Lucimia’s pupils quivered, ripples spreading through a still lake, as Olivya’s voice reached her.

Before Lucimia could ask, Olivya said, “One world can’t host two identical concept-tier Authority Powers. Two identical concept users can’t both exist. So the world shuts the gate on you. You can only be an observer.”

“Why?” Lucimia asked in her mind, a knot tightening before any motion. “Why do two identical abilities cause a paradox? I think two identical abilities don’t cause it unless they clash head-on.”

She’d wanted to use the word paradox too, yet since Olivya framed it that way, she wanted the why, the blind spot she hadn’t seen.

Paradoxes come in many breeds. The ones born of time travel usually live on one worldline.

In the stories she’d read back in her original world, authors dodged the snarl by spinning parallel worlds, parallel universes—many lines to skirt the trap.

Then why would multiple worldlines still breed paradox?

She lacked Temporal Authority. She hadn’t tried it. Only Olivya, who had done it, knew.

“Heh… I know what you’re reaching for, Lucimia.” Olivya’s laugh scraped like a blade on old rust, as if she’d once stood in the same thought.

“You want to say this world surely has a [Replication] Authority, right? Why wouldn’t that cause a paradox? First, I can say for certain it exists. What it copies is still an Authority-tier ability. It can even mirror your state, your energy reserves.”

“So if you have more energy than it, you’d win in a clash. But it can copy your energy. Now you’re at parity.”

“Your Authorities collide. With equal energy, conflict Authorities lock horns and stall. Nothing happens. You bleed energy for nothing, and it becomes a contest of who has more fuel.”

“That’s one path. Another: if one of you triggers first, energy stops mattering. The early spark takes effect. The late one resists, but if you keep pouring energy, they’re forced into a passive grind. Like when you began Devouring Elyssus, and Elyssus fought back after—stalemate formed. Yet it couldn’t fully undo you, only get eaten away. Or like Vosh, who pinned you with a Purification Magic Array in the valley and kept feeding it—breaking out was like clawing through iron roots.”

“These are the rules of the world, laid down to prevent contradiction.”

“Back to multiple worldlines.”

“You’ve guessed it: the broad drift of a worldline doesn’t change. I’ll tell you plainly—on this world, the different lines march the same beat.”

“So, on worldline A, because A’s Yuna and Desty died, you use Temporal Authority to jump to B, to bring B’s Yuna and Desty back.”

“But on worldline B, your B-self does the same. B’s Yuna and Desty died, so she comes to A to carry A’s Yuna and Desty to B.”

“Yet A’s Yuna and Desty are already dead. How does B-you carry A’s friends back? Flip it—B’s friends are dead. How do A-you carry B’s friends back? How do you carry back those who don’t exist?”

“When different worldlines share the same drift, let’s pretend you really carried B’s Yuna and Desty back to A. Then B has no such people. Because the drift is the same, A shouldn’t have them either.”

“Do you hear it, Lucimia? How do you carry someone already dead? You fall into a loop made of knives—logic contradicts itself, logic circles back, the paradox bites its own tail.”

“To prevent this, the world forces any user of time Reversion to become an observer, barred from interfering.”

“Authority Power isn’t almighty. Especially Temporal Authority…”

Olivya’s voice echoed through Lucimia’s mind like wind through an empty hall, and Lucimia’s heart couldn’t settle.

She thought hard, then pushed back. “But I could jump to worldline B, back when I was still in the Town of Tranquility, and bring the still-alive Yuna and Desty to A’s present. That shouldn’t breed a paradox. No logic break… maybe… the world shouldn’t stop that interference…”

“No?” Olivya’s tone cooled like winter rain. “Think it through. Why did Yuna and Desty die? Their existence was erased at the root.”

“Timeline self-correction. If both of you succeed, each carrying the other’s dead friends into your own world, the timeline will correct itself until those friends never died at all. Then your actions muddy the logic. You altered the past. That change erases your original motive.”

“If your actions form a causal loop—A-Lucimia brings B’s friends to A, and B-Lucimia brings A’s friends to B—the loop can repeat forever. You can’t tell which worldline is original and which is altered. That’s a knot you can’t cut.”

“Yuna and Desty don’t exist. Because they don’t, you go to another worldline to save them. But in that other line, they also don’t exist. What do you save? If they do exist, you lose the motive to do it at all. Do you see?”

“Even if it’s not a paradox, it’s an eternal deadlock. You can’t save Yuna or Desty. Two worlds can’t interfere.”

“…”

Lucimia fell into silence, a stone sinking through dark water.

“Of course,” Olivya added, a single dim lantern in a fog, “maybe after becoming a Dark Deity, with [Concept] power, you can interfere.”

