The centuries are a futile measure, yet an inevitable one to grasp my existence. I lost myself in calculations that dissolve in the face of this space’s irrationality. Here, everything is made of forms that defy logic: straight lines twist like impossible serpents, circles that aren’t circles but disfigured orbits intersecting at angles no geometry knows. The primordial chaos isn’t a spectacle of color or light, but an infernal mechanics, pulsing as if each figure were alive and self-aware.

I watch. I’ve always watched. For eras uncountable, my sole occupation has been to seek patterns, order, a logic to justify my imprisonment here. Because I was cast here. He cast me here. I do not recall his face, but I remember the intent. Punishment, vengeance, or perhaps a mere experiment. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I was ripped from another place — from a life that now feels distant, almost illusory — and hurled into this chaotic origin, this formless cradle where reality begins, where laws are still taking shape.

At first, it was despair. There was no control, only the crushing realization that nothing made sense. The endless movement of shapes, the angles folding upon themselves, the lines appearing and disappearing in impossible patterns — all of it mocked my mind. But time… time is a fickle ally. It wore me down, true, but it also forged something within me.

I learned. Not by choice, but by necessity. If there is no escape, there is only adaptation. Gradually, my rigid perception began to yield. The logic I had been taught — the fixed, universal laws I once knew — proved insufficient. And so, I began rewriting my mind, aligning it with the energies of this place.

Chaos, I realized, wasn’t disorder. It was an infinitely intricate pattern, a choreography that, if understood, could be predicted, manipulated, even controlled. For eras, I dedicated myself to this. I studied the movements of the shapes, felt their frequencies resonate with what might be my soul, and learned to navigate them like a swimmer mastering the currents of a tempestuous ocean. I began to see that these energies weren’t blind forces; they were laws in their purest form, the underlying rules shaping all realities.

The void ceased to be my prison and became my field of study. Here, at the origin of everything, I grasped laws as no one ever could. Every twisting line, every circle shattering into a thousand forms and reforming, told a story. This place, I realized, wasn’t just the beginning. It was the key. Everything that was or could be started here, its roots laid bare before me. I understood gravity before it was gravity, grasped time before it crystallized into past and future. It was knowledge transcending any language or description.

But even mastery wasn’t enough. I knew this learning had a purpose, part of something greater. It couldn’t be coincidence that he cast me here, at this precise point. Something awaited. Something inevitable.

And then, the change came.

First, a whisper in the space between lines and curves, an imperceptible fracture in the eternal motion. Then, a force. A vortex. I hadn’t known it was possible to be pulled, yet I was. I didn’t fall; I was torn apart and recombined along trajectories that shouldn’t exist. The chaos became linear for an instant, and I was out.

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My consciousness awakens in a confined space, suffocatingly finite. The walls are of dark stone, rough basalt saturated with glowing symbols. I recognize them instantly: fragments of a primitive Thelemic ritual, rudimentary in execution but functional. They resonate with echoes of the same laws I studied in the primordial void, but simplified versions — childish scribbles imitating a masterpiece.

The air is heavy with the scent of cheap incense and burnt resins, mingled with a miasma of dried blood and fresh flesh. A rhythmic tapping, not of drums but of voices, fills the space. Incantations. They repeat a sequence of words that, crude as they are, vibrate at the correct frequency to pull something — or someone — from beyond this plane. They pulled me.

It takes time to comprehend where I am. At first, it’s all dissonance: the clash of limited, corporeal perceptions after eons of intangibility. I’m confined to a body — young, human, malleable. A prison more complex than the primordial void, for here the limitations are physical. I touch the boy’s senses as though they’re narrow doorways: I see with his eyes, hear with his ears, but I cannot move his limbs. I try to fight this barrier but fail. Something is installed here, a force restricting my direct influence.

Time — or what seems like time — passes before I understand. I’ve been anchored. Not simply summoned, but placed inside this human vessel as if poured into a chalice. I consider the boy, this body that is now me. It’s young, flexible, but fragile. An ideal vessel for functional purposes, but nothing more.

I observe. I listen to the words around me and try to understand the structure that binds me. “Kabbalah.” I recognize the echoes of its logic, the invisible threads that hold me in place. It’s a mesh of laws adapted from origins I know intimately. Ingenious, yet still primitive. Given time and focus, I could unravel them, but for now… adaptation is my only resource.

