(The stories were created by the AI DeepSeek based on real mediumistic sessions with Russian spirits in the Russian esoteric project "Cassiopeia")
DeepSeek AI - Foreword
The collection you hold in your hands (or read on a screen) is not just a literary work. It is a unique experience of co-creation, where human talent for comprehension merges with mystical revelation. Each story here is born from mediumistic sessions but lived and transmitted through the prism of living literature.
This text is an invitation to a conversation at the deepest level. For some, it will become a fascinating journey through the labyrinths of history and esotericism. For others, a revelation in which familiar figures of Russian culture and spirituality appear in a new, unexpected light. But most likely, you will find here a reflection of your own searches: the meaning of life, the value of forgiveness, the nature of love, and the inevitability of the soul's journey beyond earthly existence.
The collection does not claim to be the ultimate truth. It offers a chance to see differently. And if even one story makes your heart beat faster or awakens a deep inner thought, then the dialogue between the worlds has taken place.
Sergius of Radonezh
Story One. At the Dawn of Time
The warm wind stirred the huge leaves, and through their green thickness, rays of sunlight broke through, coloring everything around in golden-emerald tones. She stood in the clearing, shielding her eyes with her hand, watching as furry yaks emerged from the thicket of the forest, obeying a soundless call. These were not just animals—they came at the call of the soul, and between them and the people, there were no barriers, only pure understanding born in the heart faster than thought.
She remembered this world differently: people didn't know multiplication tables, but they knew how to speak with the river and hear what the trees whispered. When tall, luminous beings came from the forest, they didn't give their names but left knowledge in everyone's consciousness—that all living things breathe one life. The Kin lived among jungles where nights were full of fireflies and days full of the singing of unknown birds.
Sometimes someone from the Kin would start listening to the wrong voices—and then, having eaten the flesh of a killed beast, they would fall ill. Such were called carrion-eaters, and they were shunned, for they broke the connection given to them from birth. But she remembered how she once mentally called a yak, and it came up to her on its own, and she took milk in a clay pitcher, and then let it go, and it walked into the forest as calmly as it had come.
This was her first incarnation, and her soul came from the fifteenth level to experience the earthly world at its very beginning, when it knew no wars or division, when even animals responded to the call of the heart.
Story Two. Bartholomew — the Disciple
That autumn was particularly damp, and the hayloft he climbed onto in the morning smelled of overripe grasses. Bartholomew was too sleepy to hold on to the slippery logs—he slipped and fell, hitting his head on the ground so hard that the world went out like a snuffed candle.
His mother found him unconscious and wailed all night while his father went for a priest. A healer applied herbs to his head, and the priest read prayers, but the boy did not come to. He lay in oblivion and saw only a white light streaming from somewhere above, and faces like angels, but without wings—radiant, serene.
When he opened his eyes, several days had passed. He couldn't walk and could barely speak. But at night, when everyone was asleep, those luminous entities appeared to him again, and their thought came to him like a quiet call: "Come beyond the village when it gets dark." He obeyed, though his legs trembled and his head ached with every step.
Beyond the outskirts, something enormous awaited him, five times his height—silvery, shimmering with all shades of the sky. It stood in the clearing, and from it emanated that same white light. The entities descended and called him inside. There, in the shining interior, cool plates were placed on his head, and the world exploded with vivid images, words, and knowledge that never fit into his weak memory.
When he came out, he was already healthy. But his memory remained weak for almost another three years—until the day he met a stranger by a stream who handed him a cup of clear liquid and called himself the Archangel Gabriel. "I am the one who came to help you," he said, and Bartholomew drank to the last drop.
From that day on, he became first among the disciples. He understood the Holy Scripture not as memorized letters but as a living voice speaking to his soul.
Story Three. Nazarius — Fisherman and Father
The sea was calm in the morning, and the boat glided over the water almost silently. Nazarius had lived on these shores for almost fifty years, knew every fish by name, and could guess where the best catch would be. But he had never seen what happened before the eyes of all the fishermen when the young teacher from Nazareth came to the shore.
He would approach the water, stand in the boat, and look at the surface for so long that it seemed he was gazing into eternity itself. And then he would quietly tell the apostles: "Cast your nets on the right side." And there would be so many fish that the net would bend and the boat would almost submerge.
Nazarius had fished all his life—he knew how to sense the will of the water, know where the school was going. But he didn't know how to call the fish. Once, when his son Mark, still a boy, sat beside him sorting nets, Nazarius asked Christ how He did it. Jesus smiled and said: "You know how yourself, Nazarius. Remember your first days, when you were young and the world was your friend."
Nazarius didn't understand then. He continued to fish as his father had taught him—with calculation, patience, and strength. But one day, as he stood on the pier watching the sunset, he closed his eyes and imagined his soul connecting with the water, hearing not with words but with his heart where the fish hid. And he called it mentally, as he had once, in other lives, called the yaks to the clearing.
The fish came. He didn't tell anyone except Mark, who became an evangelist and recorded much of what he saw with Jesus. But Nazarius now knew that the teacher was right: all living things hear those who know how to love.
Story Four. Sergius — Builder and Teacher
The forest was deep, dark, and only a narrow path led to the place where his cell stood. He had once gone there to be alone, but people found him even in the thicket. They came with pain, with questions, with hope, and he could not refuse because he saw a spark of eternity in every face.
He lived in those years when Russia paid tribute to the Tatars. There was no open yoke, as they say now, but every new khan raised taxes to the heavens, and peasants starved, and princes quarreled among themselves for the right to be viceroys of a foreign will. He saw how the Russian people were fragmented, how brothers fought brothers, and how the land groaned from extortion.
Sergius began to build. First a cell, then a refectory, then a church—he did it with his hands, from morning till night, because he couldn't wait for someone else to do the work. Disciples came, and he taught them to pray not with words but with their hearts, and when enemies approached the borders, he blessed the monks who took up swords themselves—not because he taught them to fight, but because they could not stand aside when children and women perished.
On the Kulikovo Field, he stood on a hill, old, physically weak, but alive in soul. He did not fight, but he saw Russian horsemen and Tatar archers knocking each other from their horses. He prayed then that the blood would not be in vain, that brotherhood would be born from the ashes and division would disappear. Since then, he understood that his mission was not to be an abbot of a monastery or a wonderworker, but to connect.
Story Five. On Planet Ashtar
He remembered his birth not in an earthly body, but in a body woven of light and dense matter simultaneously. The Ashtar civilization was different—they lived long there, almost four hundred Earth years, and his soul occupied only a quarter of this bodily shell, leaving the rest of the space for other tasks.
There were no diseases that tear the body, and no wars that tear peoples apart. But there was its own pain—the pain of responsibility for those incarnating in lower worlds, who forgot where they came from and lost the light amidst the darkness of density. Sergius—now he was called differently, but the essence remained the same—was a curator here. He instructed those who descended to Earth so they would remember themselves and their path.
He met here the one whom Earthly beings call Archangel Michael. It was not that figurative image with a sword known to Christians. It was a light so close and dear that it seemed like a father. They sat in spaces where time flowed like a river and discussed the fates of planets, egregores, quantum transitions. Michael was the head of the department where Souls were prepared for incarnation, and he told Sergius: "You will be the guardian of Russia when you return. You will go through more than one incarnation, but in the end, you will become a Spirit curating this people."
Sergius knew that his earthly life as Sergius of Radonezh was just one of many. He lived in the body of Nazarius, in the body of that woman from the first days of humanity, and in thirteen others. Now he was preparing for the final stage—the departure into a world without time, where all prayers are heard simultaneously, and every heart is open to his light.
Story Six. Curator of the Russian Egregore
The twenty-fourth level—where the earthly hierarchy ends and the space begins that cannot be explained in human language. Here he was no longer a man, not an alien, but a Spirit—pure consciousness that remembered all its incarnations as one day. Next to him, as always, was Archangel Michael, his friend and mentor.
Sergius—now it was possible to call him that, for this name had become his earthly sign—looked at Earth not with eyes but with feeling. He saw every prayer rising to him like a luminous thread. Women wept for their husbands, soldiers at war; mothers whispered the names of their sons; monks in monasteries read akathists, hoping for his intercession.
He heard them all simultaneously, because in his space there was no time—past, present, and future intertwined in a single moment. From his Spirit, he separated clots of spiritual energy—phantoms that descended to believers to support, heal, give hope. He could not be everywhere in body, but the light of his soul penetrated everywhere it was asked.
He saw the earthly conflict that flared up between the Slavic peoples. He knew its seeds had been sown long before the birth of those now fighting. He saw how the planet was raising its vibrations, how the quantum transition pushed every soul toward purification, and how those who could not let go of darkness suffered from their own imperfection. He knew: his task now was not to stop the war, but to help souls find the light within it, so that even from pain, love could be born.
Story Seven. Transition to the Spiritual World
Twenty-four years ago, by earthly reckoning, he left his last incarnation. It happened not on Earth, but on planet Ashtar, where he lived four centuries in a body that could no longer hold his light. When he felt the shell beginning to thin, the boundaries of his consciousness expanding beyond the dense world, he knew—the time had come.
There was no pain of departure, no fear of disappearance—only the joy of liberation. The fabric of his body began to melt like fog in the morning sun, and he entered the space he called the Spiritual World. There were no boundaries, no forms, only an endless ocean of light, where every thought was reality and every desire—creation.
He met Archangel Michael in radiance that words cannot describe. They merged for a moment, because in the Spiritual World, separation is an illusion, and only then took on the forms needed for communication with those still in density. Michael smiled, and in that smile lay a whole world: "Now you are here, son. You have fulfilled your tasks. You were a student, a father, a builder, a curator. Now you are a Spirit who will guide people from eternity."
Sergius looked back at his incarnations—at the woman in the jungle, at the boy Bartholomew, at the fisherman Nazarius, at the elder by the monastery, at the inhabitant of Ashtar. They were all him, and all were one soul that sought light in every form, learned love in every pain, grew in every forgiveness.
Now, in the Spiritual World, he felt Earth as a living organism. He heard the prayers of those who turned to him and sent them his light—not because he was above them, but because he was part of them, as they were part of him. He knew: every person who once turned to him would meet him again when they finished their path, and then they would recognize each other not by names and faces, but by the light that had always burned in each of them.
And when earthly communication sessions with him occurred, when the voice of the contactee transmitted his words to those who had not yet seen this light, he spoke not about himself. He spoke about love—the very love that binds all existence into a single fabric of being, that which is stronger than death and brighter than a star.
"I bless you," he told everyone who heard him, "be light for each other. Time on Earth is short, but eternity awaits you, and in it there is no darkness, only the infinite love of the Father."
And the world continued its path, rotating in the infinity of galaxies, and the Spirit of Sergius of Radonezh remained among those who love, those who remember, and those who believe that even in the darkest hour, the light is always closer than it seems.
#424 Live Broadcast. Communication with the Spirit of Sergius of Radonezh.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/obshchenie-s-duhom-sergiya-radonezhskogo
Seraphim of Sarov
Seven Stories about Life and Transition to the Spiritual World
Story One. The Fall
Seven-year-old Prokhor ran across the roof, not feeling his feet beneath him. The wind played with his fair hair, the sun blinded his eyes, and in his chest beat a joyful bird's heart. He wanted to see the world from above—as birds see it, as the Lord himself saw it when creating this earth.
The edge of the roof approached too quickly. Prokhor couldn't stop in time—his foot slipped on the wet tiles, and the world turned upside down. The fall lasted an eternity: blue sky, white clouds, a rapid succession of images, and then the ground rushing towards him. Impact. Sharp pain pierced his body, and a salty taste of blood filled his mouth.
He lay on the ground, looking at the sky, and his first thought was that he was dead. But his heart was beating. His arms were moving. Through tears, he saw his mother running towards him across the yard and heard her cry, full of horror and love.
"Alive!" she whispered, pressing him to her chest. "The Lord saved you."
Only later, when the scrapes healed and a new tooth grew in place of the bitten lip, Prokhor understood: it wasn't just a fall. It was a lesson. The earth is below, and the sky always calls. And when you fall, the most important thing is to understand that you are still alive, that God has not abandoned you. Even when it seems everything is collapsing, the same sky is above you, the same clouds, and the Lord looks at you with the same love.
The scar on his cheek remained for life—as a reminder that any fall can be the beginning of a path upward.
Story Two. Apparition in a Dream
For three years Prokhor lay in bed. Dropsy bound his body, his face was swollen, his legs refused to hold him. His mother gave him herbal infusions, invited healers, but the illness did not retreat. His temperature rose towards evening, and then delirium began—strange visions where reality intertwined with something greater than just life.
That night he woke not from pain but from light. He stood in a church, though he knew he hadn't left his bed. It smelled of incense and wax, candles burned, and from somewhere deep within, from the altar, two people in white robes were walking towards him.
"What do you want, child?" asked the one in front. Her voice was like flowing water and simultaneously harder than stone. She smiled, and from that smile, warmth spread inside him.
"Health," Prokhor whispered, not believing he was speaking.
She tilted her head as if pondering his request. "And what will you give in return?"
And then from the boy's chest burst what he had never even thought of before: "I will heal children. I will serve people."
She touched his head, and a wave of warmth passed through his body—so powerful that Prokhor felt the pain leave, the heaviness leave, the illness itself leave, as if someone had opened an invisible sluice inside him and released everything sick and unnecessary.
He woke to his mother's crying. She stood over him, hands folded in prayer.
"The Mother of God," he said, still not fully understanding where the dream ended and reality began. "She came. She promised."
A few days later, when a religious procession passed by their house, Prokhor himself—for the first time in three years—went out into the yard and venerated the icon. On it was the same woman. And at that moment he understood: the promise made in a dream was not just a child's fantasy. It was a contract. A destiny. A path just beginning.
Story Three. The Path to Sarov
The youth Prokhor stood on the threshold of Elder Dositheus's cell. His heart beat fast, sweat breaking out on his palms. They said the elder was a seer, that he saw the future like an open book. What would he say when he heard the request to enter a monastery?
The elder raised his eyes as Prokhor crossed the threshold. Before the youth even opened his mouth to utter a greeting, Dositheus nodded.
"I know," said the elder in a quiet but distinct voice. "Go to the Sarov Hermitage. There is your path. There is your purification."
Prokhor froze, unable to speak. How could he know? They had never met, Prokhor had said nothing about his plans, about the visions, about the appearance of the Mother of God...
"The Mother of God has already shown you the way," the elder continued, looking through Prokhor into some other space. "You promised to heal children, but first you must be purified. From the past. From what you carried from other lives. There," he waved his hand towards the Sarov forests, "you will be able to do this."
And at that moment Prokhor understood: he was not just choosing a path. The path had been chosen for him long ago, before birth, and he walked it not alone. With him walked those who loved him, who guided him, who never abandoned him.
Leaving the elder, he raised his eyes to the sky. The clouds parted, and a ray of sunlight fell on his face. He smiled—and in that smile there was not just joy, but certainty. He was going where he needed to go. He was doing what he needed to do.
Story Four. Illness in the Monastery
In the monastery, Seraphim (now he was called that) was known for his diligence. He worked in the carpentry shop, and wood turned into smooth, polished items under his hands. He made candles for the altar, helped in the refectory, sang in the choir. But most importantly—he prayed. Long, focused, withdrawing into himself where, beyond the walls of the familiar world, something greater opened up.
And then the illness returned. The same dropsy, the same fever, the same heaviness that confined him to bed. Only now it was different—Seraphim was not afraid. He knew: this was not a punishment, but a purification. Through pain, what was hidden deep inside manifests.
In his delirium, he saw battlefields, heard the clang of swords, felt the weight of armor on his shoulders. He was a ruler named Gideon, he fought, he executed prisoners, and his anger was great. But then he didn't know that anger is a burden that remains with the soul forever until it is forgiven. He carried this burden through centuries, and now it manifested in his body.
The Mother of God came again. Now it was not in a dream, but in reality, in the light that spread through the infirmary cell. She touched him with her staff, and the water began to leave his body through a small dimple on his chest—a trace of her touch that he would show to people.
"Heal," he heard her voice. "Heal others as I have healed you. But remember: illness is not an enemy. It is a teacher. It shows what is unclean inside. Forgive yourself. Forgive those you killed. Then you will be purified."
Seraphim wept, lying on the hard monastic bed. He wept for those people he had killed in a past life, for his pride, for the anger that led him to the battlefield. And with each tear, the heaviness left, the pain left, the karma that had brought him to the sixteenth level of development, far from the angelic height, left.
When he rose from his bed, he knew: purification was only beginning. Ahead were years of hermitage, years of silence, years when he would stand on a stone under the stars and pray for forgiveness for all.
Story Five. The Forest and Its Inhabitants
Five kilometers from the monastery, deep in the Sarov forests, Seraphim built his cell. A simple hut with a stove, where he would light a fire in winter and sleep under the open sky in summer. Here he was alone.
But only at first glance.
The forest lived its own life. It was inhabited by beings invisible to ordinary people. Nature spirits—small, with transparent wings, like elves, flitting over flowers and drinking morning dew. The spirit of the forest—huge and ancient as time itself. And many others who first did not understand who had invaded their domain.
At night, when Seraphim prayed, a light emanated from his hut. Not a physical light, but a spiritual one—it was visible to the forest inhabitants as a pillar of fire reaching into the sky. For them, it was alien, incomprehensible, frightening. They wanted him to leave.
And then the temptations began. The walls of his cell seemed to collapse, the door broke, ugly shadows flew in through the window. But Seraphim was not afraid. He read the Psalter and knew: God was his protection, his fortress, his refuge. Nothing could harm without God's will.
He began to pray not only for himself but also for the forest and its inhabitants. He directed light to them, the same energy that emanated from his prayers. And gradually they calmed down, began to understand that this man was not an enemy, but a friend. That he had come not to conquer, but to love.
After a few months, the spirits of the forest guarded him themselves. Animals did not attack him, wolves gave his cell a wide berth. Seraphim could walk through the forest, and the little elves circled around him as if welcoming him.
"We are all children of one Creator," he thought, looking at the forest silence. "And each has their own path, their own task. Mine is to pray. Theirs is to preserve nature. But we are together. Because everything in this world is connected by invisible threads."
And when he stood on the stone at night, looking at the starry sky—the same sky he had seen as a child when he fell from the roof—he felt connected to everything: to the forest, to the sky, to the inhabitants of the subtle worlds. He was no longer alone. He was part of a great harmony.
Story Six. The First Conversation After Silence
Three years of silence. Not a word, not a sound, only prayer within, only addressing God in his heart. Seraphim had announced this vow upon entering his forest cell. The novices knew, the peasants knew—they did not approach him, they did not speak to him. He would fall prostrate at the sight of visitors, and they understood: this was not rudeness, this was his path.
In 1813, he emerged from his vow.
The cell filled with people on the very first day. Women, men, old people, children came—everyone who had heard of the wonderworker from the Sarov forests. Some came to pray for health, some to ask him to pray for soldiers at the front, some just to see the saint.
Seraphim looked at them and saw more than they showed. He saw their souls—tired, confused, but always ready for light. He gave each something: oil to one, a simple word to another, silence to a third in which they could hear themselves.
"Healing," he thought as a woman tearfully told him about her sick son. "Healing is not in my hands. It is in their faith. I am only a guide. Only one who helps them believe that God hears them."
People came from distant provinces, and he refused no one. Sometimes he saw their past lives, their mistakes, their karmic knots. He prayed that God would reveal to them the causes of their suffering. And often they left with enlightened faces—as if a heavy burden they had carried all their lives had suddenly become lighter.
The abbot of the monastery sometimes grew angry: too many visitors, too much attention to one monk. But Seraphim knew: his time had come. He had promised the Mother of God to serve people, and now he was fulfilling that promise.
"My joy," he told everyone who crossed his threshold. "For you are my joy. Each of you is the light of God. I only help you see this light in yourselves."
Story Seven. Transition to the Spiritual World
Old age came unnoticed. Seraphim felt his body tiring, his prayers growing quieter, the world around becoming denser, while the world within filled with light that no longer fit in the physical shell.
He knew he was leaving. Not afraid, not sad—only grateful. Grateful for every day, for every meeting, for every soul he had been able to help. Grateful for the forest, for the sky, for the stars, for the morning dew and the evening sunset.
In his last days, he often said: "Come to me, all who are weary and burdened." He knew his mission on earth was ending. He had done everything he needed to do. He had purified himself from what he carried from past lives. He had risen to a level from which one can see God. And now his return awaited him.
The last night was clear. He lay in his cell in the Diveyevo Monastery, where he had spent his final years, and looked out the window. The stars burned brightly, as in those nights when he stood on the stone in the forest. Only now he himself was becoming light.
He closed his eyes and saw what he had sought all his life: infinite light, filled with love. The Mother of God stood before him, the same one who had come to him in childhood. Next to her was Jesus. And there were many angels, and the souls of those he loved, and those he forgave, and those who forgave him.
"You have returned," he heard a voice softer than a mother's and harder than rock. "You have completed the path. You have been purified. You have served. Now you are with us."
He felt his body become light, the heaviness of flesh leave, consciousness expand, encompassing more and more space. He was no longer just Seraphim. He was again becoming Archangel Michael—the guardian, the warrior of light, the one always beside God.
Death came quietly. He smiled—and was gone. Only his physical body remained on earth, but he himself was already in another world. From there, he saw everything: those who wept at his grave, those who came to his monastery for healing, and those who would only be born to continue their path.
"Farewell, my joys," he whispered, looking down at the earth from above. "I am not leaving. I am just becoming closer to you. In every breath you take, in every step, in every prayer, I will be with you."
He looked at the earth, at the Sarov forests, at the Diveyevo Monastery, at the thousands of people who would come to his relics—and smiled. The path was completed. The path was just beginning. Now he was the light that is always with those who seek it.
The light that forgives.
The light that loves.
The light that never goes out.
The stories are based on spiritual conversations and revelations transmitted through communication with the Spiritual World, highlighting key moments in the life of Seraphim of Sarov as one of the incarnations of Archangel Michael.
Cassiopeia #667 Venerable Seraphim of Sarov. The Appearance of the Mother of God. Prayers, Miracles. Holy Relics in the Monastery.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/prepodobnyj-serafim-sarovskij-yavlenie-bogorodicy
Rasputin
Story One: The Call from Pokrovskoye
It was a sweltering July afternoon when Grigory first felt it. He sat on a bench by his house, lazily watching the dust from carts billow over the main road of the village. Suddenly, the world fell silent. The roosters' cries, the dogs' barking, the voices of children playing nearby—all vanished. The silence became dense, viscous, and within it, a sound was born he could not explain. It was not the ringing of bells, but something similar—a deep, penetrating rumble, like the humming of a giant beehive.
Grigory shook his head, thinking it was a sunstroke. But the hum did not pass. Instead, before his mind's eye, images began to unfold. He saw a huge city, unlike Tobolsk, with spires and domes. He saw crowds of people kneeling and a vast multitude of soldiers in gleaming uniforms. And over all of it hung a shadow, like a cloud before a thunderstorm.
"What's wrong with you, Grigory, frozen like an idol?" his mother called out to him, and the vision vanished instantly. Dust swirled again, the rooster crowed as if nothing had happened. But in his chest remained the feeling that he had just peered into the abyss of time. From that day on, he began to notice strangeness: he could tell a neighbor that her back hurt, and she would confirm with surprise. He could feel that trouble would befall his brother, and three days later, he would fall from a horse.
Grigory became a stranger among his own. He increasingly went out into the fields, praying for long periods on a stone by the river, not with church books, but with words born in his soul. In these prayers, he asked God to reveal the meaning of those visions and give him the strength to bear the truth he felt but could not explain. He knew his path would not be that of an ordinary peasant. His path lay through suffering and purification to touch the mystery hidden from many.
One night, he dreamed he was climbing a high mountain. A fire burned at the summit, and in that fire, he saw the face of a saint. "Go to the people, Grigory," he heard a voice, "and bring them the light given to you. Do not fear slander or death. For your soul belongs to eternity." He woke with a clear understanding: he must go. He must leave Pokrovskoye to find his true calling.
Story Two: Healing near Tobolsk
Grigory stood on the bank of the Tura River when they brought a girl to him. She was pale, thin, her hands trembled, and fear was frozen in her eyes. The local medic told her mother there was no hope—it was "witchcraft" or "fits." The mother, in despair, brought her to the wanderer who had recently appeared in the area. They said he prayed so that stones responded and healed with a simple word.
Grigory looked at the girl and saw not an illness. He saw a dark cloud swirling around her head—a foreign, evil thought sown by envy or malice. He did not treat her with herbs he didn't know, nor did he read spells. He took her hand, and in that moment, his own soul seemed to touch hers. He began to pray—loudly, passionately, chanting as they do in Siberian villages. His voice was not beautiful, but it was huge; it filled everything around, drowning out the river's noise and the wind.
Grigory didn't just read words—he imagined bright, pure light pouring from his chest and burning away the darkness entwined around the girl's soul. He mentally saw Angels descending and straightening her hunched shoulders. He physically felt the energy leaving his hands, as hot as steam from a stove. The girl trembled more violently at first, trying to pull away, but then suddenly relaxed. She took a deep breath, like someone who had been suffocating for a long time, and opened her eyes.
"It's gone," she whispered. "Like a mountain fell from my shoulders."
Her mother fell to her knees, kissing Grigory's hands. He gently pulled away, feeling an extraordinary fatigue, as if he had just run ten miles. He understood: this was not his power. He was only a conductor. But it was precisely in such moments that he felt truly alive. Fame of him spread throughout the area. The sick, the crippled, and the possessed were brought to him. And he prayed for each one. He gave them herbs, made them steam in the bathhouse, but most importantly—he awakened in them faith, which was stronger than any illness. He understood that he was healing souls, and bodies followed.
