May 27, 1940, Northern France, Hazebrouck.
Pain. It felt as if someone had poured a whole bottle of cheap Scotch whisky into his brain and then thrown in a live grenade.
Lin Rui regained consciousness in agony.
There was no gentle wake-up call. The air filling his nostrils wasn't the comforting scent of old books and instant coffee from his University of London dorm room, but a nauseating cocktail: the stench of stale mold, sharp brandy, sweat, and a smell he'd only ever encountered at the Imperial War Museum — gun oil and the lingering tang of old gunpowder.
Worse than that was the vibration. A deep, continuous rumble made the whole world tremble, dust constantly falling from the gaps in the wooden ceiling above, sprinkling onto his face.
Lin Rui's eyes snapped open.
Darkness. Utter darkness. Above his head hung a kerosene lamp, its glass chimney blackened with soot, the weak yellow flame flickering in the murky air, casting the curled-up figures around him into twisted, grotesque shapes.
"Damn it... where is this?"
He instinctively tried to sit up, only to find this body heavy as lead. He glanced down. Something was terribly, completely wrong.
He wasn't lying on his dorm bed, but sprawled on a clearly battered yet still luxurious Louis XVI-style velvet chaise lounge, which must have been brought down from upstairs.
And he wasn't wearing his Uniqlo pajamas, either. Instead, he was dressed in a meticulously tailored, brass-buttoned tunic of dusty khaki. The arrangement of the cuff buttons — in groups of four — told him clearly: this belonged to one of the oldest regiments of the British Household Division: the Coldstream Guards.
His right hand still tightly gripped a nearly empty hip flask. The silver surface was engraved with an intricate family crest.
In that instant, a flood of fragmented memories crashed into Lin Rui's brain like a breached dam, forcibly merging with his own consciousness.
Arthur Stirling. Second son of the Earl of Stirling. Educated at Eton. Possessing no talent except for the luck of his birth, he'd bought his way into the army with his family's substantial "donations" to the War Office. Among his comrades, he was a walking joke; among the men, a disaster who knew nothing but drinking tea and polishing boots.
And now it was May 1940.
"Time travel…"
Lin Rui — or rather, Arthur now — let out a sigh of helpless exasperation. He raised a hand, rubbing his throbbing temple. As a dedicated military history enthusiast, he rapidly sorted through the situation in his mind, then was struck by a fit of laughter mixed with despair.
Good news: He hadn't become an Italian. No risk of getting speared in the arse by natives in Ethiopia, nor of boiling macaroni in the North African desert before raising his hands in surrender. Another piece of good news: He hadn't become Japanese. No need for a Banzai charge on a Pacific island, nor to transform into a beast devoid of humanity on the walls of Nanking.
Bad news: He also hadn't become German. If he were a German — Hans — even if defeat was certain in the end, at least right now — France, 1940 — it was their moment of triumph. He could be sitting in a tank drinking champagne, not hiding like a rat in a hole.
Best news: He hadn't become French, thus avoiding the gallows humor of "No one can capture Paris before the French surrender."
Worst news: He'd become British, but the outcome was the same — right now, he was huddling in the same drafty latrine with the Frenchies, trembling.
Identity confirmed: British Expeditionary Force (BEF). Those same unlucky bastards who'd been run ragged by Guderian's panzers, who'd lost even their underwear running away, and were just about to collectively take a bath in the sea.
"This is Hazebrouck..." Arthur murmured. His memories told him this was the last defensive perimeter around Dunkirk.
If he remembered history correctly, at this point in time, most British soldiers on this soil faced only two fates: death under the shriek of Stuka dive bombers, or being sent to German POW camps to dig coal. As for squeezing onto one of the last little fishing boats for evacuation? That depended on whether God fancied a cup of afternoon tea.
On this battlefield, from the lowliest private to a mere major like himself — unless you were Montgomery with his built-in historical halo — anyone could be taken out by a stray bullet.
Arthur glanced down at the gleaming family crest on his chest.
By all rights, a 'blue-blooded' aristocrat like him, even in a great rout, should have a first-class ticket to Dover clutched in his hand. He should be sitting in a staff car, escorted by military police, boarding one of the first destroyers to evacuate, perhaps already settling his nerves in a London club.
So why was he here, like a discarded rearguard, thrown onto this most dangerous, outermost line of defense?
A memory fragment — absurd enough to be hilarious — surfaced in his mind, making Lin Rui want to slap his own body's face twice.
Three days ago, when the retreat order came, Lord Stirling hadn't stayed behind to fight out of bravery. It was because he'd gotten lost.
He hadn't trusted the advice of the military police and NCOs, blindly believing in his own "outdated map" and "officer's authority". He'd disdained the traffic jam on the main road, arrogantly chosen a paved road that "looked closer and clearer on the map", and promptly driven straight into a German pincer movement.
That explained why Sergeant MacTavish's gaze wasn't just disgust — it was visceral hatred.
"You're finally awake, my Lord."
A voice thick with Glasgow accent came from the shadows. There was no trace of respect for an officer in the tone, only cold statement, as if discussing a piece of garbage.
Arthur followed the sound.
In a corner stacked with empty barrels sat a burly Scotsman. His face was caked with grime, his grey-blue eyes bloodshot. In his hands he held an Enfield rifle, mechanically wiping the bolt with a dirty, oily rag.
Sergeant MacTavish. The actual tactical commander of this platoon. A grizzled veteran who'd crawled out of the Somme mud in the Great War.
"Sorry to inform you, your afternoon tea has been cancelled," the Sergeant said without looking up, continuing to clean his weapon, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Jerry's tank tracks are currently crushing your rose garden."
