Chapter 2: The Deadly Consequences of Nationalist Theory

Upon hearing the name, Albert Rudolf had two immediate reactions. His right hand instinctively reached for the bayonet at his side, while his still-aching left hand fumbled to remove his gas mask. He turned his head slightly, glancing back.

Kill him. Kill him right here.

The thought flashed through Albert's mind like a lightning strike. He knew exactly who the man behind him was. He knew what this man would go on to do. This was the perfect opportunity to end it all, to nip the future in the bud.

For a moment, Albert even wondered if fate had brought him to this exact time and place for this very purpose—to assassinate Adolf Hitler.

His hand tightened around the bayonet, and his gas mask dangled from his left hand. But Albert didn't turn around. Instead, he kept walking, step by step, breathing in the fresh air that made him feel alive again. After a brief internal struggle, he let go of the idea entirely.

This is a chaotic era, he reminded himself. A time of heroes and monsters. If I want to survive, if I want to achieve anything in this world, my best chance lies with the man behind me. Killing him might only doom me to die anonymously in the trenches of World War I. No thanks.

As for saving humanity or preventing the suffering of millions—Albert felt no personal connection to such grand ideals. If the man behind him had been, say, a high-ranking Japanese officer or someone directly responsible for atrocities in his own homeland, Albert might have acted without hesitation. But Hitler? Albert harbored no deep-seated hatred for him.

Just as Western scholars often turned a blind eye to the suffering of Chinese soldiers and civilians during the Asian conflicts, Albert, as a Chinese scholar in his past life, felt little emotional investment in the chaos and bloodshed of Europe. To him, it was a case of "not my problem, not my concern."

Behind him, Hitler clung to Albert's shoulder, his grip tight on Albert's greatcoat. The pressure of his fingers suggested his eyes were still burning from the gas. Albert released the bayonet and, with his less agile left hand, carefully folded the gas mask and returned it to its container.

"Hold on! I need to stop for a moment!" Albert called out to the group. He tapped Hitler's fingers gently. "Let go for a second. I need to tie my boot."

His movements were careful, mindful of the pain Hitler must have been feeling from the gas exposure. Hitler nodded gratefully and loosened his grip. The fabric of Albert's coat was crumpled where Hitler had clutched it, a testament to the man's desperation.

Albert wasn't actually tying his boot, of course. He was scavenging a Mauser Gewehr 98 rifle from a nearby corpse. He had no idea if his superiors would hang him for losing his weapon, but having a rifle would at least make it look like he'd retreated to assist wounded comrades rather than fleeing the battlefield.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, grabbed a couple of grenades and some ammunition from the dead soldier, and then rejoined his makeshift group of blind and injured men.

After about fifteen minutes, the ragged group finally stumbled upon their regiment's headquarters. It wasn't luck or some kind of protagonist's privilege that led them there—anyone who encountered over thirty retreating soldiers would naturally follow them to safety.

"Herr Rudolf, you're from the third company, right?" Hitler, now bandaged and somewhat calmer, began chatting incessantly at the field hospital. Albert quickly learned one of Hitler's defining traits: the man never stopped talking.

Of course, Albert thought. A man who couldn't talk wouldn't be able to sway millions with his speeches. His words were his weapon, and he wielded them with terrifying precision. It was through his voice that he would eventually reshape an entire political movement into something infamous.

Albert was tempted to slap Hitler just to shut him up. He had too much to process, too many questions to answer. But exhaustion soon overtook him.

Still feeling the effects of the gas, Albert fell asleep on the floor of the field hospital. The beds were reserved for the critically wounded, and his injuries didn't even warrant a stretcher.

The next morning, Albert—now a soldier in the German Army—woke to the sound of Hitler's voice. He struggled to put on his old greatcoat with his right hand, all while enduring the endless rant of his new "friend."

"The Jews!" Hitler exclaimed, his voice rising with agitation. "I've thought about this for a long time. It's the Jews! They're the ones who've brought us to this state of failure! Herr Rudolf, they should all be punished severely!"

Hitler had woken early, his eyes still burning and his vision blurred. The pain seemed to fuel his anger, and his face twisted into a grimace as he spoke.

Albert glanced at him, cleared his throat, and replied calmly, "Hitler, you're being too narrow-minded. Yes, some Jews may act against our interests, but others are valuable. We should recruit those who can contribute to our nation's strength."

"Nonsense!" Hitler snapped, his voice trembling with frustration. "The Jews are weak, untrustworthy, and parasitic! They're draining the lifeblood of our country! They deserve nothing but condemnation."

Albert met Hitler's gaze with his piercing blue eyes and said firmly, "Hitler, you must understand that many of the weapons we use in battle were designed or funded by Jews. Many have contributed to our nation's progress. The goal isn't to eliminate them but to make people realize that the concept of 'Jews' as a separate group is unnecessary. We should focus on unity, not division."

Hitler looked confused. The ideas Albert presented were unfamiliar and challenging. "Make people believe Jews don't exist? Isn't that the same as destroying them?"

"No, no, Hitler, it's entirely different," Albert explained patiently. "I have a theory—a theory of Greater German Democracy. It's about redefining what it means to belong to our nation. Anyone who loves and serves the German Empire is part of our people, regardless of their background. Those who are selfish, cowardly, or disloyal—even if they're pure-blooded Aryans—are not true Germans."

Hitler frowned, his immature racial theories clashing with Albert's broader perspective. "But how do we distinguish between them?"

"By their contributions," Albert replied. "If a Jewish engineer can design tanks for the Empire, he's a patriot. But if someone spends their days causing trouble and contributing nothing, they're a burden, no matter their heritage."

"I still believe Jews are parasites," Hitler muttered, though his conviction seemed to waver.

Albert placed a hand on Hitler's shoulder and helped him to his feet. Together, they stepped outside the tent, breathing in the fresh air. "Hitler, my friend, this is about facing facts. We must analyze things objectively, based on evidence. That's the only way to find the truth."

The two men talked throughout the day, sitting at a distance as the battle raged on. The horizon was lit by the flashes of artillery fire, and the ground shook with each explosion. Hitler listened intently to Albert's ideas, feeling for the first time that he had found a kindred spirit. Albert's words filled the gaps in his own incomplete nationalist ideology, and though there were still differences, Hitler found himself agreeing with much of what Albert said.

Hitler's love for his country ran deep, and Albert's argument that anyone who served the nation was valuable resonated with him. Yet, Hitler clung to one core belief: "But why is it that my Jewish superior is so despicable? He's a vile, corrupt man who only looks out for himself!"

"Then people like him—those who contribute nothing and only cause harm—should be held accountable," Albert said carefully. "They should face justice for their actions."

Hitler nodded, his bandaged eyes still burning. He admired Albert's decisiveness, especially the phrase, "They should face justice." It aligned perfectly with his own sense of righteousness.

That night, as they prepared to sleep, Hitler turned to Albert, who was lying on the floor beside his cot. "You're a truly knowledgeable man," he said. "Meeting you has been a great fortune."

Through their conversations, Albert had pieced together where and when he was. Hitler had been injured during a historically significant battle, and the Austrian 16th Infantry Regiment was preparing to retreat from the front lines.

The next morning, the regiment began evacuating the wounded. A group of severely injured soldiers, including Hitler, were loaded onto a train bound for the rear. Whether they would ever return to the battlefield was anyone's guess.