The bath was hot enough to sting.
I welcomed the sensation. After the nothingness of the void, feeling anything at all was a novelty worth savoring. I lay in the copper tub, steam curling toward the ceiling, and let my mind drift across the surface of my new circumstances.
The maid—Elise, I recalled from the settling memories—had been efficient and silent. A woman in her forties with tired eyes and capable hands. She had drawn the bath, laid out clothes, and retreated without a word of unnecessary conversation. I appreciated that. The previous owner of this body had hired only a small staff: a cook, a maid, a gardener who came twice weekly, and a part-time clerk for the business. A man who valued his privacy. A man after my own heart.
I examined my new hands. Pale, uncalloused. A merchant's hands, not a criminal's. Not yet.
After drying and dressing in the simple but well-made clothes laid out for me—dark trousers, a white shirt, a grey waistcoat—I made my way downstairs. The house revealed itself as I walked: polished mahogany banisters, gas lamps with their glass chimneys perfectly clean, oil paintings of landscapes I didn't recognize on the walls. The false memories told me my "uncle" Alistair had collected them. They meant nothing to me, but they added to the patina of respectability.
Breakfast was served in a small dining room overlooking the garden. Eggs, toast, bacon, a pot of strong black tea. The cook, Mrs. Havelock, was a round woman with flour on her apron who hovered anxiously until I assured her everything was perfect. She reminded me of no one. I had never known anyone who cooked for me with concern in their eyes.
I ate slowly, deliberately, tasting everything. The food was good. Simple, but good. Outside the window, the grey morning had softened into a grey afternoon, the fog thinning just enough to reveal the bare branches of the garden trees. A crow landed on one of them, black against the grey, and sat watching the house with intelligent eyes.
I watched it back.
Soon, I thought. Soon we'll become acquainted.
After breakfast, I made my way to the study. It was on the ground floor, facing the street—a room of dark wood and leather-bound books, with a heavy oak desk that had probably cost more than some people's annual wages. I locked the door behind me, the click of the bolt loud in the silence.
Then I stood still for a long moment, listening to the house. The creak of settling timbers. The distant clatter of Mrs. Havelock in the kitchen. The faint hiss of a gas lamp somewhere. Satisfied I was alone and uninterrupted, I moved to the center of the room.
The instructions had come with the false memories, buried deep. The being that had sent me here had been thorough. I knew, with the certainty of instinct, how to access what was mine.
I bit my thumb until blood welled, then knelt and began to draw.
The runes were not from any language I knew, but my hand moved with practiced precision. They spiraled outward from where I knelt, a circle of crimson symbols that seemed to drink the dim light rather than reflect it. My spirituality—a concept I understood intellectually but had never before felt—reached out from somewhere deep in my chest, connecting to the lines I drew.
When the final symbol closed the circle, the shadows in the room deepened.
My own shadow, cast by the grey window-light, suddenly seemed wrong. Too dark. Too solid. It rippled, and in its rippling, I saw something else. A doorway. A passage.
I stepped forward and let the darkness take me.
---
The transition was instantaneous and utterly disorienting. One moment I was in my study, the next I was elsewhere, and the shift was so complete that my mortal senses struggled to process it.
I stood in a palace.
But what a palace.
Towering pillars of obsidian rose on either side, carved with runes that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light—like a heartbeat made visible. They stretched upward into a darkness so complete that I could not see where they ended. The floor beneath my feet was smooth, dark stone, so polished that it reflected the pillars and the dim crimson light that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously.
And beyond the pillars, beyond the edge of the platform on which I stood, there was nothing.
Infinite darkness stretched in every direction. An abyss without bottom, without top, without end. I walked to the edge and looked out, and for a moment—just a moment—I felt something that might have been vertigo. Might have been fear. Might have been awe.
The void I had existed in after death had been empty. This was not empty. This was full of nothing. There was a difference, though I could not have explained it.
I turned back to the palace, and there it was.
The throne.
It sat on a raised dais at the far end of the hall, between two pillars larger than the rest. It was carved from something that looked like bone but felt like eternity, adorned with crimson velvet and dark metal filigree. Patterns of crows in flight decorated its arms, and the high back was crowned with what appeared to be intertwined branches of a dead tree.
The Forsaken Labyrinthine. My Sefirot.
I walked toward it, my footsteps echoing in the impossible silence. As I approached, I felt... recognition. The throne knew me. The palace knew me. This entire dimension, this fragment of the cosmos given form, was mine.
I climbed the dais and sat.
The moment I did, understanding flooded into me.