Maybe she feared Lucimia would drown in despair. Olivya tossed her a fragile hope, thin as mist.

“Hey, what’re you thinking?” Rexi saw Lucimia stay quiet too long. She leaned in, hand waving before Lucimia’s eyes like a sparrow’s wing.

“...Nothing.” Lucimia shook her head, smooth surface over stormy depths.

“Oh. Okay.”

Anliena bit her lip, worry a pale flame. “Once we have Temporal Authority, maybe we can bend the world.”

They kept circling the topic, fireflies orbiting a lantern.

“Mm… maybe.”

Lucimia didn’t share her guess or Olivya’s words. She only nodded, small and mute.

—

Midnight.

Lucimia and Rexi returned to the guest room. Rexi fell asleep early, soft snores like reeds rustling.

Lucimia tossed and turned. The more she thought, the more her patience frayed. She sat up, a blade of grass snapped by wind.

If Temporal Authority fails, if Yuna and Desty can’t be saved, what’s the point of her steps? Why keep moving?

Maybe just find a country and drift. A lazy life, hands off the helm. The Bloodkin’s realm might be nice. Take Rexi along.

But rot won’t hide her. Her identity is a beacon. Trouble will pour toward her like floodwater. No way to dodge.

Especially the Purification Deity. The look in her eyes was pure hatred, a winter hailstorm. She’ll plot in every shadow.

So what should she do?

Follow Olivya’s plan?

She said [Concept] might let her interfere. That smelled like a promise kept in smoke, a lifeline without a knot, thrown so she wouldn’t cut her own thread.

Walk the plan. Devour every Dark Deity’s Authority.

It grated on her, fate’s path pressed like rails. No exits, only forward.

She didn’t want to be a sacrifice. But if not this, then what?

…Suicide?

Yes. A third door. Suicide.

Either way, all three roads end at death. First: killed by a Dark Deity. Second: killed by Olivya. Third: kill herself.

Suicide looks like the softest landing, doesn’t it?

She was a traveler already. Maybe dying here sends her drifting again.

Maybe she’ll wake in a dragon-protagonist world, the script gilded, life easy as spring breeze.

Lucimia’s thoughts floated, a paper boat on a moonlit river. She pictured dying, crossing to a third world, holding a Dragon-King script, living free and light.

The more she pictured it, the more suicide felt like a clean option. Unaware, she drew a longsword from her Storage Ring.

The hilt glowed red, like embers under ash. The blade carried etched Magic Arrays. It was the new weapon she’d bought for Desty in the Bannubi Empire.

With the sword in hand, Lucimia hesitated. A cliff met her toes.

Do it?

She tightened on the hilt, then loosened. A tide advancing; a tide retreating.

She glanced at Rexi. The girl slept on, breath steady as a cat curled in sun.

Lucimia looked back to the blade. Her other hand rose, fingertips brushing the steel, testing the edge like a moth testing flame—

“Mm! Hiss—”

The keen edge kissed skin. It sliced her soft fingertip. A thin thread of blood welled, bright as a berry.

“It hurts…”

She drew a long breath. Let it go slow, like fog leaving a valley. Decision coiled inside her. She set the blade against her throat.

She hesitated. Something felt wrong. She lowered the sword, turned it, aimed the tip at her heart.

She licked dry lips. Shut her eyes. Breathed deep again. Then, all at once, no half measures—both hands tensed to drive the blade down. A fierce dizziness slammed her mind.

Her motion froze, memory wiped like chalk in rain. She forgot what she’d meant to do.

When her awareness snapped back, no time to ask why. Wind rushed from her left. Lucimia looked up. A fist—Rexi’s—was flying at her.

Battle instinct flicked a switch. She jerked her head aside. The punch smashed her shoulder instead. Pain bit deep. Rexi had hit with full power.

The shock sent Lucimia falling back.

“What are you doing?” Anger sparked first, words second. Lucimia shouted and tried to rise.

Rexi didn’t explain. Teeth clenched, eyes hot as coals. She leaped onto the bed, straddled Lucimia, shoved her back down, and threw a second punch.

Anger flared in Lucimia’s chest. She triggered magic. Boom—an explosive surge of force blasted Rexi off the bed. Rexi thumped hard onto the floor.

Lucimia scrambled up. No time to demand answers. Rexi kip-upped like a springing fish and lunged again.

Lucimia flung another burst, driving Rexi aside. “What are you doing?! Are you out of your mind?”

“You’re the one who’s nuts!”

Rexi grimaced, pain written in tight lines. She rubbed her bruised hip, pushed off a chair, and stood slowly.

