11:30 AM. Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys, Barcelona, Spain, March 17th

Outside of the imposing Olympic Stadium in Barcelona, thousands of people are waiting. A sea of bright colors, forming geometrical patterns, human chaos up close but aestethic cleanliness and balance from up above. There are thirty-six pillars, neatly lined up in perfect symmetry and harmony. The sun gleams on their metal rings. Thousands of hearts are beating. Some are standing in line to participate. Some to watch. Some have travelled far to be here and showcase all their hard work. Red, yellow, blue, white, black, orange, purple, green, brown. England, Germany, France, Denmark, Spain, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Turkey, Italy, Greece. And then special guests from Japan, China, Korea. All hearts are beating in anticipation. Children stand tall and proud with adult expressions, middle-aged men and women recount their sightseeing adventures in the beautiful capital of Spain. At the heart of the city, in the Gothic Quarter, medieval structures grab you in their past and whisper of ancient tales. The labyrinthine street plan opens into squares and more squares. You cannot escape time here. You are reminded of it with each step.

A 136 metre high steel structure, a geometric representation of an athlete, stands close by, a blinding white against the pale blue sky. Locals know this abstract piece was built by Santiago Calatrava, a Valencian engineer and architect. Tourists are amazed to find out that the shadow of the central needle acts as a sundial. One cannot forget time. In such a busy capital, one must be aware of time. And for sports enthusiasts, today especially they cannot be late. Barcelona is finally the host of the European Wushu Championship. The shadow of a man is seen in giant proportions next to the tower, stretching out onto the pavement like a titan reaching for the sun.

Outside there is chatter and hurried steps, words spoken in many languages. Inside, one can feel the energy and the excitement in the air. As people take their seats, the festivities commence. Flames and acrobatics, drums and horns, traditional Chinese music. Men and women in traditional silken Wushu uniforms march around the rectangular mats where they will perform. The judges take their seats and adjust their grading sheets and the glasses on their noses. The first ones to start are the children. This year they have allowed more age categories to take part. Before the official competition starts, the stadium is honored to guest a special team hailing from China.

Ten boys walk calmly onto the arena. The audience is dead silent, respectful and solemn. Their red silken uniforms stand out against the green mats. There are golden Chinese dragons embroidered on their backs. One boy begins his changquan routine. He straightens his back and sticks his chest out. Gently crouching down, he stretches his left arm at a perfect perpendicular angle, pushing his palm out and bending his right palm until it curves like a swan's neck. Time seems to have slowed down as his movements flow from a bowing stance to a horse stance to a squatting stance to a splitting stance, everything as perfect as a clockwork mechanism. The boy's tiny fragile body winds and jumps, goes backwards and forewards, his legs moving sideways and his palms pushing out an invisible force. Time seems to move faster now, as the next boy rushes in and kicks his leg so high it touches his outstretched palms, becoming a perfect vertical shape, muscles stretched tight in a perfect, rigid position. The next one moves even faster, jumping through the air and spinning, always landing on his feet with perfect balance. The crowd's cheers sound more and more like battle roars. One can tell who is new to this exhibition of art and talent. Tourists from all over the world gasp and exclaim, are excited and fearful when a complicated routine is shown.

"How are they so good already? These are children! I have not seen such level, such skill before at their age!" exclaims one of the coaches for the Italian team.

"I heard they have an extraordinary coach and he is not an old, experienced master, as one would expect. He seems to have an exquisite control of his chi and he seems to defy gravity, the man is completely otherworldly"

"Oh? Will we get to see him also? I heard the masters from China, Japan and Korea will show their skills too before the official competition starts. I am dying to see him, now that you so highly spoke of him.

"Oh, yes, he will perform right after the next two Chinese women". You won't be disappointed my friend!

As the ten boys exit the stage, two women step forward, one wearing red and one yellow. Their slick black hair is tightly pulled back and tied into a ponytail. One holds a white flexible spear with crimson red horse hair at its end. They quietly walk in the center of the mat. They stop abruptly and breathe in deeply. Then unexpectedly, one of the women shouts and starts swinging the spear at her opponent who falls onto her back, twisting and rotating her scissor-like legs around the spear, dodging every hit with expertise. The women move so fast it is hard for the eyes to keep up. This is more choreography and acrobatics than a fight but it still seems awfully dangerous and menacing for the woman defending herself from the swift, light-speed movements of the woman in red. The crowd gasps as the woman in yellow stops dodging with her body, standing straight in a perfect split while only avoiding the hits with rapid head movements. She moves so quickly her head seems to disappear. It is as if she were made out of rubber, as if she were a playdough figurine a child could shape, an empty balloon filled with flour, endlessly stretching and moulding. The tables have turned, now the woman in yellow jumps and flails her arms around, making her opponent retreat and dodge, she rotates through the air and then grabs onto the spear, spinning it, causing the other woman to spin too, causing her to fall on her back. The performance ends with the crowd cheering, clapping and yelling as the two women bow and make their way out.