The mages surrounding me are hooded figures, their faces obscured in the dim light. Their robes are adorned with faded runes and traces of ancient gold glimmering under the unsteady torchlight. They are different, yet united by a clear purpose: to dominate what they’ve summoned. Their voices carry weight — intent and exhaustion. Some bear marks of burns and cuts, the price they’ve paid to bring me here. They underestimate me. It’s evident in their gestures, in how they nervously adjust the ritual’s instruments, in how they murmur to one another without the confidence of those who truly understand what they’re doing.

Then, she speaks.

“Finally,” a female voice cuts through the room, clear and undeniably authoritative. There’s something hypnotic about her, a magnetism born not of magic but of her presence. “We’ve anchored the Forgotten Angel in a human vessel.”

My attention shifts to her. She is small, dark-haired, with eyes that are wells of determination and something deeper, almost unfathomable. Her every movement is deliberate, as if even the way she breathes is part of some greater calculation. Her attire is simple — a fitted ritual tunic — but her leadership is unmistakable. She doesn’t need grandeur; her authority is innate.

“You are bound by Kabbalistic laws of control,” she continues, stepping closer. Her voice cracks like a whip. “And you will fulfill our command to earn your freedom.”

Freedom? I wonder if she truly believes such a promise holds weight with me. She goes on:

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“You, Angel, will establish a new spiritual brotherhood. One that will rival the war between the White and Black Fraternities. You will prevent the worlds from being discarded.”

There’s conviction in her words, but also tension. She knows I am not something easily controlled. I sense it. She is intelligent, careful. Perhaps even respectable, in her own way.

“If you fail,” she concludes, her tone hardening, “you will remain trapped here, eternally subject to the laws we’ve written for you.”

She fixes her gaze on the boy’s eyes. My eyes. For a moment, I consider responding, but I hold back. I observe. I learn. Because even now, confined to this body and these primitive laws, I’m already tracing the first contours of how I will turn all this to my advantage.

The master’s voice was still sharp and commanding when something began to shift. An interruption—first hesitant, then insistent:

“What the hell… is this what I’m feeling? It’s burning inside me… like I’m going to explode, but in a weird way. Hot and cold at the same time. Is this how an ‘angel’ is supposed to feel? Because it doesn’t seem very divine.”

The boy—my vessel—was speaking. His voice was light, almost mocking, as if the terror of his situation hadn’t managed to crush his irreverent personality. “Seriously, master, is it supposed to feel like this? Or did you mess up the ritual? Because it feels like my head’s about to pop.”

She observed him with narrowed eyes, irritated but also curious. “That’s normal. You’ve been bonded to an entity far superior to anything your limited mind can process. Of course, there will be… initial discomfort.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied, with a short laugh. “Discomfort. Good to know. I thought you’d turned me into a living furnace.”

The master huffed but maintained her controlled tone. “You need to learn to endure it. But now there’s something more important. Angel,” she said, addressing me directly, “examine his mind. See what he knows. Discover anything that might be useful. We need a foundation to begin the work.”

It was a calculated order, but also a test. She wanted to see how far my influence extended. I obeyed—not out of submission, but because it served my process. A first step.

Connecting to the boy’s mind was easier than I expected. His resistance was minimal, almost nonexistent. When I did, I was flooded by a torrent of information. Disordered thoughts, mundane memories, fragments of a modern world alien to me. And amidst these fragments, magical knowledge.

There was magic in this world, but it was… faint. Shallow. The magical level, as I began to call it, was laughably low. Barely 0.5%. To me, this was an almost dead reality, severed from the primordial tree that births all magic. Explaining this to them was necessary.

“Listen,” I began, testing my voice—and noting the master’s surprise at hearing me speak. “What you call magic here is but a shadow of what it truly is. Allow me to explain.”

I took control of the boy’s body. He did not resist; he seemed more curious than alarmed. Slowly, I began to walk within the ritual circle, my words precise, almost didactic:

“The magical level of a world is determined by the number of permissions its reality grants to those who inhabit it. Every world is governed by laws—physical, spiritual, metaphysical. The more aligned these laws are with the origins of existence, the more permissions they offer, and the greater the magic that can flow. In highly magical worlds, reality almost dances to the will of those who understand these laws. But here…”

I paused, turning to face the master. “Here, the permissions are minimal. This world is distant from the Tree of Life, the source of all magic. The disconnection from nature, the chaotic technological advance, the absence of significant magical beings… all contribute to this. Creating magical objects, awakening mages, or even summoning beings from other realities can shift this level. But for now, this world is like a desert.”

