Blue light from massive monitors washed over the powerful figures seated around an oval mahogany table. Their black suits and silver ties shimmered faintly beneath an antique chandelier that trembled softly with the breath of hidden ventilation shafts. The scent of Cuban cigars mixed with Russian vodka lingered in the air, like a stubborn fog from another era.
On the screen, footage of Kaivan's escape played on repeat—his movements swift, precise, almost inhuman. In one scene, a small pair of scissors flew from his hand, triggering a snow collapse that swallowed three armed guards whole. The roar of engines, sharp breaths, and clouds of white dust were captured in chilling detail.
"How could he move that fast?" thundered a former Russian general, his voice crashing against the steel walls. His fist struck the table, making it tremble. His green eyes burned with awe and unease. "He reads the terrain, predicts trajectories, uses the environment… like a predator."
An Italian man, Don Vescari, lifted a slender cigarette with his gloved fingers. Its red tip cut through the smoke.
"Look at this angle," he said softly, yet sharply. "The timing is perfect. That avalanche wasn't luck. Everything was calculated. Even the guards' positions."
"Spatial prediction?" asked a young man with a French accent.
"Or intuition forged by trauma," replied the Englishman beside him, his voice calm but heavy.
On the screen, Kaivan now appeared inside the truck with Elara. The camera caught the moment the vehicle swayed. With a single glance, he released their seatbelts—and jumped.
Snow spiraled. Kaivan's body shielded Elara from the impact. The truck crashed into the rocks, bursting into fire and snow.
No one looked away.
"Just one glance…" someone whispered at last. "And he knew when to jump."
Silence filled the room.
Each sponsor stared at the screen, their cold faces reflecting a rare trace of shock. These were men who decided life and death with a word—yet now, they were unsettled by a seventeen-year-old boy.
The massive door at the back creaked open. The sound was soft, yet full of threat.
Levan entered, wearing a long black coat with a silver emblem on his shoulder. His steps were steady, like the ticking of unstoppable time.
Behind him walked Kaivan.
He moved slowly, dressed simply, a high collar hiding his neck. The overhead lights sharpened the lines of his face. There was no confusion left—only quiet, guarded awareness.
"Your questions can be answered directly," Levan said casually, his voice filled with authority. He stood beside the metal table and stepped aside for Kaivan.
All eyes turned toward him.
The rulers of shadows—men who commanded nations—now watched a teenage boy with caution.
A Georgian man with a white beard and gray eyes leaned forward.
"Are you Kaivan?" he asked flatly, his voice heavy like a verdict.
Kaivan met his gaze without fear.
"Yes," he replied. "And I won't repeat the same performance again."
The underground conference room was cold and sleek, wrapped in layers of modern steel and glass. Black metal walls absorbed every echo, while transparent screens displayed Kaivan's biometric data from countless angles. Pale white LED panels cast faint shadows across the steel surface, giving the space an unreal stillness.
Thin cigarette smoke drifted lazily through the air, spiraling above a round titanium table where influential figures from around the world sat in silence. Among them, a woman in a white lab coat stood out. Her neatly tied black hair framed her calm expression, and a small lotus-shaped pin shimmered softly on her chest—the emblem of China's secret biogenetics division.
She opened the black folder in front of her.
Her voice was steady, piercing the stillness.
"According to our data, your brain activity has increased by fifty percent naturally. Your neurons respond hundreds of times faster than normal. You are… an ideal candidate for our special forces."
All eyes turned toward Kaivan.
He stood straight, gazing at the screen that replayed footage of his impossible escape. His breathing was heavy, yet controlled.
"I've felt enough pain," he said quietly. "I just want to live freely."
Silence tightened around them.
His words shattered the air like metal cracking under pressure. Several sponsors shifted in their seats, startled by his refusal.
A sharp-faced man from the western side of the table leaned back casually, his eyes cold and calculating.
"Do you know why this research exists?" he asked softly.
Kaivan didn't answer. He only stared.
The man continued, his voice sinking into a whisper that cut through the room.
"Beyond the walls of Yajuj and Majuj, the voices are growing louder. From the Superdeep Borehole, we hear roars… something. Something that doesn't belong to this world."
He activated a recording on his tablet.
A mixture of rumbling noise and distorted screams filled the room—half machine, half creature. Some people stiffened. Others lowered their heads.
"The Tome of Omnihorror has begun to move. Other artifacts are awakening as well. The world is about to change, Kaivan. This is no longer a personal choice. It's about the future of civilization. And you are part of that plan."
A massive sponsor from Russia, built like a bear, slammed his arm against the chair.
"We'll pay you one billion a month," he growled. "Full facilities. Full protection. You only need to become the base subject of our research."
The air grew heavy, pressing down on every breath.
Kaivan didn't reply immediately.
Instead, he turned toward Levan, the man in a black robe standing quietly behind him.
"Levan," he said softly, his voice flowing like cold water. "May I have my Tome Omnicent back?"
Levan, who had remained like a shadow until now, stepped forward. His shoes echoed faintly against the metal floor.
He walked toward a tall glass cylinder in the corner of the room, where an ancient book rested on an electromagnetic pedestal.
Light pulsed gently from its carved wooden cover, as if welcoming Kaivan.
Levan stared at it for a moment, then handed it over with a cold warning.
"Don't make us regret this."
Kaivan placed his hand on the wooden surface.
The light spread across his skin like living nerves. He took a deep breath and pulled the book tightly to his chest—a gentle gesture, yet filled with meaning.
His eyes swept across the room, meeting each sponsor's gaze with a calm that felt strangely intimidating.