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Ambassador Yang set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, voice perfectly calm.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Raphael didn't answer right away.
He raised one hand, fingers loosely curled.
A pen on the ambassador's desk floated straight up, hovered in mid-air for a second, then settled gently in front of Yang.
The ambassador's pupils contracted sharply.
He glanced at the pen, then back at Raphael. His expression never changed.
"Interesting. You're a magician?"
Raphael took the seat opposite him.
"Just a little trick… Ambassador Yang, I'm here to deliver a gift."
"What gift?"
"America's national treasure."
Raphael spoke plainly. "The hoard left behind by Charles Carroll. One vault is under Trinity Church in New York—artifacts going all the way back to ancient Rome. The other is inside Mount Rushmore. Pure gold. Total weight definitely over ten thousand tons."
Yang looked momentarily stunned, as if he'd misheard.
It took him a full thirty seconds to clear his throat and speak seriously.
"How do you know any of this? Are you American? And if you are… why tell me?"
Raphael gave a helpless sigh.
"Just treat me as a messenger… I know a lot more than this, but sometimes the truth is harder to believe than any lie."
Yang stared at him without blinking.
"You still haven't told me your background. You can't expect me to believe you just fell out of the sky."
Raphael pulled the chair back a little and lounged in it.
"If I said I'm a traverser, would you believe me?"
Yang didn't answer immediately. His brow furrowed slightly.
"I'm familiar with the concept of parallel universes. If you're from another timeline, I haven't accepted what you're saying yet, but the possibility exists. Of course, that would require sufficient proof."
Raphael couldn't help laughing.
"You're taking this easier than I expected."
"Not easier," Yang shook his head. "I've seen plenty of strange things in my life. But that little trick of yours still isn't proof."
Raphael spread his hands.
"I'll prove it with actions. But first, let me give you the exact details on the treasures."
He rattled off everything he knew—exact locations, trap mechanisms, opening sequences—for both vaults.
Yang listened carefully, then asked the obvious follow-up.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I can't dig it myself. It needs manpower, transportation, and airtight cleanup afterward. Only your side has the resources."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Nothing."
Raphael shrugged, completely casual. "The treasure is yours. I just handle the digging."
Yang looked even more confused.
"You want nothing? Then what's in it for you?"
Raphael smiled.
"I won't be in this world for long. Money means nothing to me."
Yang clearly didn't buy it.
"There has to be something. Don't tell me you're just doing a good deed. And you don't look fully Asian either."
"…What I want is change."
"Change what?"
"Change this world's plot."
At that, Yang decided to stop dancing around the subject.
"What exactly do you mean by 'plot'?"
"Movie plot!"
Raphael answered directly. "Like I said, I'm a traverser. This entire world is a Hollywood movie from my original timeline. I know everything that's about to happen."
Yang's frown deepened. He opened his mouth several times, then finally shook his head with a bitter laugh.
"Frankly, this is the most ridiculous thing I've heard in my entire career. You'll have to prove it… but first, let's stick to business. When you say you know the plot, what exactly does that cover?"
Raphael explained, "In the original timeline, outsiders find these treasures. The Trinity Church vault has always been under Illuminati surveillance. The Mount Rushmore gold hasn't been discovered yet. I want to get there first."
Yang pondered that.
"Who are these 'outsiders'?"
Raphael recalled the film's plot.
"A historian named Gates, a computer expert named Riley, a European history scholar named Abigail, and a rich guy named Ian who's hired a team of mercenaries. They're all in Washington right now, chasing the same clues."
He paused to let Yang absorb it, then continued.
"But don't worry. I already made a tiny adjustment to the key player—Gates. They'll take a lot of wrong turns. They won't find the real spots anytime soon."
Yang's eyes sharpened.
"Using the same ability you showed me?"
"Correct. Ever seen Star Wars? It's the Force. Think of it as a Swiss-army knife of superpowers. I can demonstrate anything you want."