“Gods, that hurts… What were you just about to do? You think I didn’t see?”

“I…” Lucimia’s voice snagged. She paused, then muttered, “What I do has nothing to do with you…”

“You were about to kill yourself, right?” Rexi cut in, sharp as a knife. She said what Lucimia wouldn’t.

“You were still holding the sword.”

Lucimia’s body jolted, a string plucked. She forced calm, and lied. “I was just looking at it.”

“Liar.”

Rexi picked up the longsword that had skittered across the floor. “I’ve found one of your flaws.”

“What?” Lucimia frowned, baffled why Rexi picked this moment for that line.

"When your emotions pitch like a storm, your mind dims like a snuffed lantern—you get a hundred times dumber, even duller than me."

Lucimia’s brows drew tight like a knot; pride flared like a spark. "Hah, I’m dumb?"

"Yes." Rexi nodded hard, like a pecking sparrow. "You gave me permission; you let me use Memory Power."

"I read you back in Anliena’s office, like skimming a river. Did you think I don’t see your thoughts?"

"I feigned sleep, like a cat under eaves, guarding against any crooked move. And I caught you."

"…"

Silence fell like ash; Lucimia sank quiet.

She hadn’t expected it; her heart dropped like a stone into a well.

She’d forgotten; if so, every thought of hers lay open like pages.

"Yes. I know it all." Rexi’s voice stood firm, like a post in wind.

Good—Lucimia felt a thin frost; she sensed Rexi still reading with Authority Power.

"Right, right." Rexi tapped her temple, like knocking on wood. "Now admit I’m right—your flaw."

"…"

Lucimia said nothing; her silence weighed like dusk.

Seeing it, Rexi’s breath snagged like a fishhook. She strode up, grabbed Lucimia’s collar like a lifeline.

"How can you kill yourself? If you die, I—I…" Her voice trembled like a taut string. "What am I supposed to do?"

"What you do has nothing to do with me." Lucimia’s words fell flat, like winter light.

"If you’re gone, how do I drink? Two sips, and I’m tipsy like a sparrow."

"…"

"Right? I’m not wrong. If death sends you to another world, then don’t fear—Devour wild, swallow the Dark Deity, and we move on."

"If that’s false, then you can’t do it either. You have no proof you’ll cross, do you?"

"…"

Lucimia sighed; her breath drifted like fog, and she turned her face aside like a shutter.

"Don’t sigh. Maybe the Concept really can bite, like a hidden blade."

"You want me to follow the plan to drive off the Dark Deity?"

"Not exactly, but if the Concept might work, we try. If it fails, then suicide remains a last door."

"No need. Suicide is cleaner, like a single cut." Lucimia shook her head, like a branch shedding rain.

"It is needed." Rexi’s eyes steadied like anchors. "Devour without worry—I’ll copy your persona and memory."

"If you lose control, I’ll reset you, like winding a clock. You can Devour in peace."

"I just mastered soul-persona copying, like catching lightning. Powerful, right?"

Heat rose in Lucimia, like embers under ash. Her tone roughened like sand.

"Everyone wants me to march by plan, be the sacrifice. It’s useless labor and pain."

"I’m the one who Devours; the Dark Deity hunts me like a hound."

"They don’t fight me one on one; I’m no god—how do I battle?"

"Authority Powers are countless like stars; each has its own edge."

"They’ll unite against me, like nets in a tide. Vosh’s Purification counters me."

"Maybe more than Vosh can counter me; there’s one called Replication—just hearing it drills my skull."

"I’d have to win ten thousand boards of play, never losing once. Do you get that weight?"

"Thinking burns like fever. I want sleep, Rexi."

She exhaled long, like wind through pines, pushed Rexi aside, and walked to the bed.

She sat back against the wall like a tired swallow, head tilted, eyes half-lidded like rainwashed stones.

Fringe fell over her brow like soft reeds, veiling half her face; weariness pooled like dusk.

"…"

Rexi listened; pain pricked her heart like thorns, then fire rose like a flare.

She stepped forward. "Fine, you’re right about the storm, but you can’t just stop."

"I trust you like a steady moon. I believe you."

"I dared to poison myself, like drinking night, for your victory in the Duel."

"In your memories, Yuna trusted you like spring, willing to die for your win."

"Desty too—once you spoke the breaking move, she agreed without a blink, like steel."

She drew a deep breath, like surf, and pressed on. "And you?"

"What did you do? You choose to quit now, to run? Suicide is running too."

Facing the charge, Lucimia’s temper sparked like flint. "You mean I did nothing for them?"

"You read my memory—you should know I did plenty."

