Chapter 1: A Twist of Fate

As his eyes fluttered open, a gray biplane adorned with an iron cross roared across the low-hanging sky. The aircraft's nose spat fire, clearly targeting something below.

The sharp whine of bullets tearing through the air was followed by the dull thud of rounds hitting sandbags, sending sprays of dirt into the air. Instinctively, he squinted, shielding his face from the debris.

Wait… what? Albert Rudolf's mind raced. I was just teaching a world history class! How did I end up here? All I did was talk about some successful military campaigns of the German army. Did that really warrant being thrown into a battlefield?

Just minutes ago, he had been standing at the lectern in Tsinghua University, a young and promising teaching assistant named Gu Changge. He had been passionately recounting the might of Germany's war machine, all while sneaking glances at a beautiful student seated in the second row.

But then, tragedy struck. Distracted, he had accidentally stepped on a faulty electrical socket, abruptly ending his quiet, uneventful life.

The good news? Gu Changge wasn't dead. The bad news? He had been transported into the body of a German soldier named Albert Rudolf, complete with a thick Ruhr Valley accent. He couldn't tell if his new face was handsome, but he did notice his new body was much taller and stronger. Unfortunately, in the middle of a battlefield, that wasn't much of a consolation.

Clutching a Mauser Gewehr 98 rifle, Albert realized his rank couldn't be very high. The tattered greatcoat he wore, complete with a charred hole and dried bloodstains, suggested it had been scavenged from a fallen comrade.

As he tried to piece together his surroundings and the timeline, a voice barked beside him.

"Albert! You idiot! Ammo! I need ammo!" The voice was hoarse, tinged with an Austrian accent. Albert turned to see a machine gun nest, where two soldiers were frantically firing a MG 08 heavy machine gun.

Without hesitation, he scrambled to find ammunition. Nearby, an open crate spilled with long belts of bullets. Grabbing one, he crawled over and handed it to the loader before quickly rolling away.

Staying near a machine gun nest was a death sentence. Enemy mortars always targeted them first. Albert knew from his studies that in World War II, machine gun crews had to relocate within 30 seconds of firing to avoid being obliterated.

Before he could get far, explosions erupted around him. The enemy had begun their counterattack with small-caliber mortars.

"Can't they aim better?" Albert muttered, half in frustration, half in fear. "I've already crawled ten meters away, and I'm still catching shrapnel!"

The weapons and tactics of World War I were far cruder than those of World War II. It was a stark reminder that progress was gradual, even for the great powers.

When the shelling subsided, Albert glanced back at the machine gun nest. It was still spitting fire, the two gunners unharmed as they mowed down the enemy.

"Are you kidding me?" Albert groaned, torn between laughter and tears.

He retreated further, crawling into an infantry trench. The machine gun nest had the ammo he'd delivered; it could hold out for a few more minutes. Albert, however, needed to prioritize his own survival.

Most stories of time travel involved waking up after a battle or in a peaceful era with time to build a new life. But Albert? He was thrust straight into the front lines, dodging bullets and mortars.

Feeling the edge of the trench beneath his boots, he rolled in, landing unceremoniously in a pool of stagnant water. The trench was nearly two and a half meters deep, filled with filth.

"Albert, you fool! The enemy hasn't even charged yet, and you're already cowering!" a voice jeered.

Before Albert could respond, a shout cut through the air: "Incoming!"

Soldiers ducked for cover as two dull thuds echoed nearby. The shells hadn't fully detonated, but Albert's instincts screamed danger. He curled into a ball, clutching his gear: a bayonet, a dented canteen, a satchel of supplies, and a cylindrical gas mask container.

Wait… gas mask? Incomplete explosions? Oh no…

Fumbling with the container, he pulled out a gas mask and shoved it onto his face. A strange, mustard-like smell already filled the air. His nose began to run, and his eyes watered, but the mask was on just in time.

Through the fogged lenses, the world twisted into a nightmarish haze. Thick, colored smoke enveloped the trench. Screams, cries, and retching echoed around him. Albert stumbled toward a ladder, his left hand already red and itching from exposure.

Mustard gas—a brutal, indiscriminate weapon. It ravaged skin, eyes, and lungs, leaving no mercy in its wake.

Climbing the ladder, Albert stepped over fallen comrades. Some had forgotten their masks; others hadn't had time to put them on. He couldn't save them. Survival was his only goal.

As he emerged from the trench, the air grew clearer. The gas was dissipating, carried away by a favorable wind. Survivors groaned and cried, their voices a grim reminder of the horrors they'd endured.

"My eyes! I can't see!" a young soldier wailed.

Albert approached him. "Grab my shoulder. I'll get you out of here."

The soldier clung to him, murmuring thanks.

"Everyone, follow me! Hold onto each other! Left, right, left!" Albert shouted through his mask. A line of soldiers formed behind him, a silent procession through the devastation.

"You're a brave man," one soldier said, his voice trembling. "Facing gas for the first time and staying so calm… you're an example to us all."

Albert glanced back. The speaker was a corporal.

"I'm just a private," Albert replied. "Albert Rudolf."

"It's an honor to meet you," the corporal said. "I'm Adolf Hitler."