With eyes wide open, a gray biplane fighter jet emblazoned with an iron cross roared through the low sky, its nose spewing tongues of fire as it fired towards its target. The sharp howling caused by the friction of the airflow was accompanied by bullets striking the sandbags, spraying dirt and forcing onlookers to squint. "Can a world history lesson truly cross through time?" Gu Changge wondered, caught between tears and laughter. Just minutes ago, he had been standing at the podium in a history class at Tsinghua University, lecturing about the formidable German war machine as a young and promising teaching assistant. But due to a lapse in concentration, he had accidentally stepped on a faulty electrical switch, bidding farewell to his previously mundane yet unexplored life.

Miraculously, Gu Changge was not dead. The bad news, however, was that he had been transported into the body of a German soldier with a strong accent from the Ruhr industrial area. Although he couldn't determine if he was handsome, he was definitely taller. This realization was hardly comforting on a battlefield riddled with flying bullets.

Clutching a Mauser 1898 rifle, Gu Changge assessed his situation. His rank wasn't significant, as indicated by the insignia on the epaulets, which he barely understood. The military coat he wore was punctured with holes and stained with dried blood, likely stripped from another fallen soldier.

As Gu Changge tried to orient himself in time and place, a German soldier next to him barked, "Akado! You idiot! Bullets! Give me bullets!" The voice, hoarse and tinged with an Austrian accent, belonged to a man crouched beside a machine gun. Gu Changge, now Akado, quickly scrambled to gather ammo from a nearby box, the chains of bullets scattered about. Handing them to the assistant gunner in the trench, he realized the precariousness of their position. Based on his knowledge of World War II, machine gun nests exposed for over 30 seconds were prime targets for enemy fire.

As he contemplated retreat, the area around him erupted with explosions—the enemy had begun their retaliation with mortar fire. "Isn't this just perfect timing? I'm ten meters away; how can this still reach me?" Akado muttered, a mix of fear and disbelief in his voice. The weaponry and tactics of World War I were indeed different from the more familiar World War II, evolving incrementally as history marched on.

When the gunfire ceased momentarily, Akado glanced back at the machine gun position he had just vacated, relieved to see his comrades still firing unscathed. "Are they kidding me?" he thought, a mix of relief and confusion washing over him as he crawled back to the safety of the infantry trenches.

The trench warfare of World War I was harsher than Akado could have imagined. The trenches were deep, filled with nearly thirty centimeters of sewage at the bottom. As he clumsily fell into the trench, his comrades mocked his fear, unaware of the real dangers that lurked.

"Cannonball!" someone shouted just as Akado was regaining his composure, causing a sudden rush of soldiers to the trenches. Without a rifle, Akado curled up in a corner, covering his head as explosions sounded nearby. The muffled thuds suggested they were dud shells—a small mercy amid the chaos.

As he huddled there, Akado realized the potential threat of gas. He rummaged through his kit, pulling out a gas mask just as a pungent, mustard-like smell assaulted his senses. Hastily donning the mask, he protected himself from the worst of the gas attack. The world through the mask's lenses was distorted, cries and curses filling the air as soldiers suffered around him.

Navigating the trench was a challenge with the bulky gas mask, but Akado knew running was suicide. The mask's poor quality made breathing difficult, and he wrapped a scarf around his hands to protect against the blistering effects of the mustard gas.

As he reached a ladder, he found it crowded with soldiers less fortunate than himself. Climbing out of the trench, he left the dense smoke behind, the fresh air a balm to his blistered skin and gas-ravaged lungs. The wind was in his favor, helping to disperse the remaining traces of gas.

"My eyes! God! My eyes! I can't see!" a young soldier cried out nearby. Akado, moving with purpose now, reached out to the blinded man. "Grab my shoulder; I will take you out of here," he offered, his voice muffled by the mask.

As they moved, others joined, forming a line led by Akado. "You are a good soldier! Calm in the face of poison gas!" a corporal behind him remarked. Introducing himself, Akado learned the corporal's name was Adolf Hitler, a revelation that left him stunned.

Together, they navigated the treacherous battlefield, a bond formed in the crucible of war, their future uncertain as the smoke of battle slowly cleared around them.

Hearing the name, Akado's body reacted subconsciously: his right hand brushed the bayonet at his waist, while his left hand lifted his gas mask, turning around abruptly. The thought that flashed through his mind was clear and sharp: *Kill this damned guy right here!* He knew who was behind him, he knew what this man would do in the future, and he recognized that now was the opportune moment to resolve everything—eliminate the source, the best way.

In that moment, Akado even entertained the notion that his presence in this time and place, his entire journey, was orchestrated for this very mission: to assassinate Hitler. His fingers grazed the bayonet's handle, his gas mask dangled from his left hand, yet Akado did not turn back. Instead, he continued walking, the fresh air filling his lungs, reinvigorating him. Briefly, he wrestled with the idea of murder, but the thought was fleeting.

*Please, this is a troubled world, a time when heroes and demons emerge.* Akado reminded himself. He had arrived in this era alone, clinging to the hope of survival, the dawn of a career, and the opportunity to impact the world—all of which hinged on the man behind him. Killing him might mean dying in World War I, an outcome Akado was unwilling to accept. As for saving humanity or the Jews, Akado harbored no personal sentiments. If it were Emperor Okamura Ningji behind him, Akado would turn and strike without hesitation. But with Hitler, there was no deep-seated hatred, much like Western scholars who disregarded the casualties of Chinese soldiers and the suffering of Chinese civilians.

Hitler's hand clutched at Akado's shoulder, gripping his army coat tightly. The intensity of his grip betrayed his emotions—his eyes must be burning with fervor and pain. Akado relaxed his grip on the bayonet, and with his uncomfortable left hand, he returned the gas mask to its box.

