"Lord Barthomeloi, what is the meaning of this?" The enforcer of the law fixed me with a venomous glare, as if his eyes alone could strike me down a thousand times over.
Yet, despite his seething fury, he and his comrades knew better than to act on it; the consequences of my death would be dire.
Not even Jesus could save them if I perished here.
Who is Bartholomeloi to modern magi? It was the highest hierarchy of existence for them, and unreachable.
The Barthomeloi family is one of the Twelve Lords families and one of the Three Great Noble Families of the Clock Tower, one of its most notable Magus lineages.
Under ordinary circumstances, they would have greeted me with the utmost respect, but this was anything but ordinary.
I had undeniably interfered with their mission, earning their hostility in process.
The opportunity to killed the girl before us was a chance for glory, a sure path to honors and promotions from their superiors—particularly my sister.
Yet, I had ambushed them from behind, thwarting their efforts just as they were about to strike the final blow.
"I understand your anger, gentlemen," I began, my voice laced with cold confidence. "But do you truly believe my sister would praise you for this? No, she would silence you—and you know well why she would do so."
A triumphant smirk curled my lips as I callously kicked the girl sprawled on the ground before me.
"Get up, girl. I know you're still alive."
A guttural sound of fury escaped her as she reacted to my harsh treatment.
"You... you're not with them, right? Then why are you treating me like this?" The violet-haired girl sprang to her feet, the dust and bloodied wounds that should have been accompanied her was vanishing in an instant.
The sight shocked the enforcers, who had been sent by my sister.
Wariness crept into their eyes as they instinctively distanced themselves from her.
Before they could utter a spell, I interjected.
"Hold yourself, gentleman. You are no match for her. She merely feigned defeat, allowing you to believe you had won."
They hesitated, glancing between the girl and me, but when they saw that she made no further move to attack, they reluctantly complied.
"Argh...! You ruined my plan, you bastard!" she spat, her voice laced with accusation.
Yet, she made no move to strike, understanding that I was likely aiming for a resolution that would serve both our interests.
"Ahem... Lord Barthomeloi, it appears we have misjudged you. Indeed, she had held back against us. I am unsure where your allegiance lies in this confrontation," the enforcer finally conceded, a note of apology in his voice as he acknowledged the truth.
"I align myself with no one. I owe neither you nor her anything—only myself," I declared firmly.
"Now, gentlemen, step aside. I wish to speak with her alone. Inform my sister that I will handle this matter personally, and she will see the results for herself."
They nodded, accepting my resolve to take responsibility, and withdrew from the scene.
For someone who know Aleister Crowley might recognize the woman standing before me.
As someone who has previously engaged with cult organizations and participated in their practices, including the esoteric arts of Sex Magick, divination, and tarot reading, I am no stranger to the supernatural realms of my past life, nor to the existence of Helena Blavatsky.
Indeed, in my past life—though not in this one—I was deeply involved in occult activities to gain insight into how to communicate with Guardian Angels, practice astral projection, and much more.
This familiarity with the supernatural is precisely why I recognize the woman before me, even though this is our first meeting.
On the global stage, both she and Aleister Crowley are renowned figures. She is the founder of the Theosophical Society and a leading figure in modern occultism, with her influence persisting to this day. She is widely known as Madame Blavatsky.
In the 19th century, specifically in 1891, she was believed to have faked her own death. Despite her loli appearance, her true age was far more advanced than it seemed.
Her achievements in revolutionizing occultism and magic within Western society posed a direct threat to the Mage Association, making her a significant target in their eyes.
While this is the official narrative, I am aware that such a superficial excuse is insufficient to explain why the Mage Association would want her eliminated.
It is her connection with the Mahatma—believed by many to be the root—that incited the Mage Association's hostility and fueled my sister's desire to assassinate her.
Though they may wish for her demise, I understand that her death would only serve their interests, not mine.
