Yvette stirred awake on a plush mattress, blinking at the familiar surroundings of her old room in Ulysses’ estate.

“Awake at last, young master?” A doll-like maid with a porcelain smile helped her sit up, presenting a basin of steaming water.

Though seldom visited, the Ulysses manor boasted servants of uncanny perfection—silent footfalls, unerring efficiency, and dignity that put even illustrious families to shame. Unlike greedy staff elsewhere, these automata neither begged for coin nor gossiped. Rumor claimed ancient lineages had begged Wynslow to train their households, never guessing the “servants” were clockwork marvels.

“You’ve slept through midday. Shall I draw your bath?”

“Please.”

Trapped in earth after the Shadowfold’s collapse, she’d blacked out from asphyxiation. Now scrubbed and reattired, grit still lodged under nails demanded proper washing.

Her personal cedar tub—a privilege earned through employment—clanked upward via pulley from the kitchens, a far cry from her modest Covent Garden home. Sinking into rose-petaled warmth, she called over the splash:

“Are the lord and steward about?”

“Awaiting you downstairs,” the maid chimed.

Noble estates segregated genders architecturally—even servants’ wings—to preserve appearances. Her placement in the gentlemen’s quarter avoided scandal, though it meant Ulysses and Wynslow studiously avoided her floor… save when bath-hauling clatter announced her movements.

She found them in the parlor, Wynslow steeping tea beside a groaning点心架 of sandwiches and cakes.

“Alive, then.” Ulysses pushed forth a claret-hued goblet. “The ‘Funeral Madonna’ delivered you half-dead—superficial wounds healed, but drink this tonic. Disgusting, but necessary.”

The metallic tang betrayed his blood as ingredient. She gulped it—poppy cakes would cleanse the aftertaste.

“Regale us with your near-death escapade?” Wynslow prompted.

Omitting her borrowed divinity, Yvette summarized—her colleague’s prompt dig having averted death-by-dirt after slaying the godling.

Wynsoft’s eyelashes dipped. “My apologies for the ordeal.”

“Hardly dire. The creature couldn’t breach my mind. My team’s competence saw through.”

“By the Saints,” Ulysses groaned. “Must you deprive us of heroics? A lady buried alive after fending off eldritch violation ought to swoon or something!”

“Only you’d crave such theatrics, my lord,” Wynslow cut in. “Our lady shelters us from her distress.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Truly, I’m fine. Besting it left no room for fear.”

Not entirely true. Foul exhilaration lingered—the Creator’s glee through her veins at destroying a rival’s spawn. Had wielding its power bound her closer to its alien whims? She buried the thought.

Ulysses snorted. “Ever the pragmatist. Oh—your gender? The Sharr woman knew before delivering you.”

Her teacup rattled. “How?!”

“Torn hose, no shoes…” He smirked. “No man has feet that dainty.”

Wynslow’s glove twisted his ear. “You overstep, my lord!”

In Albion’s puritanical aristocracy, a lady’s ankle counted as erotic as bare breasts elsewhere—hence why piano legs wore petticoats. Wynslow’s glare could freeze magma.

Yvette flushed despite herself. Had she been born a decade later, she might’ve laughed. But in this gilded cage of propriety, such frankness bordered on indecency—another reason to cherish her masculine guise.

Yvette frowned. Now it made sense why Miss Salle had brought her home. In etiquette-obsessed Albion, wouldn’t the male "Oak Sage" Kegan have been proper? Yet here they’d sent the lady. Probably knew something.

That moment under the dirt—she’d clutched something from the Shadow Realm. What?

The memory stayed blurred. The Funerary Lady called it an Ancient God statuette, some relic now with the Bureau’s eggheads. Back then, survival trumped curiosity. Just recalled its jagged shape festering with monster sludge.

The Bureau’s roots? Heretic-burning nutjobs. Their Trinity faith—crafted by ancient mages as a “sane god” to fight cosmic horrors. Scriptures screamed bloody murder about idols:

[Cursed be the creep who carves secret statues!]

[Smash their altars! Burn their creepy dolls!]

Even: [I’ll trash your shrines and dump your corpses on your gods. You disgust me.]

Brutal stuff. Before the Trinity cult won, this world was all magic and many-gods—each probably fronting some squid-faced abomination.

The real Old Gods float out there in space. To hit Earth, they need humans to imagine them into shape. Our ancestors fought hell to block that. Trashed most cult relics. Now the Bureau saves the safer ones: research tools against cosmic ick. Like that feather-serpent dagger that zapped her here.

Shame she’d missed inspecting that idol. High-tier kin guarded it—might’ve been special. Maybe... a breeder? Like some ant-queen?

Wait—if gods don’t do the nasty, where’d kin come from?

Ulysses’ answer: “Gods don’t gender. Kin aren’t kids—they’re like shed skin cells. Drop a flake, god barely notices. Though some fussy ones gobbled their kin.”

“True kids? Often rebellious. Ancient mages descended from those god-hybrids who grew a conscience. Data shows gods wanting Earth really want human babymamas—they’ll burn a million kin for one hybrid kid.”

So kin=toenail clippings. Breeders=the real deal. That boss kin in Shadow Realm, weak but protected—maybe it’s the babymaker? Her brain fizzed with vile theories.

“Regrets,” Ulysses sighed. “Should’ve kept you a freelancer. This is no teen girl’s work.”

Shocker—Mr. Perfect admitting error? The man usually oozed French savoir-faire, quoting poetry while ordering executions. Critics sniped he “talks like Moses fresh from the mount.”

“You started young!” she countered.

“I’m male.”

“Sexist hogwash! Paupers send 10-year-olds to factories. I’m legal. Spindle rots in a tower saving us—my risks are peanuts! I’m field-ready!”

“Parliament-men lock up daughters till 18 but okay child brothels at 12. Overprotection’s natural. Stay clear of tentacle business.”

“Ohhhh! Papa Ulysses!” she crooned.

“Exactly. Take vacation. Here’s £2k—chuck it in the Thames if bored.”

Hush money—21st-century millions. How to blow it? No boozing—liver’s too young. Brothels? Wrong plumbing. Gambling? A bit. Charity? Maybe...

......

“Saints swear! My clan had that pearl? We’d be lords!”

In stinking sewers, two thugs worked over a pawnbroker. Six years back ‘Doctor’ Ulysses’ cholera paper built these tunnels. Now rats and crooks ruled them.

The one-eyed goon waved a mildewed logbook: “Your grandpappy stashed a cursed pearl idol here—what church?!”

【Cursed idol made sailors jump ship. Hid it in church for holy bleach.】

“Which bloody church?!”