The Return of the Templars E-Book

Héraclès Harixcalde

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 239

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A guide for the next 300 years, Heracles lifts the veil on a large part of the secret of the Templars and the origins of monotheism, while explaining the complex workings of the individual and collective soul in simple terms. Mysticism, the role of the shaman in society, the Buddhist roots of Christianity, Freemasonry, and Islam are just some of the comparisons used to shed light on the decline of modern Western civilization. Part alchemical guide, part political manifesto, the author proposes practical and revolutionary solutions in a post-COVID world, and calls for the creation of a new elite of consciousness, guardians of a return to tradition and craftsmanship, in a gripping narrative that is sure to challenge established reality by offering readers the possibility of resurrecting God - through the Feathered Snake - in the author's trademark biting and ironic style. In the first part, we find the conclusion of The Apocalypse of Logan, with the Logan's journey into his past and the secret of the Templars in a spiritual road trip from Paris to Scotland, in a chrome-blue campervan. This book marks the final installment of the Mysterium Australis trilogy, and unfolds as a powerful mandala for understanding the modern world. And perhaps this is the return of Henry IV, the Gaulish Hercules...

Leseprobe

« I am the problem and the solution; I hold the totem and the Eye of Horus. »

VALD

« Memento mori. » (Remember you will die)

Inscription au sol, South Leith Church Parish, Ecosse

« A civilization that wages war, divides into classes, and hates races is not the product of one man, but of all men. No man can say: 'I am good, therefore I did not create it. »

Lao Russell, Dieu travaillera avec vous mais pas pour vous.

« Normality is a paved road: it is easy to walk, but no flowers grow there.»

Vincent van Gogh

« When the blackbird sees the grape harvesters enter the vineyard, he is most surprised to see that they, unlike him, are not afraid of the scarecrow. »

Jules Renard

Preamble

In this final volume of Mysterium Australis, drawing on my personal experience and the teachings of the previous volumes, I will attempt to expose all the invisible threads that govern the West and prevent its entry into the new Golden Age, with a Focus on France and UK. Indeed, while on an individual scale it seems to each of us that we are on the right path and at the peak of civilization—thanks to technological progress and AI in a so-called “Judeo-Christian” West—we are right to question this when we look at the fruits we have borne over the past 50 years in terms of architecture, craftsmanship, clothing, and customs. These are primarily the consequences of the veneration of a new golden calf that drives everyone to chase the fruit rather than grow the branch…

Here, we will first find the conclusion of Logan’s Apocalypse, with the final part of Volume 2, which wraps up the revelations about my ancestry (Logan of Restalrig) and recounts my road trip across the “United Kingdom” in a chrome blue Volkswagen camper van—from London to Edinburgh—my discovery of the secret of the Templars, and my exchanges with Abraxas, Helios, or with that being who communicates through symbols and synchronicities… The reader will come to understand the role of the English crown, in complicity with speculative Freemasonry and the Reformed Church, in the establishment of the global control web we have already addressed many times. Beware, here we are at the edge of the world, dealing with the very construction of reality. I will simply recount the facts here in the same style as Volume 2, and we will deepen the concepts and offer paths to understanding in the second part, as all this may seem abstract and frightening to a reader not versed in theology, mysticism, and esotericism.

I will try to show you that, due to a somewhat twisted original design of Christianity, multiple modifications to its dogma, a messy and poorly translated biblical corpus, and various schisms and ecumenical councils, we find ourselves at the very end of the Dark Age (or Kali Yuga). This is an age ruled by the Devil because we have abandoned the study of God’s language—Ancient Greek. The Golden Age struggles to begin because of the grim stories told about the Apocalypse. For it is ultimately the stories we tell ourselves that govern the world, and one can easily understand the perverse imbalances that a society may suffer from when it has abandoned both parents and children to the television—which still largely controls our reality today. How to overcome this? Should we organize a bonfire of our TV screens? You’ll see that even the Devil has had enough of his own devilry, and that he himself is conspiring to resurrect the old gods—or the Archons. Each of us must recognize and take responsibility for our share, our own faults, while also accepting the shadow that characterizes us all—the serpent, the noûs that grows in the dark with each of our actions, which we can no longer ignore. And thus, perhaps, Zeus will pass the torch to Dionysus.

