The ten spheres of the Tree of Life coiled upward in a zigzag pattern ancient mystics called the "Serpent's Path" or "Creation's Lightning." Having ascended to the third sphere of Magnificence, Yvette now grasped the phrase's deeper resonance—lightning that once sparked life's first building blocks in Earth's primordial soup. The metaphor bridged cosmic order and evolutionary miracle.

Her latest awakening brought electromagnetic manipulation. Testing it, she heated water by emitting microwaves from her palm—a more scientific approach than her previous inexplicable heat-teleportation.

Thirty seconds produced boiling water, but practical uses seemed scarce. In future eras, this gift might disrupt wifi or boost signals—petty tricks for a supernatural talent. But discovering she could transform heat radiation into visible light offered tactical value: neutralizing invisibility cloaks by revealing body heat signatures, much like thermal imaging technology.

Still, EM waves dissipated too rapidly for combat efficiency. Even maximum output would barely warm a distant foe. Better to just swing a sword at close range.

A pocketwatch check showed 2:30 AM. London's streets lay quiet beneath grime-coated gas lamps—recent inventions that dimly lit main thoroughfares while leaving alleys pitch-black. Enterprising "link-boys" with torches guided night travelers through the maze, though some collaborated with thieves to lead victims into traps.

One such link-boy abandoned a gentleman in a dead-end alley, dousing his torch to escape. Glowing green eyes lunged from the dark—a werewolf intercepted mid-pounce by a kick that smashed it against brickwork. The gentleman adjusted his hat while the creature choked on broken ribs, noting his attacker's slit-pupiled eyes with dawning horror:

"You're... Secret Police?"

"Your recent killing spree violated our accords," Ulysses replied, injecting silver solution into the paralyzed wolfman. Hauling his prey to a waiting carriage, he endured the Duke of Lancaster's theatrics:

"Imagine skinning it alive! Would the pelt remain after death?" the Duke mused, savoring imagined atrocities.

Ulysses remained impassive. Everything before dawn felt like a recurring dream—except tonight, he'd chosen to return home early. Some instinct warned that tomorrow would bring unexpected developments...

The next morning at ten, Yvette shuffled downstairs in slippers, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Both men scrutinized her—no visible changes.

She blinked at the lavish spread: smoked haddock, ham, roast lamb, œufs en cocotte, toast with honeyed preserves. Such feasts required predawn labor without modern conveniences.

“Special occasion? Someone’s birthday?” she mumbled through toast.

“Shouldn’t we be asking you? Any aftereffects from the crystal?” Ulysses set down his coffee.

“Well…the ascension worked, I suppose. But mostly I just felt…small. Like we’re all motes in a vast cosmic sea.”

“That’s all?”

“Should there be more?”

Winslow exhaled. “Thank the Saints. Many crumble under the world’s truths.”

“What about you two?” Yvette pressed. “How’d you take it?”

Winslow grimaced. “My world shattered. I awoke from mankind’s pretty lies—realized our intelligence isn’t divine, just…evolutionary luck.”

“As a physician,” Ulysses said drily, “I knew humans are patchwork creatures—vestigial muscles, useless bones. The ‘truth’ held no surprises.”

“Oh! And I finally get the ‘Lightning of Creation’ metaphor—”

“Metaphor?” Winslow frowned.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Life’s spark! Like how lightning birthed the first…” She trailed off, unsure if 19th-century science recognized amino acids.

“You dreamed of apes evolving? What’s lightning to do with it?”

Ulysses nodded, equally perplexed.

Wait—did they not see the primordial Earth? The ocean’s first stir?

“Er…my dream had monkeys transforming under storms. Must’ve been a coincidence!” Better omit the abyss-of-time bits. If evolution rattled Winslow, primordial soup would finish him.

Yvette had often pondered the Bureau’s ascension crystals. What made these shimmering artifacts capable of bridging dreams to higher realms? And if they were so potent, why had no Transcendent ever breached the Eighth Emanation? Were the crystals for upper tiers impossibly rare—or did the Old Gods’ whispers shatter mortal minds?

After reaching the Third Emanation, Ulysses finally explained.

"High-tier crystals are nearly unobtainable," he said. "The lower planes—Material (First), Formative (Second to Fourth)—yield enough. But beyond the Creative Plane (Fifth to Seventh)? Scraps. Those seeking higher ascension must… improvise."