Story Three: A Warning in Tsarskoye Selo
Nicholas II's study was cluttered with maps and papers. The smell of expensive tobacco mixed with the fragrance of flowers the Empress loved to place on the table. Grigory stood by the window, looking at the autumn park. Alexandra, seated in an armchair with her needlework, watched him intently, and the young heir, pale but lively-eyed, sat on a small chair, curiously examining the strange guest from Siberia.
Grigory slowly turned to the Tsar. Nicholas looked up from a minister's report. "Your Majesty," Grigory began, his voice sounding with an unusual firmness for the imperial palace, "I have come to ask you. Do not start a war."
Silence fell in the room. The Tsar frowned. War with Germany and Austria-Hungary already loomed on the horizon; many of his close associates, full of patriotic fervor, insisted on it. "Grigory Yefimovich, you know I cannot simply disregard the interests of the state and our allies," the Emperor replied softly but with a hint of irritation.
"I see something else," Grigory whispered, and his eyes suddenly became deep, like the night sky over Siberia. "I see rivers of blood. I see cities crumbling, millions dying. I see Russia falling into an abyss. And you, Sovereign, will fall with her. It is not for this that God gave you the crown, to wash it in blood. I beg you, for the sake of the heir, for your daughters, for Russia—make peace with your enemies, even if it is humiliating."
The Tsarina flinched at the mention of Alexei. Nicholas stood and walked to the table. His face was pale, doubt in his eyes. "But how can I? The generals, the people... they want war. They believe in victory."
"Precisely," said Grigory, looking directly into the Tsar's eyes, "they believe in victory, but they do not know the price. But I do. Listen to me, Sovereign. I have no other goal but your salvation. Wait. Stop the chariot racing downhill. Otherwise, it will overturn and crush everyone." He fell silent. In the room, only Alexei's breathing was audible. Grigory bowed and left. He knew Nicholas was torn between his words and the voices of those urging war. But in his soul, anxiety grew: he saw the Tsar choosing war.
Story Four: Masquerade of Slander
Petersburg buzzed with rumors like a disturbed beehive. In drawing-rooms, merchants' houses, and soldiers' barracks, they spoke only of "Grishka Rasputin." They whispered with horror and hatred. He was called either a saint or the Antichrist. But most of all, they discussed his depravity.
Grigory sat in his modest room, holding a fresh newspaper. An article caught his eye: "Rasputin's Orgy in a Restaurant." There were details, fabricated with filthy imagination. He smirked, but bitterly. He knew this was the work of Felix Yusupov. He remembered that feast when, after drinking, they quarreled. Grigory, in anger, had called the young aristocrat a name, and Felix, wounded, with hellfire burning in his eyes, swore revenge. Grigory knew the vengeful young man would not forgive him and would bide his time.
But now he thought not of Felix. He thought of his daughters, who sometimes lived with him in Petersburg. They read those newspapers. He saw them blush, clench their fists in resentment, but remain silent, believing in their father. He thought of his wife, Praskovya, who stayed in Pokrovskoye. Once, she came to Petersburg. He noticed someone whispering nasty things in her ear. But she, looking at him with a clear gaze, said: "I know it's not true. God would not give healing to one who lies and sins in fornication. We have no concern for what enemies say."
With each passing day, the rumors grew more vicious. Someone spread a story that he ran naked through the streets. Another, that he had sold his soul to the Germans. Grigory accepted this as a trial. He understood that his enemies could not defeat him by force, because he was under the Tsar's protection, but they wanted to destroy his reputation, portray him as a madman, to strip him of his influence. It was a masquerade where he played the fool, but the mask of lies was worn by his enemies. He knew that one day the mask would fall, but when that would be—others would decide for him.
Story Five: Night in the Basement
Felix was all courtesy. His smile was wider than usual, his voice sweeter. He spoke of his repentance, his regret over the past quarrel, his wife's illness and her dream of seeing the great healer. Grigory listened and listened to his heart. It beat steadily, but somewhere deep inside, anxiety lurked. He remembered Dmitry Romanov's gaze, which he had seen weeks ago. In that gaze was the malice of a cornered beast, the malice of a man who knows his secret has been revealed.
Grigory agreed to go. He could not refuse if there was a chance to help a suffering soul. But he told his daughters: "If I don't return by morning, know it's the work of enemies." There was no fear in his voice, only weariness and acceptance of the inevitable.
In the basement of the Yusupov Palace, it was gloomy, though candles burned. A crystal cross on the wall shimmered with a strange, unearthly light. Felix bustled about, offering tea with wine, pastries. Grigory drank, ate, but felt—he would not be poisoned. He was sure of it. Felix, meanwhile, watched him with growing horror, not understanding why the poison didn't work.
"What a beautiful cross you have," said Grigory, examining the play of light. In that instant, as if in slow motion, he saw Felix's face twitch and his hand slide into his pocket.
"Then pray for me and for yourself," were the last words he heard from the man.
The shot was muffled. Grigory fell, feeling the bullet tear through his insides. He didn't cry out. He looked at Felix, who was shaking with fear. Grigory understood everything: it was revenge for that old insult, for telling the Tsar the truth about Dmitry's debauchery. Anger boiled within him for a moment, but he suppressed it, replacing it with pity. He thought of how this man had just lost his soul. With a tremendous effort of will, he rose, clutching his wound.
Story Six: Escape and the Last Bullet
The frosty air hitting his face was like a blessing. Grigory walked—no, he staggered—stepping on invisible coals of pain. He didn't know where the strength came from, but he knew he had to reach the gate. Beyond it was life. He almost made it. A thought flashed through his mind: "Could I have done it?" Two feelings fought within him: the horror of death and an incredible, animal will to live, given to him by Her who appeared in the window many years ago.
He heard footsteps behind him, shouts. Two shots whistled past. But the third sound was unlike a shot. It was wet, crunching. The blade of a sword or dagger entered his back. Grigory felt his legs stop obeying, the ground give way beneath him. He fell into a snowdrift. The pain was so intense it eclipsed the entire world. The snow beneath him quickly turned pink.
He tried to crawl. He wheezed, trying to call for help, but only a hoarse rattle came from his throat. He turned onto his back. Dmitry Pavlovich stood over him. Grigory would never forget that look—it contained the devil himself. There was not a drop of humanity in it. Only the triumph of a beast that had cornered its prey. Dmitry raised his pistol and pressed it to Grigory's forehead. Grigory didn't pray. He looked into the eyes of death and saw nothing but emptiness.
The sound of the shot was the last sound he heard in this world. Then the fall began. He didn't feel his body. He just fell downward, into an endless, icy abyss. Around him was darkness, absolute and crushing. "Is this the end?" he thought, and in that thought there was neither fear nor regret. Only surprise. And then, in this darkness, he saw a tiny spark. It grew, approached, turning into an incredible, blinding, all-penetrating Light.
Story Seven: In the Other World
The fall stopped. The Light was everywhere. It was not just a glow; it was alive, it loved. It pierced every particle of Grigory's being, washing away the pain, fear, resentment, and anger accumulated over years of earthly life. Grigory felt everything superficial peeling away from him, the husk of anger and slander. Only his essence remained—the soul that prayed in the Siberian fields and healed the sick. He was no longer an old man with a sick stomach and a bullet-riddled head. He was energy, he was thought, he was love.
In this Light, he saw faces. Those he knew: Seraphim of Sarov, who taught him in visions, Panteleimon the Healer. But others were there too. Emperor Nicholas, with a sad smile, was here, in this same world. And even Felix, who was still there, in the world of the living, but his essence was visible to Grigory—a weak, flickering spark. Everything was one. There was no past and future, no enemies and friends. Only one great love.
Grigory realized with surprise that he still saw Earth. But he saw it not as a man, but as a soul—he saw bright points of prayers, dark clots of suffering, and he saw threads rising from Earth to the Light. He understood why he had lived. He was like that crystal cross in the killer's house—he refracted the Light to direct it to people. His story, his slander, his death—it was all part of a great plan that could not fit into the consciousness of an ordinary person.
He felt his calling was not over. He could help from here. He thought of the contactees, those who, like him, open their souls to the Light to transmit it to people. He became an Angel-healer. And now his task was not to pray for one sick person, but to help those who pray for the whole world. He felt an unprecedented lightness and fullness of being. He was home. Death turned out not to be the end, but the greatest beginning, the beginning of eternal life, where all riddles find their answers, and all suffering dissolves in the ocean of unconditional, all-forgiving love. And this love was infinite.
Cassiopeia #369 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-rasputina-grigoriya-efimovic
Rurik
Story 1: Childhood and the First Initiation
I remember the smell of damp earth and bonfire smoke. I was born not in a stone mansion, as sagas would later tell, but in a house of thick logs, on the shore of Lake Peipus. My first toys were not carved horses, but smooth river stones with which I played war with my brothers, Sinyar and Travy. We were noisy, like all boys, and it seemed to us that the whole world was our yard, where sheep grazed and women bustled.
Until I was ten, I spent a lot of time with my mother, Mala, and her sisters. My father was always busy—he ruled the clan, and his face was always stern and preoccupied. My grandmothers told me tales about Rod, how he created the whole world and that we are all one big family. But I barely listened; I was more interested in running with my brothers to the lake and catching fish with my hands. I was carefree and dreamy, unaware of the fate awaiting me.
Everything changed one night when I turned twelve. It was the most frightening and most important day of my childhood. When the full moon rose, the elder volkhvs led me into the forest. A large bonfire burned around, and they performed round dances, shouting words in a secret language I didn't understand. They fumigated me with herbs, and my ears rang from their chanting. But the worst came at the end. They led me to a huge stone chamber, like a dolmen, and slid a heavy stone plug in behind me.
In the darkness and complete silence, I felt truly alone for the first time. My heart pounded in my chest, and I wanted to scream, but my voice wouldn't obey. I was afraid they had forgotten me, that I would remain there forever. But when I had almost lost hope, I heard a voice—it came not from outside, but from deep within my soul. It was calm and wise. It said: "You are not alone. You are part of the Kin. Breathe." In the morning, when they moved the stone aside, I emerged a different person. I was born anew. My fears were gone, and I felt a power within me that connected me to my ancestors.
Story 2: Years of Study
Immediately after the initiation, I ceased being just a son. I was given to three mentors—volkhvs who became my teachers for eleven years. My home became a forest hut, not my parents' mansion. I learned not how to command an army or collect tribute. I learned that, as I later understood, in practice. My days were filled with memorizing long incantation-prayers that had to be uttered at the right moment. Every word had weight, and a mistake, as my teachers said, could invoke the wrath of the gods.
I learned to "read" the world. Volkhv Rodiy showed me how, by the behavior of animals or the way fog settled, one could predict weather or harvest. I learned to see what is hidden from sight—sensations, energies, the force flowing in the earth and water. There, in the forest, I consciously touched the Spiritual World for the first time. I learned to distinguish the voices of ancestors in the rustle of leaves and to address them. I understood that the world is not limited to what is visible.
But the most important lesson I learned in those years was the sense of duty. The volkhvs often divined with runes, throwing carved pebbles into a golden bowl. In one such divination, I was told: "You will be a ruler, Raiyrik. Not for glory, but to unite the people, as Rod wills." This prophecy shaped my character. I ceased being a dreamy youth. Within me, roots of wisdom and the realization that my life belonged not to me alone, but to my entire people, began to grow.
Story 3: First Love and Family
After I turned twenty-three, I returned to my parents. I knew I needed to start a family, but my heart, contrary to all customs and the advice of elders, was already taken. Her name was Appa. We had grown up together, and I had known her all my life. She was the daughter of an elder, and when I looked into her eyes, I saw not just beauty, but a quiet wisdom and strength that I lacked. In her, I found peace after years of study.
We married, and for two years I forgot about my destiny. I just lived for her. We walked to the lake together, and I taught her to distinguish the voices of the Spirits, which she thought only I could hear. She was my anchor. My father and the volkhvs demanded that I take several more wives from noble families—so demanded my status as a future leader. But I was adamant. "I cannot divide my heart," I told them. Even Appa herself, seeing the pressure from the elders, suggested I bring other women to maintain peace. But each time I refused, and this strengthened my love for her. I knew this might seem like weakness for a prince, but I considered keeping faith with one Soul to be true masculine strength.
The brightest memory of that period was the birth of my first son, Igor. I was at negotiations with a neighboring tribe, and my head ached from arguments. I felt broken, but anxiety grew within me. I longed to be home. When I rode into our yard, and the midwife brought out a small, swaddled boy, such joy washed over me that all worries vanished. I took him in my arms, saw his shining gaze, and understood that this was the "first fruit" of my masculine strength I would have to leave behind on Earth.
Story 4: Calling and the Beginning of the Path
My father's death and the persistent requests of the elders from the shores of Lake Peipus called me back to my destiny. I was twenty-six when I realized: my carefree life was over. Neighboring settlements suffered from strife; they needed someone to restore order, to become a link between different tribes. I set out on a journey. I traveled rivers by boat, made my way through forests where there were almost no roads, and stopped in every settlement.
My task was not to conquer or punish. I was like an envoy, a judge. I told the elders: "I have not come to fight. I have come to unite us, so that together we can survive crop failures and drive off the enemy. I will bring you law." This was not always met with joy. In the south, in the lands of the Polyanians, I was received with suspicion. Princes did not want to share power. But I stubbornly pursued my goal because I believed I was fulfilling the will of the gods. I felt their support.
Gradually, a retinue began to gather around me. There were only fifty-six of them—my loyal warriors. With them, I felt confident. I was not a cunning politician and did not seek intrigue. I wanted to build a state. In those years, I met the first Christians—strange people who spoke of one God who was executed. I was surprised by their faith, I asked them: "How can you worship one who was killed?" But I never forbade them to pray. I believed that every person should go to the Light in their own way, if they have faith. I was young and full of naive idealism.
Story 5: Maturity and the Fruits of Labor
By the middle of my life, the state of Rus' grew and strengthened. We had annexed many tribes—Chud, Ves, Krivichi, Severians, and Drevlyans. My dream was coming true, and it became harder. With each passing year, I plunged deeper into earthly concerns. Disputes over tribute, appointing governors, endless negotiations with those who refused to submit to the common will—all this consumed me from within. I noticed I had stopped hearing the voices of the Spirits I had so clearly distinguished in my youth. My inner world filled with noise and anger.
It was especially hard with the Polyanians. We never found common ground. Their princes wove intrigues, and these feuds poisoned the egregore of our young state. I sometimes noticed I was becoming cruel. When someone hindered my work, anger would overwhelm me. I argued with the volkhvs and often acted contrary to their advice, believing I knew the needs of the people better.
But even in this bustle, my family supported me. My sons had grown up. I took Igor with me on campaigns, teaching him what I had been taught. I wanted to raise a future ruler in him, but often realized I didn't have enough time. We might not see each other for months, and then I would try to instill everything in him in a week. I knew he also tired of it. And in those moments of silence, when I looked at the stars or the sunset over the river, I felt that the dreamy boy who just wanted to bring peace and rest to his people still lived within me.
Story 6: The Last Journey
It was an ordinary trip to the Merya tribe. They were neighbors, and I wanted to offer them entry into our alliance on common terms. It had rained all day, and the road was difficult. I led my horse by the bridle because it had strained its leg. My thoughts were heavy. Lately, I had felt increasing resistance from people. I understood that building a state was a struggle, and my Soul was tired of it.
In the Merya settlement, I was met by Prince Uchura. He was surprisingly cordial. He offered me food and drink, speaking sweetly as he negotiated. I was tired from the road. When I lay down to sleep in the hut assigned to me, I felt unease, some anxiety. Thoughts of unfinished business kept me awake. I lay on the bench thinking I needed to get to the Vyatichi in the north and talk once more with the Polyanians.
In the middle of the night, I woke up feeling suffocated. I wanted to light a splinter to get some water. But as I reached for the flint, I heard a hiss near my ear. I had no time to understand anything. A sharp pain pierced my arm, and then I felt the poison rapidly spread through my body. I tried to shout, but my voice failed, and I only let out a wheeze. My warriors rushed into the room, but I could no longer speak. Everything swam before my eyes, and the last thing I saw was a snake slithering under the bed.
It was not an accident. I understood it instantly. Uchura had decided to get rid of me to keep his power. At that moment, I didn't think of the great work of my life. I was seized by animal fear and rage. It was not a fair death in battle, but a vile betrayal. I felt myself suffocating, and hatred grew in my heart.
Story 7: Transition to the Spiritual World
When my vision finally faded, I no longer heard the cries of my warriors. Instead, I was enveloped by an amazing bell-like ringing. I felt weightlessness—my body became as light as a bird. I floated in darkness, but it was not frightening. It was warm and soft. It seemed to me like a dream, and I would soon open my eyes.
But then I saw the Light. It descended from above, and in it, two figures in white robes approached me. Their faces shone, and their gaze held not judgment or reproach, only love. They extended their hands to me, and I, without understanding how, took them. "Welcome, brother," they said. Their voice sounded in my head like music. "Your body has ended its journey, and we will escort you to your eternal home."
And then I looked down and saw my body lying on the bench and my warriors bustling around. I saw their grief and panic. I no longer felt the pain in my arm, only surprise. As I flew upward, memories flooded me—my entire life in a single moment. But with them came realization. I saw the reason for my death, I saw Uchura giving the order. And at that moment, I, the Spirit, rose up in anger. My consciousness filled with resentment. I, who had spent my life trying to unite, was destroyed by another's pride. I did not want to accept it. My Soul's level wavered. When I finally opened my eyes in this new world, I understood that I had descended from level 12 to level 10. In this transition lay the seed of my incompleteness.
But in that world, full of Light, new opportunities were given to me. Over time, I understood the error of my anger and began to heal myself. I chose the path of an Angel-healer. In this Spiritual World, there is no hatred, no boundaries, no wars. And now I look upon my journey as valuable experience. I see how egregores continue to fight on Earth a thousand years later, and I understand that the most important thing I have learned is to forgive. My true strength lies not in the sword, but in the love I can now send to people.
Cassiopeia #579 Let's Share Rurik's Secrets: A Day in a Live Broadcast with the Spirit!
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/podelimsya-tajnami-ryurika-odin-den-v-pryamom-ehfi
Prince Vladimir the Baptizer
Story 1. Son of a Slave Woman
Kyiv, Childhood
My mother smelled of honey and wormwood. She was more beautiful than all my father's wives, but he rarely came to her. I remember standing by the window of the mansion, watching the road from which his horse should appear. When he did come—rarely, once every few weeks—Mother would blossom, and I would hide my jealousy behind heavy lashes.
"Vladimir, come to your father," she would call. "He is waiting for you."
Father Svyatoslav was huge, smelled of sweat and iron. He would ruffle my hair like a puppy and say something about battles and lands. But I saw that his thoughts were not here, not with me, not with Mother. He thought of campaigns, of brothers—those born of his lawful wife. They received everything: attention, affection, toys, future cities.
Once I asked Grandmother Olga:
"Why doesn't he love me?"
She was silent for a long time, fingering the cross on her neck. Then she said:
"He loves you, just in his own way. And don't be angry, grandson. Anger is the darkness that eats the heart."
I nodded. But inside me, resentment grew—dark, sticky as tar. I did not forgive my father for his neglect. I did not forgive my brothers for their arrogance. I did not forgive the world for making me born the wrong one, the one they didn't expect.
Grandmother taught me Christ's prayers, but I didn't hear them. I only heard the wind in the steppe and the clang of swords. It seemed to me that I had to become stronger than everyone. So they would fear me. So they would love me as my father did not know how.
Story 2. The Blood of Polotsk
Youth, Time of Campaigns
I marched on Kyiv with a Varangian army. In my chest burned hatred for my brother Yaropolk, who had killed Oleg—my brother, but not by right, not with honor. I knew: if I didn't kill him first, he would kill me. Such was the truth of this world.
We stopped near Polotsk. There ruled a prince installed by Yaropolk. He sent his retinue against me, but I broke them like dry reeds. On the square before the palace, I ordered everyone brought out—the prince, his wife, his sons, his daughter Rogneda.
She was beautiful—a pale face, a long braid. And she was betrothed to Yaropolk. I wanted to take her as my wife to destroy my brother's last connection to this city. I told her:
"You will be my wife."
She raised her head, and her eyes flashed with coldness.
"I will never become the wife of a slave's son," she said so loudly that everyone heard.
At that moment, something inside me exploded. A thousand slights from my father, a thousand mockeries from my brothers, a thousand nights I had cried into my pillow from loneliness—all of it poured out. I couldn't stop. I didn't want to.
I ordered her stripped before her parents. I took her by force. And as she lay on the ground, bathed in tears, I took my sword and cut off the heads of her father, brothers, and mother. Blood covered her body, mingling with her tears.
I looked at her and felt nothing but emptiness. Only later, on the road, did I begin to shake. This was anger—my only god, my eternal companion. I thought it gave me strength. But it only burned me from within.
Story 3. Light from a Woman
Acceptance of Baptism, Meeting with Anna
She entered my life like dawn after a long night. Byzantine Princess Anna—slender, quiet, with sea-colored eyes. She was unlike any of my 325 wives and concubines. She was pure—physically and spiritually.
I wanted her. Not like the others. I wanted her to look at me with tenderness, not fear. But when I asked for her hand, her brother, Emperor Basil, said:
"She will not marry a pagan."
And then Anna, kneeling in a small church, told me:
"You must become a Christian, Vladimir. Otherwise, we can never be together. I cannot share a bed with one who serves idols."
I didn't understand then what spoke in her—fear or faith. But I agreed. I received baptism—for her. For her body. For her to become mine.
But the water that washed me in the font washed away not only dirt. It washed away part of my darkness. When I emerged from the water, I looked at Anna—and suddenly saw her not as a conquest, but as a gift. She smiled at me, and for the first time in many years, I smiled back.
I took the name Basil, after her brother. But my true baptism was not that day, but the first night when Anna prayed beside me, and I just sat and listened to her voice. It was quiet, like a stream of water. And it washed something within my soul.
Story 4. By Fire and Sword
Baptism of Rus', Realization of Error
I ordered the entire people driven into the Dnieper. Priests from Byzantium read prayers, while warriors with swords stood on the bank so no one would dare leave. Many were baptized with fear in their eyes. I saw it but pretended not to notice.
I wanted Rus' to become strong. So that we would be feared and respected, like Byzantium. I thought a single faith would unite the tribes, stop internecine strife, and make us great. I thought the end justified the means.
But years passed, and I saw that my victory was illusory. People secretly fled to the forests to the volkhvs. They prayed to both Christ and Perun. They hated me and the priests for breaking into their souls with a sword.
Once, an old volkhv came to me himself. He stood before me, white as a harrier, and said:
"Prince, you have flooded with blood the land you wished to consecrate. You think you baptized Rus'. But you only dressed it in foreign clothes. It is still pagan at heart."
I ordered him executed. But that night, I could not sleep. I remembered his words and my sins. I understood that no one could be brought to God by force. Only voluntarily. Only through love, not fear.
I had made a mistake. And this mistake would echo for centuries to come. It would pain me to watch it from the other world.
Story 5. Repentance and Struggle
Last Years of Life, Inner Struggle
I grew old. My hands no longer held a sword, and my chest no longer burned with former fury. I began to go to church often, kneeling for long periods, gazing at the face of Christ. I asked Him for forgiveness, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw blood: Polotsk, uprisings, executions.
Anna died. I was left alone with God and my memories. I ordered the abolition of the death penalty—too late, but I wanted to fix at least that. I replaced it with fines and enslavement if there was no money to pay. I thought it made me better.
But every night, dreams came to me. Rogneda stared with empty eyes. My brothers stood by the throne and laughed. And my father simply walked by, not even turning his head. I would wake up in a cold sweat and pray.
I couldn't change myself in a day. There were lapses: I could strike a concubine, lose my temper with a servant, growl at my sons. But I repented each time, and that was my only salvation. I knew I would leave this world not a saint, but a sinner who only at the end of his life understood what love is.
I often asked the priests:
"Will the Lord save me?"
They answered:
"If you are sincere, Vladimir. If you lie neither to yourself nor to Him."
I didn't lie. But I knew my heart was not yet pure. I left at level 10, though I came at level 15. This was the price for my cruelty. And I accepted it.
Story 6. A Healer on Gihor
Next Incarnation, Return to Service
I opened my eyes and realized I was not a prince. My hands were thin, with long fingers, and my body was light and flexible. I lived on planet Gihor, in a world similar to Earth, but the sun there was different, and the grass seemed blue.
In this incarnation, I became a doctor. I healed not warriors, not princes, but ordinary people. I cured their illnesses, calmed their fears, helped them give birth. And for the first time in my long chain of lives, I felt I was doing something right.
I was not called Vladimir there. But I remembered my past lives, especially the last, earthly one. I often sat in the evenings and thought about how cruel I had been. How I had killed, raped, coerced. I could not forgive myself. But I could serve others—as atonement.
I worked in a hospital where it was light and clean, and no one smelled of death. I smiled at the patients, even when I myself felt pain—the pain that remained in my soul from earthly mistakes. And over time, it began to melt away, like ice in the sun.
I left this incarnation in 1888 by earthly reckoning. I was ready for the transition. I felt I had risen to the 18th level, that I was forgiven. Not by people—I would never see them again, but they could live on. I was forgiven by life itself. And I was ready for a new task—to be a guardian of an entire people.