Since everything is connected—that’s the essence of religion—and religious organizations are above all just that: organizations, meaning hierarchically structured groups of men, I will extend the scope of this study to society at large, and to France in particular, as it is the example I know best. This model can be more or less transposed to the United Kingdom, Australia, and Canada, which are the last bastions of the Dark Age, whose problems primarily stem from abusive bureaucracy and a lack of leadership. I will take the opportunity to propose the only solution I believe to be viable for saving these states and our civilization in the long term—a plan that will take about twenty years to implement but could certainly breathe new energy into these societies that already feel like they’re drowning.

With the aim of reaching a broad audience, and because modernity allows us to verify sources ourselves, I will keep my usual style and avoid falling into academic study. I will simply cite the sources and authors in the text, positioning myself in a subjective register that, I believe, will resonate with the greatest number and also, because as usual, I am writing this under pressure of the perpetual war we have entered and asks for an ending.

Table des Matières

Book I – Logan’s Apocalypse (end)

Part 4 – Awakening Road-trip to Alba

Book II – The Return of the Templars

Part 1 – Spiritual issues ans solutions

God, Irrationality, and the Druid

Genesis and Hermetic Philosophy

Giordano Bruno, the Stake, and the Apocalypse

How Does Mysticism Work?

Introverts, Schizophrenics, Bipolars: Poor Mages

Pigeons and Seagulls

The Spanish Family: A Model to Repair the Mystique

How We Care for the Elderly?

How We Celebrate Our Dead

Islam

Judaism and antisemitism

Speculative Freemasonry

Women Will Be Women When Men Are Men

Templars Treasure: Healthy Frequencies and Sacred

Geometry

Jesus Christ: The First Attempt to Establish Western

Buddhism?

Celtic Church, "Buddhist Tradition," Decentralized

Christianity

The Holy Grail: What If It Was Logan of Restalrig?

The English Crown (Once Again) Killed Christ

A Low-Quality Electromagnetic Broth

Stonecutters Forge our Souls

Christianity: Paradox of the Vatican and New Golden Age

Marie, Isis and Sophia

Freeing Christian Karma or Disappearing as a Civilization

Drawing a Line on the Past and Forgiving

Veritas, Sacrificas, Immortalitas, Libertas

Sons of Abraham, but not only: on the need of a Greek oral

tradition akin to the Jewish one

Henry IV and His Château (intermission)

A unique Solution: The Red Book

Pleroma, New Aeon, and Philosopher’s Stone

Conclusion: Templars for Feathered Snake

Part 2 – Organizational issues and solutions

Saint Germain-en-Laye, Le Laurain and Napoléon

The Left/Right Divide

COVID-19: Real Consequences of an Imaginary Pandemic

A Perfect Example: The City of Pau

A Quick Guide to the Stasi

The British Example

The Subverted West and the Discreet Yellow Peril

Social Services and Child Protective Services (ASE)

Mafia-like unions and the bad example of the SNCF

The Environmental Diktat

The Parasitic Bureaucracy

The Prefecture

The Civil Code and the Law

The High Judiciary Council

Punishment and Death Penalty

The Funding of NGOs

Military Service and a new Elite of Consciousness

Old Cities vs. Modern Cities

Operative Freemasonry

Borders, Integration, and “Social Nationalism”

Return of Craftsmanship and Local Cultures

The Potlatch and the Village Fair

Solving the Monetary Problem

Solving the Accounting Monarchy

A Unique solution: Operative Monarchy

Conclusion: Too Many Public Services Kills Public Services

General Conclusion

Book 1

Logan’s Apocalypse

How to catch a Leviathan?

(end)

Part IV

Awakening road-trip to Alba

Ambivalent Verb, May God Gather

The Logos was split like a seed; In silence, the One was torn apart. A Voice was born from Pain, And a Music from the Fall— A red thread through Chaos.

Each letter is a scrap of fire, Each sound, a remembrance. Through the rift, The mystic pierces toward the unspeakable; The broken becomes a key, and The Antilogos a supreme good.

The Logos, like lightning, divides and enlightens. Do not flee contradiction; within it, God is hidden.

