Chapter 2: A Clue in the Details

In the early morning in Prague, the mist above the Vltava River had not yet dispersed. Gray-white vapor coiled like ghosts around the embankments on both banks, blurring the outline of the ancient city into a watercolor that had not yet dried. Lukas woke on the cold stone steps of St. Vitus Cathedral, the stone slabs beneath him giving off a bone-piercing chill that climbed up his spine to the top of his head.

A violent headache surged like a tide, fragments of memory flashing amid the pain. The final scene froze on that vanished old volume and the sky full of fire, after which his consciousness had plunged into a bottomless abyss. When the world became clear again, he found himself curled in the shadow of a statue, with only the whimper of wind passing through the arcades around him.

He raised his right hand, trembling, and on the inside of his palm several dark red characters had clearly surfaced. They were not ordinary ink marks, but wriggled faintly beneath his skin like living things, carrying an eerie chill, as if tiny insects were gnawing deep within his flesh.

Those characters were not a tattoo, but a brand burned into his flesh and blood. Every heartbeat came with a faint sting, reminding him of some irreversible change. He quickly withdrew his hand into his coat pocket, and his fingertips touched that cold metal badge — the emergency contact token Viktor had given him.

The badge's edges dug into his fingertip, bringing a faint sense of security. Now he had to leave the cathedral and go to the "Swan Tower" café in the Old Town. That was a safe house, and the only place where he could temporarily conceal his weakness and observe his surroundings.

Only there could he confirm whether he was still alive, and what that "Uses Remaining" that would not leave his mind actually meant.

He pushed open the heavy oak door, and the wind chime rang out crisply, as if cutting through the quiet morning air. Lukas wrapped his thin gray trench coat tightly around himself and, stooping, blended into the crowd inside the shop. The barista, Hans, was skillfully extracting espresso, steam twisting in the air.

He looked up and swept his eyes over Lukas, frowning slightly, as if he recognized this regular customer he had not seen in a long time, but he only nodded silently and asked nothing more. Lukas ordered a hot latte, and carrying the steaming drink, he walked slowly toward the table by the window.

Through the glass he saw the spire of Charles Bridge standing across the street, sunlight piercing the cloud layer and spilling onto the cobblestone road, glinting with specks of gold. But he was in no mood to admire the view. His gaze swept the shop like a hawk's, warily catching every unfamiliar face.

At the table in the corner, covered with a white lace tablecloth, history professor Isabella was sitting. Spread open before her was a huge kraft-paper folder, and her fingers tapped the table anxiously, making a rhythmic "tap, tap" sound.

That was the core evidence in the academic misconduct accusation against Lukas. She seemed to be waiting for some key witness, or simply digesting alone the pressure this storm had brought.

Lukas set down his coffee cup, his movement so gentle it made almost no sound; the base of the cup touched the wooden table with an extremely soft thud. Just as he drew near, a dazzling red light suddenly flared at the edge of his vision. It was a phenomenon that could not be explained by the naked eye, as if the air itself had been torn open, revealing the truth hidden beneath.

He forced down the dizziness and stared fixedly at Isabella. Above her head floated a mass of thick gray-black mist — the embodiment of anxiety and fear. The mist was not still; it kept expanding and contracting with the rhythm of her breathing, and from its edges seeped a few strands of deep purple thread, representing despair that had been concealed.

The contract's power had been passively triggered. This was costly perception. Lukas narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce through that mist and see its core clearly. He found that the center of the mist was not the anger or arrogance he had expected, but a kind of hollowness close to collapse, like a string stretched to its limit that might snap at any moment.

"Your coffee has already gone cold." Isabella's voice was cold and hard, interrupting his silent observation. She did not look up at Lukas; her gaze still rested on the paragraphs circled in red pen in the folder, the red-pen marks like one fresh wound after another. Lukas did not answer, but sat down slowly and faced her.

He saw that in the depths of her pupils, that mass of gray-black mist was surging violently. He lowered his voice, his tone steady to the point of cruelty: "Professor, you seem to be worried about that paper on the dispersal of medieval manuscripts."

Isabella's fingers froze on the table. When she raised her head, a flash of astonishment crossed the bottom of her eyes. She had originally thought the other party would make excuses or weep, but Lukas's attitude was too calm, as if all of this were under his control. This unpredictability made her feel deep fear, and that mass of mist instantly grew even heavier, almost obscuring her face.

Lukas continued: "The citation logic on the third page has a break. The Vienna archive number you cited did not exist before 2018."

