice small as a reed.

“Then we flip the table,” Lucimia said, gaze dropping like a blade. She thought hard, silence ringing like a bell, then answered. “We seize the time ability by force, we tear it free like roots. With Temporal Authority we see if I can save who I want. If not, worst case I lose control, a storm slipping its leash.”

“If I lose control, you use Memory Power to rewrite me, like smoothing wet clay. Don’t let me do harm.”

Rexi fell silent, words drying up like a well.

She had thought this Duel was play, a festival mask. Now, hearing Lucimia, she felt its weight, a millstone over the heart.

“…I understand,” Rexi said, pulling a deep breath like a tide, then letting it go like fog.

“Good. I’m counting on you, Rexi,” Lucimia said, a hand squeeze like a pledge.

The next second, Rexi’s world went black like a snuffed lamp, and her consciousness thinned to smoke and drifted away.