The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

A few seconds later, there was still a crack at the edge of the iron plate, and a gust of cold air quietly leaked in. The candle flame struggled and flickered a few times, almost going out.

Joseph waited a moment, then picked up the small note, unfolded it, glanced at it, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

He slowly sat down next to the bunk, reached for the rifle with his right hand, laid it horizontally on his lap, rubbed his thumb back and forth along the bolt a couple of times, then put it back and patted the stock.

A draft was leaking through the door, and the candlelight flickered.

He didn't go back to sleep.

In the darkness, he went over the entire twenty minutes that had just passed.

Robert, a player from the German faction, infiltrated the British army as a British infantryman. He purchased an item from the shop to suppress his presence, allowing him to approach enemies silently.

This player doesn't appear to be a first-timer in the dungeon; their actions are planned, their logic clear, and they are adept at using items from the in-game store. They've been lurking in this area for quite some time, and the intelligence they've relayed has already caused substantial casualties.

He is a threat.

But he is also a source of information.

This is one of the reasons why Joseph didn't directly refuse him tonight. This person has something—something about the system, the player ecosystem, and the in-game store—things Joseph knows nothing about. He's been in the dungeon for so long, relying entirely on his historical knowledge and tactical instincts to figure things out; his understanding of the rules is practically nonexistent.

Tonight, Joseph managed to extract three things from him: most of the players entering this instance are ordinary people with no military background; factions can be partially manipulated; and prominent players on the leaderboard will attract the attention of other players.

These three things are all very important information.

Before entering this instance, he had been a military history blogger for eight years. The Western Front of World War I, trench systems, German tactics, infantry coordination, artillery coverage—all these things were in his head. Every judgment he made here based on instinct was something that most players had absolutely no background in.

Therefore, the gap between him and other players is probably much larger than he imagined.

He opened the system shop, flipping through page after page, carefully comparing each item name, trying to find the item that suppressed his presence.

No. Not even one with a name that's even remotely related.

He stared at the list for a while, unsure whether it was because those items required a higher level to unlock and he simply couldn't see them, or whether Robert's words tonight were misleading. Both possibilities were plausible, and he couldn't rule out either.

He closed the online store and closed his eyes again.

Working with Robert—impossible.

This is a zero-sum game. Robert wants the Germans to win, and Joseph wants the British to win. This isn't a cake "enough for two people to share"; it's a cake where if you take a bite, I take one less. Robert's "minor mistakes that don't affect the overall situation," when converted into real costs, cost Tom, O'Connor, and McDonald.

If cooperation is not an option, then there is only one path left.

Robert must disappear, and disappear completely, without implicating Joseph himself.

He wasn't sure if players could fight each other directly. There were too many mysteries surrounding the German officer who was shot to death, and he couldn't be sure if he was really killed by a player.

He was also unaware of the rules governing combat between players. Acting rashly could lead to unforeseen consequences and losses. The safest course of action was to let the game's rules govern him—military law, a military court—expose his existing spy identity to the right people in an appropriate manner.

Robert is a spy; he could be in danger with just a push.

The problem is, how do we push this push?

Joseph thought for a while, and a plan slowly formed in his mind.

He went out and walked along the trench for a while.

Tom squatted not far away.

Joseph got closer and saw clearly that Tom had his rifle resting on his lap, and was wiping the barrel with a cloth folded into thirds. In front of him was a small oil lamp, the flame no bigger than a fingernail, but it was enough in the pitch-black trench.

Hearing footsteps, Tom looked up and saw Joseph, then looked down again. "Can't sleep."

"Hmm." Joseph squatted down next to him.

“Jenny sent me a letter,” Tom said, “saying that the apple orchard on the estate will be in bloom when I get back, and that I should go back to see it.” He paused, his hands still moving, “and I was wondering, what month do apple blossoms bloom… April?”

Joseph didn't say anything.

"If we finish in March, we should be able to make it." Tom flipped the cloth over, wiped it again, and turned to look at Joseph. "What do you think?"

