Yvette’s neck seized under a frigid, rotting grip. Though breathless, she felt something soft—an eyeball-sized orb—roll off her shoulder.

“You killed me… vile usurper!” The one-eyed, decayed cultist hissed, fingers tightening. “The ritual failed… yet succeeded! My Lord grants me rebirth—your flesh shall be my vessel!”

As darkness encroached, the bloodied text flashed in her mind:

“Our life feeds on others’ deaths. In corpses, dormant life awaits—to merge with living flesh and awaken.”

The world warped. Walls became pulsing viscera; her body split into gaping maws. The cultist’s scream died as jagged ribs snapped shut—a carnivorous bloom.

Yvette awoke at her desk, neck stiff. The nightmare lingered—vivid, visceral. Alison, her new maid, had tidied the books and closed the window. “To avoid ink spills,” she’d explained.

At breakfast, Alison fretted over Yvette’s meager appetite: a bread-egg sandwich and coffee. “Perhaps roast veal or pigeon?”

“Fruit suffices. Strawberries soon, yes?” Yvette replied absently, scanning ironed newspapers—Alison’s meticulous touch.

A delivery arrived: a box from Maskelyne’s workshop. Inside lay her custom revolver—a tool for battles seen and unseen.

The nightmare had revealed more than terror. In it, Yvette became the—a fallen transcendent named Hydra. Memories surfaced:

Rain-lashed night. Hydra cleansed bloodied hands beside a carriage. “We’re even, Boiling Lake Lord.”

The passenger—a fellow conspirator—raged: “You call smuggling that dagger even?!”

Hydra sneered: “Your budding will exile you—as it did me. My method saves you.”

The Boiling Lake Lord, a novice transcendent, feared losing his hard-won power. Hydra’s solution: sever and store his, like Egyptian canopic jars preserving organs for resurrection.

Hydra’s past hinted at a shadowy cabal—the Nine-Headed Serpent. Once a【Magnificence】-tier transcendent, he’d fractured his to evade. The dagger—a relic of Mesoamerican myth—enabled this forbidden rite.

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Yvette weighed reporting this to the Special Missions Bureau—the Hydra loathed. But exposing her dream-memories risked scrutiny. Best wait, she decided.

Alison hovered, uneasy. Her new master’s Francophile delicacy clashed with Albion’s meat-centric machismo. “Boys need beef!” she muttered, recalling tavern boasts.

Yet Yvette’s focus stayed on the revolver box—her key to survival in a world where humanity and horror intertwined.

The box contained the custom-made pistol Yvette had ordered. With a short, thick barrel just over two inches long, it resembled a miniature mortar or flare gun. Given that fine firearms of this era were crafted by clockmakers, the weapon maintained an artisanal elegance - alloy construction adorned with etchings, gilding, and tortoiseshell inlays on the grip, all executed with intricate craftsmanship.

Yet its oversized cylinder and bore distinguished it from ordinary pistols. The five-chambered revolver operated smoothly when Yvette tested the mechanism, its precision engineering promising reliable performance. Included were five specialty rounds with silver casings and crystal tips, said to possess paranormal efficacy against spectral entities, plus two pounds of granular gunpowder and bullet molds.

This was standard practice - firearms being bespoke creations rather than mass-produced, each requiring custom ammunition. Yvette's townhouse contained a distillery workshop complete with furnace, crucibles and glassware, typical for producing everything from cosmetics to bullets. Her thermal manipulation abilities allowed perfect casting by controlling heat dissipation.

She crafted three bullet types: standard lead conical rounds, expanding hollow-point "Devil's Kiss" rounds (whose horrific wounding potential earned alarmed looks), and hardened steel armor-piercing projectiles made possible by reinforced rifling. Though eager to test-fire, central London's noise restrictions and her afternoon appointment at the Royal University stayed her hand.

Opting instead for a slender rapier - part of Sir Ulysse's combat tutelage - Yvette descended to find her housekeeper Alison preparing to market. Declining a carriage ride due to propriety concerns, Alison headed for Covent Garden's produce stalls while Yvette departed for academic orientation.

At the Royal University's Classics College, anticipation brewed. Students gossiped about the new French aristocrat joining their ranks, evidenced by the dean's conspicuously displayed recommendation letter bearing a ducal seal. Among them, lovestruck Gary simmered with jealousy toward this incoming rival for the dean's daughter Julie's affections, even threatening anachronistic duel challenges that his friends wisely declined.

The scene crystallized the era's social tensions - privileged aristocrats gliding through institutions where commoners struggled with fees, romantic ideals clashing with practical realities, and the lingering specter of continental rivalries coloring every interaction. Yvette's arrival promised to disrupt this microcosm, her unconventional background blending alchemical pragmatism with noble bearing in ways these sheltered scholars could scarcely anticipate.