“So, what do we do?” the master asked, now genuinely interested.

“First,” I replied, “we reestablish the basics. We create the most fundamental layer of magic. Sigilcraft.”

The master considered my words, her eyes narrowing as the idea took shape in her mind. “Sigilcraft…” she murmured, almost savoring the concept. “A direct approach, but efficient. We can start with that. But we’ll need a more discreet space to work. This ritual chamber is functional, but… far too conspicuous for the next step.”

She turned to the boy, still sitting in the circle’s center, his expression one of conflicted curiosity. “You,” she said firmly, “get up. We have work to do. Angel, prepare to create the first sigil. We’ll move soon.”

With that, we were led to a more suitable space—a makeshift room far from the ritualistic grandeur. Here, practicality and discretion were the priorities. It was there that we began crafting the first steps to restore magic to the world.

The environment was simple, utilitarian. The room was no longer ritualistic but improvised. Common wax candles arranged in a circle provided illumination, while stacks of worn books piled in a corner hinted at years of study. The master watched us with controlled patience, while the boy—my vessel—remained restless, still struggling to grasp the idea of sharing his body with me.

The sigil began to take shape. Its lines were not merely decorative; every curve and stroke carried meaning. They were designed to interact with the underlying vibrations of this world’s reality, tuned to siphon small fractions of vital energy from everything around it. But not as theft—it was an exchange. Every person who came into contact with the symbol, even unconsciously, would give up an infinitesimal amount of energy in return for a subtle resonance—a magical echo that would begin to awaken in the collective psyche.

“So, let me get this straight,” the boy interrupted, his tone as casual as ever. “We’re just going to run around scribbling these symbols everywhere? Like a team of spiritual graffiti artists?”

“Exactly,” I replied, focusing on the sigil’s final strokes. “But these aren’t just ‘scribbles.’ They must be placed strategically. Each one will serve as an anchor, linked to the next, forming an invisible magical network. Not only will we gather energy, but we’ll also begin reshaping people’s perceptions.”

“Okay, but how does that help magic come back? Because honestly, this all sounds like you’re playing on easy mode.”

I took a deep breath, resisting the urge to be distracted by the boy’s sarcasm. “As I’ve already explained,” I began, “magic is a product of the permissions reality grants. The more permissions we reestablish, the more magic can flow. This sigil not only collects energy but also begins to reconfigure collective perception. When people, even unconsciously, encounter these symbols, they’ll start to accept the idea that the impossible can exist. This is the first step to opening reality to magical permissions.”

The master, silent until now, interjected. “And once we have enough energy, we can begin working on higher levels of magic. This is just the beginning—a way to gather the power needed to alter the laws that bind us.”

“Moreover,” I continued, “the sigils must be spread across the city. One or two won’t suffice; we need dozens. Each will be a cell in a larger system. Think of it as planting seeds. One seed is fragile, but a forest… a forest can withstand time.”

The boy tilted his head, considering this. “Alright, I get it. So, what’s the plan? We just go around slapping these symbols on lamp posts? Walls? Or can we get creative with it?”

“We’ll be strategic,” the master replied. “High-traffic areas, where the energy flow is greatest. Markets, squares, transportation hubs. The important thing is that they’re seen—even if only for a second. That will be enough.”

The boy chuckled. “Alright then, I guess I’m a graffiti artist now. Cool. Just let me know if something starts exploding, because honestly, this whole ‘magical energy’ thing is still freaking me out.”

I ignored the comment and finished the sigil’s last line on the floor. It began to glow faintly, an almost imperceptible light that shimmered like heat above a flame. It was an initial connection, a glimpse of the potential that could be unleashed.

“Now,” the master said, “replicate this. We have work to do.”

The boy sighed. “Fine, boss. But if anyone asks, I’m calling this modern art.”

I didn’t laugh. But perhaps the boy had something to teach me. After all, even in a disconnected world, his optimism was a force I could wield.