That night, chaos swept through Brooklyn's underworld. Several gang headquarters and safe houses were looted—some even had entire safes vanish without a trace. Losses ranged from thousands to tens of thousands of dollars.
To put things in perspective, the average annual income in the U.S. at the time was under $1,000. A military pilot earned about $150 a month, a regular soldier only $50. For the gangs, this was a bloodbath.
While the furious mobsters scoured the city in search of the phantom thief who had robbed them blind, the culprit himself—our newly minted "serial burglar"—was lounging in the cargo hold of a freighter bound for Europe, happily "opening treasure chests."
Airplanes of that era had poor range; none could cross the Atlantic's five or six thousand kilometers. The only option was the slow-moving ship—and for Chen Mo, lacking any identification, stowing away was the only viable choice.
Ever since his infiltration of Zhou Tianhao's villa, Chen Mo had discovered a certain fondness for playing the roles of assassin and thief—and, to his own amusement, he was quite good at both.
With strength, agility, and perception several times that of an ordinary man, he could move silently and unseen. His inner space allowed him to carry tools and weapons effortlessly—and just as easily haul away piles of loot. Infiltration, assassination, theft, escape—his every move was precise and efficient.
But these were just the conditions. The real reason was simple: Chen Mo preferred achieving his goals with the smallest possible cost. Reckless brute force was never his style.
After cracking open the last safe, he packed his tools and began counting the take. Altogether, over $120,000 in cash, along with a small stash of gold bars, jewels, and several kilograms of narcotics. What pleased him most, though, were two pristine M1911 pistols.
The M1911—a legend. Over seventy years in U.S. military service, chambered in .45 ACP, its stopping power was unmatched. Seven rounds per magazine, high precision, long range, low malfunction rate. Its only flaws: heavy weight, limited capacity, strong recoil.
But for someone with Chen Mo's inhuman strength—and a personal storage space that could swap magazines instantly—those "flaws" didn't matter at all.
After more than ten days at sea, the freighter finally arrived at Liverpool, England.
Having spent the voyage hidden in the cargo hold, sneaking onto the deck only under the cover of night for fresh air, Chen Mo was nearly suffocating from the confinement.
Before sunset, using his keen senses, he avoided the crew, slipped ashore, and took a taxi straight to the nearest upscale hotel.
Traveling alone, he booked the best suite—two bedrooms and a spacious living room overlooking Liverpool's elegant streets and distant shoreline. As soon as he hit the soft, wide bed, sleep claimed him instantly.
Morning sunlight filtered through the white gauze curtains, spilling warmth across his face and waking him gently.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he had slept deeply and peacefully. Stretching lazily, Chen Mo walked to the window and pushed it open. A gust of cold, damp morning air swept in, clearing his mind.
It was now January 1942. Though he should have already been on the move, Chen Mo instead took to the streets, wandering the old city at a relaxed pace.
When war broke out, many Germans had fled to Britain—intellectuals, Jews persecuted for their race, communists despised by Hitler, and so-called "degenerate artists." They had been doctors, lawyers, merchants, and artists, but in Britain, they were simply refugees from an enemy nation.
Life for them had been harsh. They'd been forced into labor, helping to build defenses; later, they were sent to the desolate Dartmoor moors, struggling to survive amid fog and rain.
Then, out of fear of Nazi infiltration, the British government interned them all—tens of thousands—on small islands near Liverpool.
Only after the attack on Pearl Harbor had those thirty thousand Germans been released. Most joined the British military; the rest stayed in Liverpool, trying to survive in a society that still distrusted them.
Jobless and penniless, many lived on the streets.
It didn't take long for Chen Mo to spot one such man—a gray-haired German artist sketching portraits in a public square.
The old man's suit was worn but spotless, his demeanor calm and composed. Life's hardships had not crushed him; they had refined him. His face bore no trace of pain or despair—only the serene detachment of one who had seen through life and death.
He sat on a rickety wooden stool, holding a drawing board on his knees and a piece of charcoal in his hand. Beside him sat a battered leather case—his entire worldly possessions.
"Would you like a portrait, sir?" the old man asked gently, smiling.
"Why not?" Chen Mo replied, sitting down in front of him.
The artist observed him carefully, his charcoal moving swiftly. Soon, a vivid portrait of Chen Mo appeared—so lifelike it almost breathed.
Chen Mo couldn't help but admire the skill. With a few simple strokes, the old man had perfectly captured the sharpness and focus in his eyes.
His aura had changed since before—gone was the restraint of a young man hiding his edge. After killing, surviving a plane crash, and traveling through time, his heart had hardened, his confidence sharpened. His gaze was deep and resolute; his presence radiated an almost tangible intensity.
Looking at the portrait, Chen Mo realized how much he himself had changed—unconsciously, completely. But he liked it. This was who he truly was now: unbound, alive, and free.
This is the real me, he thought.
After explaining his intentions, Chen Mo offered the old man a job—ten dollars a day, meals and lodging included. The artist accepted with a smile, packed his drawing board and case, and followed Chen Mo back to the hotel.
His name was Eddie Albert, a little-known painter and sculptor. He had devoted his life to art, never married, never had children. Now in his sixties, he lived alone.
Years of wandering had given him insight and inspiration—but also a frail body. Though he had long accepted the idea of dying in a foreign land, Chen Mo's sudden appearance reignited a spark of hope, and he grasped it without hesitation.
He could tell that Chen Mo was not an ordinary man. There was something in his bearing—something rare and unexplainable.
After settling Eddie into the second bedroom of the suite, Chen Mo took him to the best restaurant nearby for dinner—a small gesture of welcome. Despite his circumstances, Eddie ate with the grace of a gentleman, not a destitute refugee.
From that day on, Chen Mo began studying sketching, oil painting, and sculpture under Eddie's guidance. His highly developed mind and precise motor control made his progress astonishingly fast. Within weeks, his art had reached an impressive level.
Even more shocking to Eddie was Chen Mo's linguistic gift. English had been easy enough, but German was entirely new to him—yet in just one month, he spoke it so fluently that even Eddie, a native German, could find no fault.
If that was merely surprising, what happened next would soon leave the old artist utterly terrified.