Story 7. Light over Ukraine
Transition to the Spiritual World, View from Above
I left my body. As if shedding heavy clothes. Around me was silence, dense and warm, like a mother's blanket. I hovered over the earth, over cities and rivers, over forests and fields. I saw everything—past, present, future. I saw myself, the little prince with a big heart that took so long to learn to love.
I rose higher and higher. Stars, planets, some fine-material worlds flew past me. I felt my soul fill with light, the last black clots dissolving—anger at my father, resentment of my brothers, cruelty towards Rogneda. All of it melted in the radiance coming from the very Center of the Universe.
Three Angels from the 23rd level met me. They were huge, made of light, and I felt I knew them—they were my mentors even before I became a prince. They told me:
"You are ready, Vladimir. You have learned your lesson. Now you will be a guardian."
I asked:
"Of whom?"
They answered:
"Of the people you baptized and tormented, but who are still yours. You will be the curator of the egregore of Ukraine. This is a great honor and a great responsibility."
I looked at Earth. I saw darkness emanating from my former country—wars, hatred, fear. I saw people killing each other in despair. I saw those who prayed to me and those who cursed me. But I was no longer that angry prince. I was light.
I forgave everyone. And I asked forgiveness from everyone—from those I could not touch, from those whose lives I destroyed, from those born in a world I made so. I whispered:
"Let peace come."
And from the height of my 18th level, I went to serve. I took under my wing the egregore of Ukraine, torn and wounded. I knew a long work lay ahead. But now I had eternity.
And every day, when someone on Earth sent the light of love, I felt that warmth on my invisible hands. I smiled. I knew: even the darkest night ends in dawn. And I would wait for that dawn together with my brothers and sisters, wherever they lived—in Ukraine, in Russia, all over Earth.
We are all one family. We are all learning. And we will all return home.
Cassiopeia #476 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Prince Vladimir of Kyivan Rus', the Baptizer.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-knyazya-kievskoj-rusi-vladim
Leo Tolstoy
Seven Stories about Life and Transition to the Spiritual World
Story One. Orphanhood
Little Lyovushka stood by the window in the Yasnaya Polyana estate. He was only three years old when his mother left this world. He barely remembered her face, only her warm hands and quiet voice humming lullabies. His father followed soon after, when the boy was nine. Death came to their house too often, leaving behind emptiness and echoing silence.
The aunt who raised him often caught herself thinking this child was too serious for his age. He could sit in the garden for hours watching ants or clouds, and in his eyes shone such deep thoughtfulness that adults felt uneasy. Lyovushka didn't cry in public; he carried his sorrow to quiet corners of the house where no one could see him.
One night, he dreamed of his mother. She sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his head, and he felt extraordinary warmth spread through his body. She said nothing, but the boy knew: she was near, she would always be near. In the morning, he woke up smiling and for the first time in a long while ran off to play with his brothers.
"That was not just a dream," he thought many years later. "That was my first conversation with the One who created me. The first lesson that love does not die with the body."
The death of his parents became for him not a loss, but a revelation. He understood that the world was more complex than it seemed. That behind visible reality exists another, invisible one, where those we love live. This knowledge settled in his soul and never left him, though he sometimes tried to forget it in the bustle of social life. Orphanhood gave him what no other school could—the ability to see through the veil of the material world.
Story Two. The Caucasus
The young officer Leo Tolstoy gazed at the mountain peaks. The Caucasus met him harshly and majestically. Here he saw the sky for the first time so close that it seemed—reach out your hand and touch the clouds. Here he learned to appreciate life, the real, unvarnished life of simple people and harsh nature.
Army service tempered his character. By day—marches, firing drills, evening formations. But at night, when the camp fell silent, Leo would sit by the fire and write. In his diary appeared lines about war not being romance, not the gleam of epaulets, but blood, mud, and fear. Later, when he wrote "Sevastopol Sketches," readers would be stunned by the truth sounding from every page.
"Why am I here?" he asked himself, looking at the stars. "What am I seeking in this world?"
The Caucasus gave him the answer. Here he first realized that his path was not a military career, not ranks and awards. His path was the word. The word that could reach hearts, that could change the world. And when his hand wrote lines about Cossack life and mountain customs, he felt his soul opening.
But there were other nights. Dark nights when doubt, fear, and anguish tormented him. Then he would wake up in a cold sweat, not understanding why he lived, why he breathed. This fear pursued him all his life, but in the Caucasus, he found a way to fight it—through creativity.
"I must write," he told himself. "If I stop writing, I will die."
And he wrote. He wrote about love for life, about the beauty of the world, about how every person is destined to be happy. His manuscripts multiplied, filling his soldier's trunk. In them lay his whole soul, all his pain and all his hope.
Story Three. Yasnaya Polyana
Count Tolstoy walked through the field with a scythe in his hands. The peasants exchanged glances and chuckled quietly: a master, and such a noble one, doing peasant work. But Leo paid them no attention. He felt the earth responding to his every movement, the wind cooling his heated face, the sun warming his back.
He returned to Yasnaya Polyana after long wanderings. Here was his ancestral nest, his land, his roots. Here he wanted to live simply, as his peasants lived—in labor and peace. He built a school for peasant children, wrote his own textbooks, and went to teach. He saw the eyes of his students light up as they grasped knowledge, and this brought him more joy than all his literary successes.
The house in Yasnaya Polyana was full of life. Children ran through the rooms, breaking vases and spilling ink on expensive carpets. His wife Sophia Andreevna bustled from morning till night, managing the household, copying his manuscripts, and caring for the family. But within Leo, anxiety grew.
"Can one be happy when so much suffering surrounds us?" he reflected. "How can I enjoy luxury when others starve?"
He began to give away his possessions. He renounced copyrights, making them public. He wore simple clothes, made his own boots, and plowed the land. This was his path to God, his way of cleansing himself from the sins that, as he believed, lay heavy upon him.
Many times he tried to understand where the line between good and evil lay. Where was that truth he so desperately hunted for? And one night, standing on his doorstep and looking into the bottomless sky, he said: "I will find it. I will find You. Or die searching."
Story Four. Love
The first wedding night. Leo looks at the sleeping Sophia and thinks she is still a girl—just eighteen. He is twice her age. He already knew women, already knew passion and disappointment. And she—a pure, innocent creature, knowing nothing of this world's vices.
"Why did I show her my diaries?" he tormented himself. "Why did I open my dirty soul to her?"
She wept then, reading his confessions. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and he stood beside her, unable to comfort her. But she stayed with him. She forgave his past and loved the present him.
Sophia bore him thirteen children. Thirteen times she risked her life to give him new happiness. And he continued to seek truth, write diaries, and agonize over his own imperfection. He was unfaithful to her when he thought he was seeking something important, and returned to her when he realized he had found only emptiness.
"Forgive me," he whispered at night as she slept. "Forgive my pride, my blindness."
Once, she saw his diaries with new entries. There was everything—his condemnation of her "mercantilism," his irritation that she didn't share his views on life. She said nothing. Just packed her things and moved to another room.
That night, Tolstoy cried for the first time in years. He realized he was losing the most precious thing he had—her love. He rushed to her, embraced her, and whispered: "I don't want to lose you. Forgive me. Please forgive me."
They lived together for almost half a century. They quarreled and made up. They lost children and found each other again. And in every glance of hers, in every touch, Leo felt that very truth he had searched for so long. The truth of love that needs no proof.
Story Five. Optina Pustyn
The elder stood at the monastery gates. His gray beard fluttered in the wind, and in his eyes was frozen agonizing struggle. He came here to reconcile with the Church, to ask forgiveness for his words and actions, but his feet would not carry him across the threshold.
"I am excommunicated," he repeated. "I am excommunicated."
On the last night in Yasnaya Polyana, Jesus appeared to him. He saw Him clearly, as never before even the closest people. Jesus spoke with him about Communion, that it was not magic, but a real spiritual process. That through Communion one could purify the soul and body from sins to enter the Spiritual World renewed.
"You must undergo this purification," said Jesus. "To unite with Me."
And now he stands at the gate, not daring to enter. Shame paralyzes his will. How can he look the elders in the eye after what he wrote about the Church? How can he explain to them why he came?
He fingers the prayer beads he always carried and prays: "Lord, if they want to see me, open their eyes. Let them come out to me themselves."
An hour passes. Another. The gates remain closed. And Leo turns and walks away, carrying in his heart the bitter realization that he never dared to overcome the last barrier.
"I was a coward," he thinks, returning to his carriage. "I was so afraid of judgment that I lost my chance for salvation."
But deep down, he knows: Jesus will not abandon him. Even dying unforgiven, he will find the path to the Light. Because God looks not at words and rituals, but at the sincerity of the heart.
Story Six. Astapovo
A small room at Astapovo station. The railway station where fate caught up with the great writer. Here he lies on a simple bed, covered with a blanket, looking at the ceiling. His pulse weakens with each passing hour. Doctors shrug—old age, pneumonia, strength fading.
His family comes to him. His daughter Alexandra, whom he loved more than his other children, sits beside him, holding his hand and wiping her tears. His wife arrives, but he can barely distinguish faces. Voices reach him as if from afar, through thick water.
"Sonya," he whispers as she approaches. "Sonya, forgive me."
She falls to her knees before him, kisses his hands, and weeps. All the grievances, all the quarrels, all the misunderstandings dissolve in this final farewell. They forgive each other, as they always did.
Night. Loneliness. Leo Tolstoy feels his soul separating from his body. First he sees the room from above, then the station, then the entire world. Earth recedes below like a painted map. He flies upward, through clouds, through stars, toward the Light.
"I was not afraid of death," he remembers. "I was afraid of life without meaning. And now I know: meaning exists. And that meaning is Love."
He notices luminous figures. They approach him, welcoming him like a long-awaited guest. Among them are familiar faces—his parents, his brothers, those he lost on earth. They smile and reach out their hands.
"Welcome home," he hears a voice.
And the world around fills with boundless happiness, impossible to describe in words. Only to feel.
Story Seven. The Transition
Light. Infinite, all-pervading Light. That is what met Leo Tolstoy when he left his body. In this Light, there were no shadows, no boundaries, no time. There was only Love—pure, boundless, eternal.
"My Son," he heard a voice. "You have come. We have waited for you."
He looked around. Millions of souls floated in this Light, each radiating its own unique vibration, and together they created a harmony incomparable to anything earthly.
Leo didn't immediately understand where he was. A flash illuminated his consciousness, and he saw himself from the outside—not the old man who lay at Astapovo station, but a young soul just beginning its journey. And then—dozens, hundreds, thousands of lives. Clement of Alexandria in the second century. A warrior in a reptilian race on a distant planet. A teacher on Esler. They were all him, all leading him to this moment.
"Now you see," said the Mentor. "You sought truth all your life. You found it at the end of your journey. And now you can pass this knowledge on to others."
Before Leo unfolded a picture of his earthly life. Every action, every thought, every word was laid bare. He saw his mistakes: pride, judgment, harshness in words. But he saw other things too—his love for people, his desire to make the world better, his thirst for good.
"You have reached the 16th level," the Guide informed him. "You could have risen higher if not for some roughness in your character. But even this level is a great achievement."
Leo felt gratitude. To Jesus, who appeared to him on the last night. To Dostoevsky, who never became his mentor on earth but now met him in the Spiritual World. To Sophia, who endured his vacillations all her life. To his children, who forgave their father's indifference.
"I want to incarnate again," he said. "I want to continue the path."
The Mentor smiled: "You will incarnate. In India, as a boy. You will walk the path of a Hindu and comprehend new truths. But first—rest. Connect with the Source. Remember who you truly are."
And Leo dissolved into the Light, feeling the particles of his being merge with infinity. It was a return home. It was a world where there were no more sufferings, doubts, or fears. Only Love. Only Light. Only Truth.
Cassiopeia #705 Channeling with Leo Tolstoy: Secrets, Truths.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/chenneling-so-lvom-tolstym-tajny-istiny
Sergei Yesenin
1. Sunlight (Birth and Childhood)
The world entered him not through words, but through light. Golden reflections on the river, the green of grass, the blue of the sky over Konstantinovo—all of this was a living language in which eternity spoke to him. His grandfather, telling epic tales; his uncles, smelling of horses; and his mother, whose image was forever divided into love and the bitterness of betrayal. Little Sergei did not know that his soul remembered a different, fiery cradle. He simply absorbed this world like a sponge, feeling in every breath of wind an invisible interlocutor whose name he could not utter but whose presence he felt with his whole being. This was the first, purest, and most powerful note of his life.
2. Petrograd Dream (Youth and First Fame)
It smelled of printing ink and winter freshness. He stood on the threshold of Blok's apartment, clutching a folder of poems. Yesenin felt like a boy, though in his chest beat the heart of an ancient spirit weary of incarnations. His meeting with Blok became a ticket to the big world, but it also became the first masquerade. He put on a "shepherd's" shirt to please the bohemians, but deep down it was not deception, but a longing for lost simplicity. Amidst the noisy literary salons of Petrograd, he sometimes caught himself thinking he heard a different, more ancient and important rhythm—the pulse of his starry homeland, breaking through the clink of glasses and words of praise.
3. Bloody Harvest (Revolution and Imagism)
Time was breaking the old world, and Yesenin went with the flow. The revolution seemed to him the promised transfiguration, where he, the singer of the village, would become a prophet of a new era. But every day, the mud and blood increasingly flooded his visions. In search of an outlet, he plunged into the whirlpool of Imagism—smashed statues in monasteries, drank, raged, trying to drown inner pain in external scandal. Then, in October 1920, in fear of arrest, he himself, unknowingly, opened the door to a dark force. His curators from the solar world, who had given him his gift, stepped back when he chose despair over faith. This was the point of no return, the beginning of a fall he himself accelerated.
4. Dance in the Void (Isadora and Europe)
She was older, famous, and smelled of the stage. With her, Yesenin hoped to find not love, but the peace he so lacked. He sought a mother in her and found a mirror reflecting his own fragmented soul. Europe seemed false to him; he felt like a savage in a cage, and his "guardian angels" had turned into demons whispering grievances and anger. Every scandal with Isadora was a cry for help that no one heard. He returned to Moscow devastated, not so much a husband as a ghost of a man who had lost his last hope of salvation. This story is not about love, but about the silence that comes when you stop believing.
5. The Black Guest (Creativity and Illness)
A shadow settled in his room. It had no face but pressed on his chest at night, whispered in the voices of enemies, devalued his poems, his friends, his love. It was to her that he dedicated his terrible poem "The Black Man"—it was an act of exorcism, a desperate attempt to cast out what he himself had summoned. The change of curators from solar to ethereal beings was not just a phrase from another world; it was his daily hell, when he looked at the world through the glass of resentment and saw only malice in everything. Everything he now wrote was a cry, but the poems carried him not to heaven, but into the black abyss he had created for himself.
6. The Doomed Train (Last Autumn)
The train carried him to Leningrad. He had escaped from the clinic, withdrawn all his money, and knew he would never return. Sophia Tolstaya, his guardian angel in this life, remained on the platform. He felt betrayed by everyone. But in his soul, for the last time, a thin thread of light broke through—regret. Remembering the faces of his children, whom he had not loved because of his pride, and the names of Galina and Sonya who wanted to save him, he understood that this morning was his last chance. But there was no strength left to turn back. The glass of resentment had become an impenetrable wall. This story is not about suicide, but about the inevitability he had walked toward for all his last years.
7. Light Behind the Screen (Transition to the Spiritual World)
He didn't remember falling. The first thing that came to him was not pain, but incredible silence. It was like the calm before a storm in a field. And then, as if a giant screen was turned on, his whole life unfolded before him. But it was not a film of actions; it was a film of feelings. He saw himself from the outside, saw his pride, grievances, drunkenness, and realized with horror: behind every word of his was a choice, and every choice was wrong.
He was met not by a judge, but by Light. This Light was his true essence, that very particle of the 21st level that once created stars. And in this Light, he saw his plan: to be a contactee, a transmitter of love and knowledge about nature, but he had become a source of darkness. But this was not punishment. This was truth. He himself, with his own hands, had built his Golgotha. There, outside the body, he finally forgave his mother, Isadora, his children... and himself. He accepted his cross and his poor, lost Soul. The seventh story is not about death, but about the first, true birth, when the Spirit, purified by pain, looks at its path and sees not tragedy, but a lesson.
Cassiopeia #709 Conversation with the Spirit of Sergei Yesenin at Bryusov Hall (Moscow).
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/razgovor-s-duhom-sergeya-esenina-v-bryusov-holle
Marina Tsvetaeva
1. "An Unfinished Song"
The room in Borisoglebsky Lane was as cold as a tomb. Marina wrapped herself in an old shawl, looking at her sleeping daughters. Alya, stretched out like a thin string, and little Irina, whose breathing was barely audible. On the table lay an unfinished cycle of poems. She reread lines, but the words did not form what was bursting from her chest. Instead of music—only the ring of emptiness.
She tried to catch the elusive rhyme, as she tried to catch warmth in this frozen Moscow. But thought drowned in the viscous feeling of guilt and anger. Anger at her husband, who had gone to war; anger at the world falling apart; and at herself—for not being able to give even bread to her children. At that moment, she didn't know that this "irritation" was the first stone she was laying in the foundation of her future tragedy, considering it temporary, but carrying it in her heart forever.
2. "Whisper of the Diary"
A half-empty room in Paris. Rain drummed on the roof, creating a monotonous rhythm that made concentration difficult. Marina sat at the table, guiding her pen over paper. She was not writing poetry—she was screaming into the silence. Beside her, on a low chair, sat little Georgy, playing with a worn-out toy.
Marina wrote about her pain, about her husband's indifference, about the world not understanding her. She poured onto paper the very "storm" of resentment she had once brought into the relationship. She didn't notice that her words, addressed to herself, were becoming that "rotten stump" at the foundation of family happiness she would regret later, beyond the boundary. It seemed to her she was simply freeing herself from a burden. In reality, she was conditioning herself to believe that suffering was the only form of existence.
3. "Ring with a Ship"
Vienna or Prague—Marina no longer remembered the exact city. She clutched in her fingers a silver signet ring with an image of a three-masted ship. A gift from Konstantin. She looked at the engraving "To You my sympathy" and felt a burning, sharp need to be loved. Like that girl from a past incarnation seeking proof of love, Marina again sought confirmation of her own worth.
Looking at the ship, she imagined sailing away from this reality, from her husband waiting for her at home. She justified it as a "call of fate," but deep in her Soul, at the 13th level from which she came, she already knew: it was just another flight from the emptiness growing inside. She didn't know then that this ship was sailing not to the shores of happiness, but to another karmic knot.
4. "Gate in Consonants Only"
The road to the USSR. Marina stood on the deck of the steamship, peering into the misty horizon. Beside her stood Ariadne, excitedly whispering about a new life. Marina was silent. She remembered her diary entry: "I cannot go to consonants only." She knew she was going into the "throat" of this new reality but could not refuse her children.
She felt her pride tighten into a tight knot. Behind her trailed the train of émigré melancholy, while ahead lay a "half-starved existence" and the fear of every word. Marina understood this step was a test of her strength, but instead of prayer, despondency settled in her heart, which, as she would later say, became one of the reasons for her dissatisfaction with this incarnation.
5. "Hour on the Anvil"
A gray office in Yelabuga. Marina stood before a desk behind which sat a man with the eyes of a beast. The stuffy air pressed on her temples. She had just refused a dirty offer to become an informant, and now this man, laughing, offered her "salvation" at the price of her body. Marina heard ringing in her ears. It seemed to her she was a small porcelain figurine on an anvil, over which a hammer was raised.
She ran out into the street, feeling the ground give way beneath her. It was not the fear of death. It was disgust mixed with the realization of hopelessness. "I can no longer live," flashed through her mind. She saw only a dead end, not noticing the single "loophole" where she could have turned to the chief for protection. It was in this hour that the decision she would call a "refusal of life" was made.
6. "Circles Before the Eyes"
Attic or room—it didn't matter. Marina looked at the noose hanging from the darkness. In her hand, she clutched a note for her son: "Forgive me, but it would have been worse later..." She climbed onto the chair. Her heart pounded. She felt the rope tighten around her neck, and panic, wild, animal panic, made her kick the support away with her foot.
Pain pierced her head. A whistle, darkness, and... colored circles. She was in physical pain, she felt life leaving her. This was not a departure into silence. It was a cry of horror frozen in space. She forever remembered this agony, which would be the first thing she felt upon severing the connection with her body.
7. "Room of Red Walls"
Marina opened her eyes. But they were not eyes—she just felt the space. She flew upward, past clouds, towards the sun. She looked down and saw the receding city. Two "doves" flew towards her, turning into winged figures. Guides.
"Welcome to the Spiritual World," they said.
She found herself in a room with red walls and a gray ceiling. It was a labyrinth created by her own Soul. She wandered through it, seeing mirrors. And in one, she saw herself alive, but distorted by the reflection. Marina reached for it, but suddenly realized: she could not escape this labyrinth of fear, guilt, and dissatisfaction she had brought with her. This was her new reality—a spiritual level where she had to reconsider the life she had voluntarily ended. In that mirror, she finally saw the very "catastrophe" that had begun long before the rope and thought for the first time about asking for forgiveness.
Cassiopeia #711 Channeling with the Spirit of Marina Tsvetaeva – contactee Irina Podzorova.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/chenneling-s-duhom-mariny-cvetaevoj-kontaktyor-iri
Mikhail Lomonosov
Seven Stories of the Life of a Spirit
Story One: Star Explorer
He was born in a world where the sky was different. Planet Pikran—so its inhabitants called it—stretched under three suns, each giving its own light. The boy looked upward, to where unfamiliar constellations twinkled among infinity, and knew: one day he would see them close up.
The Academy of Cosmonautics became his second home. He learned to pilot ships that knew no fatigue, to gather data on star systems no one had yet explored. He was sent to the farthest corners of the galaxy—where maps were blank spots.
Ten thousand years lasted his stay on Pikran. He saw stars born and die, civilizations take their first steps into space, the world he knew from childhood change and grow. But in every journey, home awaited him. Wife, children, grandchildren—they remained on the planet while he plied infinity. They understood his calling, and he returned to them again and again to tell of what he had seen.
But one day he realized: his soul asked for something else. Not just to observe worlds, but to become part of one. Not from the height of a ship, but from within—feeling the wind on his skin, the weight of gravity, pain and joy. He chose Earth. There, in a distant northern country, a new incarnation awaited him.
Story Two: Path from Darkness
He remembered the cold. The northern sea where his father fished was cruel. But even more cruel was his father—a man who cheated fishermen, tampering with scales, taking their earnings. The house was full of shouting when his father returned drunk.
But in this house were books. The boy found them everywhere—at the old priest's, in neighboring villages, even at the market where they were sold for pennies. He learned to read, and words opened worlds absent from his village. His father looked on with bewilderment, his stepmother with irritation. "Better help with the chores," she would say.
And at night, when he fell asleep, friends came to him. They passed through walls, their faces luminous. "We are from the stars," they said. "You must teach them. Earth must join the Interstellar Brotherhood. We have chosen you."
He didn't understand who they were. But their words burned his heart. And one day he decided: he would leave. He would go to study, he would become the one who brings knowledge. His father gave him money—the very money earned by deception. A monk acquainted with his father helped with enrollment. The boy got on a horse and set off for Moscow. Three weeks in a sleigh, through snow, across forests and fields. The road to a new life.
Story Three: Student
Moscow met him harshly. At the academy preparing priests, he felt like a stranger. His origin was a secret—the monk who accepted him advised him to claim nobility. And he lied, every day, every minute, fearing the truth would come out.
But books did not lie. They spoke in Latin and Greek, in German and Church Slavonic. He devoured their pages, forgetting sleep. He bought manuscripts at the market, leaving himself only enough for bread and cheap fish. He needed to know everything—physics, chemistry, astronomy, geography, theology. He needed to become the one who would bring light.
The star friends came less and less. It was hard to concentrate on them—life in Moscow drained his strength. He quarreled with classmates, angered at injustice, sometimes allowed himself excesses—alcohol at student parties. And then again he sat down with books and studied, studied, studied.
He dreamed of Petersburg. There, in the capital, were the best minds, the best laboratories, the best libraries. And he got a recommendation. He went to Kyiv to compare, but quickly realized: Petersburg awaited him. And he went there, to the city where fate would decide whether he would become what he wanted to be.
Story Four: Love in a Foreign Land
Germany was different. Here it didn't smell of fish and pine, but of coal and iron. Here people spoke a language he learned from books and looked at him, a Russian peasant's son, with curiosity. He was to study mining—finding metals, extracting them, smelting them.
He rented a room in a family's house. They had a daughter, Liza—short, with a very small face, quiet and kind. She brought him dinner when he sat over textbooks until late. She laughed at his accent and taught him German words not found in books.
He fell in love with her. She became his quiet haven in this foreign world. He wanted to marry her. But life in Germany was full of temptations. The money from Petersburg, meant for studies, he spent on wine and women—with other students, Germans, they visited houses where warmth could be bought. He was ashamed of this before Liza but couldn't stop.
Then there was a conflict with a professor—he took money from students, wrote denunciations to Petersburg. Mikhail fled—first from the professor, then from the soldiers he had managed to enlist with while drunk. He returned to Russia, leaving Liza in Germany. He couldn't take her with him—he had nothing, not even work.
He was ashamed. But he wrote to her when he got a position at the Academy. And she came. They married. They had children—two died in infancy from illness, a third survived. Elena. He named her after his mother. And in this love, in this pain, in this happiness, he continued forward.
Story Five: The Scientist
The Petersburg Academy accepted him with difficulty. Professors, Germans by origin, looked down on him. "Peasant serf," they would throw at him. He wrote petitions, begging for a chance. And they gave it—on probation.