"Yes, you did plenty," Rexi pivoted like a swallow mid-air, "but you never bet your life."

"You won’t even try; you jump straight to death."

"They’re still waiting; they still believe, like lamps in fog."

"Even if not for yourself, strive for the promise."

"Then even if you fail, you can say you tried, like a blade that met stone."

"Not flee now like a shadow at dawn."

"…"

Lucimia went quiet; her silence lay like snow.

"Forget it. I’ll stop." Rexi tossed the sword back; steel thumped the bed like a muted bell.

"The choice is yours, like a key in hand. No one can stop you."

"I could block you once. Next time, Memory Power won’t work."

"Your Devouring will swallow my stop like smoke. I won’t manage."

"Whatever. I’m going downstairs to drink."

Rexi dressed quick, like tying a breeze, reached the door, and swung it open.

"This time I won’t need your Devouring for the booze."

She slammed the wooden door with a sharp clap, like a hawk’s wing, and went down.

In the dim room, Lucimia drew a slow breath like mist, stared at the sword on the bed like a sleeping fish.

She couldn’t tell what she was thinking; her mind drifted like reeds.

She reached out, gripped the hilt like a cold branch, and stroked the blade with her other hand like water.

"Yuna, Desty…"

She closed her eyes; lids fell like curtains.

As Rexi said, Yuna, Desty, and Rexi all believed in her, like stars holding dark sky.

Rexi even dared poison, knowing she’d revive, yet death by toxin is agony like knives.

Foam at the lips, spasms like twisted ropes, gut-wrenching pain, dizzy tunnels—none of it soft.

Had she done anything for them?

Yes—but not equal to the life they offered, like a candle versus a bonfire.

"A promise…"

Lucimia murmured, voice thin as smoke. She hugged the sword like a sleeping child, curled up, and closed her eyes.

—

At dawn, pale gold spilled like tea.

Rexi lay over the tavern bar like a stranded seal; a barricade of cups stood like little towers.

She snored softly like a flute, and the staff grew worried like ants.

She had drunk a heap and paid nothing; the tally hung like a millstone.

As the server weighed calling her companion, a figure stepped up like a shadow falling.

A girl set a gold coin on the bar; it gleamed like a small sun.

"Here. Don’t bother with change."

The server’s eyes lit like lanterns; he smiled and pocketed the coin, rules eased like rain.

As long as it’s paid, you can sleep here like driftwood.

The girl was Lucimia.

She looked at sleeping Rexi and laid a hand on her back like warm cloth; Devouring flowed like a tide.

It stripped the drunken haze like fog lifting; Rexi’s eyes opened quick like shutters.

"Mm… morning?"

She rubbed her eyes like pebbles and yawned like a door.

"Ah, I forgot to pay."

She fumbled for money in her Storage Ring like a squirrel, when a familiar voice rose behind her like a bell.

"No need. I already paid for you."

Rexi turned; Lucimia blinked at her like a quiet lake, a faint smile flickering like a breeze.

"Uh…"

After last night, words stuck like honey; Rexi couldn’t speak.

Lucimia patted her shoulder like dusting snow. "Rexi."

"What’s up…?"

"Yesterday you said you learned to copy a person’s persona, soul, memory, cognition, and awareness. Is that true?"

"It’s true. I study my Authority Power like a tinkerer."

"Good. I was fretting like rain. If I lose control mid-plan, with you, I won’t worry."

Lucimia smiled; this time the curve shone clear like moon on water.

"Eh?"

Rexi blinked, stunned like a deer; then delight bloomed like firecrackers.

"Wait—what did you say? Do I hear it right?"

Lucimia patted her shoulder again, smile steady like a beam. "Rexi, will you help me? Will you be my backing?"

"Of course." Rexi’s joy leapt like a kite. "I teamed up to face the Dark Deity."

"To make a better world where worries thin like fog, and life can breathe easy."

"By the way, know how I learned Replication?"

Before Lucimia could answer, Rexi laughed like chimes. "I read your memory and found I’d already lost control."

"The old me used that power to rebuild me, like carving a statue."

"Mm…"

Rexi blinked at Lucimia’s quiet like snow and smiled. "Don’t worry about me."

"I’m me, like a fresh leaf. The old me is just another person."

"I don’t mind; it’s wind over water."

"…I see."

Rexi hopped off the high stool like a bird. "Let’s go. Two Time Ability Users should arrive today."

She headed for the tavern door like a river running.

"Mm."

Lucimia nodded and followed, steps falling like soft drums.

Halfway, she stopped; Rexi’s back drew long like a path, and Yuna and Desty rose in her mind like stars.

"Mm. Let’s try. Whether it works or not, for them, we try."