"Papa," Jan said, staring out the kitchen window at the early summer rain. "I want to become a doctor. But with my grades... Abitur 2.0, maybe 1.9 if I"m lucky... that"s nothing. They say only with 1.0 or 1.1 you can even dream of medicine. It"s impossible."
His father closed his laptop. "Then study harder, Junge."
"But if an elder spirit comes," Jan pressed on, "everything changes. If I integrate someone like Paul Ehrlich or Otto Warburg, I"d get free admission. Heidelberg, Munich-anywhere."
His father shook his head. "Dozens out of millions, Jan. Spirits are luck, like a lottery. Don't build your life on that."
Two months later, on a school trip to the Alps, Jan strayed from his classmates into the pines. The air was sharp, the mountains silent. A strange pressure pulsed in his chest, fleeting, inexplicable. His heart raced-could it be? He said nothing. Weeks passed. Nothing happened.
One night, flying his Messerschmitt in a WWII sim, Jan banked too steep. A voice, calm and certain, cut through the static:
"Ease the nose. Hold her steady. I am Erich Hartmann."
Jan tore off his headset, trembling. The Black Devil of the Luftwaffe. His spirit had come.
"But... I wanted medicine," he whispered. The voice chuckled. "You love the sky, boy. I was drawn to that."
In the Germany of the 2030s, no cockpit waited. Civil and military aircraft alike were controlled entirely by AI, perfect and tireless. Jan had gained the rarest gift imaginable-yet it tied him forever to a profession that no longer existed.