Λόγος δυόφων θεῶν ἀγορήν

Ὁ Λόγος ἐσχίσθη ὥσπερ σπέρμα ·ἐν σιγῇ ἐσπαράγη τὸ Ἕν. Καὶ φωνή ἐγεννήθη ἐκ πόνου ·μουσικὴ ἐκ πτώσεως ,μῖτος ἐκ χάους.

Ἔκαστον γράμμα πυρὸς ῥάκος ,ἔκαστος φθόγγος ἀνάμνησις .Διὰ τῆς διακοπῆς ,ὁ μύστης εἰσέρχεται πρὸς τὸ ἄρρητον ·Τὸ σχισθὲν γίνεται κλεὶς ·ὁ ἀντίλογος ἀγαθόν.

Ὁ λόγος ἐστιν ὡς ἀστραπή· διαιρεῖ καὶ φωτίζει. Μὴ φεῦγε τὴν ἀντίφασιν· ἐν αὐτῇ κρύπτεται ὁ Θεός.

Logos Dyophon Theon Agoras

Ho Logos eschisté hospér spérma; en sigeé esparagé to Hen. Kai phoné egennéthé ek ponou; mousike ek ptoseos, mitos ek chaous.

Ekaston gramma puros rhakos, ekastos phthoggos anamnesis. Dia tes diakopes, ho mustēs eisérchetai pros to arréton; To schisthen ginetai kleis; ho antilogos agathon.

Ho logos estin hos astrape; diairei kai photiozei. Me pheuge ten antiphasin; en autée kryptetai ho Theos.

29

“I do not understand travelers who use the world like a couch, and who insult the road by turning it into the therapist of their neuroses.”

Sylvain Tesson

A shovel and a crowbar in the satchel slung across my shoulder, I was parked on the outskirts of Lochend Park in Edinburgh, patiently waiting in the back of the chrome-blue rental Volkswagen Transporter for the regular pendulum—where the descending sun gives way to the moon—to complete its course. I’d had little sleep these past days, yet my soma was in perfect shape. It seemed I had indeed been repaired, for I couldn’t recall ever having felt so well— fully recharged with a mana whose secrets I’d never previously known...

I was pondering this and that, wondering how best to calmly put into words the past few weeks of travel, which had felt outside of time and more guided by providence than by any strict itinerary—like those I used to prepare in my younger years, carefully planned out as a couple for a limited-time trip. Now, life appeared to me as a journey without an end. I listened intently to the fridge, or the battery, or some unknown piece of electrical equipment in the van that activated at regular intervals, helping guide my thoughts—and I’d come to the conclusion that this faulty rental van was, in a way, a divine intermediary: the daimonion or the daimon, the one described by Sophocles and Plato in their stories, who aids them, in their divine madness, in making important decisions…

I had bought the crowbar and the shovel at a hardware store called Screw Fix near the park, and I had just stocked up on lentils, ginger, and beets, because, as the fateful hour of the treasure’s discovery approached, I had been warned via push notification that the whole north-west of Spain—which, incidentally, is highly dependent on renewable energy and has remained outside the European energy market—had just experienced a massive power outage, most likely due to a cyberattack. Sensing the fall and the likelihood of power cuts spreading across Europe, as I had told the Screw Fix vendor, I was anticipating a period of chaos followed by a return to the Middle Ages, which, to be honest, rather delighted me. I had in mind scenes of mutual aid, the village fair, jugglers, community gatherings, nighttime vigils lit by candles and torches, unique encounters, and a daily life no longer marked by routine, where sleepwalking people are shuttled around on conveyor belts through overcrowded train stations.

As a precaution, I also bought protective goggles and a gas mask— precautions I had picked up during the East Coast wildfires in Australia with MT, masks that had suddenly become very valuable at the time… In Pau, I had already noticed some very strange power outages, flashes without electricity, and longer blackouts that had never really been explained and looked a lot like what might happen if you left a child—or Macron—alone in front of a big red button and told him: “whatever you do, don’t press this button.” This particular blackout was more serious, it was severely affecting transportation, and I was already receiving messages on my phone saying that French public transport would also be impacted by the time I got back. Nothing too unusual, all things considered, with railway workers and public transport strikes.

