Midnight struck.
The city slept, but Rowan Mercer did not.
He ended his research without ceremony, his body flowing into a different shape, the same unremarkable passerby he had once used during the Tingen incident. A flicker of flame followed, and he vanished from his study.
Tonight's target was the Royal Museum, guarded not only by steel and alarms but by the Church of Steam and Machinery itself. Stealing a relic from under their watch meant one thing. The infant disguise was off the table.
High above the museum, an intangible eye opened.
Every corridor, every exhibit, every heartbeat below unfolded inside Rowan's awareness. Guards paced their routes. Clockwork sentinels stood motionless. Members of the Iron Front watched over the halls with practiced vigilance.
They relied on a strange security artifact, a chamber of modular blocks that mapped every living and non-living presence inside the museum as glowing points. Nothing entered unnoticed.
For most intruders, it would have been a death sentence.
Rowan barely slowed.
A single card surfaced before him, marked with one quiet word.
Sleep.
The card dissolved into the image of a playful young woman who skipped lightly through the museum's halls. Wherever she passed, eyes fluttered shut. Guards collapsed against walls. Iron Front operatives slumped mid-step, consciousness extinguished without resistance.
Rowan had refined the card earlier that day, blending the best sleep-based sorcery he had encountered across worlds. Compared to it, even legendary spell constructs felt crude.
The museum fell silent.
He walked in openly, boots echoing through the grand hall, past rows of sleeping bodies. At the center display, he reached out and lifted an ordinary-looking bookmark from its case.
The moment it left the pedestal, a baby's cry rang through the hall.
The sound was wrong. Too close. Too sharp.
Black fissures split the ceiling open like tearing fabric. Bloodshot eyes opened within them, dozens, then hundreds, staring down with cold indifference. Time itself seemed to thicken under their gaze.
Rowan looked up, mildly surprised.
"A high-tier Hermit," he muttered. "Didn't expect that."
A presence crossed over from the spirit realm, solidifying into a young woman dressed in a lace-collared blouse, gray skirt, tall leather boots, and a black veiled hat. Her voice was gentle, stripped of warmth.
"Why did you take only that bookmark?"
Rowan blinked. "Because it hides a Blasphemy Card."
Her eyes sharpened. "And how do you know that?"
"That's my business," he replied calmly.
Without hurry, Rowan stripped away the bookmark's disguise, dispersing its concealment by force alone. When he brought it back into view, the truth was revealed.
A card depicting an emperor seated upon a jeweled throne.
"The Black Emperor," Rowan said, a trace of disappointment in his voice. "Pity. I was hoping for a Diviner."
The card contained the complete legacy of the Black Emperor path, from its earliest steps to its ultimate apex, along with a residue of its unique authority.
The woman's expression darkened as she watched Rowan casually erase a hidden imprint embedded deep within the card, an imprint left by its creator.
"I'm willing to trade," she said slowly. "Name your price for the secret."
Rowan studied her attire, the blend of eras, the quiet authority she carried. Understanding dawned.
"You're Roselle's eldest daughter. Bernadette Gustav."
She did not deny it.
Rowan smiled. "Then I'll tell you for free. I can read Roselle's diaries. He wrote about crafting the Blasphemy Cards."
Bernadette froze. The composure cracked, replaced by naked shock.
"You can read my father's writing?"
In answer, Rowan raised a hand. Every diary authored by Roselle within the museum flew into his grasp. He opened one at random and read aloud.
"May 8th. My diplomats are idiots. Truly. I want to drown them in a toilet."
Another.
"June 20th. My precious angel Bernadette chose the Hermit path. As her father, I'll clear every obstacle ahead of her."
Another.
"July 10th. Lady Judith brought her daughter today. Unbelievable."
And one more.
"August 16th. A year later, another encounter. I have to admit… witches are excellent."
Silence filled the hall.
Bernadette stood perfectly still, her expression unreadable.
Somewhere above them, the watching eyes slowly closed.