It came not as words, but as pure knowledge. I knew, with the same certainty that I knew my own name, the functions of this place. They were similar to what I remembered of the Sefirot Castle from the novels—a meeting place, a source of authority, a nexus of power. But where the Castle was ancient and mysterious, this place was... waiting. Empty. Ready.
I could grant boons here. Not just to myself, but to others. I could create my own beyonders, my own followers, bound to the Null Pathway and subject to my authority. The knowledge of how to do this settled into my mind like a key turning in a lock.
But more importantly, I could see them. All of them.
Arrayed before me in the darkness, visible only to my perception within the Sefirot, floated the Beyonder Characteristics of the Null Pathway. From Sequence 9 to Sequence 1, they hung in the void like stars in an empty sky. Crowkeeper. Elegist. Futhark Expert. Ruin Arcanist. Revenant Possessor. Name Magister. Storyteller. Distant Lord. Causeless One. And above them all, sealed and waiting, the Uniqueness itself.
All mine. All waiting.
I leaned back in the throne, feeling its cold solidity against my spine, and thought.
Two paths lay before me.
The first was the traditional way. I could act. I could find or create potions, consume them, digest them through experiences that matched the symbolism of each sequence. It was slower, more dangerous, but it would build a solid foundation. It was the way Klein had done it.
The second path was the boon system. I could grant myself the power directly from the Sefirot. Instant advancement. No potion needed. No risk of corruption or failure.
I sat in silence for a long time, considering.
The boon system had advantages. Speed, primarily. I could become a Sequence 9 right now, this instant, and begin building from there. But more than that—the boon system left me... flexible. If I advanced through boons, my foundation would be the Sefirot itself, not a specific potion. That meant I could, in theory, consume potions from other pathways. I could walk multiple paths simultaneously, as long as I could manage the madness.
That was the key.
I wanted power, yes. But I also wanted information. And the best source of information in this world was the Churches. The Church of the Fool didn't exist yet. The Church of the Evernight was secretive. But the Church of the Steam, the Church of the God of Knowledge and Wisdom... they had libraries. Archives. Knowledge I needed.
To join them, I would need to be tested. And if I was already a beyonder of the Null Pathway, that test would reveal me. But if I consumed a potion from their pathway first—say, the paragon pathway for the God of Knowledge—I could present myself as one of theirs while secretly building my true power through boons.
It was risky. It was complicated. It was exactly the kind of game I enjoyed.
I smiled in the darkness of my Sefirot. It was not a warm smile.
"Option two it is," I said aloud, my voice echoing strangely in the vast hall.
I reached out with my will, and one of the floating characteristics drifted toward me. It was small, almost insignificant compared to the others, but it pulsed with potential. Sequence 9: Crowkeeper.
The boon settled into me like a key fitting a lock.
Knowledge flooded my mind. Not the gradual learning of a mortal, but the instant comprehension of a beyonder. I understood now what I was, what I could do.
Crowkeeper.
The name resonated with something deep in my soul. I was a keeper of crows, a watcher through their eyes, a whisperer in their minds. The abilities crystallized in my awareness:
First, the crows themselves. With a drop of my blood, I could make them my familiars. Not puppets—I couldn't control their every movement—but loyal servants who would do their best to complete any task I assigned. At my current level, I could only have one. As I digested this power, that number would grow to four.
I could communicate with them telepathically within thirty-five meters, and through that connection, I could borrow their senses. See through their eyes, hear through their ears. The distance was limited now, but digestion would expand it to fifty meters.
Second, Art Affinity. I examined this ability with interest. It wasn't combat power, not directly. But it enhanced my connection to artistic fields, sharpened my imagination, steadied my hands. I would be better at sketches, paintings, carvings. That had more applications than one might think. Ritualistic magic often required precise drawings. Forgeries required steady hands. Disguises required an eye for detail.
Third, Spirituality. I could feel it now, a well of something deep in my chest that hadn't been there before. The knowledge told me I was near the upper middle among Sequence 9s. Not the strongest, but respectable. And with that spirituality came access to Spirit Vision—the ability to see souls, spirits, traces of the mystical.
I needed to learn Cogitation first. The meditation technique that would calm my mind, help me digest the potion, and unlock my abilities. But the knowledge was there, waiting.
I sat on my throne for a while longer, feeling the new power settle into my being. It was subtle. No dramatic transformation, no visible change. But I could feel the difference. The world was sharper, somehow. More textured. I suspected that when I returned, everything would look slightly different.
Finally, I rose. The throne released me reluctantly, as if it didn't want me to leave. But I would be back. Often, I suspected.