Yang immediately picked up the phone on his desk and dialed.
"Connect me to Beijing."
He spoke a few quick sentences in a dialect Raphael didn't understand, then hung up.
"People are coming from home."
He looked at Raphael. "Until then, you stay here. Also… I need you to cooperate on a short video. Words alone aren't enough; a recording will make explaining this a lot easier."
Raphael nodded.
"No problem."
Once a military attaché brought in a handheld camcorder, Yang filmed Raphael demonstrating the Force—lifting objects, subtle mind nudges, the works.
The next three days, Raphael stayed inside the embassy.
Yang gave him a guest room and had meals sent up. Raphael didn't mind waiting.
On the afternoon of the third day, Yang knocked on his door.
"People from Beijing have arrived."
Raphael followed him to a conference room. Seven or eight people sat inside—some older, some younger, clearly scholars and experts.
The leader was a man in his fifties with half-white hair and black-rimmed glasses.
Yang introduced him.
"This is Professor Wang, head of the expert team from home."
Professor Wang shook Raphael's hand.
"Young man, I hear you have special abilities?"
Raphael didn't speak.
He simply raised a hand and floated the teacup on the table straight into it.
The entire room went dead silent.
Professor Wang's eyes lit up like headlights.
"Young man, would you allow us to examine you?"
Raphael had expected this.
"Of course. But I should warn you—you won't find anything."
The next two days were a marathon of tests.
Blood draws, CT scans, MRIs, EEGs—every machine they could get their hands on.
Raphael got the full "public-funded luxury medical tour" at a Washington hospital while the experts watched.
The results were exactly as he predicted: everything normal.
The only thing that excited them was the blood samples.
Raphael knew the midi-chlorians would die the moment they left his body. By the time the samples reached Beijing, they'd be useless.
He didn't bother telling them. Let the experts have their fun.
On the fourth day Professor Wang found him again.
"We've finished checking your body. No abnormalities. As for this 'Force' you mentioned… we can't explain the mechanism yet, but we accept that the power exists."
He paused, then got to the real point.
"But none of that matters. What matters are the two treasure vaults you described!"
Raphael finally relaxed. Finally we're talking business.
"What's your plan?"
Professor Wang spread a map on the table.
"We're going after the Mount Rushmore vault first."
Raphael nodded.
"Good call. Fewer people, the treasure is one solid mass of gold—easy to excavate and transport. Trinity Church is too complicated, right in the middle of a major city. Too easy to get caught."
Wang laid out the next steps.
"We'll send a work team—our own people. To avoid attention they'll pose as ordinary tourists."
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
"A whole group of East Asians heading to Mount Rushmore? That's going to look suspicious."
Wang smiled.
"You think only America can train ethnic-Asian agents? We have them too—selected from minority groups, appearance indistinguishable from locals, language, culture, and habits drilled to perfection. Men and women both. Forming a tour group is child's play."
Raphael's mouth fell open in genuine shock.
They can do that?
He quickly recovered. "Fine. I'll stay with the team the whole time. No safety issues on my watch."
Wang just smiled without answering.
The power of a nation was terrifying.
Even though they had roughly verified Raphael's claims, these men would never put all their hopes on one "kid." In their eyes, that's exactly what he was.
This wasn't about trust. It was simple adult prudence.
After a week of preparation, a twenty-plus-person "all-Caucasian tour group" appeared in South Dakota.
The convoy rolled slowly into the rolling hills. In the morning light, Mount Rushmore's four iconic presidential faces loomed ahead.
Team leader Zhang, riding shotgun, glanced back at Raphael.
"Almost there. You're sure the entrance is on the back side of the mountain?"
Raphael nodded, eyes fixed on the stone giants through the window.
"Charles Carroll was a Freemason. Those guys love this kind of theater—glory on the front, secrets on the back."
Zhang nodded thoughtfully.