He spoke very slowly, each word like a hammer striking ice, crisp and cold. Isabella's face turned pale in an instant, the coffee cup in her hand trembling slightly, the steam blurring her vision. She tried to maintain her dignity as a professor and gave a cold laugh: "You are merely a student here to make sophistical excuses. Do not think I do not know what conspiracy you are plotting."

But the lack of confidence in her voice exposed the truth. What she truly feared was not Lukas, but that if the paper were proven to be plagiarism, her career as a tenured professor would end completely. In that gray-black mist, the purple-red threads of despair were entwining wildly, almost about to swallow the light above her head.

Lukas took a neatly folded note from his pocket and placed it lightly beside the folder in front of her, the paper sliding across the table with a faint friction sound. Then he stood up. He did not wait for her reaction, but left only a brief sentence: "The real clue is not in your hands, but with Philippe. He is more afraid of being discovered than you are."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, his back to Isabella. He knew this note was a trump card, and also bait. Philippe was Marcus's colleague, and the real executor of the plagiarism, using Isabella's negligence to carry out a swap of authorship rights.

Isabella did not look at the note at once, but stared fixedly at Lukas's back, the astonishment in her eyes gradually turning into a complex, threatening scrutiny. She realized she might have been venting her anger in the wrong direction all along, while the real danger lurked in a deeper darkness.

Lukas pushed open the café door, and the cold morning air poured instantly into his lungs, carrying the smell of earth and fallen leaves, clearing his head a little. He stopped in the shadow outside the door and looked back into the shop. Isabella was unfolding that note with trembling hands and reading its contents.

Her face turned from white to ashen, and the panic in her eyes gradually congealed into a cold resolve. She quickly closed the folder, her movement decisive and crisp, as if cutting off all ties with her past self. She knew that, to protect herself, she had to make a choice. And Lukas, this seemingly fragile young man, had now become her only lifeline.

She stood up and walked toward the door, the sound of her high heels striking the ground urgent and firm, echoing on the empty street.

"Do not leave Prague." Isabella reached the door, her voice so low only the two of them could hear it, yet carrying an unquestionable warning. "There is a mysterious force watching you. They are more patient than you imagine, and more dangerous."

Lukas met her gaze and saw a trace of deep fatigue and fear at the bottom of her eyes. He nodded and asked nothing more. He knew this shelter was extremely fragile, and might even be a trap, but compared with being expelled from academia, it was the only way out at present.

He turned and continued walking forward. Sunlight fell on his back again, warm but brief, before being swallowed by the shadow of the alley.

As he walked out of the alley mouth, preparing to merge into the bustling crowd of Prague's Old Town, his sight was suddenly nailed down by a scene at the street corner. Beneath the ancient clock tower in the square opposite stood a figure holding a black long-handled umbrella. Although the weather was clear and rainless, that person still held the umbrella, the brim pressed very low, revealing only a pale jawline.

Those eyes, through the shadow of the brim, locked firmly onto Lukas's back, cold and without any temperature. Lukas's heartbeat missed a beat. He quickened his steps and vanished around the corner, while that black shadow still stood in place, like a silent monitor, declaring that this game had only just begun.

Night had not yet come, but mist had already spread over the stone railings of Charles Bridge. Lukas did not merge into the crowd, but turned into a narrow, steep stepped alley in the old district. It was no more than a hundred meters from that ancient clock tower, yet it was a blind spot for surveillance. He leaned against the damp, cold bluestone wall, his chest heaving violently, that pale jawline lingering in his mind.

The "patience" Isabella had warned of was now embodied in that black umbrella jarringly opened on a sunny day — it was a mark in some ancient contract, meaning the hunter had locked onto the prey.

He forced himself to calm down, his fingertip moving across the yellowed note he had obtained from the professor in his palm. The edge of the note was printed with a dark red emblem — the old crest of the Prague University academic committee — but on its back, in extremely fine ink, was written a string of coordinates. Lukas realized this was not simple shelter; Isabella was pushing him into a deeper vortex.

She had withdrawn the accusation to steady him, and that watcher might be another force she had drawn out, or an old enemy she had never settled with in the past.

The wind rolled up the fallen leaves at the alley mouth, making a rustling sound, as if countless ears were whispering. Lukas took a deep breath and tucked the note into his inner clothing pocket, against the position of his heart. He could feel the chill that string of coordinates brought; it hinted that the next meeting would not be in a café, but in Prague's most secret underground library.

He stepped forward, the soles of his boots splashing fine spray where they trod in the puddles, each step landing on the beat of fate. Behind him, the ancient clock tower gave out a dull chime — once, twice — the lingering sound echoing on the stone road, as if counting down this silent chase.

He raised his head. The light at the alley mouth grew farther and farther away, and darkness was surging in from all sides, engulfing him completely.