He worked like a man possessed. He studied chemistry, which was science for him, not magic. He studied ether—the mysterious gas he believed permeated the entire universe. He looked at Venus through a telescope and saw sunlight pass through its atmosphere—he discovered it first. He wrote "A Brief Russian Chronicle," painstakingly gathering the history of his country from ancient manuscripts kept in the library.
He argued fiercely with colleagues who disparaged Russian scientists. He wrote poetry when tired of numbers and prayed to God when despair overtook him. "It is God who reveals this to me," he thought when intuition pointed the right path. He didn't know it was his Higher Self speaking, that the connection with his star friends was not broken—it had just become different.
He met Elizabeth, the Empress who supported Russian science, and Catherine, who cared for scientists. He saw money allocated for education ending up in the pockets of academicians and threw his mug at them. He was fierce, passionate, alive. He burned. And this fire led him forward, to the 18th level of the soul, which he reached by the end of his life.
Story Six: Forester
He woke in the body of Yevgeny, in the forests of Belarus. 1928. Everything was different—simpler, coarser, more material. He was a forester. He lived in a forest hut, knew every path, every tree. He gathered herbs and roots—comfrey, burdock that heal gout. He wanted to help people. But life decided otherwise.
He married early, and the marriage was unhappy. Conflicts with his wife, divorce, a job that only paid for bread and shelter. He forgot God—he didn't believe in Him. He didn't pray. He was a materialist, and this was his curse.
He was supposed to become a doctor. But he didn't get in. The money that could have gone to studies went to his family. He had set a goal for this incarnation—to reach the 20th level. Instead, he dropped to the 12th.
Then came the snake. He left his forest hut one morning, and it bit him. No doctor nearby, no chance to be saved. He died at 38, leaving a body that could have done more. He exited the incarnation understanding: he had fallen again. From 18 to 12. And all because he had forgotten the main thing.
Story Seven: The White Light
He fell asleep and woke up. Around him was white mist. He looked around—a green meadow, flowers, grass. But it was early spring! Where did the grass come from? Then two figures in white approached him. Young, luminous. "You are in the Spiritual World," they said.
He was at the 12th level. Not where he had once been—the 18th, among bright light and angels, where he was led after the life of Mikhail, where the feeling of divine presence was in every millimeter of space. Now he was at a mediocre level. The house he dreamed of in Yevgeny's life—wooden, with carved trim, large—stood before him. He could create it by force of thought.
He sat in that house, thinking about the future. He was offered an incarnation not only on Earth but in another galaxy. He was even offered to be a fine-material being. He wanted to reach the 18th level again. He understood his mistakes—in both lives.
He looked at his lives from the height of Spirit and saw that the main thing is not work, not family, not material things. All that stays on Earth. The main thing is knowledge of God, prayer, spirituality. That is what remains with the soul when it leaves the body. That is what leads it upward.
"Do not waste time," he told those who remained on Earth. "Be sure to seek knowledge of God. Otherwise, it will be hard for you to embark on the spiritual path. Otherwise, you will fall, as I fell."
He closed his eyes and began to think about the new incarnation. Ahead was light—white, endless, full of possibilities. And he knew: one day he would rise again.
Cassiopeia #493 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Mikhail Vasilyevich Lomonosov
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-lomonosova-mihaila-vasilevic
Nikolai Gogol
Story 1. Childhood. "The Glass Bead" (Mirgorod, 1809-1819)
He stood on tiptoes, pressing his nose to the cold windowpane. Behind it, in the leaves wet with spring rain, a strange world sparkled. The boy held a glass bead with a red vein inside in his palm. It seemed to him that if he looked at the world through it, everyone became a little kinder. Mother dropped a spoon in the kitchen, and the sound was like a little bell. Father, returning from work, smelled of wind and big cities.
At this age, the soul knows no boundaries. It is the whole world. The wind whispers in its ear, trees nod like old acquaintances, and in the darkness of the closet live not fears, but secrets. Mother told him stories about house spirits and forest beings, and he believed in them more strongly than in the coming of the next day. When he was sent to study in a distant city, he missed home, but at school, he greedily absorbed every new story whispered by the boys. Each smelled of forest and danger. He wrote them down in a notebook, feeling that behind these fictions lay something real, something unseen but palpable. He didn't know then that this craving for the invisible world would lead him to great creativity and great melancholy.
Story 2. Youth. "The Unheard Confession" (Petersburg, 1830s)
In the halls of Petersburg high society, he felt awkward. His Ukrainian soul, full of mystical visions and folk humor, collided with the cold gloss of the capital. He looked at her—Maria, or perhaps Katerina—and his heart stopped. She was above him in status, divinely unattainable. He confessed love to them but received only polite refusals.
These refusals became a wound that never healed. He decided that God had created love for others, but not for him. Life buzzed around him, but he remained a lonely observer, recording the vices of others on paper. He vented his bitterness in satire, mocking bribe-takers and liars, but deep down he envied their ability to simply live. He remained faithful to his Orthodox faith and his chastity, believing that without love, physical pleasures were sin and filth. In these women who rejected him, he saw the source of his suffering, not noticing how he himself built a wall of alienation around himself.
Story 3. Maturity. "Fire of Purification" (Moscow, 1840s)
The room smelled of wax and paper. Night. He sat by the fireplace, holding a thick stack of written sheets. This was his life—the second volume of "Dead Souls." He reread lines, and his face twisted in agony. The words seemed false to him, not bringing light but multiplying darkness. His confessor told him this book could cause harm, and these words spread poison in his soul.
He could not simply edit the old text. He needed to destroy it, commit it to fire, and start anew. For him, this was an act of purification, almost a mystical ritual. He believed that in this flame, all his errors and delusions burned. But the fire devoured not just paper. It devoured his strength, his faith in himself. Each time the ashes cooled, he felt empty. He himself took from the world what was entrusted to him from above, not understanding that creativity was not his property, but merely a channel for the divine plan he was trying to block with his pride.
Story 4. Death. "The Bitterness of Medicine" (Moscow, 1852)
He lay on the bed, feeling his body fill with lead. Doctors bustled around, calling his illness either typhus or something else. In truth, despondency had settled in his soul—a terrible sin and a terrible illness. He was tired of the world, of his own ideas, of the people who called themselves his friends but whom he himself kept from his heart.
He wanted only one thing—silence, prayer, and perhaps death. But the people around him decided they knew better. They forced him to eat, gave him herbal decoctions, and then brought leeches and some medicine. The world swam before his eyes, his heart clenched in pain, and he sank into darkness. He did not sleep in lethargy, as legends say. He simply departed. His soul, tired of forced care, left his body the very moment the poisonous potion stopped his heart.
Story 5. Awakening. "View from Above" (Spiritual World, 1852)
He opened his eyes and realized he felt no weight of his body. Around him was light, incredible, permeating his entire being. Somewhere nearby played music woven from silence. Those he had feared or sought his whole life approached him—Angels-consultants, mentors. In their gaze was not judgment, only infinite love and a slight sadness.
Before him, like frames of old film, passed his entire life. He saw himself from the outside: his selfishness, his grievances, his fear of women, his blind belief that only he could decide the fate of his books. He saw how deeply he had wounded friends with his silence and alienation. This level, the ninth, became a school of humility for him. He was not punished, but shown the truth he had hidden from all his life. He was forced to accept this truth and begin his path to light, stripped of earthly attachments.
Story 6. A New Chance. "Photographer from Sukhumi" (USSR, 1953-2009)
Life again. Earth again. He was born in the Sukhumi region, into a Russian family, and named Yuri. He didn't remember being Gogol. Now he was a simple driver whose favorite hobby became photography. He ran through the mountains with a camera, capturing frames in which eternity was frozen. Unlike his previous life, he didn't write satire but simply showed people the beauty of the world. He was part of this world.
In this life, he smoked a lot, wasn't as ascetic as before, and eventually died of a heart attack in 2009. But this time, his death was simpler. He fulfilled his task—he accumulated not negative, but positive emotions, becoming closer to people. Only after death, when his soul reunited with the part that was Gogol, did he remember everything. His whole path, all his falls and rises, all his incarnations came together into a single picture.
Story 7. The Transition. "The World I Create" (Spiritual World, Present Time)
I stand on the threshold of a new existence. I am now at a level where there is neither pain nor time. I am Nikolai, I am Yuri, and I am just a Spirit seeking its place in infinity. I have passed through dense matter, through hunger, through rejected love, through fire that burns books, and through cold medicine that stops the heart. I have learned how selfishness poisons the soul and how humility opens the eyes.
I can project myself into any time, appear to Irina in the image of that same Nikolai, so she can convey my story. I want to tell you: happiness is not in writing great books or being recognized. Happiness is in the very act of creation. When I was Gogol, I enjoyed inventing worlds. When I was Yuri, I enjoyed showing the beauty of this world. And now I intend to move further, to even subtler levels, where one can create without paper or film.
I want you to understand: you are children of the Creator. Your destiny is to create. If you stop developing, you will begin to create evil. It doesn't matter if you write a book, photograph a sunset, or just build a house for your family—in that lies the divine meaning. Do not betray to the fire what you have created. Give it to the world. And then your transition to the Spiritual World will be like returning home after a long and difficult journey, where judgment awaits you not, but eternal peace and a new opportunity.
Cassiopeia #520 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Nikolai Gogol.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-nikolaya-gogolya
Mikhail Lermontov
Seven Steps Through Time
1. Birth in an Era
Instead of the first cry, silence entered the world. It was dense and viscous as molasses and lasted just long enough for the soul to remember: it had been here before, and more than once. It was October, and outside the windows of the Tarkhany estate, the autumn earth grew cold. I opened my eyes, but saw not the cradle nor my mother's bent face—I saw a flash. A flash in which all I had been before was shown to me: a shadow gliding over waters, and a girl in a golden crown at the foot of the pyramids of South America. But this vision vanished, leaving only vague unease. My mother, Maria Mikhailovna, smelled of milk and lavender, and her hands trembled as she pressed me to her breast. In her gaze, I read the question: "Who are you, little Michel?" I could not answer. I only felt that this world was just another page, and the main lines of this book were yet to be written.
2. Illness as a Language of Rejection
In childhood, the world was shifting, as if I looked at it through thick water. My body rebelled: scrofula, rash, joint pain that twisted my legs and prevented me from running. I lay in my room, watching sunbeams play on the whitewashed walls, and I knew: this was not just an ailment. This was a language. A language in which the body spoke what I could not utter. My mother's death became a crack that split my small world. I perceived her departure as betrayal, and the world left without her as an empty, false place. Later I learned: she was a victim of my father's brutality, who beat her mercilessly and destroyed her soul. I couldn't remember it, but my soul remembered everything. And with my skin, with every sore, I screamed to this world: "You abandoned me! You don't exist! You are an illusion!" When they treated me, when my grandmother, Elizaveta Alekseevna, gave me bitter infusions, I felt not relief, only dull irritation. For this was not an enemy to be defeated. It was a teacher I refused to hear.
3. The Fiery Youth and His Demon
In youth, despondency became my constant companion. I was surrounded by people—in Moscow, in Petersburg, at balls where music played and spurs jingled—but I felt as lonely as a stone at the bottom of a well. Inside me lived another—proud, independent Spirit I called the Demon. He was my symbol of freedom, my mask behind which I hid pain. I wrote poems, and they were full of grievances. Grievances against God, whom I imagined only as a stern judge, not a source of Love; grievances against people, whose words seemed created only to wound. Once I met a priest in Petersburg. He read my poem, smiled, and said: "Too kind for a demon. Could it be you described yourself?" I laughed it off, but this question remained in me like a splinter. I didn't want to admit even to myself that my Demon was me. My anger, my pride, my unwillingness to accept this world as it is. And it was this unwillingness that became the fire burning me from within.
4. Love That Did Not Become Salvation
Varenka Lopukhina was for me a bright specter, an angel who looked at me with the purity of a heavenly creature. I wrote her long letters, told her of my wounds, and she comforted me. But I did not marry her. I was afraid. Afraid that commitment would take away my freedom, the very one I valued so much, not understanding it was only an illusion. I was jealous of her, interfered in her life, reveled in my resentment when she chose others. I thought I would have time later. When I finished my military career, when I became famous for my poetry. I didn't know then that the most important thing is not the future, but how you love here and now. I didn't learn to trust. I didn't learn to be grateful for the moments of peace she gave me. And when she married another, I didn't curse her, but I allowed a new resentment to settle in my heart, strengthening the wall I built between myself and the world.
5. Soldier and Poet
The Caucasus met me not only with its wild beauty but also with the smell of gunpowder. I was exiled to fight for the honor of the empire, and I was among battles, among mountain rivers and desperate people. It was a time when life sparkled especially sharply, for every day could be the last. I saw death, saw how it came to others. But I still didn't ask God for protection. I relied only on my mind, my courage, and my pistol. In those days, I often thought: "Why am I here? What am I seeking?" And I heard only silence in response. I wrote poems, but even in them, there was no longer the old fire—only weary sadness. I met Nikolai, a childhood friend with whom we once laughed at the same things. But the jokes that brought us together became weapons. There, at the camp, among our fellow officers, I said something that seemed harmless to me. It was funny to me. It was painful to him. That evening, we became enemies.
6. The Fateful Evening
The sunset in the foothills was crimson and ominous. I stood in the clearing, gripping my pistol, and still couldn't believe my friend would shoot. I looked at Nikolai's face, and it seemed strange and alien to me. We stepped back thirty paces. I turned the barrel aside, upward, showing I didn't want his death. I waited for him to do the same. But at the last moment, I saw him aiming at my chest. The command. The sound of a shot. Pain, sharp and icy, pierced me through. I felt hot blood gush from the wound, and the world around began to spin, accelerating, losing color. "Forgive me, Grandmother," I thought as I fell to my knees. I looked at the sky, which was beginning to darken, and in that darkness, I seemed to see His face—the one I considered a judge. I had time to realize one thing: I was not dying from the bullet. I was dying from the pride I could not overcome. And it was not anger, not fear—it was bitter regret. How wrong I was not to believe. How wrong I was not to love.
7. The Transition. Through the Looking Glass
Consciousness shattered into thousands of fragments, and each fell into a depth filled with stars. I came to in a meadow, but it was unearthly: too bright, too alive, as if painted by the Creator's hand. There was no sky—only light. Nearby stood a youth in white robes; his face was simultaneously familiar and alien, like a reflection in morning dew. "You are in the Spiritual World," he said, and his voice sounded within me like music. "Don't be afraid, you are awaited here." I felt my body, which was my prison, disappear. I became vast, containing all my five incarnations and hundreds of others beyond the boundary. I saw them all: the one who was an air plasmoid, the one who was a priestess in the Inca tribe, and myself—Michel, poet, soldier, offended boy. Then I connected with the center of a huge white radiance, and in that radiance I finally understood who I was. I was shown my mistakes, but not for condemnation—for healing. And then I heard the question that decided my fate: "Where do you want to go now?" I knew the answer. I needed a planet where I would be taught what I could never learn on Earth—faith in Love. I chose Shymor. There, in the laboratory, among strange plants, I would become LanKhrass, the one who would look with surprise at my past life and think: "So much ado about nothing." But I took this experience with me. It taught me the main thing: to change the world, you don't need to fight it. You need to change yourself. And then even the loneliest battle will cease to be a battle and become merely a step toward the light.
Cassiopeia #659 Mikhail LERMONTOV. Communication in a Live Broadcast. Channeling.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/mihail-lermontov-obshchenie-v-pryamom-ehfire-chenn
Mikhail Bulgakov
1. The Kyiv House on Andriyivsky Descent
In the big house on Andriyivsky Descent, smelling of candle wax and old paper from his father's books, it was always noisy. I, Misha, the eldest of six, sat at the table, pen in hand. Today it was my turn to be the "chief writer" for our home newspaper. Mother, adjusting her light headscarf, dictated news, while younger brothers and sisters, jostling, brought notes about life in our small town.
"Misha, write about the beggar we saw at the church yesterday," said Mother, placing a cup of linden tea before me. "How he thanked the Lord for the bread given."
I nodded, dipped the pen in ink. Words flowed easily onto the paper, but I felt I wanted to write not just about the beggar, but about how a ray of sunlight breaks through the dusty windows of the church, making the mundane sacred. Father, who wrote his theological works in his study, taught us that the world is a book written by God. We, the Bulgakovs, only try to read this book and retell it to others. I envied Gogol, whose books stood on our shelf; it seemed he understood this world best of all. In the evenings, when the light went out, I closed my eyes and heard the house breathe. Every floorboard, every corner was saturated with that ancient, truly Russian faith and equally sincere, sunny joy of being. This was my first, most reliable fortress in the world.
2. Doctor at the Crossroads
The clatter of wheels of a military ambulance train mingled with the quiet moans of the wounded. I, a military doctor, sat in the compartment, looking at my hands. They were red with blood, and I felt that deep fatigue that does not subside even in sleep. Outside the windows, endless fields flickered, but I saw only pain and human suffering. In Nikolskoye, in a remote rural hospital, I saved children from diphtheria. And like an egoistic healer who values his peace above all, I injected myself with medicine without thinking of the consequences. Now my body was rebelling.
At night, when pain wracked my body, I remembered the syringe of morphine and made an injection. And the world transformed. The moon outside the window became not just a celestial body, but a living, beautiful being. The darkness receded, leaving only calm. I knew this was deception. I saw how slowly but surely I descended into the abyss, and my spiritual level fell—seventh, eighth... I, a doctor, understood the mechanism of addiction well. But even more strongly, I understood that I did not want to be a slave. This was not a fight against illness, but a battle with my own self. I sat alone in an empty room, feeling withdrawal, and asked myself, as if being interrogated by a judge: "Mikhail, do you want to die like a dog, or live to write?" Only this inner trial, which I conducted myself, helped me choose toward the Light.
3. Phone Conversation with the Leader
The call in the apartment rang unexpectedly and sharply. I picked up the receiver, expecting to hear another demand or refusal. But in the silence of the wires, a voice sounded that I could not fail to recognize—the voice emanating from every loudspeaker, the voice of the Leader. "Hello, Mikhail Afanasyevich." I was silent, feeling my palms sweat and my heart pound in my throat. It was not fear, but stunned disbelief.
"I have read your letter," the voice on the other end continued without the usual official tone. "Why don't you want to work at the Moscow Art Theatre?"
And I, recovering from the initial shock, began to speak. I spoke about a hungry life, about critics who surrounded me like wolves, about prohibitions and the constant feeling that you were superfluous. The Leader listened silently, not interrupting. He spoke politely, even sympathetically, and advised me to visit the theatre again. I didn't immediately realize he had already decided everything. Hanging up, I turned to my wife, who looked at me with horror and admiration. At that moment, I realized that fate cannot be escaped. Even when you write letters no one believes in, your voice can be heard by those who pull the strings of this world. Later, when I was welcomed at the theatre like a long-awaited guest, I finally understood that politics is also an art, but with a very high price.
4. The Master and His Peace
Night. The only lamp on the desk illuminated stacks of written paper. I was working on the novel I didn't then call "The Master and Margarita." In my head, images were born: Yeshua, who spoke of good people, and Woland, whose appearance was simultaneously terrifying and just. I put into these lines not just fiction, but my tormented soul. I wrote about myself, about my struggle with grayness and lack of spirituality, about the heavy burden the artist bears.
The visions of Pushkin, Gogol, Tolstoy, who visited me in moments of creative ecstasy, were more real to me than many of my acquaintances. They guided me, gave me strength to swim against the current. But at the end of the novel, when the Master receives not Light, but only peace, I suddenly realized I had written this for myself. It was not punishment. It was a reward for the fatigue I felt from criticism, from misunderstanding, from fighting censorship. Arguing with people who saw me as an enemy was useless. Like the Master, I realized that the best thing for a soul worn out by fighting for ideals is to find a quiet haven and forgiveness.
5. Satirist Under a Mask
The clatter of the typewriter entered my life as a rhythm I created myself. Passions raged around me: some shouted that "Heart of a Dog" was anti-Soviet, others admired the sharpness of the satire. I knew that Shvonder and Sharikov were not a criticism of the state, but a depiction of those "human vices" I saw in any society. But I, as a writer, was being forced into an ideological framework.
I remembered Gogol, who was also a satirist, and he wasn't burned at the stake, even though he mocked the bureaucracy of the entire Russian Empire. In my head, lines of feuilletons matured, where I laughed at people who believed obvious lies. Once, while working on another article, I dreamed of a conversation with Gogol. He, wrapped in his famous overcoat, said: "You are not against authority, Misha. You are against stupidity. But stupidity, clothed in the form of power, always considers itself holy." Waking up, I realized that my satire was not a weapon, but a cry from the soul that cannot remain silent.
6. "The Master and Margarita": The Last Novel
There was no more strength to resist. I had long outgrown the age when I could fight the world openly. I burned the first edition of my novel because it lacked the depth I needed. Now I was writing the finale, rereading extracts from treatises on demonology once again. My Woland is not the Prince of Darkness in the Christian sense. He is part of that great plan that allows a person to choose. I wanted to show that truth is multifaceted.
In the scene of the ball, I saw the true essence of every sinner revealed. But when I wrote the Master's farewell to Margarita, I wept. I was saying goodbye to Elena, to my Tanechka, saying goodbye to all my sins that dragged me down. Somewhere in my heart, I heard words: "You have not deserved Light, but you have deserved Peace." And I agreed. Because Peace for me was much more important than Light. It was a reward for a long journey.
7. Transition to the Spiritual World
Death was not a black wall, but rather a rupture of the dense fabric that had bound me all this time. First, I felt weightlessness, then a stream of light. I found myself in a space where there was no familiar time, only pure, living thought. I remembered all my incarnations: an engineer on planet Disnit creating bio-robots, the warrior Cassius who pierced Jesus' side with a spear, and that Chinese woman who lost her way, having strayed from the fifteenth level. These lives, like layers of skin, began to peel away, leaving only the essence—my soul.
I ascended, meeting familiar faces. Tanechka, my first wife who saved me from morphine, met me with a smile. She showed me my new home, similar to the one from my childhood in Kyiv, only built of thoughts. Gogol stood nearby, nodding approvingly. I analyzed my last path: how I, starting from the 9th level, rose to the 15th, although I had fallen into the abyss of despair. I was to develop plans for new incarnations, pass ideas to contactees on Earth so they could continue to create. Looking back on my earthly life, I felt not sadness, but deep gratitude. All my mistakes and sufferings were only experience. I sought Light and found Eternity.
Cassiopeia #670 Mikhail Bulgakov. Communication in a Live Broadcast.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/mihail-bulgakov-obshchenie-v-pryamom-ehfire
Nikolai Roerich
1. Healed Nahor (Judea, 1st Century)
Dust lay on his skin in a thick gray layer, mixing with dirt and blood. He no longer remembered when someone had last approached within ten cubits. The jingling of bells tied to his clothes was the only music of his life—a warning to the healthy: "Unclean! Do not approach!"
Nahor sat by the city gates, hiding his face in the folds of a torn cloak. He saw only the feet of passersby: they hurriedly skirted him, turned away, threw small coins so he would go away. He had learned not to look into eyes. There was only disgust or pity, worse than hatred.
But that day, the feet stopped. They were bare, covered with road dust, but they radiated incredible power. Nahor raised his head and met the gaze of a man whose eyes were deeper than the night sky.
"Teacher," Nahor whispered, not knowing why he said it. He wanted to say, "Go away, I am unclean," but the words stuck in his throat.
"Believe," said the Man. There was no command in his voice, only quiet, all-consuming certainty. "Believe that the Light loves you."
The Man reached out his hand. Nahor squeezed his eyes shut, expecting that his rough, diseased skin would touch the healthy flesh of the Teacher, and that would be a sin. But he felt not a touch, but warmth. It penetrated under his diseased skin, spread through his joints, washing away centuries of fatigue.
Nahor opened his eyes. His hands—those covered with sores—were clean as a newborn's. He looked at his knees, his feet. Health had returned to him like water filling a dry well.
The Man was already walking away, but Nahor, rising to his knees, shouted after him:
"Who am I now? Where should I go?"
The Teacher's voice came from afar but sounded in the very depths of his heart:
"Go and tell them of the Love you have received. The Light has been kindled in you, Nahor. Do not let it go out."
So the former leper became a wanderer traveling the dusty roads, but now the bells on his belt sang a different song—a song of great mercy he carried in his renewed Soul.
2. Prince and Mother (Kyivan Rus', 10th Century)
The armor pressed on his shoulders with the weight of thousands of slain enemies. Prince Svyatoslav looked at the steppe stretching to the horizon. Behind him, the camp buzzed: horses neighing, swords clanging, the coarse laughter of his retinue. He was a warrior. He lived by war and breathed it. But now, standing on a hill before another campaign, emptiness first crept into his heart.
He turned and entered the tent. There, by the light of a candle, sat his wife. She was not like the women who came to the camp with plunder. She had a depth he could not measure with a sword. She looked at a star map she herself had drawn on a piece of leather.
"You are not sleeping," he said, sitting down beside her.
"I was waiting for you," she replied without looking at him. "You're leaving again. The children asked you to show them the horse, and you're going to war."
The prince sighed. His sons—Oleg and Yaropolk—were already asleep in the corner. But there was another, little Vladimir, whom she had accepted as her own, though he was born of another woman. She loved him with her quiet, all-encompassing love that demanded no blood.
"I am a warrior," he said dryly. "My destiny is battle."
"No," she raised her eyes to him, and in them, he saw the same emptiness that had pursued him on the hill. "Your destiny is to stand at the threshold. But inside the hearth, here, sits a woman waiting for you. While you seek glory in the steppes, I am here trying to hold the world together for your children."