Despite this unusual event, I was convinced that God had shown me the location of the Templar treasure, and nothing could divert me from my objective. Although I had already suspected that this treasure was not what people believed it to be—made of gold and rubies—I still secretly nourished the hope of a divine reward for the trials I had endured. Oh, pride, when you hold us tight… Some kind of instant gift, as I had received a few times throughout my journey.

Lochend Park was located in the Restalrig district of Edinburgh, a neighborhood lying at the foot of Holyrood Park, which serves as the backdrop of the city, visible from almost anywhere with its rocky, yellow-green vegetation. At the entrance of the park stood a plaque— the only place over the past two weeks where I had seen the name Logan of Restalrig mentioned. At the center of the park was a loch and its old water pump, which once served as the city’s main water source, before Edinburgh expanded so greatly that the pump was declared insufficient. According to rumors, this loch was bottomless. People had tried throwing weighted objects into it to determine its depth, but they were never recovered. In the middle of the loch, the branches of aquatic trees were slowly reclaiming their ground, and ducks and geese carved their paths through it—always quick to indicate to me, with their cries, whether I was heading in the right or wrong direction. Overlooking the park stood Lochend Castle, once called Restalrig Castle, though nothing remained of the original stronghold but a single building—the façade facing the park, perched some ten meters above a rocky wall that could easily be climbed.

That afternoon, during my scouting and data collection, I had climbed the wall, only to realize afterward that access to the park was open, so I decided to approach the front door to see whether a visit was possible. I walked up calmly, raising an open hand to the man who was standing there. It seemed the place was occupied by residents of various origins, and I was received by a man who first introduced himself as Spanish, then told me he was from Mauritius. When I asked whether I could visit, he threatened me while pointing at the cameras. I asked what this place was and who managed it, and I learned it had become a shelter for children and foreigners, run by the Cameron Guest House Group. I understood they didn’t want shady strangers approaching the children, but I cast one last glance at the cameras, which seemed to me to be those cheap fake ones—the kind installed like scarecrows rather than the ones you find everywhere else in the UK, linked to a control center—and I couldn’t help but think of Saruman… A quick search about this organization confirmed my suspicions: it was just another money-sucking government machine, and its greedy managers were wallowing in useless riches.

I politely took leave of the employee and left without causing too much trouble, heading back to the cliff behind the building. And there, to my great surprise, I found a completely ordinary man— Scottish—lying at a 75-degree angle in a very uncomfortable position among the bushes on a bed of leaves. I called out to him, surprised, asking what he was doing there. He first replied that he was trying to sleep, but it was 2 p.m., and not satisfied with that answer, I pressed on, laughing a little: “But what are you doing here?” He eventually confessed that he had fled from his wife and was taking a break, which, of course, earned him my sympathy. I introduced myself: “I am Logan of Restalrig. This is my castle. They've turned it into a migrant shelter. Don’t you feel like storming it with me?” And he replied with something like, “Ahh, the bastards.” I noticed a rear window whose coating looked freshly applied, and I decided to gently remove one pane to open the window from the outside and have a look at what was going on inside. But the Spaniard, on high alert, immediately rushed to the window as soon as I touched the glass and threatened to call the police. I replied that I was just picking up a few stones from the cliff, that I was a collector, and that this old building was my ancestors’ home. He retorted that the building was a hundred years old, and I hastened to correct him, saying it was much older than that. The scene—between the Spaniard from Mauritius and the sleeping Scotsman—was becoming completely absurd, so I decided to forget about the castle, at least for now.

I went back down around the edges of the lake and resumed following the signs… which led me to the foot of another cliff, beneath a large plane tree where, on a mound of earth, lay three asbestos sheets that suggested to me that the treasure was buried there. Armed with this essential information, I returned to the van to wait for evening.

After a nap and some wandering thoughts, I went back to the mound, set up my lamp, and made sure no one had followed me. In the afternoon, many passersby asked me unusual questions. This place was now surrounded by social housing and other developments, and while some had their routine health walks in the park to enjoy nature, it seemed others besides me had narrowed the search area and were noting every unusual passage, or trying to extract information about a potential treasure from any strange faces they could encounter there.

