That afternoon, the two sat together in the hotel suite's living room, sipping the coffee that old Eddie Albert had brewed himself. As he explained German customs and geography with his usual gentle precision, there came a soft knock at the door.
Chen Mo motioned for the old man to stay seated, set down his cup, and went to answer it.
Outside stood a young white man holding three boxes. He smiled politely.
"Sir, these are the suits you ordered from our shop."
A few days earlier, Chen Mo had taken Eddie to a tailor and shoemaker nearby to have a few custom suits made. The shoes had been delivered earlier; the suits had just finished today.
"Come in," Chen Mo said, stepping aside. "Just put them on the table."
After tipping the apprentice, Chen Mo returned to the living room. Three boxes—one large, two smaller—sat neatly on the table. He handed the one labeled Eddie Albert to the old man and opened the one with his own name. The largest box he left unopened for now.
Inside were two neatly folded black wool suits, exquisitely made in the classic British style—fine fabric, flawless stitching. Glancing at Eddie's worn gray suit, Chen Mo couldn't help but smile and shake his head.
"How about it, Eddie? Go on, try it on. See how it compares to your old one."
Eddie examined the stitching carefully, his face serious.
"Not bad," he admitted at last. "For Liverpool, this is decent. But I still think mine is better."
The old artist could be quite proud at times. He insisted the local tailors couldn't match German craftsmanship, and had only gone to the shop because Chen Mo practically dragged him there.
Chen Mo didn't press the matter. Smiling, he took the large and small boxes back to his room.
After closing the door, he set aside the suit box and opened the larger one.
Inside lay a different set of items—he inspected them carefully, nodded in satisfaction, kept one set, and stored the rest into his space.
When Eddie emerged a few minutes later in his new suit, what he saw in the living room nearly made him drop his cup.
Sitting on the sofa—was himself.
Same gray hair, same face, same clothes. For a moment, Eddie froze completely, his mind blank.
But years of hardship had forged calm in him; his eyes narrowed as he steadied his breathing.
"Who are you?" he asked sharply. "Why are you here?"
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
The "other Eddie" spoke at the same time, voice identical, tone perfect—a flawless echo. The old artist's confusion deepened into alarm; his hand trembled as he instinctively took a step back.
Before the poor man could panic further, the imposter on the sofa suddenly laughed and peeled something off his face.
"Haha! What do you think, Eddie? Pretty convincing, huh?"
It was Chen Mo.
He tossed the mask to the bewildered artist, who caught it awkwardly and turned it over in amazement.
"What in the world… what is this made of? It looked completely real! I was completely fooled!"
"Silicone, wig, and a bit of paint," Chen Mo said, amused. "Took me several tries to get it right."
Silicone had been invented in the late 19th century, and by this period, the material was mature enough for Chen Mo to craft with precision. With his attention to detail, the disguise was almost impossible to detect without touch.
"Incredible," Eddie murmured, shaking his head. "But how did you imitate my voice so perfectly?"
"Simple," Chen Mo replied. "Adjust the vocal cords, shift resonance between throat, nose, and mouth. Control the tone."
Voice mimics on Earth could already imitate singers or celebrities perfectly—so for someone with Chen Mo's refined bodily control, it was child's play.
A month had passed in Liverpool. It was now February 1942—time to move on.
At dawn, wrapped in fog, Chen Mo quietly left the hotel. On the living room table, he placed an envelope containing ten thousand dollars—a fortune in those days.
His time with Eddie had been brief but genuine. The old man's patience, kindness, and rigorous teaching had helped him immensely. This was Chen Mo's way of saying thanks.
"Guess I'll have to live without your coffee from now on," Chen Mo murmured softly with a faint smile.
Then he turned and left Liverpool behind.
March 1942 — Tønsberg, Norway.
In the outskirts of a small, remote town stood an ancient church, simple yet solemn. Beneath it lay the burial chamber of Norway's royal line.
Though Norway had fallen under German occupation, the night here remained quiet and peaceful.
But that peace did not last.
The roar of engines shattered the stillness as a colossal tank, nearly three stories tall and dozens of meters long, thundered into town. The cobblestone streets cracked beneath its treads; houses trembled as it passed.
The steel behemoth rumbled across the square, stopping before the church. With a deafening crash, it rammed through the heavy wooden doors, splintering both the oak and the stone archway around it. Dust filled the air; when it cleared, the church's interior came into view.
Massive gray stone pillars rose to support a domed ceiling. Faded murals of ancient symbols lined the walls. At the center of the hall stood a massive stone sarcophagus, weathered and solemn.
Inside, only two figures remained: a gray-bearded old man, trembling, and another civilian crushed lifeless beneath fallen debris.
A squad of soldiers poured in through the ruined doorway. Six men spread out, weapons ready, while the squad leader and three others approached the sarcophagus, struggling to pry it open.
Moments later, a sleek black six-wheeled vehicle rolled to a stop at the entrance. From it stepped a tall, imposing figure.
His polished boots struck the stone floor with sharp clicks. The black trench coat, the cold expression, the gleam of fanaticism in his eyes—all radiated power and menace.
As he entered, the soldiers straightened and saluted sharply.
"It took me a long time to find this place," the officer said, his voice calm and chilling. "You've done well."
He gestured.
"Bring him up."
A soldier dragged the trembling old man to his feet.
"You are a man of vision," the officer continued, smoothing the old man's disheveled coat. "In that, we are alike."
The old man's eyes hardened.
"We are nothing alike."
"Aren't we?" The officer tilted his head slightly. "Others call it superstition. You and I—we know it's science."
"What you're looking for doesn't exist," the old man said, his voice quivering but defiant.
"Then why go through such trouble to hide it?"
The officer's patience snapped. He removed his hat and handed it to a soldier, then walked to the sarcophagus.
Placing both hands on the stone lid, he pushed.
The massive cover that several men together had failed to move shifted easily under his strength. With a thundering crash, it fell to the floor—revealing the ancient secret sealed within.