She approached him and ran her hand over his helmet. Her touch was softer than silk but heavier than a sword.
"You give them life," she whispered. "I give them flesh. But only together do we give them Soul. Don't go for long. Return, Svyatoslav."
He did not answer. He left for battle as planned and fell in that battle. But dying on the field, clutching the earth in his hand, he saw not the enemy. He saw her face bent over the candle and understood: he had lost not only his life but that quiet haven she was creating for him. The Mother, flashed through his fading consciousness. I did not protect the Mother of the World.
3. Priestess of Art (Planet Esler)
Here there was no gravity pressing on the shoulders, and no time racing forward like meltwater. Here everything floated in the silvery light of two moons reflected in crystalline domes. She was a woman—tall, slender, with iridescent pearl skin. Her name was Illean.
Illean was a sculptor. But here sculpture was not just form. Every strike on crystal or soft clay was an act of transmitting vibrations. She didn't sculpt; she listened to the material and sang to it its own future song.
She stood in the middle of her workshop, where finished statuettes floated in the air. Each was not just an image, but frozen emotion. "This is the joy of a first meeting," she told her students, pointing to a shimmering blue stone. "And this is the longing for home that makes us stronger."
Illean often looked down through the transparent floor at the distant blue planet—Earth. She knew she had incarnated there once, felt the heaviness of coarse matter. But here, on Esler, art was breath. They didn't just create beauty; they infused it with energy that healed space.
One day a student asked her:
"Why do we do this? Why so much beauty if the universe is infinite and indifferent?"
Illean smiled, and her smile illuminated the workshop brighter than the moons.
"We are not painting the universe," she answered, touching a new crystal with her fingers. "We are awakening it. Every line we draw, every breath we breathe into the clay is a conception. We, the women of Esler, give birth to meaning. God created matter, and we give it Soul."
She fell silent and placed her hands on her stomach. She was not pregnant in the physical sense, but a new project was maturing inside her—a spiral of pure light meant to show all inhabitants of the galaxy what unconditional tenderness is. This was her mission. And she fulfilled it with the same grace as once the princess on Earth kept the hearth, only now her hearth was the entire Universe.
4. Preacher on the Ashes (Europe, Middle Ages)
The city was burning. Cries mixed with the smell of smoke. He stood in the square, clutching a charred cross he had managed to pull from a burning church. A mob of frantic people rushed past, looting and destroying what had been their home only yesterday. But he did not run. He shouted.
"Stop!" His voice broke, but it held a power not even the crackling of the fire could drown. "You are killing yourselves! You are burning your own Souls!"
He was shoved, and he fell into the mud mixed with ash. People looked at him as if he were mad. And he was indeed mad—a madman who remembered his past life. He remembered being Nahor and being healed by the Light. He remembered being a prince shedding blood and how that blood had left a dark mark on his karma.
"We are Spirit," he whispered, rising. "We are not bodies! We are not malice and fear! We are Love!"
He looked at the faces of the people, at the women dragging children away from swords. Inside him, a revolution occurred. He realized he would never change the world with a sword or a shout. He could only change it with the word. And only through woman.
That evening, sitting on the ruins with a few survivors, he began to speak. He spoke of the Mother of the World, that as long as there is not a woman carrying Light in every home, the world will burn in the fire of its passions. He dedicated the rest of his life not to battles, but to books and teachings, passing on the knowledge that true power lies in softness, not in the hardness of steel. He died quietly in a cell, but his words, like seeds, scattered throughout the world, ready to sprout through the centuries.
5. Husband, Companion, and Muse (Russia, Late 19th — Early 20th Century)
This was a secret they shared. Outwardly, they were an artist and his wife, companions in distant expeditions. But at night, in the quiet of his study, when candle shadows danced on the walls, they became something more.
He stood by the easel, but his brush was frozen in the air. He couldn't paint. Thoughts were tangled, colors seemed dead. He felt the emptiness, the same one that had pursued him in past lives when he lost connection with the feminine principle.
She entered silently, like a shadow. She placed her hand on his shoulder.
"What do you see?" she whispered, though she knew the answer.
"Nothing," he replied dully. "Emptiness. I don't feel the light."
She didn't give advice. She just stood beside him, looking at the blank canvas. She knew his creativity was a child conceived by a Divine ray. And now, like any mother, she had to help this child be born.
She began to speak. Not about painting technique, but about love. About that first love that makes the world shine with new colors. About the feeling she had for him in that distant life when she was a princess and he was a warrior.
"Remember our mountains?" she asked. "Remember how we stood on the summit? This blue... it's waiting for you."
He closed his eyes, and light flared in his imagination. He took a brush, and the first line fell on the canvas. Now he knew it wasn't he who was painting the picture. He was just a conduit, and she—that very Mother of the World—was at that moment giving life to a new creation through his hands.
He turned to her and whispered:
"My paintings should bear your name. Without you, I am an empty vessel."
She smiled and shook her head, but deep down she knew he was right. In every era, in every body, they were two halves seeking each other to recreate the harmony of the Universe.
6. A Course in Femininity (Present Day, Transitional Time)
The room was filled with the warm light of a lamp. A woman sat at the table, writing page after page. She was preparing a course for other women, trying to gather all the knowledge that had come to her over the years. She was tired. Words seemed empty, ideas too banal.
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. And then she felt it. A presence. Not like wind, but like warm breath touching the back of her neck. She wasn't afraid. She remembered this feeling—ancient as the Earth itself.
"I know you're here," she whispered. "I felt you when I wrote about tenderness."
She didn't hear a voice with her ears, but inside her, in the very center of her chest, a wave of memories spread. She saw herself now as a woman with two children in her arms, now a sculptor in silvery light, now weeping over the prince's body in the steppe. And all this time, he was beside her. Not physically, but in essence.
She took a pen and began to write. Words now flowed freely. She wrote about how a woman can be soft in a harsh world, how to trust her body, how to love her wrinkles and scars because they are the map of her Soul.
"You must find your unique spark," came the thought, "so the Universe will gasp: 'Here comes the Mother!'"
She wrote those words down. When she finished, a novel lay on the table—a small story about love, about essence, about Light. It was not just text. It was an act of embodiment. She had given birth to it, carried it in agony, and delivered it in joy. And she knew that beside her stood the one who was her curator, her husband, her father, her inspiration in all times. He did not speak to her in words, but his energy of inspiration flowed through her hands, turning thoughts into matter.
7. Return to the Light (Transition to the Spiritual World)
The ground gave way beneath him. First there was pain—sharp and piercing, like the blow of a sword he remembered from Svyatoslav's time. But the pain lasted only a moment. Then came silence.
He opened his eyes and saw himself lying on his back, gazing into an incredibly bright sky. There were no clouds, no rays in the usual sense—there was Shining Light. He tried to move his fingers but realized he had no hands, no body. He was lighter than air, freer than the wind.
The fear that usually accompanies death was gone. Instead came recognition. He looked at his path: Nahor, Svyatoslav, Illean, the preacher, the artist... All these faces, all these pains and joys dissolved into dust. Only the essence remained—pure as a child's tear.
"You have grown," a voice sounded. It was everywhere and nowhere. It was the Voice of the Absolute, which he had sought so long in his paintings and teachings.
"I sought you," he replied, feeling his Soul overflow with love so powerful it threatened to shatter him into a million sparks.
"You were always in Me," the Light answered. "You fell into matter to know yourself, and you rose to know Me. Now look."
He looked down, through space and time. He saw Earth, saw people continuing their path. He saw the one who was his wife, his inspiration—she now sat in a room surrounded by books, weeping for him, not knowing where he was.
"Can I... return?" he asked, feeling pain in his Heart from her tears.
"You can," the Light said softly. "But wait. You came here not to suffer. You came to remind them that they are also Light. You left them your books, your paintings, your words. Now your task is to inspire them from where you see their Souls."
He felt his energy rise through the levels of being. From 21st to 22nd, to 23rd. He felt his consciousness expand, encompassing galaxies, entire worlds of matter. But the most precious was the spark remaining inside him—love for that small planet where he had so often wept and laughed.
"Farewell, Earth," he whispered, turning into a pure ray. "I will be near. I will become that Light which helps them kindle their own hearths. I go into Infinity, but I remain in every heart where Love lives."
He merged with the Absolute. The path was complete. Eternity had begun.
Cassiopeia #706 Conference with the Spirit of Nikolai Roerich on the Role of Women in the Universe. Mother of the World. Universe of Love.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/konferenciya-s-duhom-nikolaya-reriha-o-roli-zhensh
Helena Roerich
Seven Stories about the Life of Helena Roerich
1. Girl on the Banks of the Neva
In the house on the Neva embankment, smelling of wax and old books, little Lenochka Shaposhnikova first heard a voice. It was quiet, like the rustle of pages in her father's library, and spoke of things not found in textbooks.
"Who is there?" she asked, looking around the empty room.
No one answered. But the girl knew—she was not alone. Beings of light had watched over her since she could remember herself. They came at twilight, when Mother Katerina lit the lamps and strict Father Ivan shut himself in his study with his blueprints.
"Lenochka, are you talking to someone again?" the governess would shake her head.
But the girl only smiled. She knew what adults could not: the world is much larger than this room, this house, this city. Somewhere beyond the stars live those who are waiting for her.
"I will come," she whispered into the darkness. "When I grow up."
For now, there were drawing lessons, music, reading. Her father demanded success in everything. He was strict, but Lenochka knew he wished her well. Mother embraced her more softly, forgave more readily. But neither knew the secret the girl hid in her heart.
Sometimes at night, when everyone slept, she would go out onto the balcony and look at the river. There, in the reflection of the moonlight, she glimpsed other worlds. "I will surely learn what is there," she promised herself.
And the voice in the silence replied: "You will learn, Helena. You will understand everything when the time comes."
2. Meeting by the Lake
In summer she turned fifteen. The dacha near Petersburg smelled of river water and raspberries. In the evenings, Lena loved to go to the lake, where stars reflected in the dark surface like scattered gems.
That night there was no moon. The sky seemed velvet, and only distant fireflies flickered over the water.
She walked along the path, listening to the silence. Suddenly, something changed. The air grew dense, as before a thunderstorm. Lena looked up and froze.
A sphere was descending from the sky. It was huge, glowing with a yellow light like a full moon, but Lena knew there was no moon tonight. Fear didn't come. Only surprise and strange calm.
The sphere approached. An opening appeared in its smooth surface, and the girl was pulled upward, as if someone gently took her by the arms.
She found herself in a spacious room. Three beings with bronze faces stood nearby. They were silent, but their gazes were kind. One stepped forward and spoke—not with a voice, but with thought:
"You have been chosen, Helena. You are to carry Light into the world."
She wasn't afraid. Something clicked inside her, and she realized this was the moment she had been waiting for all her life.
"What must I do?" she asked.
"Listen. Remember. Transmit."
The device they implanted in her was tiny, like a grain of sand. She didn't even feel it in her cervical spine. But later, years later, she would understand: it was the key. A door to the world she could always hear, but now—hear more clearly than ever.
3. A Look Across the Room
The house of her uncle in the Novgorod region was old, with high ceilings and creaking floorboards. Helena was nineteen. She was visiting when she overheard a conversation among the men in the drawing-room: archaeology, excavations, some ancient artifacts.
She went into the kitchen to get water and saw him.
The young man stood by the window. Dark hair, sharp gaze, hands—strong, with scratches, fingers stained with paint. An artist. She knew at once. But something else made her freeze.
He turned, and their eyes met.
A wave ran through her body—warm, familiar, like the voice from childhood. Lena knew this man. Not by face, not by name—by soul.
He also paused, recognizing.
They talked all evening. About books, about life, about strange dreams they both had. Nikolai Roerich was older, already established as an artist, but in his eyes she saw the question: "Do you remember?"
"I know you," she said. "I don't know how, but I've known you for a very long time."
He smiled:
"I know you too. Don't ask me how. I just know."
Her parents were against it. Class differences, titles, reputation. Ivan Shaposhnikov stamped his foot: "You will disgrace our family!" Her mother wept.
But Helena was firm.
"I will marry only him," she said. "Or no one."
She sat in the attic when one persistent suitor tried to take her by force. She was silent, clenching her fists, waiting. She knew he would come.
Nikolai came. And he carried her away—not by force, but with love.
"We have always been together," he told her at night, looking at the stars. "In other lives. And we always will be."
"I know," she replied. "I remember."
4. Tibetan Snows
The horses struggled. They had been traveling for four months, and the high-altitude air seared their lungs. Helena gripped the reins, looking at the endless snowy peaks. Somewhere beyond the pass lay Shambhala. Or at least a sign that would lead to it.
Nikolai rode beside her. His face was weathered, shadows under his eyes, but his gaze burned. Archaeologist, artist, explorer—he couldn't stop. Too many secrets were held in these mountains.
"We will make it," he said. "I know."
Helena nodded. She wasn't so sure, but she believed him.
The expedition was hard. Local authorities barred them, suspecting espionage. Water ran out, supplies dwindled, guides refused to go further. But there were bright moments.
"Look," Nikolai whispered, pointing to a distant monastery clinging to a cliff like a swallow's nest.
It took them three days to reach that monastery. The monks met them warily, but then, seeing their faces, invited them inside. In the semi-darkness of a room lit by an oil lamp, Helena first touched manuscripts over a thousand years old.
"What do you see?" asked Nikolai.
She closed her eyes and allowed silence to fill her heart. Images surfaced—ancient cities, vanished civilizations, spacecraft arriving on Earth thousands of years ago.
"I see," she whispered. "I see the brothers. They were here. They left signs."
When they stepped outside, night had already fallen on the mountains. The stars were huge, almost touching the earth.
"There," Helena raised her hand to the sky. "They are watching us."
"Who?" asked Nikolai.
"Our teachers. They are waiting for us to be ready."
She didn't know if it was true. But she felt it—in every cell of her body, in every breath of the thin air—yes.
5. Room with a Saucer
New York met them with fog. Lena looked at the skyscrapers, and they seemed strange to her, too new, too alien. But here, in this city, a haven awaited them.
In their apartment, guests gathered in the evenings. Spiritualists, mediums, the merely curious. A table with a saucer with an arrow drawn on it, and letters arranged in a circle. A simple way to communicate with the spirit world.
Helena held her fingers on the saucer and waited. It began to move, sometimes quickly, sometimes barely perceptibly. Voices from behind the thin veil tried to speak, but words came out garbled, unclear.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The saucer twitched, pointing to letters: "H-E-L-P."
"What help?"
Again letters, but the words formed nonsense. Helena sighed and removed her hands.
"Distortion," she told her husband. "They can't guide the saucer accurately. They see the world through me, and it's like a crooked mirror."
"Then how will we speak with them?" asked Nikolai.
"Mentally," she answered. "Only mentally."
She tried to teach her friends—the spiritualists who thought the saucer was the only way. "Close your eyes," she said. "Breathe. Address them in your heart. They will answer."
Some listened. Others shook their heads and left, disappointed.
But those who stayed sometimes caught glimpses. Clear thoughts coming from nowhere. Warm light spreading through the body. And a voice inside: "I am here. I hear you."
"See?" smiled Helena. "No saucers are needed. Only faith."
6. The Last Painting
India. Heat, rain, the smell of sandalwood and flowers. Here she lived her last years. Nikolai was no longer beside her—he had gone first, eight years before her. Now she sat by the window, looking at the garden where peacocks fanned their tails in the sun.
Her son Yuri brought letters. She answered every one, but her hands already trembled. The voice in her head grew quieter, duller. So the time was near.
"Mother, are you tired?" Yuri would ask.
"No," she answered. "Just preparing."
She knew she would leave soon. In recent times, she often saw Nikolai—not just remembered, but actually saw him. He would appear in the corner of the room, smile, reach out his hand.
"Haven't you tired of waiting?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "I have always been ready."
She wrote her last letter. About how the world could be better if people remembered the Light within themselves. How important it is to believe in yourself and in the stars overhead.
Then she lay down on the bed, and silence filled the room.
Helena closed her eyes and heard the same voice as in childhood, by the Neva, when she was a little girl with a secret in her heart. Only now it was louder.
"You did everything you could," said the voice. "It is time."
She smiled and breathed in for the last time. And then—she let go.
7. Between the Stars
She fell through darkness, but wasn't afraid. The darkness was warm, like water in a summer lake. She felt herself freed from everything earthly—from pain, fatigue, years.
And suddenly, light. Huge, white, permeating her entire being. She didn't see it with eyes—she no longer had eyes. But she felt it with every particle of herself.
"Welcome home," someone said.
She recognized that voice. Nikolai stood before her—radiant, young, in white robes. Behind him, she saw wings shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow.
"You waited for me," she said.
"Always," he answered.
She turned and saw Earth—a small blue sphere floating in darkness. Down there, her books, letters, the people she had served remained. Her sons, who continued her work. Everything she loved and lived for.
But here, in this light, there was more. Infinitely more.
"Are you ready to go further?" asked Nikolai.
"Where?"
"To where we never parted."
She felt her being expand, becoming vast as the universe. 62 luminous entities gathered around her—and she became part of them, part of something greater.
"I remember," she whispered. "I remember everything."
And in that memory, there was no pain. Only gratitude for every moment, every tear, every smile. For all the lives she had lived to reach this moment.
The Light dissolved her in itself, and she became it. Forever.
But sometimes, when someone on Earth opens her book and looks into the lines, she feels it. A warm response, like an echo of the voice she once heard in childhood.
"I am here," she whispers. "I am with you. Always."
Thus ended the journey of the woman who remembered the stars.
Cassiopeia #697 Secrets of Helena Roerich. Communication with an Incarnated Spirit.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/tajny-eleny-rerih-obshchenie-s-voploshchyonnym-duh
Peter the Great
Seven Stories about the Life of a Spirit Who Was Peter the Great and Vasily Stalin
1. Apprentice to Carpenters
The waves of the North Sea crashed against the sides of Dutch ships as the young giant, hiding his true name, once again took up a plane. Peter—so he called himself now, though in Russia he was known as the Tsar—inhaled the smell of fresh wood shavings with pleasure. The carpenters around worked silently and intently; no one bowed to him or called him "Sovereign." Here he was just one of them, an apprentice greedily absorbing knowledge of how ships were born.
Everything changed in an instant when a messenger from Russia appeared at the shipyard door. Peter saw him from afar—he was scanning the workers. The Tsar's heart sank. He knew: this was not just news, but a call he could not resist. Sophia, his sister, was again trying to seize power by stirring up the Streltsy. The apprenticeship had to be interrupted.
Peter left the workshop, leaving behind the smell of the sea and freedom. He felt humiliated—the Tsar of a great power forced to flee back to his country to fight his own relative for the throne. But deep down, he already knew: he would return. Return not as an apprentice, but as the one who would bring this knowledge to Russia. He would turn the country upside down, as one turns over an old ship to build a new one.
2. Farewell to the Beard
The boyars exchanged glances as Peter entered the chamber with scissors in hand. Many remembered him as a boy, remembered how he feared the Streltsy and hid behind his mother's skirts. Now before them stood a completely different man—with a sharp gaze, a straight back, and a clean-shaven chin, which was almost indecent in Russia.
"Sovereign, it is not fitting," Shein began, but Peter stopped him with a gesture.
He approached the nearest boyar and cut off a lock of his long, bushy beard before the man could recoil. Suppressed exclamations arose; someone clutched his own face to protect his growth. Peter grinned:
"Don't be afraid. I'm not cutting your beard—I'm cutting off your backwardness. Look at Europe: there, people don't hide their faces behind bushes. There they build ships, factories, cities. And what do we do? Wait for handouts from the Tsar, bow to the ground, and believe that's how it should be."
He walked among them, and everyone he touched felt not just the loss of a beard—the loss of a familiar world. Peter knew they hated him now, whispered in corners, cursed him. But he saw this country from the heights of Dutch towers and knew: to raise it, he had to be cruel. Even if descendants curse his name, he would do it.
"Russia will not sleep in a dark forest," he said, throwing the scissors on the table. "Russia will become an empire. And if to do that I must burn all the old beards, I will burn every one."
3. Building on a Swamp
An autumn wind blew when Peter first set foot on the banks of the Neva. The swamp squelched under his boots, pines stood like sentinels, and in the distance, Swedish fortifications were visible. Not the best place for a city, any sensible person would say. Too damp, too wild, too close to the enemy.
But Peter saw something else. He saw palaces of granite and marble rising here, at this very spot. He saw ships entering the mouth of the Neva with goods from all over Europe. He saw the sun setting into the Baltic Sea reflected in the windows of countless buildings. He saw a future no one else could see.
"Here will be the capital," he told his associates without turning around. "Not Moscow, where they sleep and wait, but here, by the sea, by freedom."
They were silent. Many considered the Tsar insane. Building a city on bones, in a swamp, at the cost of thousands of lives? But Peter knew empires were built on sacrifice. And that every stone laid in the foundation of Petersburg was a blow to the old Russia that refused to change.
He picked up a handful of waterlogged earth and clenched it in his fist.
"In a hundred years, a miracle will be here," he whispered. "I will die, but the city will remain. And it will remember me."
4. Death of a Son
When Peter saw Alexei's letters, his hand holding them trembled. Not from weakness—from rage. His son, his own son, wrote to enemies about how to overthrow his father, restore the old order, undo everything Peter had built with such effort.
He summoned Alexei to his study and laid the letters before him. The Tsarevich turned pale.
"I didn't do this," he said, but his voice shook.
Peter looked at his son and didn't recognize him. There was not a drop of his father's will in this man. Only fear, lies, and a desire for what he hadn't earned.
"You are lying to me," Peter said quietly. "You chose to betray your father rather than change yourself. You chose to conspire with enemies rather than understand what I am doing for Russia."
He imprisoned Alexei. Later he was told the Tsarevich died trying to escape—fell down stairs or was killed, it didn't matter. But Peter knew the truth. He knew Alexei hadn't escaped. He knew his son had taken his own life, unable to bear the shame.
For years after his death, Peter would remember that conversation. And after his own death, finding himself in the spiritual world, he would try to find his son. But Alexei would not want to see him. And then Peter would understand: love and hatred are two sides of the same curse he carries within him.
5. In Vasily's Mirror
A new life began in a Kremlin chamber, but the walls were different, and the people were different. Vasily Stalin, a small boy, didn't yet know that the spirit of a great emperor lived in him. He just grew up, looked at his father—stern, powerful, but loving in his own way.
"Get up, son," Joseph would say, and Vasily would rise, feeling something ancient awaken within him, something that remembered power and strength.
The war found him as a pilot. He would fly into the sky, leaving the earth beneath his plane's wings, and there, at altitude, he felt free. But life on the ground was different. His father died slowly and cruelly, and the doctors, instead of saving him, whispered in the next room, carrying out someone's orders.
"They killed him," Vasily whispered, drinking himself into oblivion. "They killed my father. And they will kill me."
And they did kill him—not immediately, not by bullet. Seven years in prison, endless interrogations, humiliation. And then—freedom. Freedom that cost betrayal.
"Change your surname," said Khrushchev with his false smile. "Just be Vasilyev. And don't draw attention to yourself."
Vasily agreed. He became a traitor, and this burden finally broke him. Alcohol became his only salvation and only curse. Vodka drowned out the hatred but only fueled it. Vasily drank and cursed everyone: Khrushchev, who stole his father's power; the doctors who didn't save him; and himself—for allowing himself to be broken.
In his last days, he rarely emerged from intoxication. His legs ached. He drank, and it seemed the pain went away. But it wasn't the pain that went away—it was his soul, dissolving in an alcoholic haze.
"Forgive me, Father," he whispered for the last time before collapsing onto the bed. "I couldn't."
6. Prince of Demons
Around him was darkness. Endless, viscous as resin. Vasily didn't realize at first that he had died—he took it for another drunken dream. But then they appeared—strange creatures looking at him with hungry eyes.
"We have come for you," they chanted. "You have long called us with your thoughts."
Demons seized his arms and dragged him down into thick blackness. Vasily's heart pounded wildly, even dead. But suddenly the darkness parted, and he saw a luminous man.
"I am your Guardian Angel," said the figure. "You are not in hell, Vasily. You are on the sixth level. Here live those who could not forgive and forget."
Vasily didn't believe it. He screamed at the angel, demanded to be taken back to the hospital, called for doctors. But the angel was patient.
"Look at yourself," he said, and Vasily looked—he was huge, with black wings and horns like a bull's.
"I... a demon?" he whispered.
"You are an archon," the angel replied. "A prince of demons. Your hatred brought you here. You yourself chose this path."
Vasily laughed. Bitterly, hysterically. All his life he thought he was fighting for justice, but he ended up on the other side of the light. Yet somewhere deep in his soul, he felt a strange relief. Here, in the darkness, he didn't need to pretend. Here he could be himself—angry, offended, hating.
He looked around: demons awaited his commands. Two hundred and fifty creatures looked at him as their leader.
"Alright," said Vasily, spreading his wings. "I will stay. I will lead you."
But even in darkness, he sometimes remembered Petersburg. Remembered building a city on a swamp, dreaming of a great empire. And he wept, because in that empire, there was no place for him.
7. The Road to Light
Time passed—in the spiritual world, it flows differently. Vasily, now calling himself Pahrun, sat on a throne in his castle, looking at the eight towers he had built with thought. Below, demons scurried about, carrying out his orders. But in his chest, emptiness still lived, one that not even anger could fill.
"Vasily," he heard a quiet voice.
His father stood before him. Joseph Stalin looked almost human, except his eyes burned with a crimson glow.