A tall figure walks up on the center ring. He stands out among the other Chinese Wushu representatives as he has dyed blonde hair and a more unconventional look.

"That's him! His name is Huang Zi Tao! He is going to showcase changquan using a medium-sized dao from what I can see. He looks like he is in his early twenties, I still can't believe he is a coach at this age! I will hush now, it is starting!"

The tall man is wearing a black wushu uniform with silver embroidery, completely different from that of his students. He lifts his head and shakes his blonde fringes covering his eyes. His eyes are mezmerizing, oval shaped and narrow, curving upward.  He has a charming 'Wò Cán', a horizontal puffiness ( 卧蚕-what the Chinese call a "reclining silkworm") nestling under his eyes, a long aquiline nose and thin puckered lips. He steadies himself and jumps high, slamming the ground with his fists as he takes another swift step forward grabbing his willow-leaf-shaped sword. The sword looks sharp and shines metallicaly, bending from the swiftness of its handler. Zitao pushes the sword forward, stabbing the air, slashing invisible molecules. He spins in the air, his body becoming a spin tap, a corkscrew, a spring suspended in animation. Sometimes he moves in slow motion, sometimes he jolts and gives the illusion of fast-forwarding time. He jumps in the air and lands into a split. He rolls on the mat. All of a sudden another man walks up and he starts dueling him. He falls onto his back but springs back up, winding his body. He jumps through the air with the sword close to his chest, his toes barely touching the ground. He looks as if he is flying. More and more attackers duel him. Grabbing a long staff he leans it against his shoulder blades and pushes it with his forearms, spinning and knocking his opponents face to the floor. More come at him and he balances on the now vertical staff and kicks them, swinging like a merry-go-round. He roars and shouts as he does a cartwheel without his arms touching the ground, flying over a man's back, landing in a perfect eagle stance. Grabbing his sword again, he pierces it and stabs at his opponents, he bends down and spins like a skater on ice with an outstretched leg, knocking the remaining men down. He stands up tall, straightens his posture and joins his left palm with his right fist, bowing down respectfully towards the audience who is still silent and in awe of the performance. After a brief silence, the crowd finally stands up and claps, cheering for the young man.

"I told you you would not be disappointed friend! Was I right?"

"Yes...I...have no words...He is something out of this world, I can tell he was holding back too, I believe he is capable of even more than he showed here..."

Zitao walks out and back into the crowd to watch his students whose eyes are watching him with pride and respect.

"You were amazing, master Huang..."

"Qian. Cheng. Li. Yi. Xin!" shouted a pupil (trans: Humility. Virtue. Respect. Morality. Trust)

"Yong. Ren. Heng. Yi. Zhi!" another answered. (trans: Courage. Patience. Endurance. Perseverence. Will).

Ah, he had taught them well, he thought to himself. He sought to teach them to follow a code of ethics and morality in both their deeds and their mind, to acquire perfect harmony between their wisdom and emotions. He was taught that himself when he was little. This is what had drawn him to these practices of martial arts. He had wanted to achieve peace within himself during these four long years on Earth. Guilt and regret are great motivators. He wanted to one day go back, to find out what happened to the others first. But in the meantime, he had found his balance. He was happy with a simple life, with his meditation and his practice. He was happy his profession allowed him to see the world. And he had seldomly been forced to use his power. He wondered if the others had relinquished theirs and let them dull like a rusty knife in an unused kitchen drawer. Or perhaps they had honed their craft, they had refined their powers and made them stronger. He patted one of his students on the head and smiled.

"Keep watching and learning from the others who are about to perform. I will be back in a few".

"Okay master, I will take care of the others until you return!"

"Good boy! I won't be long."

