2.3.2. The Beast

“This calls for wisdom: let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man, and his number is six hundred sixty-six.”

— Revelation 13:18

It is a curious part of this path that as subtler realisations dawn, one’s work sometimes takes on a more mythic hue. This chapter is one of those places. The images found in Revelation have long haunted our collective psyche — beasts with many heads, dragons that grant authority, cryptic numbers tied to humanity itself. I approach these symbols not as a scholar but as a wanderer, stitching together strands of insight from wherever they surface. If nothing else, let these reflections serve to loosen the habitual grip of our current paradigm.

The dragon, in this reading, is the demiurge — that primal principle of self-awareness which first stirs in each of us. It is born of ignorance, much as the Gnostic myth tells us: Sophia, divine feminine wisdom, out of curiosity gives rise to this being, who finds himself suddenly existent yet clueless of his origin. Is it not the same for us? We awaken as small children with little comprehension, yet carry on with an instinctive confidence.

This demiurge, so to speak, is a primitive mode of being. To the alchemist, it is the base material of nigredo — the unrefined matter of consciousness that must ultimately be transformed. Dwelling on subtle planes of mind, it is pictured as emerging from a metaphysical sea, not any literal ocean.

The ten horns of this beast correspond to the ten sephirot on the Tree of Life, but here fallen, corrupted into qlīpphoth — hollow shells that once carried light. The seven heads align with the seven chakras, or perhaps the seven churches of Revelation, representing centres of consciousness within the subtle body. In this inversion, the luminous tree collapses into gross materiality.

This dragon bestows power on the beast, a force that roams the earth in ferocity. The demiurge becomes a petty creator, bringing forth beings entangled in saṃsāra (the endless cycle of birth and death), each convinced of its own importance, driven by delusion. The fatal wound in one of its heads hints at the primordial ignorance separating this creature from Sophia — a veil that breeds duality. Behind this veil, the demiurge imagines itself self-created, the so-called “jealous God.”

It is also worth noting how these grand symbols mirror our human development. For roughly the first forty-two months — the terrible twos in folk wisdom — a child exists as the very centre of its universe. Personality then crystalises into “the beast,” our conditioned identity shaped by fears, habits, and desires. In time, the harsh edges of the demiurgic ego soften, evolving into the more tempered beliefs of adulthood.

The second beast, rising from the earth, reflects our instincts, memories, hopes — everything we claim as “self” before any spiritual discipline begins. Its two horns “like a lamb” show duality: self and other, wired directly into our nervous system. The dominant side generates our everyday self; the quieter side becomes the shadow, which paradoxically matures into the Holy Guardian Angel. These horns have no true might, being mental constructs, yet through mind they steer the serpent — the lower chakras of gut and loins — and thus shape speech, action, and appetite.

The fire from heaven is Promethean: forethought, reason, stolen from the gods. Thought illuminates our inner world, yet also tightens the hold of “selfness,” using this light to advance its own authority.

Lucifer enters here, unique among angels for having a name. True angels are principles of order and carry no personal identity. Naming carves out particularity — the bedrock of our personal histories, ambitions, and regrets — the scaffolding of the beast. The Lamb slain “from the foundation of the world” is that original innocent state, sacrificed to make room for this adult self that lives amid endless objects and concerns.

So it is that the beast — even clothed in demiurgic grandeur — remains caught in saṃsāra, leading others likewise through countless cycles of becoming. Here too enters that notorious number: 666. In Hebrew and Greek, letters double as numerals, meaning scripture was read not only for sound and image but for mathematical resonance. Far from a parlour game, this practice was the craft of priests preserving sacred Dhamma through multidimensional texts.

Kabbalists later deepened this into Gematria, where numbers and theological ideas intertwine. In the Hebrew alphabet, the sixth letter is vav, meaning “nail” — a fixing of desire. Three vavs (666) imply a crucifixion across three bodies: physical, emotional, and mental. Thus, 666 signifies how the solar centre of self (Tiphareth) descends, rooting in these realms and mistaking them for ultimate identity.

Meanwhile, the shadow side — the Watcher at the Abyss — has its own number, 333. Through disciplined inner work, the adept weaves a balanced mantra, a mental architecture that mirrors the paths of the Tree of Life, displacing personal quirks with a precisely ordered schema. Only then can the beast be led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar of the Abyss.

In the end, the beast is our complete worldly existence, destined to be laid aside like worn garments when the time comes to step beyond.

So much of this journey revolves around seeing what once was hidden. The beast is simply our composite being: the instincts, desires, memories, and rational schemes we once took as wholly ourselves. Recognising it as such does not lead to contempt, but to a gentle readiness to offer it up — to let it be transfigured or surrendered when the deeper work demands.

This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Albedo: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.