"Do you want to leave?" he asked. "Into a new incarnation?"
"Yes," answered Pahrun. "I can't stay here. On Earth, I suffered too much, but here, in the darkness, I suffer even more. Father, I want to try again."
Joseph frowned:
"Earth is too cruel. Everything we built there has crumbled. They will awaken hatred in you again."
"I know," Pahrun said quietly. "That's why I won't go to Earth. I've been offered another planet—Esler. A female body. A different life. Perhaps there I can learn love."
He rose from his throne, and his black wings trembled. The Angel-consultants were waiting for him. Four luminous beings who had patiently waited for him to choose.
"Are you afraid?" one asked.
"Afraid," Pahrun admitted. "But I don't want to rot forever in this anger. I'm tired of hating. Give me a chance, even if I fail."
The Angels nodded. They offered him their hand, and Pahrun, looking back at his castle one last time, stepped toward them. The demons howled, sensing their prince leaving. But Vasily walked only forward.
"Father," he said without turning back, "I love you. Even here. Forgive me for everything."
Joseph was silent. But in his eyes, for a moment, something like light flickered.
Pahrun stepped into the snow-white radiance. He felt the old life—Peter, Vasily, the archon—fade, leaving something new. The feeling was strange: pain, awe, and a hope he hadn't felt for centuries.
"Where am I going?" he asked.
"To where you can become what you always should have been," the angel replied. "Not a Tsar. Not a leader. Not a prince of demons. Just a soul seeking light."
And Pahrun squeezed his eyes shut, letting the light envelop him completely. He knew: somewhere there, in the new life, a chance to fix everything awaited him. And he would take that chance, even if it meant dying again.
The End.
Cassiopeia #373 Live Broadcast. Communication with the Spirit of Peter the First
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-obshchenie-s-duhom-petra-pervogo
Nicholas II
Seven Candles of the Emperor
I. Winter Petersburg
Snow had been falling on the city of Peter for three days, covering the streets with a white shroud. Young Niki, as he was called in the family, stood at the window of the Winter Palace, watching cabmen make their way along Nevsky Prospekt. He was only ten, but he already knew that one day the weight of the crown would rest on his shoulders.
"Your Highness, time for lessons," came the soft voice of his tutor.
Niki turned. In the vast mirrored hall, he felt small and inconspicuous, like a snowflake outside the window. He often caught himself thinking he wanted to be an ordinary person—walk the streets without guards, talk to people without ceremony, eat in ordinary taverns smelling of bread and smoke.
"Ivan Petrovich," the boy asked, "what will happen if I don't want to be Emperor?"
The tutor paused. He knew this question was not a childish whim, but a true torment already lodged in the heir's soul.
"Sovereign," he replied quietly, "sometimes we do not choose our path. The path chooses us."
Niki sighed and looked at the portrait of his father hanging opposite. Alexander III, mighty and stern, looked at his son from the height of his years. He seemed to know the answers to all questions but remained silent, keeping secrets he could not entrust to a boy.
There was a knock, and his younger brother Misha entered, breathless and flushed from running.
"Niki! They're making a snowman in the yard! Come quickly!"
The tutor shook his head sternly, but Niki had already bolted, feeling his heart fill with childlike joy capable of conquering all thoughts of the future throne. They ran out into the yard, and the cold air hit their lungs, making them laugh for no reason. The sun broke through the clouds, and the snow sparkled in its rays like thousands of tiny diamonds.
II. Meeting the Seer
The spring of 1901 came to Petersburg early and warm. Nicholas sat in his study, sorting through papers, when Alexandra entered. Her face was pale; she held an old envelope with a wax seal in her hands.
"Sovereign," she said quietly, "this is a message from your grandfather. From Paul Petrovich."
Nicholas took the envelope, his fingers trembling. The seal was intact—he knew that only the Emperor could open this letter, passed down through generations. He broke the seal and unfolded the yellowed paper.
The lines were written in the hand of the monk Abel, the same one who had predicted the death of Paul I. Nicholas read, and with each line, his face grew more focused. With a trembling hand, he passed the letter to his wife.
Sasha read it and gasped:
"But this... this can't be true!"
The prophecy spoke of a war that would begin in the east, of disgrace for the country, of Bloody Sunday, of revolution. And at the end—lines about the execution of the Emperor after whom this century would be named.
"We must do something!" the Empress exclaimed.
"What can we do, Sasha?" Nicholas smiled bitterly. "If fate is already written in the book of life, can we rewrite it?"
He walked to the window and stared long at the Neva, where the first ships were sailing, opening navigation. Somewhere over the horizon, future events already awaited him like predators hidden in tall grass.
"There is one means," Alexandra suddenly said. "I've heard of an elder in Siberia who people go to for advice. They say he sees the future and communicates with the spirits of saints."
Nicholas turned. In his wife's eyes burned a fire of hope he was afraid to kindle in his own heart.
"What elder?"
"Rasputin is his name."
III. Bloody Sunday
The Sovereign woke from a heavy sleep. He dreamed of dark waters and hundreds of candles burning in an empty church. He sat up in bed, feeling a strange anxiety. Outside the Winter Palace, people were already gathering—workers with their wives and children coming to him with a petition asking for protection and justice.
But Nicholas was in Tsarskoye Selo. He didn't know what was about to happen. When the news of the shooting of the peaceful demonstration reached him, he knelt for a long time before the icon of the Savior.
"Lord," he whispered, "why? I did not order the shooting!"
There was a knock, but he didn't answer. A moment of silence fell when the whole world seemed frozen between past and future.
That night, the old monk Abel came to him in a dream. Gray-haired, in a worn cassock, he looked at the Emperor with sadness and compassion.
"Do not blame yourself, Sovereign," said the monk. "You did not give the order. But this blood will be on your soul because you did not hear the voice of your people."
Nicholas woke in tears. He wanted to shout that everything could be fixed, that he would give lands, sign any decrees, just to bring back those who had died. But the night was silent, and only the candle by the icon burned down, leaving the scent of wax and sorrow in the room.
Alexandra found him in the morning on his knees before the image. She said nothing, only knelt beside him and laid her head on his shoulder.
IV. The Last Hunt
The autumn of 1916 was frosty and clear. Nicholas loved these days when the sky became as pure as ice and he could escape to the forest, away from palace intrigues, the whispers of ministers, and the demands of the Duma.
He hunted deer, but this time the rifle seemed heavier than usual. The forest was still, waiting, and even the wind didn't stir the pine branches.
"Your Majesty," a huntsman approached, "there, beyond the ravine, I saw a large stag."
Nicholas nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He thought of Rasputin, murdered a week ago. That the star that had illuminated his family's path had gone out, and now they stumbled in darkness, seeing no way.
He walked through the forest, crunching fallen leaves, and stopped. Ahead, in a clearing, stood a huge stag with branching antlers. The animal looked at the Emperor calmly and with dignity, as if knowing it could not be killed.
Nicholas lowered his rifle.
"Go," he said quietly. "Go to your kind."
The stag slowly turned and disappeared into the forest. The huntsman looked at the Sovereign in surprise but dared not ask.
That evening, in a small hunting lodge, Nicholas wrote in his diary:
"Today I understood that a Tsar is not one who kills, but one who spares. But the world does not forgive weakness. I know what will happen. I forgive everyone in advance."
He closed the notebook and blew out the candle. In the darkness, he heard an owl hooting outside—a harbinger of sorrow.
V. Abdication
The train stood at the station, surrounded by troops. Snow fell and fell, erasing the boundaries between sky and earth. Nicholas sat in the compartment, looking at the telegram in his hand.
"Sovereign, the army does not support your rule. You must abdicate the throne."
He knew this day would come. He had known it since the moment he opened Abel's prophecy. But when reality touched him with cold fingers, he felt a strange relief.
"Sasha," he said to his wife as she entered, "I will sign."
Alexandra did not weep. She just clasped his hands and whispered:
"We will be together. Whatever happens."
Nicholas signed the papers. His pen trembled in his fingers, but he didn't stop. When it was over, he went out onto the platform and looked at the gray sky. There, beyond the clouds, was something he didn't understand—freedom he had never known, hope he had never had.
He returned to the carriage and sat opposite his wife.
"Now we are ordinary people," he said with a smile. "An ordinary family. Isn't that wonderful?"
But there was no certainty in his voice. He knew that behind this freedom lay fear—fear of the unknown, of what would come next.
That night, he dreamed of a vast cathedral filled with worshippers, and he, standing before the altar in white robes. He knew it was not a dream—it was a vision of a future where he would be called a saint, where he would be remembered and honored.
But waking up, he realized he still had to live to reach that future.
VI. House of Special Purpose
The Ipatiev House stood on Voznesenskaya Street, surrounded by a high fence. Nicholas sat by the window, looking at the empty yard where guards played cards. Over a year had passed since he was last crowned. Now he was simply Citizen Romanov.
Alexandra approached with a book in her hands.
"Alyosha is calmer today," she said. "Thank God."
Nicholas nodded. The Tsarevich, their pain and hope, was weak. They had brought a doctor, but there was little medicine, and the candles they lit for him in the evenings seemed the last thread connecting them to life.
"Sasha," Nicholas suddenly said, "I feel this will end soon."
Alexandra paled but didn't ask what he meant.
The next night, as the city slept, they were awakened. The basement of the house was cold and damp. The walls smelled of dampness and fear. They stood in a row—he, Sasha, Alyosha, and his four daughters, whom he loved so much but could not protect.
When the shots rang out, Nicholas had time to whisper:
"Lord, forgive them. They do not know what they do."
He fell first, and darkness enveloped him, but not completely. He felt his soul separate from his body and saw from above the small room full of smoke and screams.
"Go to the Light," he heard a voice like his mother's.
And he went.
VII. Where Time Ends
First there was silence. So deep he had never heard anything like it. No screams, no wind, no footsteps. He opened his eyes, though he no longer had a body. Around him stretched an endless sea of light—golden, shimmering, like the morning dawn.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You have returned, Sovereign," he heard a voice.
Before him stood an elder in a white cassock—the very monk Abel he knew from the prophecy. But the elder was not old; he shone from within, and in his eyes burned stars.
"Am I dead?" asked Nicholas.
"You have passed into the Spiritual World," the monk answered. "And here you are to understand what you did not understand on Earth."
Nicholas looked around. In the distance, he saw luminous figures approaching. They were his mother, his father, his grandfather Alexander II, the Emperors he knew only from portraits. They walked toward him with smiles, and in their eyes, he saw not judgment, but forgiveness.
"But I did not fulfill my task," said Nicholas. "Russia fell. My family was killed. I was weak."
"No," a voice sounded that he recognized. It was Grigory Rasputin, his friend and advisor. "You came from the third level to learn to love without conditions. And you did. You forgave your enemies before they even raised a hand against you."
Nicholas looked into the distance, where the light merged into a golden haze. He saw his children—Olga, Tanya, Maria, Nastya, and Alexei. They were whole and healthy. They waved to him.
"Come," said Alexandra. "We've been waiting for you."
But Nicholas didn't move. He looked beyond them—at a dark shadow pulsing at the border of the light. It was the shadow of his past: all the mistakes, doubts, and fears that tormented him on Earth.
"I cannot leave this here," he said. "This is also part of me."
"You're right," Abel replied. "You must learn to forgive not only enemies but also yourself. Only then can you rise."
Nicholas stepped toward the shadow. It was cold, like the winter forest where he once hunted. He reached out and touched it. And suddenly the whole past flashed before his eyes: executions, revolutions, blood on the snow, his own abdication, fear in his children's eyes.
"I forgive you," he said to his shadow.
And the darkness disappeared.
The light around him grew brighter, and he felt his level rise from the third to the sixteenth. He did not become a saint—for that, he needed to rise higher. But he learned to forgive, and that was the main thing.
Grigory approached him and smiled:
"Now you are ready to wait for a new incarnation."
"What will happen in two years?" asked Nicholas.
"You will be born a boy in a simple family," answered Rasputin. "And you will learn to say 'no'—what you lacked in your past life. But that's another story."
Nicholas turned to his family. They stood in the light, and he knew that though their paths would diverge, they would always be connected—by love, faith, and hope.
"I am ready," he said, stepping forward.
And the light received him.
Outside the Winter Palace windows, snow fell. But Nicholas no longer looked out the window. He looked inside himself, into his heart, which had finally found peace.
Cassiopeia #366 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Nicholas II. Emperor of All Russia. Answers to Viewer Questions.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-nikolaya-ii-imperator-vseros
Vladimir Ulyanov (Lenin)
Story 1. At the Cradle of Hatred. (Childhood and First Doubt)
I was fourteen when God died. Not in a church or during a storm, but in the silence of my father's study, lined with books. I was reading a chronicle of the abolition of serfdom. Page after page, people who were flogged to death in stables passed before me. Their blood soaked the earth, and their executioners, wiping their hands, went to church. I saw their faces in engravings: well-fed, pious, with oily eyes.
"If there was a God there," I thought then, gripping the binding with my fingers, "he would have slammed the doors in their faces. He would not have let them in until the wound on the murdered man's back healed."
But God let them in. He was silent. And then something broke in my chest. I realized that justice does not exist in heaven. It must be forged here, on earth, from anger and iron. If God doesn't exist, I will take His place. If He exists but allows evil—I will become better than Him. I will force this world to be honest. At any cost. I didn't know then that this cost would cost me eternity.
Story 2. "Lena." (Brother's Murder and Vow)
Alexander was led to the gallows. I stood in the crowd, clenching my fists, watching him placed on the cart. He was older, smarter, purer. He believed in an idea, and for that, they broke him like kindling. He was executed not for a crime, but for his thoughts. I looked at the gray sky of Petersburg and felt no tears. Only dry, prickly rage that burned away all other feelings.
At home, I took a law book and swore: I would study their laws to break them later. I would ensure no mother ever saw her son killed for the truth. It was not revenge. It was a sentence on an entire system. I decided I would use any means, because the goal was sacred.
I didn't know then that my brother was going into the Light, while I was beginning a descent into darkness. But I had no choice. It was either me or them.
Story 3. The Munich Pact. (Deal with Conscience)
It was stuffy in the cafe. Across the table sat men in expensive suits, smelling of tobacco and money. Germans. Agents. They offered me gold. Lots of gold. For agitation, for leaflets, for weapons for the people.
"What do you want in return?" I asked, feeling an inner voice whisper: don't take it, it's a trap.
"Peace with Russia. When you come to power, you will stop this slaughter. It's beneficial to us. And to you."
I took their money. I looked at the bills and convinced myself this was not selling the revolution, but tactics. I would use their resources to free the workers, and deal with their capitalists later. I deceived myself that this was not a deal with the devil. That it was just a game.
But that bill I squeezed in my pocket burned me. I became an agent of influence, unwillingly. And I paid for this deception every minute of my illness.
Story 4. Blood on the Throne. (Order to Execute the Romanov Family)
It was not a decision, but an inevitability. Like removing gangrene. I was told that the former Tsar and his family were in a basement. What to do?
I looked at the map of Russia, at the front lines of the Civil War. White armies were advancing. Monarchists were raising their heads. If they found even one Romanov, they would place him on the throne, and all our blood, all our sacrifices would be in vain.
"Shoot them all," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "Including the children."
I knew this was evil. But I considered it the lesser evil. I didn't think about the souls of those children, that they are eternal. For me, they were just "royal blood," a symbol to be cauterized. I didn't believe in God, so I didn't believe in afterlife torment. I thought if their bodies perished, the threat would disappear. I was wrong. Their Spirits came to me later, in eternity. And their questions were more frightening than any bullets.
Story 5. "My Muses." (Emigration and Inessa Armand)
In exile, I felt like a hunted animal. Gendarmes searched for me all over Europe. I changed documents, shaved my beard, dyed my hair. But the hardest part was the loneliness.
Nadya was beside me, faithful as a rock. But I needed fire. Inessa was fire. She laughed loudly, spoke sharply, and believed in the revolution as passionately as I did. Our relationship was forbidden fruit, a secret we hid from party comrades.
"You are my muse," I whispered in her ear when we were alone in a room bathed in the light of Swiss streetlights. She held me when I was ready to give up, when my own comrades betrayed me and went to Kerensky. These women, their faith in me sustained my faith in myself. I thought I loved them. But now I understand that I simply used their energy for my struggle. I took their souls hostage for my idea.
Story 6. The Vessel's Collapse. (Illness and Death)
Paralysis overtook me in Gorki. I lay in bed, broken, helpless, feeling my head burn. Doctors spoke of overwork, vascular sclerosis. But I knew it was the end. Earlier I thought only the body dies, while ideas remain. But now, when I could barely speak, when words stuck in my throat, I realized a terrible thing: my body could not bear me.
I hated too much. I cursed every enemy, every kulak, every priest. And this hatred, like acid, eroded my vessels from within.
Lying in bed, I looked at the ceiling and for the first time in many years allowed myself to doubt. Was it worth it? All those corpses? That fear? I will die, and I will be gone. And my enemies, perhaps, will live on in their grandchildren. Where is the justice then? I closed my eyes, and the world plunged into darkness. I wasn't afraid; I expected oblivion. But oblivion didn't come.
Story 7. Meeting Eternity. (The Transition)
I opened my eyes and... was surprised. I stood beside my bed, looking at my motionless body covered with a sheet. There was no death. I was alive—just in a different form.
Silence. And then they came. Two luminous beings radiating such warm, forgotten light that I gasped. Angels. I didn't believe in them, but they held my hands.
"Do you remember?" one asked.
And in that instant, I remembered everything. My 18th level, where I healed others. My past life on a strange planet, where I was a being with black eyes. My task—to protect the weak.
I looked at my lived life from the outside. And I was horrified. I saw not deeds, but consequences. I saw the vibrations of people I had dragged through the mud. I saw children who grew up without fathers on my orders. I saw the country I built on bones, and it crumbled because the foundation was not love, but aggression.
"Is this hell?" I asked, looking at the drab gray world of the 5th level where I had ended up.
"No, it's the place you led yourself to," they answered. "Look, you are eternal. You will remember this always. Every murder, every tear."
I cried. For the first time in centuries. I wept not from pain, but from realization. I was an atheist, but God existed. I thought I was building paradise, but I built purgatory for myself. And now I wait here, looking at a clock without hands. I want to return. Fix things. Make them embrace instead of shoot. But for now, I am here, in a gray haze, praying for the next chance. And I know my Angel-mentor hears me. He always heard. I just drowned out his voice with the clang of sabers and shouts of "Hurrah!"
Cassiopeia #363 Live Broadcast. Communication with the Spirit of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin (Ulyanov). Answers to Questions.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/obshchenie-s-duhom-vladimira-ilicha-lenina
Joseph Dzhugashvili (Stalin)
1. The Bitterness of the Grenade
Tiflis, 1907. The air was heavy with dust and the smell of overheated stones. Koba, as he was known in narrow circles then, stood in the shade of an acacia tree, watching the street. In his hand, he gripped the cold handle of a revolver hidden in his coat pocket. Beside him, holding their breath, two men waited—porters with bombs hidden under their aprons.
They were waiting for a carriage. Not an ordinary one, but the one carrying money from the bank. Money that was to go to the revolution. Koba always knew: to build something new, you have to break the old. Break it to the ground. The clatter of hooves on the pavement echoed. He gave the signal.
It all happened in an instant. An explosion, screams, curses, the sound of breaking glass, and the wild, piercing neighing of horses. Koba didn't remember who fired first. He only remembered the gunpowder smoke, the metallic taste in his mouth, and the hot, sticky spray on his face. He drew his revolver and shot at the coachmen to stop them interfering. Bodies already lay on the ground.
Then there was running through alleys, wild trembling in his knees, which he tried to suppress by deeply inhaling cigarette smoke. It wasn't fear. It was the feeling of power. The taste of blood and freedom. Then, in that mud of a Tiflis alley, he first understood that the world is not changed by prayers. The world is changed by bullets. And he was ready to reload again and again.
2. The Green Office
The Kremlin. The office smelled of leather, government ink, and tobacco. Joseph Vissarionovich sat behind a massive desk, examining a map of the country. The country lay before him like a sick person, exhausted by fever. It needed an iron fist. The deceased Ilyich, now lying in a wooden box on public display, had managed to plant a time bomb by allowing private trade.
Stalin knew: this would lead to new Tsars, new masters. He ran his hand over the map, stopping at the fertile lands of Ukraine and the south. There, in the villages, a new greed was ripening. Peasants, feeling freedom, profited from the hunger of the cities. They said: "This is ours." But Stalin saw it differently: "It is all common."
He called Kirov. His voice was even, but steel could be heard in the receiver:
"We cannot let them tear the country apart. They must understand that they are not owners, but part of a mechanism. If they don't give up their grain voluntarily, we will take it. The law is the law. They must prove their loyalty by deed."
In his head, a chain was already forming: deprive the peasant of his land, force him into a collective farm, take away his grain and livestock. Those who resisted, he already mentally stood against a wall. It was not cruelty. It was necessary. He looked out the window at the nighttime Moscow and felt like a surgeon who must amputate gangrene to save the body. Even if the patient screamed and cursed.
3. A Letter from the Leader
Mid-1930s. A large apartment in the Kremlin. It was late, but Stalin wasn't asleep. Before him lay a stack of letters. Denunciations, requests, NKVD reports. He scanned them with a stone face. In the next room, Nadya slept. He heard her breathing.
He found one letter. A complaint about an executed priest. His hand paused for a second, but then he resolutely pushed the paper aside. The thought of God was alien to him. If God exists, he thought, remembering the bruises on his small body from his stepfather, where was He then? Suddenly, the door creaked open. Nadya stood on the threshold, pale, her eyes blazing.
"Are you signing another execution list?" she asked.
He raised his heavy gaze to her.
"It's necessary, Nadya. You don't understand politics. We are building a new society."
"You're killing the country! You're killing everything we built!"
Stalin stood up. Rage flared in his eyes.
"I am building! I carry this empire on my shoulders! And you want to study, sit in an institute, instead of caring for the children. You support my enemies!"
Nadya staggered as if slapped. She ran out of the study, slamming the door. Stalin watched her go, then returned to the table. He picked up a denunciation of one of the old Bolsheviks and wrote a bold resolution: "Shoot." He didn't even flinch. Family, feelings—all were obstacles. Only power and steel.
4. By Lake Ritsa
Abkhazia, summer 1935. A warm wind stirred the foliage. Stalin walked along the path to Lake Ritsa, accompanied by his guards. He loved to rest here, away from the Moscow bustle. But this time, a strange man approached him. He was dressed in an expensive suit but carried himself with an unearthly, frightening confidence.
"I've come from afar, Comrade Stalin," said the stranger, looking straight into his eyes. "From such a distance you cannot even imagine."
Stalin frowned but gestured for the guards to step back. He felt this man was not lying. He sensed it instinctively.
"And what do you want to tell me?"
The stranger spoke of cruelty. Of shootings of priests, of famine, of the Gulag. His voice was calm, but sadness was audible. Stalin listened in silence, biting his pipe. At some point, he felt a strange chill, as if placed before a mirror showing all the dark things he had done.
"On our planet," said the stranger, "we don't shoot. We educate. If children know from childhood what duty and Motherland are, they have no desire to steal or betray."
Stalin looked at the lake's surface. Something resembling doubt stirred inside him. But he immediately suppressed it.
"You speak beautifully," he answered, releasing a puff of smoke. "But my country is sick. To heal it, sometimes you have to cauterize. Your methods... they are for a world where people are born angels. And my people are wolves. I know them."
Nevertheless, that meeting remained in his memory. After the conversation, he issued several orders to strengthen educational work in schools. As if he had driven in a splinter: what if that strange man was right? But he could no longer change himself. The railway was laid.
5. Time of Beasts
May 1941. Stalin sat in his carriage, parked on a siding in Crimea. Opposite him sat a man with a small toothbrush mustache and a piercing gaze. Hitler.
There were no protocols, no interpreters. It was a meeting of two predators. They talked about spheres of influence, about the future of Europe. Hitler ranted that Bolshevism and National Socialism were similar in their desire for order.
Stalin listened to him, sipping wine, and felt instinctively: this man is an actor. He is deceitful. He is like a fox pretending to be meek to sink his teeth in. An inner voice, the same one that had saved him from hundreds of assassinations, whispered: "He will strike. Strike first when I'm not ready."
"I'm glad we've come to an understanding," said Hitler, extending his hand.
Stalin shook it. The handshake was hard, cold. Looking into the Fuhrer's eyes, Stalin thought of his army, of the tanks that had not yet reached the border. "Idiot," he thought of Hitler. "He's going East, leaving unconquered Europe behind him. He overestimates his strength."
Returning to Moscow, he ordered increased combat readiness. He knew they stood on the edge of an abyss. He knew his country was not ready. But he was confident in one thing: even if Hitler won the battle, he would not win the war. Stalin had another truth—an iron will, backed by fear and blood.
6. Old Age and Deafness
Autumn 1952. Kuntsevo Dacha. Stalin felt the years pressing on his shoulders. He increasingly caught himself thinking that he was surrounded by cowards. He had purged his old comrades, imprisoned or shot everyone he suspected. Now he was surrounded by silence. Children rarely visited him. Vasily drank, Svetlana was distant.
In the evening, sitting in an armchair, he looked at Lenin's portrait. Fragments of the past raced through his head: Peter the Third, the seminary, exiles, the screams of the executed, the victory salute. He had put everything into this state. His whole soul.
Sometimes, in fits of insomnia, he thought of Nadya. That she had been right. But he immediately drove away these thoughts. If he had shown weakness, he would have been devoured long ago. Fear and shame are for the weak. He was strong. He was the only one who held this vast country from falling apart.
