The final days before departure were the most delicate.
Ostina's secret stash now filled several hidden compartments:
tools,
food,
ropes,
weapons,
and enough mana shards to subtly manipulate dozens of objects simultaneously.
Every inspection felt like a calculated challenge.
She allowed small items to "disappear,"
testing the nuns' reactions.
Their frustration, their scolding, their suspicion—every emotional response became another piece of the puzzle.
At night, she practiced movement through her prepared paths,
imagining every obstacle,
every watchful eye.
She even toyed with small illusions:
shadows of herself in empty corridors, sounds of footsteps in distant halls, smoke from hidden candles.
Each practice brought her closer to perfection.
In the quiet hours, Ostina whispered to herself, almost a vow:
"They see nothing. They suspect nothing.
And when the day comes…
they will regret
underestimating the
Trash Saint."
The threads were taut. The stage set.
The moment to strike—
and vanish—
was almost here.