When you embark on a treasure hunt, there are two essential prerequisites: to be very sure of your instincts, and to love digging. So I began to dig into the mound, digging in the dark for one meter, and found nothing. Had I been fooled? Had my daemon mocked me again? In the dark, it was hard to make out anything… the stones seemed like simple stones, but was that certain? To be sure, I filled the square UberEats bag I had found earlier, very practical both as a cover—making me look like a delivery person—and for carrying the loot. After an hour digging with my small camping shovel, I took a break and began to doubt the wisdom of my endeavor, wondering if maybe it was my French side to believe in treasures, as the French soldiers of La Pérouse’s first expedition to Australia had done, whose map was drawn by someone close to the English crown and showed buried treasures on nearby islands—an irresistible lure of greed that caused the French to arrive too late to claim the Australian territory… leaving the field open for the British convict expedition. The course of the world might depend on small mistakes, though I doubted it and thought it was more of a subtle design. I resumed digging, a second meter, and picked up a few more rock samples. At last, I began to feel the edges of an object and immediately thought of a chest, like those I remembered from my Return to Monkey Island game sessions, and, looking back, my adventures seemed to take on a similar tone…

I dug all around the shape, long and rectangular, about 1 meter long and 30 centimetres wide, weighing around 70 kilos, and I increasingly sensed it wasn’t a chest but a stone. On the stone, I noticed some markings like those I had seen on church stones— signs that resembled Viking or Egyptian symbols, used to identify the stonecutter for signature and payment.

I placed a tree stump beside the large stone and, using the crowbar, I applied leverage to lift the treasure out of the earth, in this two-by-two-meter hole. The treasure, a large rock, was the same stone used in the coronation of the kings of Scotland—known as the Stone of Destiny—a red sandstone. I had seen it in Perth, the one they exhibited. They said it was Jacob’s stone, or the pillow of Jacob from the Bible. The stone had a long history, and recently Charles III had brought it from Scotland to Westminster for his coronation, because he had to sit on it—it proved he was king of Scotland. For a long time, the stone was kept at Westminster, until in the 1950s, Scottish independence students organized to steal it and bring it back to Scotland, hiding it and then depositing it in a ruined castle—the Abbey of Arbroath—before it was finally displayed at the Perth Museum. At the beginning of the century, on two occasions, socialist women had tried to blow it up, and it ended up broken in two. That shows the power of a symbol attached to a mere rock. This was THE rock. After all, how to prove that the stone displayed in Perth was really Jacob’s pillow? In my view, if it was anywhere, it was hidden underground until the return of Restalrig. Logan of Restalrig had always possessed the other stone—it was the fake one. The seventh Logan of Restalrig, at the end of the 16th century, knowing he was in trouble with the English crown, had taken precautions and distributed as much of his fortune as possible to his close ones, and had hidden the Stone of Destiny here, for his future descendant to find.

After exerting all my strength to extract this stone from the hole, exhausted, I sat down on the stone for five minutes before realizing it was nearly midnight and my train left London at 2 p.m. Relatively satisfied with my find, I took the way back. Empty pockets and a full heart.

30

- Solomon: “Life is so much easier to live when you’re dead.”

- Tommy Shelby: “I’ll keep going until I find a man I can’t defeat.”

Peaky Blinders

After publishing Volume 2 of Mysterium Australis, I decided to spend a few days in Paris before the road trip to England, staying in an apartment that a friend on vacation had lent me in the 18th arrondissement. I didn’t yet know that the next stage of my initiation had already begun.

I took the opportunity to visit bookstores where I left my books on consignment and to consult some rare books in the national libraries. I started with the Arsenal Library, at the corner of Rue de Sully and Rue Henry IV. The atmosphere was studious and formal, without frills but solemn. After being greeted with suspicion because of my kilt, they kindly made me a library card once I mentioned the name “Gabriel Naudé,” the former librarian of Mazarin, whose descendant I had recently met. I thought to myself that these librarians were the true deep state.

