Inside the shadowed tower, three masked figures in obscure robes stood vigil over the ritual circle. Their prisoner, battered and writhing with leech-like parasites, collapsed at the sigil’s edge.

“Henry Mitchell,” spoke the central inquisitor, his voice echoing coldly through the chamber, “or do you prefer your alias—‘Harpy’? For four years, we’ve tolerated your defiance. You spurned our order yet were permitted to thrive, so long as you obeyed the Law. Instead, you wallowed in forbidden rites. What justification have you?”

Mitchell’s laughter ricocheted off stone walls, raw and unhinged. “You lecture me? Hypocrites! Cloaking your tyranny in lies—playing jailer to hoard power—” The black leeches coating his skin pulsed malevolently as he thrashed.

“Your ‘truth’ reeks of blood,” the inquisitor countered. “Four harlots tortured. Two vagrants carved like meat. Do you deny it?”

“Deny? I elevated them! The Starving One beyond the heavens claims what’s His—blood for His thirst, souls for His glory! I am His prophet!” Spittle flew as Mitchell strained against his bonds.

“Prophet? You’re a rabid dog,” the leftmost figure intoned, chains clinking beneath his robe as he stepped forward. “The proud shall be humbled. The greedy, stripped bare. Judgment is upon you.”

As the inquisitor raised his hand, Mitchell’s screams curdled. The limb was no human hand—a grotesque, boneless tentacle, glistening and serpentine, stretched toward his face.

“Terrified by mortal hands?” The masked voice dripped scorn. “How will you face the Holy Flame that sees every shadow in your soul?”

The tentacle plunged into Mitchell’s eye sockets. His body convulsed as the parasitic leeches writhed, swelling grotesquely. When the inquisitor withdrew, their captive sat slack-jawed, drool pooling in his lap.

The trio chanted, their sigil flaring cobalt. Spectral walls boxed the monstrosity as azure fire engulfed it. Flesh crisped to ash, leaving twin crystals—violet and jade—amid the embers.

“Second Essence: Foundation. Fourth: Victory,” remarked the central inquisitor. “A fitting yield.”

“Mutation past 50% primes the harvest,” his comrade agreed. “Pity the Mentalist’s talents risk his own corruption.”

As the fatigued Mentalist dismissed concerns, the trio strategized: assassinate high-profile cultists, capture the bookseller alive, dispatch local agents to the ‘Two Pence’ bookstore.

“And the bounty hunter who tracked them?” queried one.

“Mr. Ordinary endorses her. Grant her Essence access—if she stays sane.”

The verdict was unanimous. Somewhere in London, a shadow stirred—unaware its hunters had already marked their prey.

……

"So those jars in Thomas Simon's lair contained his essence?" Winslow set down his teacup, astonishment painting his features as Yvette described her confrontation with Duran. "We all assumed they were cursed artifacts – voodoo dolls or the like – and had them destroyed. Thank heavens you struck when his guard was down. Had he reclaimed that essence..."

Yvette shifted uncomfortably under the older man's admiration. This fifth-tier powerhouse wore humility like a second skin, yet they'd essentially bullied some poor third-tier occultist into oblivion. If anything, the black-robed man had been the vulnerable party.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"When we first met," she changed tack, "you spoke of Simon like an old acquaintance. Sir Ulysses called him 'a pyre-worthy menace.'"

"Even among amoral practitioners, his atrocities stood out." Winslow's gaze darkened. "Exile delayed his execution, not canceled it."

"What made him so dangerous?" She leaned forward. Her first supernatural kill had felt anticlimactic for someone allegedly notorious.

"Knowledge domain abilities – exceptionally rare. Official records state he consumed brains to absorb languages, locate ancient sites, and amplify ritual efficacy." Winslow tapped the teapot thoughtfully. "Ill-suited for direct combat. Hence his doomed attempt to craft a corpse puppet... and his unfortunate choice of vessel."

Unconscious? More like freshly deceased, Yvette mused. The original owner was long gone when I woke in this body.

"If powers stem from deities, why did Simon's gifts differ from mine?" she pressed. "Can gods answer those outside their cults?"

"Deities operate beyond mortal comprehension." Winslow stirred honey into his tea. "Consider sunlight – do you begrudge some distant farmer drying laundry with your warmth? Unless noticed..." He made a explosive gesture. "Catastrophe follows divine attention."

"Simon exploited this detachment. Most rituals fail when mismatched to one's patron deity, but his gifts bridged the gap."

"So all ceremonies are forbidden?"

"Those involving dormant or extinct entities remain permissible – medieval 'white magic.'" A wry smile surfaced. "Superstitious trifles, really. Maypole ribbons for good harvests, mistletoe kisses ensuring fertility..."

Their conversation meandered through modern customs. In Sir Ulysses' absence, what began as brief visit stretched into leisurely tea. Albion's traditions differed starkly from Huaxia's – robust blended leaves versus delicate single-origins, milk-laced brews taken with stodgy scones. Winslow broke a rock-hard pastry with ceremonial care, spreading jam with the precision owed to finest porcelain.

"Feels odd receiving this treatment in trousers," Yvette remarked. Half a year in this world had normalized such gallantries – she'd performed them herself at society functions.

"Protocol bends among friends." His eyes crinkled as crumbs scattered for eager sparrows. Birds flocked to the windowsill, beaks pecking in practiced rhythm.

"You've tamed them."

"Merely kindred spirits." Winslow's voice softened. "My awakening felt... hatching. Brittle shell giving way to terrifying wonder."

"Oh, I know! That first glimpse beyond the veil – skies endless, old shelters lies." Her fingers traced the teacup's gilded rim. "But the visions... the hunger..."

"Mmm. We emerge changed. Vessels for forces demanding worship and sacrifice. Yet the hardest cage to maintain..." He touched his chest. "...lies within."

Sunlight dappled Hyde Park's walkways where a bespectacled scholar meandered, lost in The Curse of Sphinx. He scarcely noticed the skittish clerk brushing past – just another nameless face in London's machinery.

Two paces on, dampness prickled his collar. Why did pedestrians recoil? A scarlet-stained handkerchief answered.

"Murder! Fetch the constables!"

As consciousness faded, his cheek pressed against the fallen book's pages. The scholar's final thought echoed his research – some riddles defy solutions.

"Why won't you stay gone?!"

Sweat slicked the financier's palms as the dagger reappeared on his desk. His rise from gutter to empire builder hinged on haruspicy – sacrificial divination starting with pigeons, progressing to dockside orphans. High society lauded his philanthropy while missing the bloodstained threads binding his fortune.

The blade trembled. Last month's sacrifice – that gutter rat's accusing eyes – seemed etched in steel. With mounting dread, his arm jerked puppet-like, weapon arcing toward the window... then freezing mid-swing. An invisible puppeteer yanked the strings.

"No! NO—"

Steel pierced his temple in slow, deliberate inches.

Outside, mourning crepe whispered as a woman palmed the dagger. "Be at peace," she intoned to empty air. A ghostly sigh answered before stillness claimed the study.

Three miles east, a rapier slid smoothly from magnate's skull. Sir Ulysses watched the corpse slump over Times stock reports – death instantaneous, features serene. A blood droplet sealed the wound before he polished his blade clean.

"No obvious tells," the blond murmured. "Though tomorrow's rags will bleat about suicide pacts and midnight robberies..." Window latches clicked open. "My condolences, Chief Inspector."

He melted into shadow, leaving only a bloody thumbprint on the sash – soon to vanish like morning dew.

When servants found the body hours later, the house echoed with shrieks: "A seizure! Fetch the physician!"