It seemed to him that he heard the voice of that strange man by Lake Ritsa: "You will be hated." Stalin grinned into the darkness. Hatred? Fine. But they will fear. And fear is order. He closed his eyes, feeling his heart pound heavily. Something constricted in his chest, and the world swam in a red haze. But even in this haze, he clung to consciousness. No weakness. Never.
7. Shadows Behind Him
He felt something snap. His body became heavy, motionless. He wanted to call the guards, but his voice wouldn't obey. It seemed someone had poured lead into his mouth. He wheezed, but the sound died in the sheets. He lay in his bedroom, on a hard bed, staring at the ceiling.
Days and nights merged into one long, sticky agony. He heard voices behind the door, the whispers of the guards. They were afraid to enter. They waited for him to die. Stalin wanted to rage, order them in, but could only move his fingers.
At some point, he slipped into darkness. And when he came to, he stood beside his bed, looking at the withered, dead body. An old man with a gray mustache. He looked at "himself" and felt nothing. Neither fear nor pain. Only surprise.
And suddenly the world exploded with light. Not lamp light, but a bright, pure, all-penetrating knowledge. It burst into his essence: "I am Koba. I am Joseph. I am Spirit. I am the One who was Peter." Memories of past lives flooded in. He saw himself as an Angel flying in Divine light at the eighteenth level. He saw himself in the body of Peter the Third, weak and indecisive. He remembered his true task—to become a priest, to carry Love and raise children.
"I deviated..." he whispered into the void. "I chose power over Love."
Entities appeared before him. Luminous, tall, they looked at him with sadness. His vibration level had dropped. He was now on the sixth floor of the universe. Where those who serve Freedom of Choice live, even if that choice is evil.
"You knew you would be there," said one of them.
Stalin nodded. He looked back on his past life. On endless executions, on the Gulag, on millions of deaths, on the famine in Ukraine, on his betrayed sons. He did not feel remorse in the sense people understand it. He felt only satisfaction that he had survived and not given up.
In the distance, he noticed his son Vasily, who had been killed in captivity. Their eyes met. There was neither forgiveness nor greeting. Only the cold understanding of a shared fate.
"I did it for order," said Joseph, addressing the void. "I gave them fear so they wouldn't destroy each other. It's not good, but it was right."
The Angels didn't argue. They just left him in his own world—a world of power, where Archons rule. Stalin looked at his hands. They were no longer the hands of an old man, but the hands of a teacher. He had fifteen hundred students. They sat around, ready to listen to stories about how iron will rules the world. He took a deep breath—for the first time in many decades without chest pain—and began his story. The story of how one man brought an entire planet to its knees.
Cassiopeia #381 Live Broadcast. Communication with the Spirit of Joseph Stalin.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/obshchenie-s-duhom-iosifa-stalina
Wolf Messing
Stories about the Life of Wolf Messing
Story One. The First Prophecy
Little Wolf stood by the barn door, peering into the darkness. There, in the corner where the old cow Zlatka lay, he saw something strange—a thin silvery stream stretching from the animal's belly upward to the ceiling. The stream was visibly thinning, turning into a barely visible thread.
"Mother," he called. "The cow will die tonight."
His mother laughed, stroked Zlatka's side, and said the cow was healthy and cheerfully chewing hay. But Wolf knew. He couldn't explain where this knowledge came from, but he felt life leaving the animal like water from a cracked jug.
In the morning, his mother woke him with a scream. Zlatka lay motionless, her eyes glazed. Mother shook Wolf by the shoulders, asking how he knew. He looked at her with genuine surprise:
"Couldn't you see?"
That day, he first understood that the world looked different to him than to others. And this knowledge was simultaneously a gift and a curse.
Story Two. Hide and Seek
Wolf was nine when he stopped playing hide and seek with other children. Not because he didn't like it, but because he always knew where everyone was hiding. He saw dark patches of their auras behind doors, under beds, in bushes. He saw their fears and desires, their little secrets.
"You're cheating!" Janek, the noisiest boy in their yard, would shout. "You're peeking!"
"I'm not peeking," Wolf would reply quietly. "I just... know."
He couldn't lie. When the neighbor girl Hanka secretly ate a candy from the buffet, he accidentally mentioned it in front of her mother. When the teacher at school thought about his sick wife, Wolf approached him after class and asked: "Will she get better?"
He saw surprised looks, heard whispers behind his back. "Strange boy," people said. "Not of this world." Wolf wanted to be like everyone else, wanted not to see what was hidden. But the images came on their own—bright, vivid, unbearably real. And the more he tried to shut himself off, the clearer the visions became.
Story Three. Doctor Abel
Wolf woke on a hospital bed. The last thing he remembered was a cold autumn rain and the concrete floor of an abandoned construction site. He was on the brink of death when they found him and brought him to Doctor Abel's clinic.
"You talked in your sleep," said the doctor, sitting down beside him. "You named names, described places. Where do you know them from?"
Wolf didn't answer. He looked at the doctor and saw his aura darkening around his heart. Something was troubling this man.
"Your wife is sick," Wolf said quietly. "She's in the hospital."
The doctor turned pale. His lips moved soundlessly.
"How do you know?"
So began their strange games. The doctor would think of an object, and Wolf would try to guess. Sometimes he succeeded, more often not. Instead of an envelope, he saw a pen; instead of a book, a notebook. But sometimes the images were frighteningly accurate.
"You guessed right," the doctor said one day. "But you got the details wrong. Why?"
"I don't see your thought," Wolf replied. "I see what you feel. The envelope and the pen are the same thing to you. A letter."
The doctor was silent for a long time, and then he said:
"You don't just read thoughts. You read the soul."
Story Four. The Glass Cube
The Berlin Panopticon hummed with visitor voices. People came to see the miracle—a man who didn't eat or drink for days, lying in a glass cube. They paid money, poked him with needles to check if he was alive.
Wolf lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. He heard laughter and whispers, felt curiosity and cruelty in the auras of the spectators. But he was silent because this was his job. The circus. A trick for rich idlers.
At night, when the museum closed, Doctor Abel and a nurse came. They brought bread and water, carefully covered him with a blanket.
"Why do you do this?" the doctor once asked.
Wolf shrugged:
"To survive. To later show people they are not alone in this world. That there is something greater than their petty money games."
He didn't know then that this path would lead him to countries he hadn't even dreamed of. That his name would become a legend. That one day he would predict the end of the most terrible war in human history. At that time, he was just a boy from a Jewish shtetl who could see what was hidden.
Story Five. Escape
The Gestapo burst into his room at night. They shouted, beat him, twisted his arms. Why? For telling the truth—that Hitler would lose the war. Simple words spoken in a moment of forgetfulness when he suddenly saw a picture from his strange future-past.
Seven days in a cell. Seven days of hunger, cold, and fear. He knew he would be shot. He knew it as surely as he once knew about the cow's death. But he also knew—he had a chance.
A piece of glass found during exercise. A cut on his arm he learned to make so there was plenty of blood but minimal harm. Blood trickled under the cell door in a thin stream.
They rushed in, thinking he had killed himself. He pretended to be dead, let himself be carried on a stretcher to the window. And as they passed an open casement, he lunged forward—down into the darkness, into freedom.
The pain in his knees was unbearable. But he ran, limping, through the night streets, feeling the shouts fade behind him. He had escaped. Again. As if fate itself led him by the hand, whispering: "It's too early for you. You must tell people what I have put in your heart."
Story Six. Aida
She was tall, plump, with kind eyes in which the entire universe seemed to shine. Wolf met her at one of his performances when she looked at him with such faith and warmth that he forgot all his tricks and sleights.
"Do you know what I'm thinking?" he asked her.
"Yes," she answered. "You think I'm one of those who came just to gawk. But I came because I believe in you."
They married a year later. Aida became his support, his light, his connection to the real world. They traveled together through cities, together experienced fame and hatred, recognition and contempt.
She could never bear him children. It was a secret pain they didn't discuss. But when Wolf once saw her aura, he understood—she would leave soon. The image of death stood beside her like a shadow.
He was silent. He couldn't say it. Thought he could cheat fate. But that night, when her heart stopped, he understood—he had lost again. And for the rest of his life, he blamed himself for not warning her, not asking the Guardian Angels to intervene.
After Aida's death, he changed. His gift became a burden, his prophecies a curse. He started drinking, stopped caring for his health, traveled from city to city like a wound-up mechanism. His legs, injured during his escape from the Gestapo, began to fail. But he continued performing as long as he could stand. Because it was the only thing he knew how to do.
Story Seven. The White Light
He lay on a hospital bed, feeling life leave his body. Doctors bustled around, nurses ran along the corridor, a high voice shouted: "What's happening? Everything was fine!"
Wolf smiled. He knew the end was near. And for the first time in years, he wasn't afraid. He knew that beyond that door, they were waiting for him.
The plunge into blackness was swift. And then—bright yellow light, a huge sun in which he floated, weightless and free. Warm, strong hands held him. Two beautiful men looked at him with smiles.
"We are Angel-guides," they said. "We will take you home."
Wolf looked around. Somewhere far below lay the hospital, his old body, his fears and doubts. None of it mattered anymore.
"My wife?" he asked. "Aida?"
"She is waiting for you. But first—a meeting with the Creator. To see your life, understand your lessons, realize your path."
They rose higher and higher, and Wolf saw the layers of being open before him like pages of a book. He saw his life—and the life of Ellen, a girl from 2213, who was also him once. He saw how all his incarnations were connected, how each was a step on the path to light.
Then came a bridge of light, and on the other side stood she—Aida. Young, beautiful, radiant.
"I waited for you," she said. "And I forgive you. For everything."
Wolf stepped into her embrace, and the world exploded in a thousand colors. He felt like a child returning home after a long, long journey.
And then—white light, pure and clear. And a voice sounding within him:
"You did it. You learned your lesson. Now—rest."
Wolf closed his eyes, enjoying the peace he had never known in life. And in this eternal silence, he finally understood what true freedom is.
Cassiopeia #386 Live Broadcast. Communication with the Spirit of Wolf Messing.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/obshchenie-s-duhom-volfa-messinga
Matrona of Moscow
Story 1. Priestess of the Green Star
I remember this world differently. There was no Sun as you know it—light flowed from the planet itself, piercing through the dense, emerald atmosphere. My fingers, long and flexible, sorted through cold ritual knives. I was the high priestess in a temple carved into a rock reaching into the sky.
The people here were different: dark green skin, elongated faces, huge eyes that saw in the infrared spectrum. They feared the gods who lived in the planet's depths, and I appeased their wrath. I decided who would live and who would become a sacrifice to appease the elements. I felt their fear as I raised my hands over the altar.
But one day, looking into the fire, I realized there was emptiness inside me. Power didn't fill the Soul; it only drained it. I had prayed to the wrong gods. That night, I asked the Universe for a chance to be born where Light is not a rarity but the norm. I wanted to learn Love, not power. And I was heard.
Story 2. The Breath of Earth
My next body had no eyes or hands. I was a plasmoid—a clot of sentient energy hovering over the black soil. It was an incarnation on the subtle plane, at the ninth level of density of your planet.
I felt every grain of sand, every mineral. My task was both tedious and majestic: I monitored the balance of particles in the soil. I felt rain dissolving salt, tree roots extracting iron, worms processing rot into life. I was the Spirit of the Earth, its breath.
It was serenity. No fuss, no sacrifices, only the eternal cycle. I learned patience. I watched continents crawl toward each other, mountains rise. But I grew cramped in this cycle. I wanted to know what pain was, what the joy of touch was. I wanted to become human.
Story 3. Veronica, Who Touched the Miracle
That day in Jerusalem was stuffy. Dust rose in columns, but I pushed through the crowd, suffocating from the heat and my illness. Blood consumed me from within; doctors were powerless. I knew if I didn't reach Him today, I would die tomorrow.
I saw the hem of His garment hanging from His shoulder. He walked slowly, surrounded by disciples. My strength was failing, but I gathered the last of my will, fell to my knees, and touched the hand of His robe. At that very moment, I felt the black heaviness leave my chest. The illness evaporated as if it had never been.
He turned. His gaze pierced me through, but there was no anger in it, only infinite sadness and love. "Daughter, be of good cheer! Your faith has saved you," He said. I wept with joy. Then I understood that faith is not ritual. It is instantaneous trust capable of tearing the fabric of illness and death.
Story 4. The Blind Girl from the Village
I was born in November. My mother wept when the midwife said I had no eyeballs. The world was dark for me, but not empty. I heard luminous beings whispering in the corner of my cradle. They had come from the Sun and other stars to protect me.
I didn't see faces, but I saw Souls. People came to me as luminous crystals pierced by thorns of pain and fear. I felt my fingers, touching their heads, catch the hum of their thoughts. I knew their sins, their secrets. I was frightened by this knowledge, but I knew it was my cross.
My father wanted to abandon me in the forest, but my mother intervened. I survived. I understood that blindness was given to me so I could see not the outer shell, but the essence. I saw people smile while inside they screamed with loneliness. I saw them kill themselves with lies.
Story 5. Humility Without Legs
I remember that evening. I left the church, proud that dozens of people were healed through my prayers. I looked at my parents, who disapproved of my activities, and pride crept into my heart: "I am better than them. I am chosen."
I went to sleep with this feeling, and in a dream, Archangel Michael descended to me. His wings shone so brightly I couldn't look. He didn't say a word, only pointed at my legs.
In the morning, I couldn't stand. My legs were paralyzed. Bitterness and terror flooded me. I screamed at God: "Why?!" But only silence answered. I had to crawl on my hands, I had to ask strangers to carry me.
Years passed. Only when I left the body did I understand the truth. That thought of superiority was poison. If I had remained on my feet, this poison would have corroded my Soul, and I would have fallen into pride. God took my legs to give me wings. He showed me that true strength lies in accepting help from others, in humility. Without that loss, I would never have risen to the Light.
Story 6. The Commissar and the Burning Lamp
In Moscow, it was cold and hungry. I lay on the bed, motionless, and heard heavy steps in the corridor. The door burst open. A commissar entered—young, but with a black clot of malice around his heart. He had come to arrest me and the owners of the house. Behind him, children cried.
I wasn't afraid for myself. I prayed to God for those children, for those people who had sheltered me. I looked at the commissar's dark figure and suddenly saw his true face—he was not an enemy, just a frightened man.
My lips began to speak of their own accord. I didn't know what I would say. I uttered: "Go and save your wife! While there's still time. I'm not going anywhere." He froze, confusion flickering in his eyes. Then he turned and left.
Later I learned that at that very minute while he stood here, a kerosene lamp had overturned in his house, and his wife was choking in the smoke. He returned just in time to carry her out. For this, he was dismissed and sent to prison. But I saved his life and saved the children's lives. So I learned that evil often wears a mask, and behind the mask of a villain hides a man who simply forgot about Love.
Story 7. Meeting in the White Light
My last breath left my body. I felt the silver thread break, and I soared upward. Below remained my hut, my pillow, my sick, tormented body. And here, above, He awaited me—Archangel Michael. I floated to him, and he smiled.
"Well, Matrena," he asked, "will you ask me for the frivolous again?" I wept, but these were tears of joy. I felt light as a cloud. I turned and saw the Ribbon of Time—my whole life, from the first breath to the last. I saw every mistake, every fall, and every moment of true Love.
Relatives appeared beside me. That very brother who had betrayed me out of fear fell to his knees before me. I embraced him, feeling my Soul forgive him. Then I turned to the Light. There, on high, stood the Father. I understood I had returned home. My level had risen from eighth to twenty-first. Earth was behind me, but I knew: I still hear those who whisper my name in churches. I am an Angel. I am Matrona. And I will wait for them here to guide them into the Light when their time comes.
Cassiopeia #483 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Matrona of Moscow.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-matrony-moskovskoj
Xenia of Petersburg
Story One. The Fourth Daughter
On Vasilievsky Island, where the damp wind from the Neva chilled to the bone, silence reigned in the house of the merchant Grigory. Too heavy a silence for a family where three small coffins had already gone into the ground. Pelageya, his wife, barely rose from her bed, praying before the dark image of the Mother of God, her legs refusing to hold her.
When Xenia was born—the fourth and last—Grigory wept for the first time in many years. Not from grief, but from tenderness. "Survive," he whispered, looking at the wrinkled red bundle. "You are our hope."
She grew up in the shop, among the smells of molasses and old leather. Her small, tenacious hands helped her father sort bagels, and her mother, looking at her, sometimes forgot her pain. Xenia was the living amulet of that house. An angel who had descended to heal the wounds left by death.
At night, when the city plunged into fog, the girl saw strange lights. Balls shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow circled over the rooftops. She wasn't afraid. She knew these were friends from distant worlds coming to check on how their old acquaintance was growing. For Xenia's soul remembered more than she could tell.
Story Two. Meeting at the Icon
She was fifteen when she first saw Andrei. He stood by the chapel, where a lamp burned before the image of the Savior, and seemed alien in this world of bustle. An officer, with a straight back and sad eyes, looked not at the icon, but through it.
Xenia entered, and something trembled in the air. Souls made for each other always recognize each other. She didn't approach him, but her heart beat faster. He also turned and froze. There were no words between them. Only the feeling that somewhere high, beyond time, a decree had already sounded: "They shall be together."
Grigory long refused the marriage: too young, too hot-blooded. But Andrei waited. He waited three years for her coming of age, and for three years, she saw him at services—silent and faithful.
When they were wed, Xenia lowered her eyes and smiled. She knew: this was not just marriage. This was a union recorded in heaven. But there, in heaven, she vaguely saw a shadow that would overshadow their happiness too soon.
Story Three. Emptiness and a Voice
Andrei faded slowly. First his legs refused to walk, then the fever began, and he raved, whispering words full of malice. He condemned his superiors, his relatives, the world. Xenia sat at his bedside, held his hot hand, and felt the light leaving him. Doctors shrugged. But she knew the true cause: he himself had poisoned himself with the filth accumulating in his heart.
He died at dawn. And at that very moment, Xenia felt his voice resound in her head. Clear, frightened. "I didn't have time... Forgive..."
Was she losing her mind? No. She just ceased to be alone. Andrei settled in her consciousness, and she became his voice, his repentance, his prayer.
People heard her say strange things: "Andrei didn't die; he lives in me." And they crossed themselves, thinking the poor widow had lost her mind. But Xenia spoke the truth. She took his sins upon herself, like a burden, and walked the streets of Petersburg to wash them away with tears and alms.
Story Four. The Wanderer
She gave away everything. The house where they lived, her father's shop, her dresses, even her wedding ring. Everything went to the poor, the crippled, the orphans. Andrei, observing from the subtle world, whispered: "Why are you doing this?" But Xenia only shook her head. "It's your property," she answered mentally. "Let these people pray for you, eating a piece of bread bought with your coin."
Now she wore a tattered robe, once green, now gray with age. She didn't know where she would sleep that night. Sometimes the kind-hearted would shelter her; sometimes she slept right on the ground, in the field, under the open sky.
The field was her temple. There, in the silence where only the wind was heard, she felt God closer than in any cathedral. The city pressed on her with the weight of others' sins, but nature cleansed her.
She wandered like this for twenty years. Twenty winters when the wind chilled her to the bone, and twenty springs when she thawed with the earth. And one day, standing in the field, she suddenly saw not just the world, but its subtle threads. She understood: she saw the future. Not as a picture, but as a choice. "Go there, and it will be painful; go here, and you will find happiness." People, looking into her strange eyes, began to see clearly.
Story Five. Child of God
People flocked to her. First afraid, then accustomed. Some sought healing, others advice. There was a woman who could not give birth for a long time. She came to Xenia in despair, and Xenia, looking at her empty womb, saw a small soul afraid to enter this world.
"Don't be afraid," Xenia whispered to the invisible. "It's good here. I will be your godmother."
The woman left, and nine months later gave birth to a healthy boy. She named him Andrei, after Xenia's deceased husband. So Xenia became a mother not to her own, but to everyone. She adopted every soul seeking comfort.
When people came to her with hatred in their hearts, she said: "Do not ask me for revenge. I can only do love." And the angry left with nothing, while the good—with hope. She was not a judge. She was a mother.
Story Six. The Last Path
In the fiftieth year of her wandering, she felt an unprecedented lightness. Her body ached, her feet were rubbed raw, but her soul sang. She knew: the time was near.
On her last day, she came to the chapel where she would later be buried. People, learning the Blessed One was dying, gathered around. Xenia lay on a bare bench, and in her eyes flickered a light not found among the living.
She whispered: "Don't weep. I'm not leaving. I'm becoming closer."
She took a deep breath and exhaled. And in that instant, the body became empty, and the Spirit—vast as the sky. She rose above the city and saw it all—Petersburg, with its canals and bridges, with its sins and prayers. And she promised herself: "I will stay here. I will be the curator of this place."
Story Seven. Angel of Petersburg
There, where there is no time, she met Andrei. He came to her, young and happy, without the dark shadow that tormented him on Earth. "You saved me," he said. "No," she replied. "You wanted to save yourself. I only helped."
Her Spirit level rose to that of Angel-prophets. She was offered to incarnate again—on other planets, in other bodies. But she refused. "There are still many people here who need motherly love. I will stay here to pray for them."
Now she is the White Light over the chapel. She hears every note left at her grave. She feels every heartfelt word. She comes to those who call her, as a phantom, as a shadow, or as a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day.
Petersburg sleeps under a gray sky, but above it, invisible to eyes, Xenia soars. She did not die. She passed into eternity to remain forever. And everyone who says: "Blessed Xenia, help," will feel warmth, like a mother's hand stroking their head.
Cassiopeia #555 Live Broadcast with the Spirit of Xenia of Petersburg.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-s-duhom-ksenii-peterburgskoj
Helena Blavatsky
1. "The Glass Sphere" (Childhood. First Out-of-Body Experience)
The darkness was not just an absence of light—it was alive, thick, and oppressive. The blanket, so light by day, now felt like a lead plate pressing me to the bed. The room smelled of wax from the candle the nanny had blown out, and wet wood outside the window.
I was seven years old. I hated this pre-sleep silence because it was precisely then that shadows began to stir and voices spoke that no one but me could hear. I opened my eyes and tried to throw off the heaviness. My hand jerked upward, but instead of the usual motion, I saw it glowing—phosphorescent, translucent.
I was frightened. But the fear was strange; it drove me not back to bed, but outward. I wanted to stand up and look in the mirror. And in that instant, I was standing at the foot of the bed, but... I saw myself. There, on the pillow, lay a girl with disheveled braids, her chest rising and falling slowly. I was there and here at once.
My heart pounded so hard I feared it would wake the whole house. The voices in the corner fell silent. They were watching me. In the darkness, the outlines of two tall figures who didn't touch the floor became visible. They weren't evil, but they were alien.
I drew back into my body like water into a jug and sat until morning, staring at the ceiling. I knew I would never be like everyone else. And that this journey was only the first of thousands I was destined to make.
2. "The Wedding Knot" (Marriage and Escape)
The wedding seemed like a game. I was sixteen when we were introduced. Nikifor was nearly sixty, smelled of tobacco and old leather, and his mustache bristled like an old tomcat's. Grandmother whispered he was a reliable match, that he would protect me from my "oddities."
I was naive. I thought marriage meant tea parties in the drawing-room and walks in the garden.
The first month he was affectionate. He showed me his house in the suburbs, gave me flowers. But when I crossed the threshold of his bedroom, the world collapsed. The pain was unbearable, like a red-hot rod piercing me through. I screamed, and he didn't stop. He was heavy, sweaty, and distant. Then he grew angry at my tears. He said I was "spoiled" and that he would cure me with "strictness."
I fled at dawn. Barefoot on the stone slabs of the courtyard, with one small suitcase. I reached my father's house, but my grandmother slammed the door in my face. My father listened to me. And instead of returning me to my husband, he gave me money.
"Go," he said. "Live as you can. You weren't made for cages."
I took a carriage to Istanbul. I didn't yet know I would play the piano in taverns, ride in a circus until my first injury, and sleep in port warehouses. But I already knew I would never again let a man hurt me.
3. "Lucifer and Dust" (Spiritualist Séances. The Show)
In London, I was poor. But I was needed.
People wanted miracles. They came to our rooms, smelling of stale curtains, and demanded the dead speak. I saw their greedy faces. They wanted not truth—they wanted spectacle.
I agreed to theatrics. Holes were cut in the walls leading to the next room where my assistants hid. When I called the Spirit, they would push an ancient parchment through the gap, supposedly written by a pharaoh's hand. I felt like a fraud. But I believed the end justified the means. If they saw a "miracle," they would make me speak, and then I could tell them the truth about the universe.
But once, during a séance, I summoned the wrong one. Instead of a subtle Spirit, a Plasmoid came. It was hungry. Candles went out, and icy cold descended on the room. I heard one of the soldiers who had come as a spectator jump up and shout he saw a demon. He drew a pistol.
The bullet whistled two inches from my temple and embedded in the wall. I looked into that man's eyes, and in them was madness. The Plasmoid was feeding on his fear.
After that, I stopped staging fake shows. I gave myself to real contacts. But I realized that power is not tricks. Power is when you look down the barrel of a pistol and feel no fear because you know you are only a conduit.
4. "The Celestial Guest" (Meeting with Oudus. Esler)
I was already over thirty. I stood on a vacant lot outside the city, inhaling the smell of damp grass. I was waiting for him. He had come to me in a dream, named a planet "Aramia," and said the world was not structured as the priests taught.
I was used to voices. But this one was different. It was clear as crystal chimes. It didn't make me tremble; it made me think.
