“Sir Jules, what exactly are these ‘Transcendents’ you keep mentioning? Are they sorcerers? Or something else? You said I’m now a Transcendent too, but I don’t feel any different. Am I lacking a way to channel my abilities?” Yvette spread her palm, straining her imagination, but no sparks leapt from her fingertips, nor did any extraordinary signs appear.

“There’s no doubt you’ve gained esoteric power from this incident,” he replied, unfolding a handkerchief containing shards resembling broken green beer bottle glass. “These are fragments retrieved from the corpse’s chest—a blade crafted at least four thousand years ago. It was an Aztec ceremonial dagger, passed down through generations for slicing sacrificial flesh. Stone tools may be sharp, but they’re brittle by nature. This wasn’t designed for stabbing—its tip is blunt, shaped like a teardrop.

Yet this object, utterly unsuited as a weapon, shattered ribs in your hands. The broken tip cleanly pierced the heart. A frail girl fresh from ‘ice-pick therapy’ shouldn’t have managed this. Try to recall—what truly happened?”

“I…” Yvette’s memory of the event still felt dreamlike. An alien force had surged from the void, threatening to overwhelm her. Sight, smell, hearing—every sense had transformed, as if a veil had lifted to reveal the world’s essence. If this was reality, what had her ordinary perceptions been before?

“Initial awakenings are intense. The raw truth of the world overwhelms mortal minds. Many go mad or faint, dismissing it as fantasy before resuming mundane lives.” Ulysses spread his hands. “The intellect is an onion—its brilliance locked behind layered walls. You’ve peeled one skin, but without understanding, you’ll forget. Still, ordinary life isn’t bad. If you can’t master this, we’ll erase your memories and grant generous compensation—typically, an inheritance from a distant ‘relative’ you’ve never met.”

Reincarnating in a supernatural world just to stay ordinary? What’s the point?

“Abilities vary. My ‘True Sight’ reveals life-flames. You must explore yours alone.”

What had she perceived? Light… heat… soundwaves?

She’d learned sound was mere vibration, yet she’d felt those ripples. The ritual candles’ glow—even behind her—manifested as luminous orbs…

A world of pure energy, no matter.

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Speed transforms even fragile objects—a brittle chrysoprase dagger breaking ribs. Her sudden agility and strength must have drawn from this energy realm, harvesting and redirecting force.

Energy can be moved.

As she pondered, the men remained silent. Winslow quietly refilled her teacup. Only the fireplace crackled.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the flames. Two impressions formed: warmth against her skin, and a radiant energy cluster visible even through closed lids. She pinpointed its size and direction.

Now guide it…

Winslow checked his pocket watch. Thirty minutes passed. As he prepared to urge patience, Ulysses stopped him.

“She’s succeeded,” he mouthed, nodding at Yvette’s teacup. Steam rose unnaturally for Albion’s chill autumn. Soon, the liquid boiled over.

Opening her eyes, Yvette saw the spilled tea. Her power involved energy conversion—thermal and kinetic. She could shift a flame’s heat elsewhere, transform warmth into motion. But only for inanimate objects or herself. Light a curtain with a match’s fire, empower her muscles with a stove’s heat—but not drain a person’s warmth to freeze them.

“Apologies. I lost focus.”

“Think nothing of it. This pales beside your awakening’s damage.” Ulysses glanced at the shattered ritual blade.

“Sir Jules,” Winslow chided. “Miss Ximénez, this Frenchman’s notorious for his abrasive tongue. Pay no heed. Congratulations—your comprehension outshines most. A remarkable feat.”

“The dagger…” Yvette hesitated. “Was it valuable? How can I make amends?”

“A New World relic. Mundane value: £500. But its esoteric worth? Priceless.” Ulysses shrugged. “Though for me, £500 matters little. The true loss is scholarly—an Aztec sacrificial artifact holds secrets money can’t measure.”

“But reports could blame Thomas Simon’s mishandling,” he added. “Or the Docklands team’s incompetence.”

“Sir!” Winslow interjected. “Turning blind eyes to harmless smuggled relics is policy—it secures foreign artifacts for study. Don’t slander our colleagues.”

“Their negligence let it reach a madman. That’s the report.” Ulysses dismissed.

“Organization? Scrutiny?” Yvette questioned.

“Allow me to introduce our glorious institution,” the Frenchman sneered, bowing theatrically. “The Albion Special Missions Bureau—overseer of Transcendents, cleaner of supernatural messes. Other nations have equivalents. Mundanes want safety from gods and monsters. For two millennia, we’ve woven lies—religion, morality, science—to veil the occult. Our predecessors’ group had another name: the Inquisition. Pity we can’t just burn heretics anymore…”

Ignoring the rant, Yvette grasped this was a parallel Earth with occult-twisted history.

“Formal membership requires grueling vetting. Mind-readers would uncover our ‘accident.’ But we’ve… flexible options. ‘Bounty Hunters’—independent Transcendents following our rules. Many later join properly, their pasts… overlooked.”

“Sir Jules, let her choose freely,” Winslow insisted.

“The Bureau’s perks, I can match,” Ulysses grumbled. “But choose as you will. The dagger’s loss won’t haunt me—I just hate bureaucrats buzzing about it.”

Both men awaited her decision.