"Until next time," I said to the empty hall.
I willed myself back to my body.
---
The transition was as jarring as before, but this time I was prepared for it. One moment I was in the infinite darkness of my Sefirot, the next I was kneeling on the floor of my study, the blood-runes still glowing faintly around me.
I stood, brushed off my knees, and looked at the clock on the mantel. Barely fifteen minutes had passed. Time moved differently in the Forsaken Labyrinthine.
I crossed to my desk and sat in the leather chair, letting out a long breath. The study was quiet, the grey light outside the window slowly deepening toward evening. I could hear the distant sounds of the city—horses' hooves on cobblestones, the cry of a newspaper vendor, the rumble of a carriage.
I was a beyonder now. A Crowkeeper. Sequence 9 of a pathway that didn't exist in this world's official roster. I was alone in my power, unknown and unconnected.
Perfect.
I spent the next hour practicing Cogitation.
The technique was simple in theory, difficult in practice. Empty the mind. Focus on nothing. Let thoughts arise and pass without attachment. I had done similar exercises in my previous life—useful for maintaining calm during high-stress negotiations—but this was different. This was about reshaping my consciousness, preparing it to digest the mystical power now residing in my soul.
At first, my mind rebelled. Thoughts of my death, my rebirth, my plans for the future kept intruding. But gradually, with practice, I found the rhythm. The empty space between thoughts grew longer. The world grew distant.
When I opened my eyes, the gas lamp on my desk had been lit. Elise must have come in while I was meditating. I hadn't heard her. That was either a testament to my focus or a security risk I needed to address.
I stood and stretched, then moved to the center of the room where there was more open space. Time to test my abilities.
I bit my thumb again—I would need to get used to the taste of my own blood—and let a single drop fall onto my palm. Then I focused on the crow I had seen earlier, still sitting in the garden tree, black against the grey sky.
I reached out with my newfound spirituality and called.
The crow's head snapped toward me. I felt the connection form, tenuous but real. A thread of awareness linking us. I could sense its simple mind, its bird-thoughts of hunger and cold and the interesting two-legs who was suddenly paying attention to it.
Come, I thought along the connection.
The crow launched from its branch and flew toward my window. I crossed the room and opened it, letting in a gust of cold, damp air. The crow landed on the sill, head cocked, black eyes watching me.
"Hello," I said quietly.
It cawed.
I extended my hand, and after a moment's hesitation, it hopped onto my wrist. Its talons were sharp, but I barely felt them through my sleeve. I focused on the connection, and suddenly I was seeing double—my own view of the crow, and the crow's view of me.
Fascinating.
Through its eyes, I looked strange. Too large, too pale, but somehow... right. The crow accepted me. I was its keeper now.
I spent the next hour exploring the limits of the connection. At thirty-five meters, the telepathy began to fade. At forty, I lost the sense-sharing entirely. But within that range, I could see through its eyes, hear through its ears, and issue simple commands. Watch. Follow. Return.
The crow—I decided to name him Seven, for no particular reason—took to his duties with avian enthusiasm. He circled the house, reported on the comings and goings of the street, and seemed genuinely pleased when I praised him.
I also practiced Spirit Vision. It took several attempts, but eventually I felt something shift behind my eyes, and suddenly the world was different. Faint glows surrounded living things—Elise in the kitchen, Mrs. Havelock preparing dinner, a cat in the garden. Traces of spirituality lingered on objects, on the walls, on the very air. I could see the faint echo of my own passage through the room, a ghost-trail of energy that would fade with time.
This would be useful. This would be very useful.
As evening fell and the gas lamps of Backlund began to flicker to life beyond my window, I sat in my study and made plans.
Three years until Klein Moretti awoke. Three years until the Fool descended. Three years until this world's story truly began.
I would use that time well. I would digest my potion, advance through the sequences via boons, and build a foundation of power and information. I would join a Church—probably the Church of the God of Knowledge and Wisdom—and consume an Apprentice potion to mask my true nature. I would establish myself in Backlund's underworld and its legitimate business circles alike.
And I would enjoy myself.
That was the part that surprised me, sitting there in the gathering darkness. I was enjoying this. The challenge. The newness. The game. In my previous life, power had been a means to an end—survival, then comfort, then more survival. Here, power was the point. The game was the point. And I had barely begun to play.
Seven cawed from his perch on the windowsill, and I smiled.
"Patience," I told him. "We have time."
Outside, the fog rolled in thicker, swallowing the streetlamps one by one. Backlund settled into its nightly gloom, and somewhere in the city, a clock tower began to chime the hour.
I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and began to cogitate.