Now at the Third Emanation herself, Yvette realized she had one crystal-aided tier left. By the Fourth, she’d need alternatives.

"Improvise how?"

"Books."

That was how she found herself trailing Ulysses into a crumbling London monastery. They shifted a bookcase to reveal a rust-ringed trapdoor, descending into a cramped passage. Torchlit and oddly fresh-smelling, its sandstone walls—quarried to extinction centuries prior—bore soot stains older than her grandfather.

Ulysses’ warnings echoed: High-tier crystals are scarce. Reading forbidden texts becomes necessary, but books are slower, deadlier. Each page steeped in the Old Gods’ corruption.

Even Third Emanation crystals were rationed. Hence, the Bureau granted limited archive access. This repository held "safer" tomes; others in London were far darker.

These books hungered, Ulysses had said. They ensnared. Couldn’t be loaned. Only read on-site by keepers of iron will. The current keeper? A man stripped of power by an incident that left him immune to mental assaults—a fair trade, perhaps.

Ulysses gestured to the passage. "Go on. I’ll be at the café. Come another day if you’d rather."

"But the keeper—"

"He knows you. My recommendation sufficed."

Yvette crept down. The tunnel’s rustic sandstone—unlike modern brick—harked back to Camelot. An oak door awaited at the end, nudging open to reveal a candlelit archive.

"The maiden returns. What services does she crave of Lord Marcus today?"

A black shadow sprang onto a shelf, staring down with feline disdain.

Ah—the "keeper"! Yvette nearly laughed. Marcus—the smug library cat—made perfect sense. She’d bring tuna next visit.

When she paused, his tail thrashed. "Mortal! Ignoring me?!"

"N-no! Your glory stunned me, Lord Marcus!" She eyed his perch, itching to scritch his ears.

A voice chimed—her voice: "So fluffy! If I butter him up, maybe I can sneak a pat… Oh, that belly!"

Yvette whirled. Her mirror image stood gushing in a cheval glass, hands clasped like a schoolgirl.

What in seven hells—?!

Marcus’ fur bushed. "Impudent worm! Desecrator!"

"It’s the mirror! I didn’t—"

"Even angry, he’s precious! Cats are supreme beings!" the mirror trilled.

"That artifact," Marcus hissed, "exposes hidden thoughts—placed here to weed out the weak. You’ve offended my dignity! Step. Away."

Yvette scrambled aside.

Marcus stretched to leap down… then paused, squinting at her.

"Treacherous whelp… state your business. My mercy grants one request."

"Just… browsing? What’s here?"

Her eyes adjusted. Chains bound the shelves’ books—thick tomes in alien leather, metal-clasped, quivering faintly.

"Look closer," Marcus purred, smirking.

She approached—

Bang! Books exploded into motion. Some lunged at her, chains clanking; others cowered deep into shadows.

"Gods above—"

Marcus hopped onto the shelf. A tail-flick later, the books froze, slinking back like scolded pups.

"Some knowledge hungers for minds. Some flees them. Those lunging? They’d devour you. Those hiding? Their gods despise yours."

"Does this… happen often?"

"In ten years here, none ever stirred a whole shelf. Most agitate a dozen books. You’re… unique."

"What does that mean?!"

"Girl—who is your patron?"

Yvette hesitated. Ulysses forbade digging—"curiosity invites corruption."

"I… don’t know. Isn’t that forbidden?"

"Most by your tier sense it—through bloodline marks or dream-whispers. The veil is thin."

"Mine came from a ritual. A rogue Transcendent used me as a component."

Marcus’ eyes slitted. "Which deity did the fool invoke?"

"Quetzalcoatl, blending New World and Egyptian rites."

Yvette recounted the tale: the obsidian dagger, the botched undead ritual that backfired, granting her power.

"Fascinating," Marcus mused, leaping onto her head to paw her brow like a toddler inspecting a toy. "Quetzalcoatl—death and rebirth. Egypt’s Ouroboros—eternal cycle. I’d theorized they name the same entity. You confirm it! Mixed rites pleased the god—hence your survival."

Yvette blinked. Ulysses had taught her: Gods wear countless masks. Lilith, Baalat, Druj—all the same dark moon.

So… the Creator was Quetzalcoatl?

"Mark this," Marcus growled. "No records show Quetzalcoatl or Ouroboros spawning lineages. If true… you may be the first of your kind."

Yvette’s jaw dropped.