“Crossing…” Lucimia mouthed the word like mist skimming a lake, weighing what it meant.

“Crossing? What does that even mean?” Rexi rubbed his head, worry buzzing like bees. “Quit speaking in riddles. Just say it.”

“I mean I’ll cross into the moment Lucimia reverts to, drifting outside it,” Anliena said, voice steady like a hanging bell in winter air.

Lucimia touched her nose, thoughts pooling like rain in a basin, then spoke. “You mean this. Two days ago, you’re teaching at the academy.”

“You freeze your present self with Time Halt. I use Reversion.”

“Then your current body crosses to two days ago and shows up in this office, like a shadow stepping through glass.”

“You walk out to head for class, and find another you already teaching, like two reflections on the same river. Right?”

“Right. That’s exactly it.” Anliena nodded hard, like a sapling bracing in wind.

“So…” Rexi’s mind hopped like sparrows on a fence. “Doesn’t that mean there are two worlds? And they move the same way?”

“Should be…” Anliena dipped her head, eyes dim like dusk.

At “two worlds,” Lucimia’s heart surged like a storm tide. A faint lantern of hope blinked—maybe Yuna and Desty could be saved.

From the chemistry of Reversion and Halt, she felt the world tilt, like a veil lifting to show its other face.

Call our current path Worldline A, a rail gleaming through fog.

If Anliena doesn’t use Halt and I use Reversion, the line stays on A, like a river that refuses to fork.

If Anliena uses Time Halt and I use Reversion, the track shifts; Anliena jumps to Worldline B, like stepping to a parallel ridge.

Of course, it could be C, D… a grove of paths under moonlight.

From Anliena’s account, maybe there’s a worldline where Yuna and Desty didn’t die, like stars that never fell.

But the condition is harsh, like iron frost. With the Dark Deity present and history unbent, Yuna and Desty still die—only the blade differs.

Then what?

Play at worldline hopping? Don’t be absurd. My Temporal Authority frays like a taut string; I don’t know how many jumps I can take.

Without rules, you can’t tell you’ve jumped; the compass spins like a caught leaf. Maybe there are only two or three lines.

And how do you know the lines diverge? Maybe they mirror each other like twin ponds.

Who can say?

So what do I do?

If every worldline ends with Yuna and Desty dead, how do I save them, under a sky that won’t soften?

Drag B’s Yuna and Desty into A, like lifting fish from one stream to another?

It might work in theory, but then B collapses like a cracked mirror. Would that trigger worse tides?

At that thought, a thorn pricked: after jumping lines, can you interfere with that world, or only watch like frost on glass?

Different lines seem to share the broad shape, like parallel hills. If B gets meddled too much, would A sway too, like trees in the same wind?

That touches the rules of these worldlines, a law like bedrock under snow.

She turned to Anliena, hope flickering like a candle. “When you jump to Worldline B—let’s call it that—can you interfere? Can people see two of you? Can you do things there?”

Lucimia’s gaze held like starlight on water, reaching for a solid answer.

Anliena bit her lip, sighed, and shook her head, like a willow that won’t lie. “Sadly… no.”

Lucimia went silent, her face dimming like a lamp turned low.

No interference means you only observe in B, a ghost at the window who can’t lift the latch.

Still, her nerves held like braided rope. She didn’t spiral. “…How exactly can’t?”

“They can’t see me. I can’t touch them. I can’t touch anything there,” Anliena said, loss spreading like cold dew. “I was so happy when I jumped—maybe my father lived in that world. Maybe I could bring him back. But I couldn’t interfere. I couldn’t bring back a single leaf.”

Lucimia fell silent, a stone resting in a stream.

Rexi looked at Lucimia, then Anliena, head-scratchy and wordless, like a cat at a closed door.

“So how did you come back?” he asked, voice thin as a reed.

“Mm… I just end Time Halt, and I return,” Anliena said, like letting a clock breathe again.

“Ah…” Rexi thought, but the well stayed dry, a bucket lifting only air.

Silence thickened, like fog pooling between walls.

Both of them had realized something, yet neither spoke, words clamped like lids.

Rexi couldn’t stand it; he forced a thread of comfort. “Maybe… the Temporal Authority can interfere?”

“Uh…” Anliena snapped to it like gripping a lifeline, nodding fast. “Right. Maybe my ability isn’t enough. It takes Authority-level to work.”

“You think so, Lucimia?” Anliena turned toward her, eyes seeking like birds.

Lucimia still didn’t answer, her mind clearing like frost burning off with sun.

She had to face a hard line of truth. After getting Temporal Authority, Olivya didn’t choose to use it herself to break the game. She placed the breaking point on Lucimia, like placing a blade in another hand.

The logic was simple, clear as ice. Olivya already had Temporal Authority. She could do it herself. No need for a man-made genius plan. It was excess, a painted snake sprouting needless legs.

Auril told her Olivya had gone back, then returned saying nothing changed. Temporal Authority wasn’t omnipotent, a sky that still stops at the horizon.

Lucimia could guess what Olivya did, a path traced like ash.

Maybe Olivya used the Temporal Authority for Reversion and found the worldline still A. Those killed by Devouring and Purification stayed gone, like names erased from stone.

So Olivya studied Temporal Authority and found rules for worldline jumping, the map under the map. She chose to jump.

But sadly, after the jump, she couldn’t interfere. So nothing changed, like wind that never moves the weight. Temporal Authority wasn’t omnipotent; it was only “Temporal,” a clock without a key to fate.

But why no interference? Why couldn’t even Authority Power, a concept-level strength, touch that world, like light that refuses to warm?

The moment the question rose, the answer lit, sharp as a blade catching sun.

Because—

She parted her lips, two words ready like arrows on a string.

Before she spoke, a voice like hers, ethereal and cold, rang in her mind like ice on crystal, and breathed two words—

“Because, paradox.”