Prologue: The Secret of 2025
February 27, 2025, “The Old Captain” Pub, near Tower Bridge, London.
The late winter wind, carrying the dampness of the Thames, hit him face-on. Percival Sterling walked into the pub, and the heavy wooden door creaked open, as if telling the countless stories it had witnessed. Inside, the light was dim and warm, a mix of alcohol and tobacco smoke filling the air, instantly pulling him away from the cold outside.
A few scattered patrons sat in the pub, some staring down at the foam in their beer mugs, while others chatted about the latest news. Percival walked straight to the bar, ordered a pint of stout, and chose a corner seat. His appearance wasn’t striking; under the dark coat was a young, handsome face, but his eyes held a depth that didn’t match his age.
Soon, a well-dressed man pushed open the door. He glanced around briefly before locking eyes with Percival and walked directly toward him.
“Mr. Sterling, I’ve heard much about you,” the man said, smiling as he extended his hand.
Percival looked up, gave him a brief glance, and didn’t shake his hand. Instead, he raised his glass slightly in a gesture. His voice was low but carried an air of authority: “If you really know me, you should understand that I don’t appreciate unnecessary pleasantries. Let’s get straight to the point. Who are you, and why have you come to find me?”
The man was unbothered, elegantly pulling out a chair to sit down. “I am John Walter, representing the British Government’s Special Affairs Department. My colleagues and I have taken an interest in your... unusual identity.”
Percival raised an eyebrow, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Unusual? That’s an interesting choice of words. Go on.”
John pulled out a stack of photos from his briefcase and slid them across the table toward Percival. The photos were blurry surveillance images showing Percival’s presence at different times and places. What was shocking was that the photos spanned over a century, yet his appearance remained unchanged.
“This one is from 1890,” John pointed to one photo, then picked another one. “And this one is from 2020. The same person, no difference.”
Percival stared at the photos for a moment before smiling faintly. “It seems your investigation is quite thorough. What’s next? Are you going to capture me for dissection, or are you extending a cooperation offer?”
John shook his head. “We just want to know the truth. Who are you, and why have you remained unchanged throughout the flow of history? I believe this is a question not just for us, but for all of humanity.”
Percival was silent for a moment, took a sip of his stout, and then slowly spoke, “What if I told you my story spans 175 years? Would you believe me?”
John crossed his hands, focusing intently on Percival. “I will listen, and I will verify. Please, tell me.”
The atmosphere in the pub grew quieter, as though even the air was holding its breath. Percival leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning toward the dim light outside the window, as if he had already crossed the veil of time.
“1850, it was a cold winter... I encountered a storm in the English Channel...”
His words were deep and lingering, like opening a door to the past.