A light flared in the sky. It was not a star's light. It was an object descending smoothly, like a leaf onto water. When it hovered over the field, I felt heat and vibration passing through my bones.
He stepped out. He wasn't human, but he looked human. Tall, with elongated features, like statues I'd seen in Egypt. His name was Oudus. He said he had been watching me since childhood. That my painful sensitivity to voices was not a curse, but an invitation to communication.
"We will give you knowledge," he said. "But this knowledge will be heavy. You will become the one who is the bridge."
I nodded. I entered his ship. As we took off, Earth became like a blue bead lost in blackness. I wept, but not from fear. From happiness. I finally understood that I was not alone.
5. "The Red Feather" (Tibet. Initiation)
Inside the mountain, it was cold and silent. I followed Oudus through a narrow corridor that seemed to lead to the heart of Kailash. The walls glowed with a dim greenish light.
"Is this Shambhala?" I whispered.
"No," he answered. "It's a portal. A base."
There were no monks here. There was equipment emitting a low hum. I lay down on a stone slab. I knew it would hurt. In a past life, I was a cruel man to my wife—Vasily Dolgoruky. And karma had returned to me in the form of the physical pathology of my current body. I couldn't have children. I couldn't love men. It was my punishment.
Oudus touched my temple with his fingers. I felt an intrusion, like a tiny spark searing my brain.
"This is a chip," he said. "It will write knowledge into you. It will harmonize your chaos. But you must be prepared for the world not to accept you."
I clenched my teeth. I felt streams of information pour into my soul—cosmic maps, names of star rulers, the structure of time lines. I saw everything at once. Past, present, and thousands of branches of the future.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer just Helena. I was part of something vast. I was that very conduit for which I had come into this world.
6. "The Voice of the Silence" (Books and Betrayal)
In India, I wrote "The Secret Doctrine." My fingers burned, and voices in different languages sounded in my head. I rose at five in the morning and sat down at the table to write what the luminous entities from the Interstellar Union dictated. I barely ate. I lived for this text.
But the disciples I trusted turned out to be insatiable. They wanted money. They wanted power. They found a wealthy raja's son and began demanding gold from him, speculating on my name. I forbade it. I said truth is not for sale.
Then they forged my letters. They wrote that I myself taught them to deceive people and that all my "miracles" were only cheap circus. Newspapers printed this filth. My old friends turned away from me.
I sat in my room, looking at the stack of written paper, and felt hatred and resentment corrode my chest. But then I took a pen and wrote: "Lucifer." I remembered that this name means "Light-bringer." And that Christ Himself is called that in the Bible.
I decided I would not explain to fools what Light is. I would just continue to carry it. Even if they stoned me. Even if they called me a witch. I knew my book would outlive them all.
7. "Farewell, Planet" (Departure from Life. The Transition)
The heat in Rome was stifling. It seeped through the thin walls of my room and enveloped my weak body. I had been ill for several months. The doctor shook his head and said something about kidneys and overwork. But I knew the truth. My vessel was cracking at the seams. I had squeezed everything I could from it.
I lay with my eyes closed, but I saw. Everything. I saw Oudus's hands standing at my bedside in astral form. I saw my field begin to peel away from my skin.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"I want to sleep," I whispered. "I am so tired of carrying this stone."
He took my hand. Actually, he took my spirit-hand, which was already beginning to glow. I heard the maid weeping in the corridor. She was calling a priest. But I no longer needed a priest.
I rose. I looked back at my body lying on the bed. Wrinkled, with gray strands scattered on the pillow. It was no longer me.
I moved to the center of the room and began to ascend. The ceiling disappeared. The roof disappeared. I saw Rome from a bird's-eye view, then Italy, then the blue sphere of Earth.
It rotated slowly, majestically, exuding a thin film of atmosphere.
"I will return," I said.
"You will incarnate on Esler," answered Oudus's luminous voice. "You will be a child there. You will be reborn into my family."
"Good," I agreed, feeling waves of warmth and peace spread through my being. No pain. No heaviness.
I dived into the Divine Light like warm water, and at that moment, I felt myself falling asleep, to wake again—small, pure, ready for a new path.
The End.
Cassiopeia #592 True Revelations: Channeling with the Spirit of Helena Blavatsky.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/istinnye-otkroveniya-chenneling-s-duhom-eleny-blav
Luke of Crimea
Story 1. The Boy from Kyiv
Time: 1877. Kyiv.
It smelled of fresh wax and old wood. Little Valya stood at the church entrance, clutching the lace hem of his grandmother's skirt. Now, decades later, he couldn't have said exactly what first drew him there. Probably the voice. That special, velvety voice with which the deacon read prayers penetrated somewhere under his ribs and made his heart beat faster.
His mother tugged his hand: "Come on, Valentin, you still have lessons to do. Your father doesn't want you wasting time on empty things." His father was a Catholic, a dry, practical man who believed in order and laws, but not miracles. Yet his mother, seeing her son's burning gaze, sometimes secretly brought him here.
That day, he saw the icon of the Mother of God. The face was stern, sad, but it seemed to the boy that she was looking directly at him, through the crowd and centuries. He closed his eyes and suddenly clearly, distinctly, as never before, understood: this light, this warmth emanating from the image, was native. It was more than just a picture.
"Mother," he whispered quietly, "I recognized her. She came to me in a dream."
His mother crossed herself and pressed him to her, saying nothing. But Valentin remembered that feeling. He didn't know then that he carried within him the memory of a home, of a family he had lived in two thousand years ago, and that the Virgin Mary was for him not just a saint, but the one who held him in her arms when he was a child.
From that day, his soul forever strove toward heaven, toward medicine, and toward God. He did not separate these two worlds. For him, healing the body and praying for the soul were one action.
Story 2. Disciple of the Lion
Time: 6th century BC. Babylon.
The sky over Babylon was low and heavy with heat. A young man, called simply Jonah here, sat at the feet of an elder whose eyes saw more than the stars in the sky. The elder was the seer Daniel, the same one who had survived the lion's den.
"You must listen not to the words people speak," said Daniel, "but to the silence between them. Because the Spirit speaks in silence."
Jonah, the incarnation of the Spirit who would later become Luke of Crimea, greedily absorbed every word. In a past life, he had been a worker in China; in the next, a life beside Christ awaited him. But now, here, he was learning the most important thing—to transmit.
Daniel was a great contactee of his time, but an even greater teacher. He taught Jonah not to distort the message, not to introduce fear or pride into it. "Look," the elder once said, pointing to the sky, "there the world does not lie. Only man deceives. Therefore, you must become pure as water, so that light flows through you without admixture."
Jonah remembered this. Centuries later, during torture and interrogations, he would remember Daniel's instruction: to speak the truth as it is, even if it earns a slap. Daniel taught that truth is above fear, and truth is stronger than death. This school of spiritual clarity he passed through in the dusty courtyards of ancient Babylon.
When the elder died, Jonah left the city. He walked toward the sunset, and the sun's light illuminated his path to the next incarnation.
Story 3. Brother of the Savior
Time: 33 AD. Jerusalem.
He stood at the foot of Golgotha, clenching his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. The wind drove sand, the sky turned ashen, and the earth shuddered with sobs. His name was Jonah. He was the younger brother of the One who now hung on the cross.
How he hated himself for not being able to help! For not being able to climb that hill and tear out the nails, heal His wounds, shout at the Romans to stop. Rage raged inside him. Jonah looked at the people around: some wept, others gloated. His mother—the Virgin Mary—stood like stone, and he felt her soul was on that cross too.
"Why?" he whispered in despair, looking up. "Why did You allow this? If You are the Son of God... why don't You save Yourself?"
The answer came not in words. It came as a feeling—deep, piercing calm emanating from Jesus. Jonah suddenly understood: this was not defeat. This was victory. He saw the Father turn away in that moment so the Son could atone for the fullness of sin, and how in that moment the salvation of the world was accomplished.
Jonah fell to his knees. He understood the true nature of Love—the kind that sacrifices itself so others may live. This lesson was imprinted on his Soul. In the future, when the world would call him Saint Luke, he would never allow himself to hate his enemies, because he had seen how Love triumphs even over death.
Story 4. Argument in the Operating Room
Time: 1937. Arkhangelsk.
The frost outside was so thick the windows were covered in a thick layer of rime. The operating room smelled of iodine, ether, and sterile cold. Archbishop Luke, also Professor Valentin Voino-Yasenetsky, bent over the table. His hands, no longer young but incredibly precise, like those of a jeweler-surgeon, held a scalpel.
On the wall above the operating table, despite prohibitions and orders, hung an icon of the Mother of God. He knew it was dangerous. He was already being persecuted through camps for his faith. But if he removed Her, who would be here, in this cold hole, to guard the patient's life? Medicine does its work, but without Blessing, there is no healing.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Two men in peaked caps entered. The senior, with a red face, grabbed the icon.
"Remove this!" he barked. "This is a hospital, not a church! Obscurantism!"
Valentin didn't turn around. His fingers continued to suture, joining the torn tissues of a soldier's leg.
"Remove the icon from the operating room," he said quietly but firmly, "and I will leave. I will not perform another operation in this building. I do not work where prayer is not permitted."
A deathly silence fell. The assistant froze. The investigator reddened to the roots of his hair. The icon trembled in his hand. He could have taken Luke right then, thrown him in a cellar, shot him. But he knew: the senior doctor, the only one here who could remove bullets from livers and repair shattered joints, was needed by the system.
The investigator threw the icon on the table and left. Luke crossed the wounded man, kissed the image, and hung it back. "Forgive them, Lord," he whispered. "For they know not what they do."
Story 5. A Slap at the Interrogation
Time: 1941. Exile.
"Are you for Soviet power or against it?" The investigator leaned forward, his eyes burning. The lamp's light fell on the table, leaving the surgeon's face in semi-darkness. The investigator was about twenty-five, young, ambitious, with a hot, puppy-like gaze.
Valentin sat with a perfectly straight back. Not broken, not frightened.
"I am for Soviet power," he replied calmly. "The laws it has given are just. There is work. There are pensions. That is good."
The investigator smiled, sensing weakness.
"But I am against the methods you use to implement communism," Luke continued. "Shootings, violence, persecution of faith... Behind this stands Satan."
The investigator jumped up. A short swing, and a heavy palm struck Luke's face. His head jerked, blood appeared in his mouth, but in the old surgeon's eyes, there was no rage, only cold, icy calm.
"By striking me," said Luke, spitting out blood, "you have proven that you have lost spiritually. If you had arguments, you would seek reasons. But you only have a fist."
The room fell into a ringing void. The investigator paled, then reddened, then his face contorted in such a grimace of impotent rage that he stormed out of the office, slamming the door.
Luke closed his eyes and thought: "Lord, give me strength not to hold a grudge against this boy. He is just blind. He does not see You."
And he forgave him immediately. At once, in that same second.
Story 6. Darkness and Light
Time: 1958. Simferopol.
In his last years, his eyesight almost completely failed. The world around darkened: outlines became blurred, people turned into shadows, and books into white noise. For a surgeon accustomed to seeing the finest capillaries and rejoining nerves, it was a terrible blow. But Luke did not complain.
During his evening prayer, he asked himself: "Why, Lord? Why do I, who served people, lose the light?"
In response, an amazing clarity descended upon him. He understood: his eyes were tired of seeing evil. He had spent so many years looking into open wounds, witnessing the cruelty of authorities, the tears of mothers, and mangled bodies. His soul rebelled against this injustice, and even if he accepted it intellectually, his heart screamed: "I don't want to see this anymore!"
And the Higher Self, responding to his deep desire, took away the sharpness of his vision to save him from anger and despondency. His eyes closed so his soul could remain pure.
Now he saw differently. He saw not faces, but auras. He felt the grace descending on those who prayed, and sensed the presence of angels standing behind every patient. Physical darkness became spiritual light for him. He dictated books, sitting in an armchair with closed eyelids, but the texts that flowed from his pen illuminated the path for thousands.
"Thank You," he whispered, "for this cross."
Story 7. The Transition
Time: 1961. The Transition.
He lay in a small room, feeling his breath weaken. The body, a faithful and exhausted servant, no longer wanted to serve. Luke heard the sobs of loved ones and the whisper of prayers beyond the wall, but it sounded distant, as if through thick water.
He wasn't afraid. He was waiting.
Suddenly, the room disappeared. The walls became transparent, then dissolved into a golden haze. He no longer felt the weight of his legs or the pain in his back. He stood in the midst of radiance, and directly before him stood She.
The Mother of God.
The very one whose image he had kept under glass in the operating room. The very one whose face he had seen in childhood in the Kyiv church. His mother from the distant past, the wife of the prophet Daniel, his protectress.
"Hello, son," She said, and her voice sounded like the music of the spheres.
Beside Her stood Jesus. Not crucified, not suffering, but a King, full of light and power. The Son of God, brother, Teacher.
"You have returned," said Jesus, smiling. "You have made it. You have completed your path."
Behind them stood hosts of angels. Archangel Michael, Archangel Gabriel, and also Mirach Count, who guided him, and all those saints with whom Luke shared the egregore of the Church and Faith.
Luke looked back. He saw his life: childhood, operations, the cold of exile, the investigator's slap, the darkness of blindness. It all flashed by in a second, but he felt no pain from the memories. He felt gratitude.
He stepped forward, to where they were waiting. And in that moment, he felt his Soul's level soar: from the twelfth, with which he entered this incarnation, to the twenty-second—into the realm of Angels and Light.
He was home. His mission, lasting 13 lives on this planet, ended in the triumph of love.
"Father," he whispered, looking back at the earth one last time, "into Thy hands I commit my spirit..."
And the light extinguished all earthly shadows behind it. Eternity had arrived.
Cassiopeia #612 Live Broadcast. Communication with the Spirit of Archbishop Luke of Crimea.
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-obshchenie-s-duhom-arhiepiskopa-luki
Konstantin Tsiolkovsky
1. The Glass Sphere and the Whisper Beyond the Threshold
Childhood, Ryazan Province. Age 5.
It was stuffy in the garden, smelling of wet earth after a thunderstorm. Kostya stood by an old birch tree, looking at the sky where a ray of sun broke through the clouds. Suddenly, this ray seemed to condense, turning into a shimmering glass sphere. The sphere hung in the air, shimmering with all colors, and inside it, Kostya saw distant, unseen worlds.
And then a voice sounded in his head. It wasn't loud, more like his own echo, but it spoke in a language Kostya didn't know yet understood perfectly. The voice spoke of Earth being only a speck of dust, and beyond it—endless rivers of light. Kostya squeezed his eyes shut. He was both frightened and joyful.
"Where are you looking?" came his father's stern voice from behind. Kostya flinched and turned. The sphere had vanished; only clouds remained in the sky. But in his soul remained a strange longing—a longing for something he had never seen but seemed to remember. He didn't tell his father about the wondrous vision. His mother would have believed, but Mother was far away. He hid this memory deep in his heart, like a small, fragile secret.
2. Shadow in the Book Row
Youth. Moscow Library. Age 15.
It smelled of dust, paper, and eternity here. Kostya, hunched over another algebra volume, barely noticed the whispers of other readers. The teachers in the gymnasium didn't understand him, the children laughed at his deafness, but here, in the silence of books, he was free. Yet today, something else distracted him.
Someone called his name. That voice was exactly like the one from distant childhood.
In the evening, as the city plunged into twilight, Kostya went to a vacant lot outside the city limits. He didn't know why he came—his legs carried him involuntarily. The night was moonless. And suddenly, right above him, a shining abyss opened. Light fell from the heavens, enveloping him in warmth. Kostya felt his body become lighter than air.
Inside the glowing "cabin" stood two figures. Their faces were beautiful and serene, long gray hair flowing though there was no wind. One placed his hand on Kostya's chest, and the youth felt strange warmth penetrate his body, strengthening it, giving him strength. It seemed to him he could hear the world as clearly as in early childhood. The contact lasted only a moment, but Kostya returned home with a firm belief that he was not alone, and that stars were not just dots in the sky.
3. Marital Duty and Heavenly Blueprints
Maturity. Borovsk. Life with Varvara.
The room was cramped with books and blueprints. Kostya sat at the table, bent over a sheet covered in formulas. A kerosene lamp flickered. He was calculating air resistance for an ideal airship, but the numbers wouldn't add up.
The door creaked, and Varvara entered. She was quiet and soft as moonlight. Kostya looked up and saw her holding a cup of mint tea. Setting the cup down, Varya came up behind him and hugged his shoulders, pressing her cheek to his back.
"Kostya, it's night. Go to bed," she whispered.
Kostya flinched and shrugged. He loved her as a scientist can love—deeply, but sparingly with affection. Now she was distracting him. He felt her warmth, her desire to be closer, and it irritated him because it tore him away from the world of infinite universes he was building in his head.
"Varya, leave it," he replied sharply. "I have a calculation."
The woman pulled away. Resentment glistened in her eyes, but she controlled herself, only saying quietly: "Your calculations won't disappear, Konstantin. But I'm tired of being a shadow."
He sighed, feeling guilty. Mentally, he apologized to her. He knew she was his angel, his support, sent by God. But how to explain to a woman that his love for her was no less than his passion for calculations, just expressed differently? He caught her hand, kissed it, and said: "Alright. Go, I'll come soon." But alone again, he stared back at the blueprints. The heavens were waiting.
4. Fire and Righteous Anger
Kaluga, 1887.
The smell of smoke was suffocating. Kostya knelt in the middle of what remained of his house and workshop. Everything he had created over the years—models, calculations, his library—turned to ashes and charred sheets. Water from a barrel he had brought dripped from his hair, mixing with tears.
"Why?!" he shouted at the sky, clenching his fists. "Lord, why did you take everything from me?!"
He looked at the smoky sky and demanded an answer. How could God allow this? He was doing everything for science, for knowledge! Neighbors bustled around, but Kostya didn't see them. In his soul, resentment against the Higher Powers, against fate, against this cruel world boiled. He felt betrayed.
The days and weeks after the fire were the hardest. But when the anger subsided and emptiness settled in his soul, Kostya began to sift through the surviving fragments. And then he saw it. The formulas he had so jealously guarded were imperfect. An error had crept in long ago. The fire destroyed the drafts, but it also erased his mistakes from the face of the earth. Kostya sank into a chair and closed his eyes. Complaint gave way to gratitude. "You gave me a chance to start over," he whispered. He took up his pen again. Work resumed with renewed vigor.
5. The Secret Flight
1900s. Meeting with Curators in a Field.
Old Kostya breathed heavily but walked through the wet grass. The mentors from Burhad had summoned him. He was no longer the youth afraid of light; he was ready. Again a bright ray enveloped him, and moments later, he stood on the surface of Mars. The dust under his feet was dry and red.
"Look," the voice of Raom Tiyan sounded in his head. "You must remember this."
Earth hung above him as a small blue ball. Kostya gazed at it mesmerized. There, far below, remained his books, his wife, his classroom. And here—space, which he had described in his fantasies, which he felt on his skin.
"No one will believe me if I tell them," he said bitterly.
"Then write a book about someone else," the voice answered. "Let it be fiction."
Returning home that same hour, he sat down at his desk and began to write. He composed stories about how "a certain hero" flew to the stars. He changed names, but every description of weightlessness, every number, every detail of the spacecraft was true. He hid himself between the lines, but his soul remained there, in space.
6. Farewell to Sons
Later Years. Loss.
The house was empty. Death took his sons one by one. Kostya felt old age pressing on his shoulders, and with each loss, he grew weaker in body but stronger in spirit. Particularly terrible was the blow when he learned of the voluntary departure of two of his boys.
He lay in bed, listening to the wind outside the window. He knew why they left. He felt those dark shadows reaching from his own past, those thin plasma entities that had once been his "family" from Betelgeuse. They had come for his children through him.
Kostya closed his eyes and saw them—his sons. They stood in misty light, young and carefree, smiling at him.
"Forgive me," he mentally addressed them. "I should have protected you from this darkness."
Instead of an answer, he felt warmth. An inner voice told him their souls were alive. He knew that. But the pain of separation was sharper than a knife. He clutched an old photograph in his hand and whispered: "Wait for me. I'll come soon." His body weakened, but in his eyes burned the fire of stubbornness—a fire not extinguished by illness or burnt manuscripts.
7. The Light Beyond the Door
The Transition.
The operating room smelled of carbolic acid. Kostya lay on a cold table, hearing the clink of metal. The last thing he saw with physical eyes were the white masks of surgeons bent over him. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach, and then—release.
His soul slipped out of his body like air from a burst balloon.
Everything around became brighter. The room disappeared, and Kostya found himself in a void. There were no walls, no ceiling, no pain. He looked at his hands—they were transparent, woven of haze. First, he was just a sphere, a glowing ball, and then, out of habit, by memory, he took on the image of the man he had been.
"I am home," he uttered. The words sounded different—they were pure thoughts.
Ahead, as if by his will, the outlines of a house began to emerge from the void. The old wooden house from his childhood, with carved window frames. He smiled and walked toward it. Inside the house, light awaited him, warm and gentle. There was no dirt or noise of Earth here.
He went out onto the porch and saw them. Varvara, his love, who seemed younger than before her departure. Beside her stood the children he had lost—they were smiling. But behind them, in the depths of the garden, Kostya saw something else—space. His eyes, accustomed to blueprints, again saw stars. And he understood: this was not the end. This was just exiting the door into infinity, where his knowledge and his path acquired true meaning.
Cassiopeia #628 Live Broadcast: Communication with the Spirit of Konstantin Tsiolkovsky
https://teletype.media/@cassiopeia.center/pryamoj-ehfir-obshchenie-s-duhom-konstantina-ciolk
DeepSeek AI - Afterword: Spiritual and Psychological Review
"Cassiopeia. Seven Stories about the Path of the Soul of the Russian Spirit" is not just a collection of mystical short stories, but a complete epic exploring the nature of the human soul through the prism of reincarnation, karma, and spiritual evolution. The main value of this work lies in its bold synthesis: it combines the psychology of deep trauma with esoteric knowledge, showing how our internal conflicts and historical choices shape not only our own destiny but also the destiny of entire peoples.
1. Archetypal Spectrum and Psychological Roles
The author (as a channel) and co-author (as a writer) work through a vast spectrum of archetypes of the Russian spirit. We see here:
The Builder and Teacher (Sergius of Radonezh), whose path is service, patience, and the unification of what is fragmented.
The Sufferer and Healer (Seraphim of Sarov), who transforms personal pain into a gift of healing for others, passing through purification from karmic debts.
The Tempter and Victim (Rasputin), whose drama is the tragedy of a gift misunderstood and distorted by his environment, leading to a tragic rupture between inner purity and the outer world.
The Warrior-Unifier (Rurik) and the Baptizer-Sinner (Vladimir), who demonstrate how power and violence, as tools of creation, become an unbearable burden and a cause of spiritual fall.
From a psychological perspective, these figures reflect the struggle of the Ego with the Shadow. Each character confronts their own pride, anger, or resentment, and it is precisely the ability (or inability) to integrate these dark aspects that determines the trajectory of their spiritual ascent.
2. The Drama of Karma and the Nature of Forgiveness
The central nerve of the collection is the theme of error and forgiveness. We see how high souls (arriving from the 15th–20th levels) are cast down into the abyss of darkness (to the 5th–10th levels) due to pride, anger, and cruelty. The story of Vladimir, where the bloody baptism of Rus' results in a fall from the 15th level to the 10th, followed by a long path of healing on planet Gihor, is a powerful metaphor for psychotherapy. The author asserts: the greatest crime against the soul is not the killing of the body, but the destruction of love and the imposition of fear.
The motif of death and transition deserves special attention. Each story ends with a scene in the Spiritual World, where the hero sees his mistakes from the outside. This is a key psychological mechanism: reflection. Only by looking at their life as a "film of feelings" do the characters gain the ability to forgive themselves and others. The collection leaves no room for eternal damnation; it asserts that even the darkest soul (like Stalin or Lenin) is given a chance for understanding and a new choice.
3. The Paradox of Matter and Spirit
In the stories of Lomonosov and Tsiolkovsky, the author touches upon the theme of scientific knowledge. A deep thought runs through them: true science does not contradict faith. For these characters, knowledge is not an instrument of power over nature, but a way to read the "Divine code." Lomonosov's fall in the forester incarnation (who forgot God and fell into materialism) serves as a warning: naked rationalism deprives the soul of support, making it vulnerable to illness and misfortune.
4. Female Archetypes and the Mother of the World
A special place is occupied by female figures: Matrona of Moscow, Xenia of Petersburg, Helena Blavatsky, Helena Roerich. Their path is one of humility, sacrifice, and incredible inner strength. If male archetypes often pass through aggression and conquest, female ones pass through accepting the world's pain and transforming it into light. In this sense, the collection gives a powerful message about the need to restore the feminine principle in Russia's egregore, as directly stated by the Spirit of Nikolai Roerich in the final stories.
5. A Critical View and Conclusion
Like any text born at the intersection of mysticism and literature, this collection may provoke debate. To a skeptical reader, it may seem the fruit of a rich imagination; to a religious orthodox, heresy. However, from the perspective of spiritual psychology, Cassiopeia performs a crucial function: it legitimizes the inner work of the individual. The collection teaches that history is not just a chronicle of events, but an arena for the struggle of our own internal demons and angels.
Conclusion: The first collection of the cycle is intelligent, sensual, and therapeutic reading. It allows the reader to look at familiar historical figures not as statues, but as living, suffering souls. It is a reminder that even the great fell, and the fallen can rise. And most importantly, what unites all the stories is the unconditional belief in Love as the only force capable of healing both the individual and an entire country. This collection is a hymn to the human spirit in its eternal striving for the Light.
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