Unfortunately, the book I was looking for was not there, but I saw it on the shelves at Richelieu and went there immediately by metro. A very grand and well-stocked library stood there beneath the gaze of a statue of Molière, extremely frequented for its architecture and studious by its impressive number of books and study rooms. I wanted to consult the theology book which strangely appeared in the “Coins” section. Unfortunately, the book was in the reserves, and the strikes made access to the stock impossible, but I was told that the book was available on the shelves at the François Mitterrand Library. Coming out of the François Mitterrand station, the esplanade of the modern district was empty that Saturday. The library, a building designed like two concrete books opened and placed in a hollow of vegetation, matched the forests and green spaces that now grew across the large square near City Hall and elsewhere. From the interior glass windows, one could see, here and there through the condensation, an artificial nature planted below at the center of the building. Paris had become a jungle—you could even swim in the river. The more green spaces there are, the more gardeners, after all. Despite strikes by some workers, mostly young people, the library was heavily frequented by students preparing for their various exams, and it was difficult to find a single free seat since all had been reserved, probably as a precaution if I recall well my own years of study and last-minute mood changes. So, I decided to sit at a free workstation and conduct my quick, breaking the law.

I scanned my card, but the system didn’t seem to allow me to reserve the book, and a kind employee, noticing my frustration, came over to offer help. At first, she told me the book wouldn’t be accessible, then she backtracked, saying otherwise, because she needed to check which sections were affected by the strike — sections she had been informed about by email just an hour earlier. The codes for the sections didn’t mean much to either of us, but luckily she had a cross-reference table to decode the section codes. She regretfully announced that the book was in the researcher section, but I cheerfully replied that I was a researcher myself — access granted by name dropping. She reserved me a spot in one part of the researcher section, but a different wing from where the book actually was, and vaguely indicated how to get to the research floor: at the back by the escalator.

At the back, I turned right and passed through a glass turnstile, finding myself under an upward escalator leading to the outdoor terrace. I crossed the terrace searching for the downward escalator, looking for a door to exit the terrace on the other side — a door that didn’t exist. I made a U-turn, went through the hall, scanned my card at another turnstile, and passed through a closed door leading to the descending escalators. During the long descent to the garden level, I admired the brutalist architecture — the grey concrete, the decorations of black nets hanging off the walls, almost communist in style — before arriving at a guard post. I had a reserved book and my card scan let me pass the gate. This library wasn’t the eighth wonder of the world, but maybe all this was necessary to avoid an Alexandria-like fire, I thought.

I searched for my number and approached a lady wearing a necklace with a cross that looked like a Celtic cross, but after questioning her, she wasn’t sure. She eventually told me that, once again, the book was in the reserves here too, contrary to what the software said. She made a great effort to contact the stockroom and see if anyone could access the section, but since my book wasn’t assigned to this section — an error from the previous person — she couldn’t intervene for a book from another section and recommended I try my luck at the correct section. She also told me that the book in question, La Virga Aurea, was also available at the municipal library in Chartres, but it was a bit late for Chartres, though I would have liked to see the Templar cathedral there. Finally, she suggested a paid PDF version of the book on SCRIBD that she had found on Google. I resigned myself to abandoning the in-person consultation and decided to order the book on Amazon…

Empty-handed regarding the book, I was lucky to find an exhibition on the Apocalypse, which was free due to the strike — proving that sometimes these things had their good side. The well-stocked exhibition displayed various works and depictions of the apocalypse, videos of explosions and fire falling from the sky, as this was how it was commonly imagined and what lingered in most people’s minds. I noticed the presence of the original Beatus of Saint-Sever, that superb illuminated manuscript from the 11th century, whose images seemed far more measured and positive than those found elsewhere and more recently, struck by a beautiful balance of blues and reds, depicting the triumph over the Leviathan and notably presenting a magnificent engraving of a battle between the peacock and the serpent.

This vision stirred in me a kind of atê — a divine provocation — that prevented me from focusing on anything other than those images. Wasn’t this battle between peacock and serpent the perpetual struggle of the individual as well as the group? Was it not in the control of the serpent by the bird, rather than its murder, that society could endure? Could the bird triumph over the serpent when the serpent reproduced faster than it? Hadn’t the symbol of the serpent been distorted over these last 2,000 years? After all, among serpents there were vipers and grass snakes — one poisons, the other heals…