The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

The handwriting is completely modern simplified Chinese, and the handwriting is completely different from the German above; it's more messy and hurried, as if it was written in a rush at some point.

This is the eleventh time. Still here. Still 1914, still the Marne River. Every time I think I've found the exit, I wake up still in this damned dungeon. I've used the German identity three times already, then the French, then the British, and it's all the same. I haven't figured out the pattern yet, but one thing is certain: death isn't the exit; death is just a reset.

If anyone sees this, are you also trapped here?

Joseph closed the notebook, then opened it again to check it once more.

You read that right.

He stood in that alley for about five seconds without moving.

Tom walked over: "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Joseph put the notebook into his bag. "Go to the square first, wait for me."

Tom glanced at him, didn't ask any further questions, and stood up and left.

Joseph reopened his satchel, took out the notebook, and flipped through a few pages.

The previous page was in German, densely packed with text; the next page was in Chinese.

This afternoon, near the village, I discovered someone was following me. It wasn't a German soldier, nor a British soldier. I didn't know who he was or what he wanted.

But I've seen that look before. In a dungeon, not everyone is there to complete it.

Be careful.

****************

Joseph sat on the stone steps by the square for about ten minutes, flipping through the notebook from beginning to end.

Most of it is in German, with five Chinese paragraphs in total, plus the two paragraphs mentioned earlier, making three more.

The third paragraph lists a date, but not a Gregorian calendar date; it's a count: "Seventh time, first day," followed by an analysis of the copy rules.

The person who wrote this has clearly been in this instance for quite some time, accumulating information that is completely unknown to them:

The instance has a fixed start and end point. I haven't figured out what the end point is yet, but the starting point for each reset is fixed: July 28th, four weeks after the Seraphim incident. Identity is randomly assigned; you cannot choose your faction.

Here's a detail: On my third run in this instance, I encountered a French officer who used a modern French abbreviation. I didn't realize it at the time, and by the time I did, he was already dead. So, I don't know how many people are in the instance, but I wasn't the only one.

Joseph continued flipping through the pages and found the fourth paragraph:

I heard something today—on the British side, a corporal bypassed the main force, anticipated the German retreat route, and led a small squad to capture the St. Gome Bridge. The Germans lost over a dozen heavy artillery pieces as a result.

This operation was wrong; it shouldn't have happened to a British corporal in 1914. I've fought eleven rounds here and seen all sorts of soldiers, but no one can accurately predict the First Army's retreat route without complete intelligence—unless they know history.

The British army will attack this village today; I'm waiting. If it's that particular force, I need to confirm it with my own eyes.

He turned to the last paragraph of Chinese in the notebook.

This passage is very short, as if it was written casually during a break, and the handwriting is more messy than in other places:

He arrived. I saw him lead his men into the village from the second-floor window, blowing up walls, infiltrating from the flanks, and distributing firepower—this wasn't the fighting style of 1914; it was something that wouldn't have a name for another hundred years.

He was wearing a British infantry uniform, corporal insignia, had a bandage on his left arm, brown hair, and was tall.

I haven't figured out how to approach him yet, but—

Joseph stared at those lines for about three seconds.

Infantry uniform, brown hair, tall, corporal, with a bandage on his left arm.

He glanced down at the bandage on his left arm.

Joseph closed the notebook and placed it on his lap.

No name, no unit number, no information to confirm his identity. The German lieutenant who died in the alley had played at least eleven rounds in this instance, switched factions three times, recorded every detail he observed, and finally died from a bullet of unknown origin.

The angle of that bullet... didn't seem like friendly fire from combat. It looked like someone deliberately got close and fired from behind.

He put the notebook away, stood up, and walked towards the prisoners.

***************

"Take a look at this for me," he said, handing O'Connor the document he had seized from the German lieutenant. "German. How many words do you recognize?"

“I know Achtung,” O’Connor took it, flipped through it, “and Bier. That’s all.”

"Find me a translator."

O'Connor glanced at the prisoners, tucked the folder under his arm, walked over to the group of prisoners, scanned them, and asked loudly in English, "Does anyone speak English?"

silence.

"English, English, who can speak it?" He gestured with his hands. "Speak English, or I won't hit you."

After about five seconds of silence, someone in the prisoner-of-war line slowly raised his hand. It was the old corporal. He looked up and said in heavily accented English, "I... know a little."

"Come here," O'Connor beckoned, "Don't be afraid, it's just a document."

The old corporal was helped up by two soldiers, walked over, glanced at the document, and his expression changed. "This is...this is an order from above."

"What orders?" Joseph asked.

He already knew what the order was—a retreat order for the First Army to retreat towards the Esna River. He had carefully read through the document in that alley, including the route, assembly point, time, and the position of the rearguard.

But he needed someone to "translate" it; he needed this translation process as an explanation of the intelligence source. It couldn't be a British corporal who could read high-level military orders in German on his own.

The old corporal turned to the second half, reading and translating at the same time, his tone becoming increasingly hesitant: "Assembly time... the marching routes of each unit... the positions of the rearguard, the artillery positions covering the retreat..."

Joseph pulled the file back from his hand. "That's enough, thank you."

Joseph turned around, "Wilkins—"

"arrive."

"Go back to the company headquarters and give this to the officer. Tell him it's the retreat order from the German First Army, with the route, the time, and the location of the rearguard. Tell him to report it to his superiors immediately, the sooner the better."

Wilkins took the document, glanced at it, and asked, "Is this really something?"

"It really is."

The dockworker folded the documents, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, buttoned them up, and ran towards the intersection to the south.

O'Connor stood beside Joseph and whispered, "Where did this thing come from?"

"A German lieutenant died in an alley," Joseph said. "He was alone in the alley with the First Army's retreat order, and someone shot him in the back."

O'Connor paused for a moment. "Did one of your own people do it?"

"I don't know," Joseph said, "but it doesn't look like he was shot in combat."

"Where is the person who fired the sniper shot...?"

Joseph glanced across the square; prisoners were sitting on the ground, and his own soldiers were having their supplies inventoried.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe they're among the prisoners, or maybe they're no longer in the village."