On the run. Rapid cuts, like a tense electronic music video.
Kalen riding his motorcycle through the Kansas wheat fields, police lights flashing in the distance behind him. He steers the bike into a dry riverbed; the police cars can't follow.
An abandoned gas station in Oklahoma. Kalen changes out of his mud‑caked clothes in the restroom, washes the dust off his face. The boy in the mirror doesn't look seventeen — his eyes are too old.
A small town near the Texas border. Kalen meets Bearded Jack's contact behind a Mexican restaurant — a taciturn Mexican man who hands him an envelope containing a Mexican passport and a plane ticket to Spain.
The US‑Mexico border. Kalen crosses hidden behind a truck. Searchlights sweep across the border wall above him, missing him by inches. His Eye of Truth lets him sense the trajectory of every beam.
Mexico City airport. Kalen wears a new shirt and jeans, a baseball cap and sunglasses, and queues up for security. His heartbeat is steady, his breathing even. He looks like an ordinary traveler.
On the plane. Kalen sits by the window, watching the clouds outside. Golden sunlight falls across his face. His left eye — concealed by a contact lens — glimmers faintly with an otherworldly sheen.
The plane lands at Madrid‑Barajas Airport. Kalen walks out of the terminal and takes a deep breath of Spain's dry air. In the distance, a man in a black suit leans against a black car, smiling at him. Blond hair, blue eyes, features as refined as a Renaissance sculpture, his smile precisely calibrated — neither too warm nor too cold.
The man says in Spanish with a German accent: "Kalen Wester? Welcome to Europe. Herr Markus von Richter has been expecting you."
Madrid, a private estate. The black car passes through an iron gate into a sprawling estate — manicured lawns, fountains, sculptures, and a white Baroque villa. Kalen sits in the back seat, watching the scenery. His Eye of Truth tells him there are at least twenty armed men on the estate, stationed throughout the villa. Their gear is even better than the Federation's special forces.
The car stops in front of the villa. The driver opens the door, and Kalen steps out. The villa's door opens, and a man in a gray suit walks out. He's about thirty, his blond hair perfectly combed, his blue eyes like gemstones. He's around six feet one, lean but not weak.
"Kalen Wester. Finally. My name is Markus von Richter. You can call me Markus," he said with a smile.
"How did you know I was coming?" Kalen asked.
"I didn't know. But I hoped you would. So I've been waiting here for three days."
"What if I'd taken a different route?"
"You wouldn't. From the US to Europe, the fastest route is to fly to Spain. And Spain is where I have the most influence. So you had to enter here."
"How did you know I was coming to Europe?"
"Because you can't stay in the US anymore. You need allies. And I'm your best option."
Kalen looked into Markus's eyes and activated his Eye of Truth. But what he saw wasn't energy — it was a blank. Not an absence of energy, but Markus's relic actively blocking his perception.
Markus noticed Kalen's gaze. "Your Insight Pupil is useless against me. My Eye of Truth is a higher grade."
"Then you should know what I'm thinking."
"No. The Eye of Truth isn't mind‑reading. It only sees 'possibilities,' not 'certainties.' I don't know exactly what you're thinking, but I know you have three options — kill me, work with me, or run."
"Which do you think I'll choose?"
Markus stepped aside from the doorway. "Come in. We'll talk slowly."
Markus's villa library was enormous — three walls lined with bookshelves holding leather‑bound volumes, from philosophy to physics, Latin to Chinese. The fourth wall was a floor‑to‑ceiling window looking out onto a garden. Markus sat on a leather sofa, Kalen on a chair across from him. Between them was a coffee table with two cups of tea — black tea, steaming.
"My father was a German aristocrat, my mother French. I was raised to believe that elegance is a weapon. What do you think?" Markus said.
"I don't know elegance. I only know how to stay alive," Kalen said.
"Staying alive is itself an elegance. Look at pigs rolling in mud — they stay alive too. But their way of doing it… isn't elegant."
"I didn't come here to discuss philosophy."
"Then what did you come to discuss? Relics? Cooperation? Or… your father?"
Kalen's expression shifted.
Markus smiled and continued. "Yes, I know about your father. Not only do I know, I can tell you more. For example — your father's relationship with Thomas Winters. They were college classmates. Once best friends."
"…What did you say?" Kalen said.
"Your father and Senator Winters met in grad school at Harvard. They were recruited together by DARPA, together they formed the 'Prometheus' project. Your father was the chief scientist, Winters was the project manager. They were partners, friends… brothers."
Kalen's fingers tightened, knuckles whitening.
"Later, your father discovered that Winters wanted to use the project's results to build weapons. They had a falling out. Winters ordered a purge of the project team. Your father… died. But what Winters didn't know was that your father, before he died, had already sent his research — meaning you — away."
"How do you know all this?"
Markus pointed to his left eye. "Because of the Eye of Truth. I see the past. Not guesses, not deductions — I directly 'see' events that happened. Like watching a recording."
"You can see anyone's past?"
"Anyone's. If I want to. The price is… each use shortens my lifespan."
"Then why use it? To find me?"
Markus picked up his teacup and took a sip. "Because I'm bored. Aristocratic life is so dull. Now that the relic era has arrived, there's finally a little… excitement."