Samuel Lincoln walked out smiling, holding a steaming stack of pancakes in his hand. “A hug in exchange for breakfast.”

Charles Griffin sat in the car, reached an arm out the window, and waved to the two of them. “We’ll be on the road all day, get ready.”

The sedan was semi-autonomous; in non-designated zones, it still required driver assistance. Charles Griffin drove one-handed, naturally took a pancake from Samuel Lincoln, took a bite, and praised, “Still Mom’s cooking—delicious. It’d be even better with her pickled vegetables.”

Charles Griffin was a farm kid born in the usual way. Since childhood, he’d mingled with orphans, made no distinctions, and was used to calling her “Mom.”

“I’ll go ask for some.” Samuel Lincoln made as if to open the car door.

Charles Griffin ignored him and kept driving. Samuel Lincoln had no choice but to pull his hand back, showering the pancakes with praise. Henry Lincoln didn’t eat; he had a bad feeling about this car, as if he could still smell Miss Bennett’s scent.

Not long after leaving the farm, Charles Griffin switched cars by the roadside, moving extremely fast and without any prior warning. He stopped the car, said, “Let’s go,” got out, and strode toward another car parked ahead.

Henry Lincoln grabbed his suitcase and got out. Samuel Lincoln hesitated for a moment before following.

Soon, the vehicle entered a designated zone and could drive itself. Charles Griffin swiveled his seat to face the two in the back, reminiscing about childhood memories. They chatted and laughed along the way, skillfully finding food in the car—there was alcohol and snacks.

Halfway through, they switched cars again. This time it was more thrilling, as cars sped by one after another on the road.

After getting in, Charles Griffin said, “People from the farm are basically semi-public spies. No matter how you try to hide, it’s probably useless, but it’s a habit—one you should keep.”

Samuel Lincoln had been watching Charles Griffin with admiration the whole time and immediately nodded in agreement, wanting to say something, but the other had already turned to look out the window.

It had taken seven days to get here, but only one day to return to the city. They drove through a neatly planned new district, and not long after nightfall, entered the old city. Charles Griffin took over the controls, circled around a few times, and parked on the street in front of an old building.

The building was twenty or thirty stories tall, relatively short compared to those around it.

The elevator was so dilapidated it was untrustworthy. They needed to go to the third floor, so they simply took the stairs.

It was a standard two-bedroom apartment—the new recruits’ residence.

Though it was an organization-assigned place, Charles Griffin still followed procedure and checked everything carefully, then had the two sit down while he stood opposite, his expression turning serious for the first time. “483. Remember this number.”

“483,” Samuel Lincoln said immediately.

Henry Lincoln repeated it.

“Group 483. I’m the leader, you’re the members. Keep this number in your heart. Don’t ever say it out loud, not to anyone, not even to people in the organization.”

Both nodded.

“I am your only leader, your only superior. If one day, someone suddenly comes to you claiming to be a higher-up—even if that person is from the farm, even if it’s someone you know—what do you do?”

Samuel Lincoln raised his hand and made a throat-slitting gesture.

Henry Lincoln nodded in agreement.

Charles Griffin smiled. “That’s all for now. Get some rest. I’ll come back and give you your assignments.”

Charles Griffin left.

Samuel Lincoln checked around and found food in the tiny kitchen, cheering.

Henry Lincoln walked to the window and saw the car they’d arrived in was still there, but Charles Griffin hadn’t reappeared.

His gaze was quickly drawn to the scene across the street, unable to look away for a long time.

Samuel Lincoln came out and asked in confusion, “What are you looking at?”

Henry Lincoln pointed. Samuel Lincoln looked for a while. “Just a small barbershop.”

“The heir of the murdered planet—that’s his barbershop. I saw it in the news.”

Chapter Five: Spies Don’t Believe in Coincidence

There were seven or eight teachers for the spy course. The one who interacted with students most often was Uncle Sam. His surname was Mei, but his real name was unknown. He was very tall, nearly two meters, but a bit hunched, which made him appear shorter. It was said this was due to injuries he’d sustained as a spy.

“Spies don’t believe in coincidence.” He taught the basic courses, and this was one of the many things he repeatedly reminded students to pay attention to in the future.

Uncle Sam would also give examples as evidence. These stories were a mix of truth and fiction; he never confirmed any of them.

In the seventieth year of the Star Era, back when Zhaiwang Star wasn’t yet called Zhaiwang Star, the planet’s population experienced its first explosion. The previously peaceful factions began to vie for power.

Faction A—a group Uncle Sam refused to identify—had an investigator whose public job was a police officer. His jurisdiction happened to include a sensitive department. One day, he and a colleague caught a thief and found some stolen goods, among which was a microcomputer.

The microcomputer wasn’t encrypted, so its contents were easily browsed. A wealth of intelligence appeared before the investigator’s eyes. He could hardly believe it, and immediately made a copy to give to his superior.

Several pieces of intelligence confirmed that the rival Faction B was preparing to launch a war.

Such an important piece of intelligence—yet no one believed it, because it was too much of a coincidence. The intelligence agency’s director didn’t even report it, simply classifying it as invalid information.