Joseph glanced at him. "You can make it."

Tom grinned. "That's good, that's good."

Joseph stood up and continued walking.

After walking half a trench, you'll reach Harris's territory.

Harris wasn't asleep; he was sitting cross-legged, with two recruits beside him, the three of them huddled together. As Joseph approached, he could see that Harris was holding a twig and drawing on the ground.

"...This is the first barbed wire fence. The gap is on the left. After you go in, the first cover is here. Be careful, there's a patch of loose ground that makes an unusual sound when you step on it. Go around it, and then..."

The two recruits, Jenkins and Colley, had just arrived from boot camp three weeks prior, their faces still showing signs of youthful innocence. They stared intently at the sketch on the ground, occasionally mimicking Harris's gestures in the air.

Joseph paused at the edge of the trench.

The instructors in this recruit camp had an aura honed from training countless batches of recruits, and no one in the entire platoon dared to act recklessly in front of them. Even troublemaker O'Connor behaved himself in his presence.

Harris didn't look up. "Sergeant Lyndon."

"Sergeant Harris."

"It's nothing," Harris meant that nothing had happened and Joseph didn't need to worry. "Just tell those two kids again, so they don't go blank on the battlefield."

Colley muttered softly, "We won't go blank..."

Harris turned to look at him.

Colley immediately shut up.

"You can continue," Joseph said, and then walked forward.

Further ahead, there is a naturally recessed corner, with a thickened earthen wall behind it.

A person sat in that corner, leaning against the earthen wall, knees bent, a crumpled notebook resting on his knees, a pencil in his hand, head down, writing something.

Will Irving, Private First Class.

The new recruit, who joined two months ago, was the thinnest and palest of the batch. He wasn't talkative and didn't like to hang out with people, but after each battle, he would find a corner to sit down, write something in that notebook, tear out a page, fold it, put it in an envelope, and ask the postman to take it away.

It is said to be a poem.

When O'Connor heard about it, she uttered a very emotional sound, somewhere between a wry smile and a sigh, "Poetry? Poetry can be written in this place?"

McDonald walked by and remarked, "Perhaps this is the place where he would write the best poems."

O'Connor thought for a moment, then nodded. "That makes sense. I don't understand it, but it does."

The light from the small oil lamp shone on the notebook, and the pencil slid lightly across the paper, making a soft scratching sound. Will kept his head down, his lips moving slightly, as if he were silently reciting something, or perhaps thinking of a word. He would occasionally pause, bite the pencil, stare unfocused into the darkness, then come back to his senses and begin writing again.

Joseph stood there and watched him quietly for a while.

In Robert's plan, Will is also in that "full row".

Joseph didn't say anything, turned around, and walked back.

He sat down in front of his bunk, took off his coat, folded it, and used it as a pillow under his head.

My mind is still a bit of a mess, but the plan has taken shape. All that's left is to take it one step at a time.

He closed his eyes, and the distant sound of cannons outside, like thunder, drifted in.

Someone rolled over in the trench and muttered something.

Joseph is asleep.

He had a dream, not of a battlefield, but of England, somewhere with apple trees. In April, the trees were covered in white blossoms, and when the wind blew, the petals drifted down like snow.

There was no one in my dream, only the tree, the flowers, and the sunlight; it was very quiet.

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

Joseph woke up just as dawn was breaking.

O'Connor had a habit of carrying a small notebook with him, bound with a thin hemp rope. Inside, it was filled with densely packed information about the battlefield: time, location, distance, notes, when the Germans made any noise, when the searchlights changed angle, when footsteps were heard outside the barbed wire.

No one made him memorize them, and Joseph didn't know why he needed to memorize them.

But this information came in handy today.

When Joseph asked O'Connor to borrow his notebook, O'Connor glanced at him sideways and asked, "What do you want?"

"I need to check some things. Can you help me take a look?"

"What are you looking at?"

"You'll see when you get here."