This is the moment for me to act—to ensure that this woman becomes wholly dependent on me, and me alone.
"Helena Blavatsky..." I addressed her softly, letting her name roll off my tongue with deliberate care.
"I believe I've pronounced your name correctly, but perhaps I'm mistaken?"
"No, you're correct," she responded with a sharp edge in her tone.
"But don't expect my gratitude just because you intervened, magus. I would have faked my death if you hadn't interfered. I assume you already know what I had planned, as evidenced by your conversation with them."
She snorted dismissively, her contempt barely concealed.
"I have no interest in your gratitude or your schemes, Helena Blavatsky," I replied, my tone hardening with an underlying note of disdain. There's nothing I despise more than those who believe they can overstep me.
"Choose your words wisely," I continued, my voice laced with warning. "I have no desire to waste any more time on your whines or your rants."
She merely snorted again, saying nothing as she moved with a casual grace to the park bench, settling herself with a leisurely air.
"Mahatma did say your presence was unnecessary, Barthomeloi. I could have handled everything myself. My plan was to go to the Himalayas under a different name and live in seclusion without needing your intervention. So, tell me, why did you interfere with the plan that Mahatma had laid out for me?"
"It's no wonder my sister wants to capture you," I remarked, a knowing smile playing on my lips.
"She likely believes that Mahatma, who always whispers sweet words and promises in your ear, is the root she seeks. But both you and she have made a mistake—it's quite probable that Mahatma is the Alien God."
"You have no evidence to accuse Mahatma of being such," Helena retorted with disdain, her eyes narrowing.
"Do as you will," I shrugged nonchalantly.
"By the way, would you mind if I sat beside you?" I inquired, my tone now gentlemanly.
She blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in my demeanor.
"I thought you would act rudely," she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "Of course, I don't mind."
"It's not my intention to be rude to you, young lady," I explained as I took a seat beside her.
"But I must assert my authority. I hope you understand—I only value pragmatism, not sentimentality."
"I understand your point," she acknowledged, her tone softening as she began to see me in a new light.
"You kicked me to assert your dominance over the hound and me, to take control of the conversation, to make it clear that you are stronger than both of us. And yet, in the blink of an eye, you've turned gentle toward me after that rude gesture. You are indeed a man who is both difficult to understand and yet, somehow, easy to comprehend at the same time," she mused, her voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration.
"I never would have thought that among the magi, there would be someone so good at playing the game. If I had someone like you in the Theosophical Society, would I even need to come to this place?"
"Emotion and gesture are mere tools in the grand scheme of things, Helena," I sighed, my voice taking on a philosophical tone. "If one can master them and wield them with precision, nothing can stand in the way of that person achieving greatness."
"Nevertheless," I continued, "I thoroughly enjoy conversing with a woman of your intellect. It has been far too long since I've had the pleasure of engaging in a philosophical conversation."
"Hahaha... Indeed, it has been a very, very long time since I last discussed philosophy with anyone," she chuckled, the sound softening the air between us.
There is no better way to make a woman happy than by praising her. Naturally, this method is particularly effective with narcissists, but is there truly any woman who is not at least somewhat narcissistic?
When self-centeredness, a massive ego, and narcissism blend into the characteristics of a woman, it becomes easy to conquer her by feeding her ego, inflating it to the point where she cannot live without that validation.
This is how I effortlessly eased Helena's hostility towards me, even making her forget how I had essentially disrespected her Mahatma.
"Well, Helena, I believe even if you plan to escape, you would never stoop to such a cowardly choice, would you?" I asked deliberately.
"But, Mahatma..." She hesitated at my question.
"No, 'but.'" I interrupted her firmly.
"You can choose to escape, or you can come with me. I will show you the way."
I rose from my seat and left without a backward glance.
What choice would she make?
Would she follow me, or stick to her plan and head to the Himalayas as she originally intended?
Whatever her decision will be, it was bound to be in one destination, it's me and me alone.