He thought about Plant Magic and Earth Magic. Could he build a physical dummy out of vines and mud, and then wrap an illusion around it?
No, it was too complex and far too risky. A dummy couldn't hold a conversation. If Gorn asked the mud-golem a question and it just stood there silently chopping carrots, the tavern owner would assume Lencar had suffered a stroke.
I can't fake being at work, Lencar concluded, his jaw tightening. The interactions are too frequent, the environment too physical. I need a reason to be entirely isolated. A reason that absolutely prevents anyone from entering my room for twenty-four hours.
He dumped the flour into a massive mixing bowl, his hands working automatically to form a well in the center for water and yeast.
What if he was sent on an errand? What if Gorn asked him to travel to the neighboring town to pick up a specific, rare spice?
Lencar dismissed the idea instantly. He couldn't guarantee Gorn would ask him to do that tomorrow, and even if he could magically manipulate the supply chain to force the errand, being out on the road during a massive terrorist attack still left him without a solid, verifiable alibi. People talked. If a merchant saw him on the road, the timeline wouldn't add up.
He needed to be completely accounted for, yet entirely unapproachable.
He needed a quarantine.
Lencar stopped mixing the dough. He stood perfectly still, his flour-dusted hands resting on the edge of the wooden bowl. A slow, highly calculating smile spread across his face.
Sickness. It was the ultimate, undeniable excuse to avoid human contact. If he was violently, contagiously ill, neither Gorn nor Rebecca would allow him to work, nor would they want to risk getting close to him.
He quickly began to piece the plan together, drawing upon the specific, highly lethal attributes he had locked away in his soul.
He possessed Poison Magic, harvested from Gulliver "The Rot" during his very first true test of Absolute Replication. Normally, he used the poison to corrode weapons or inflict rapid, agonizing death on his enemies. But magic was just a tool; it was all about the dosage and the application.
If he introduced a microscopic, incredibly diluted fraction of his own Poison Magic into his bloodstream tomorrow morning, his immune system would violently react. He wouldn't die—his physical vessel was far too robust, and the Quintessence in his ring could purge the toxin instantly whenever he chose. But the immediate, superficial effects would be dramatic.
His body temperature would spike to a terrifyingly high fever. His skin would turn incredibly pale, slick with cold sweat. His breathing would become ragged, and his eyes would become bloodshot. He would look like a man teetering on the edge of a grave.
"Lencar! Are you going to mix that dough, or just stare at it until it bakes itself?!" Gorn yelled, tossing a wooden spoon that clattered loudly against the counter next to Lencar's bowl.
"Sorry, Gorn! Lost my train of thought!" Lencar called back, instantly resuming his vigorous kneading, though his mind was soaring with the brilliance of his new scheme.
The plan was solidifying rapidly.
Tomorrow morning, he would induce the fever right before leaving the Scarlet house. He would stumble into the Rusty Spoon looking like death. Gorn, who was fiercely protective of his kitchen's hygiene and his staff's health, would take one look at his pale, sweating face and immediately order him to go home.
He would return to the Scarlet household. Rebecca would naturally be terrified and insist on taking care of him. This was the only tricky part. He couldn't let her stay in the room.
He would play on her maternal instincts. He would tell her, between convincing, ragged coughs, that he must have caught something highly contagious from a passing merchant caravan. He would insist that for the safety of Marco, Luca, and little Pem, he must be strictly quarantined in his room. No one could enter. He would lock the door from the inside.
Once the door was locked, the illusion would come into play.
He didn't need a complex, walking, talking illusion. He just needed a convincing decoy for a sick man lying in bed.
He would use his Plant Magic, specifically the highly adaptable [Verdant Cellular Knit]. He could grow a dense, heavy mass of thick vines beneath the blankets, shaping them perfectly into the outline of a human body huddled under the covers. Because the plant magic was alive, it would naturally emit a faint, organic heat, making the bed feel warm if someone stood near it. He would program the vines to expand and contract slowly, perfectly mimicking the rhythmic, heavy breathing of a feverish man.
To complete the deception, he would layer a static Illusion Magic over the vines, casting the visual of his own pale, sweating face resting on the pillow, eyes closed in deep, uncomfortable sleep. He would add a subtle auditory illusion—the sound of ragged, sick breathing and occasional, weak coughs.
If Rebecca came to the door to check on him, she would hear the coughing. If she somehow managed to pick the lock and peek inside, she would see him lying in bed, breathing heavily, exactly where he was supposed to be. She wouldn't dare approach close enough to touch the illusion, fearing the contagion.
It was perfect. His "Lencar" persona would have a completely verifiable, ironclad alibi. He would be safely locked in his room, violently ill, while his true body, donning the black cloak and the featureless wooden mask, stepped through a spatial portal directly into the heart of the Royal Capital.
Lencar finished kneading the dough, shaping it into a massive, perfectly smooth sphere. He set it aside to rise, wiping the flour from his hands with a satisfied, quiet hum.
He looked around the chaotic, warm kitchen of the tavern. He watched Barl frantically trying to save a slightly scorched pan of gravy, and Gorn roaring orders with a massive grin on his face. He thought of Rebecca, Marco, Luca, and Pem waiting for him in the quiet, cozy house down the street.
This was the life he had chosen to ground himself. This was the normalcy that kept the Heretic from completely consuming his soul. He would protect this life fiercely, even if it meant lying to the people he cared about most.
The Royal Capital was going to burn tomorrow. The Eye of the Midnight Sun was going to unleash a nightmare upon the noble realm, and the Magic Knights were going to face their greatest challenge yet.
But as Lencar picked up his chef's knife and turned back to the cutting board, a cold, predatory anticipation settled deep within his chest.
Let the Midnight Sun make their move. Let the Captains fight their desperate battles. The Forged Heretic would be there, walking among the flames, ready to harvest the chaos and turn their grand tragedy into his own absolute victory.