Something had been bothering him. He felt followed. His senses were pretty sharp and something was off. He walked down the steps, outside the stadium and into the large square surrounded by the thirty-six pillars. Overlooking the large empty space was the Sundial Communication tower his guide had told him about. He knew the time though, without needing to look at the shade on the ground. But there were two shades, a big one created by the tower and what seemed like an elongated male figure. He followed it with his eyes and raised them to find its source. But there was nothing. Just the white tower against the now vibrant blue sky, a sky he hadn't seen since he had visited Greece. He looked back at the square. Only the sundial needle shade was there now. Was he imagining things? He looked at his own shadow. It was normal. He looked at the pillars. Thirty-six pillars. Thirty-seven shadows. His eyes opened wide. He was starting to get scared. What was happening? Involuntarily, he got into a defensive stance, lowering his body and stretching his palms out, looking around him for a possible attacker. But how do you defend yourself against a shadow with no human form? How do you defend yourself against an invisible man? Because he was convinced this was a person.

"Zitao..."

"Who goes there?!" he jumped up, startled. All his martial arts training was fruitless without a target to hit.

The voice was feint and sounded muffled, it also sounded electric, it zig-zagged through the air as if it were travelling through invisible worm-holes and leaping through space and time.

"Don't fear me. I am not your foe"

"Show yourself!" Tao tried hard to not sound scared but it wasn't happening.

"Cafe Kafka. Tomorrow. 10 AM. Be there". The voice sounded deep and manly but, as distorted and muffled as it were, it bore a strange familiarity.

"What? Where? Why? Who are you?"

"Kafka. 10. Buy the morning paper, also. Goodbye".

And then there was silence. It wasn't as natural as a person walking away or just falling silent after speaking, it was as if someone had turned off a TV or radio, it seemed to have zapped off, a channel being muted. Tao felt a shiver running down his spine. But his curiosity was greater than his fear so he decided to meet this stranger at the cafe the next day.

10:09. Cafe Kafka, March 18th

Zitao had come early and grabbed the paper from the news stand right outside the cafe. It was a trendy coffee shop and not very cheap, the inside being quite luxurious. The walls were painted white with a red trim and adorned with gold-framed bookshelves and antique Venetian mirrors. It wasn't busy this time of day. Only two other men were sitting at the tables near him and the waiter was busy polishing glasses, making sure everything was spick and span. One of the men was younger and had a laptop open, probably a college student cramming for an exam over some coffee and orange juice. The other man was older, had grizzly hair and was immersed in his reading. Tao sipped his coffee enjoying its sweet taste and finally looked at the front page of the paper he bought. The strange voice had not visited him yet. The title on the main page stated:

"El cometa esta apareciendo en diez ciudades de todo el mundo"

This meant, to the best of his understanding of the Spanish language, that "The comet has appeared in ten cities around the world".

"Comet? What comet?" he thought to himself. "I didn't hear about any comet. But...why ten?". He looked at the bottom half of the page. There was a picture of crop circles and another one of ten different comets. "Oh wait so...ten comets...There are ten of us...."

All of a sudden, the lightbulb above him shot out and exploded. Instinctually, he wanted to avoid the shards of glass falling onto his face. However, this time, he felt like he hadn't decided to use his power. It just happened. Time came to a halt. The young man froze sipping his coffee and the old man froze with his thumb and index finger gently flipping a page of his book, while the waiter was now forever polishing a petite porcelain coffee cup. The broken shards from the lightbulb started moving slowly as time picked back up, as the coffee cup fell to the floor, as Tao saw a shadow in the Venetian mirror. The shards brushed up against his jacket as he ran outside the cafe, the electric voice ringing in his ears.

"We need your help. It's happening."

"Where are you?" Tao had stepped outside but everything seemed normal, people chatting on the terrace and having breakfast. He looked left and right, he couldn't see anything. Why did his power go off when he didn't want it to?

"Follow my voice. This way. Here. This narrow street, out of sight."

Tao turned into one of the labyrinthine gothic streets with gray smokey walls. He almost ran down it but noticed it was a dead end ahead. The busy rustle of the street was behind him. It was quiet here. He felt someone's presence. He stretched out his hand and the air seemed heavier, he met with resistance, as if he had just jumped out of a plane and the air was brushing against him at a high speed. A portion of the wall seemed to get bigger as if a giant was holding a magnifying glass in front of him and then a translucid shape materialized slowly, then a feint, dim figure of a tall, dark-haired man wearing a trenchcoat. He held a long, thin finger in front of his lips. Tao remembered that face well, though it had been a while.

"Jongin!"

"Shhhhh....We must hurry. Grab my hand."

As he did so, everything faded to black and Zitao no longer knew what time it was.