"Wait a moment! I need to pause for a few seconds!" he called out loudly to those behind him, then tapped Hitler's hand. "Let go, I need to squat down and tie my shoelaces."

His movements were gentle, cautious not to hurt Hitler with the gas mask's back. Hitler nodded, his gratitude evident as he released his grip. The way his coat hung off his shoulders showed just how forcefully Hitler had been holding on.

Of course, Akado didn't actually tie his shoes. Instead, he picked up a rifle from a corpse by the roadside. He knew the risk of being hanged for losing his rifle, but in his mind, carrying a rifle better supported the narrative that he had retired to aid his wounded comrades, not to flee. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and scavenged two grenades and several rounds of ammunition from the corpse.

Armed, Akado led his ragtag group of blind and wounded soldiers back to their regiment. After more than ten minutes, they finally reached their unit. It wasn't due to Akado's luck or because he was the protagonist of some story—anyone stumbling upon more than thirty disorganized troops would naturally follow them.

"Mr. Gu, are you from the triple company?" Hitler, now bandaged up in the regiment's field hospital, began talking incessantly to Akado. Akado soon discovered one of Hitler's less endearing traits—his propensity to talk at length. It made sense; how else could a man of few words sway so many with his speeches? His only weapon was his rhetoric. With it, he had persuaded everyone who had heard him, reorganizing a terrifying party and integrating it into a known entity.

Akado, however, wished he could silence Hitler with a slap—just to have some peace. He had too much to sort out, too many thoughts to clarify. Confused and considered poisoned, Akado slept directly on the floor of the regiment field hospital—the beds were reserved for the severely wounded, and his condition didn't even warrant a stretcher.

The morning in the barracks was as grim as any other. As a soldier of the German Army, Akado struggled into his old army coat, listening helplessly to the ramblings of his new friend.

"Jews! I've been thinking about it in the reserve army for a long time! It's the Jews! They're the parasites that caused our failure! Mr. Gu! They should all be hanged!" Hitler, awakened early by severe pain in his eyes, was particularly agitated when he spoke of the Jews, his expression turning ghastly.

Akado glanced at Hitler, coughed, and responded, "Hitler, you know, you're too narrow-minded! It's true, some Jews are evil, but others are useful to us. We need to hire them for high salaries. They contribute to our country!"

"Bullshit!" Hitler's response was almost hysterical. "The Jews are all wretched and petty! They're untrustworthy! They feed on the flesh and blood of our country! They should all go to hell."

"Hitler! You need to understand that even the weapons we use to fight are made by Jews of the motherland, many of which are donated by them. What we need to do is not kill the Jews, but make people believe that there are no Jews in this world," Akado argued, his piercing blue eyes holding Hitler's gaze.

Hitler looked puzzled, still struggling to grasp Akado's words. "Make people believe that the Jews don't exist? Isn't that just killing them and destroying everything?"

"No, no, dear Hitler, that's completely different! I have a theory, which I call the theory of German democracy," Akado introduced, borrowing from the ethnic definition theories that appeared in China years later, known there as the "Chinese Nation Theory."

"I'm completely confused by you. Do you want to use a strange theory to eradicate a Jewish nation?" Hitler stared at Akado, bewildered.

"Yes! Anyone who loves the great German Empire is a true German. Those who are selfish, despicable, and cowardly, even if they are pure Aryans, are not part of the great German nation," Akado explained, trying to reshape Hitler's perspective on racial identity based on contribution rather than ethnicity.

"So how do we distinguish them?" Hitler asked, his immature racial theories crumbling before Akado's arguments.

"Based on their contributions! If a Jewish engineer can produce tanks for the empire, then he is patriotic. And if a person can only eat enough to seduce women on the street, then he is a parasite," Akado clarified.

"I still believe that most of those Jews are parasites!" Hitler argued, though his voice wavered.

Akado placed his hands on Hitler's shoulders, helping him to stand. They stepped outside the tent, breathing in the fresh air. "Dear Mr. Hitler, this is another topic. This involves seeking truth from facts. The truth relies on facts, right?"

They conversed throughout the day, seated at a distance from the battlefield, the sound of gunfire and sight of black smoke filling the horizon. For the first time, Hitler felt he had found a kindred spirit in Akado. His vague nationalist thoughts were perfectly complemented by his new acquaintance, though there were still deviations from his own beliefs. But what Akado proposed seemed correct—very correct. Hitler, who loved his country deeply, was gradually persuaded by Akado's arguments.

"But why is my boss so despicable and disgusting as a Jew? He's just a filthy bug!" Hitler exclaimed, reflecting on his own experiences.

"So, people who don't engage in serious business and always cause trouble at crucial moments, we need to catch them and throw them into the mustard gas chambers," Akado suggested, thinking that if Hitler's boss could return the Iron Cross medal owed to him, humanity might fight three years less.

"Thank you! You're right!" Hitler said, touching his bandaged eyes, still feeling the pain. He appreciated Akado's directness and agreed with his statement: "Catch them, throw them into the mustard gas chamber!" This resonated well with Hitler.

"You are truly a learned man," Hitler said to Akado, lying on the floor next to his bed that night before falling asleep. "It's really good to know you."

However, despite a day of deep conversation, Akado was still aware of the current time and circumstances. Hitler had been injured by gas in this historically significant battle, and the 16th Austrian Infantry Corps would soon be retreating from the front line. In the early hours of the next morning, the evacuation of the wounded began. The seriously injured were carried onto trains by medical soldiers, to be transferred to the rear for recovery. Only the future would reveal their fates.