Boom—
As if confirming his words, the vibration overhead intensified. Dust showered down from the ceiling, landing on Arthur's expensive uniform.
Arthur knew that sound too well. It was the specific idle rumble of a Maybach HL120 TRM engine — heavy, oppressive, like a hammer pounding on everyone's heart.
Then, abruptly, the sound stopped. The engine had been shut off.
The world fell into deathly silence. A silence more terrifying than the noise.
Arthur braced himself and struggled upright. His expensive custom riding boots squelched on the water-covered cellar floor.
Besides the Sergeant, there were four other soldiers. They sat against the walls, their faces etched with despair and anxiety.
When Arthur looked at them, no one stood to attention, no one even made eye contact. They were preparing their gear — fastening ammo pouches, tightening puttees, checking canteens.
This was a silent signal.
In the hierarchy-obsessed British Army, they wouldn't tie up their political officer like the Russians, nor openly talk back to an officer like the Americans. They would do something else: ignore him.
Since this aristocratic officer only knew how to drink and shake, they would 'accidentally' forget him here when they retreated.
"The situation…" Arthur began, finding his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, trying to summon that arrogant, upper-class London accent, "What's the situation outside?"
"Hazebrouck is finished. We've lost contact with Battalion."
Sergeant MacTavish stood up, shouldering his pack, moving as cleanly as if shrugging off a burden. He looked at Arthur like he was looking at a dead man.
"That engine you heard stop? That was a Sturmgeschütz III. Right outside the door. The Germans are stopping to rest or search this area."
The Sergeant walked to the heavy wooden door leading to the ground floor, listened through a gap, then turned and gestured to the soldiers.
"Now's our chance. Engine's off. Their infantry will be busy settling in or looking for booze. We'll go through the side vent, across the alley. We might still live."
"What... what about the vase?" a young Lance Corporal, Jenkins, whispered, his trembling finger pointing at Arthur still 'sprawled' on the sofa.
"Leave him here to drink himself to death," MacTavish said coldly, his hand already on the door bolt. "With him, none of us will make it. God save the King, and God save the Stirling family. Let's move."
Abandoned. Naked, unapologetic abandonment.
Sitting on the sofa, Arthur's heart hammered. As a soul from 2024, his instinct was to rage, to scream. But reason instantly overpowered emotion.
These soldiers' judgment was based on experience. But that experience, at this moment, could be fatal.
Because they didn't know what was actually outside that door.
Just as Lance Corporal Jenkins, impatient, lunged for the heavy wooden door leading to the courtyard, his hand already on the bolt—
Arthur was struck by a violent vertigo.
There was no sci-fi 'ding', no cold, mechanical female voice. It was as if someone had peeled back a layer of frosted glass inside his mind.
The once-dark cellar walls, the thick oak floorboards and brickwork above his head, gradually became semi-transparent in his retinas, transforming into a three-dimensional model composed of grey lines.
His vision pierced the ceiling, pierced the brick walls, reaching the surface.
Arthur's pupils contracted sharply.
In the ruins of the hall above ground, that StuG III Ausf.A which had just shut off its engine hadn't left, nor was it 'busy settling in' as the Sergeant had guessed.
It sat there silently, like a lurking steel beast. The black hole of its short-barreled 75mm gun was, for some reason, depressed fully, the muzzle almost touching the ground, aimed directly at the cellar's side ventilation door — the very direction the soldiers were about to rush out from.
And beside the assault gun, three red silhouettes were clearly visible.
Three German panzergrenadiers. They hadn't gone 'looking for booze'. They had just dismounted and were leaning against the vehicle, relaxing their limbs. Their MP40 submachine guns, though lowered, would be able to turn that doorway into a sieve the instant the vent door opened.
This was... a god's-eye view? RTS game fog-of-war lifted?
Arthur instantly understood what that newbie Jenkins meant by 'no sound' — it wasn't safety. It was Death holding its breath.
If that door opened, not even needing the cannon, those three SMGs plus a 75mm high-explosive shell would turn this cellar into a blender full of shredded meat.
He had to stop them. For their sake, and for his own. If these infantrymen died, he'd be a leader with no one to lead — even with a god's-eye view, he'd never get out of the encirclement alive.
"If I were you, Lance Corporal, I wouldn't touch that damned bolt."
Arthur spoke.
His voice wasn't loud. There was no hysterical scream. Only an extremely cold, extremely arrogant tone. It was the muscle memory of 'Lord Stirling', but infused with the calm of a man from the future.
Jenkins' hand froze in mid-air, centimeters from the bolt. He turned his head, staring at his usually trembling officer with a mix of terror and confusion.
Sergeant MacTavish frowned, turning impatiently. His Enfield still pointed at the floor, but his gaze turned vicious. "Ignore him, Jenkins. He's drunk and raving. There's no sound outside. The Germans must have gotten out to search next door. Open the bloody door! Do you want to die in here?"
"They did get out."
Arthur rose from the sofa. He straightened his collar. Though his legs were still a little weak from the hangover, he forced himself to move. His boots squelched through the puddles with the rhythm of someone attending a royal ball.
Ignoring the Sergeant's look — as if he were a madman — he walked straight to Jenkins.
He reached out a hand in its dirty white leather glove and pressed firmly against the door.
"But if you pull that bolt, you'll find the muzzle of that 75mm gun less than three meters from your nose. And the round is already chambered."
Arthur's voice was eerily calm, carrying a chilling certainty.
The cellar fell utterly silent.
Sergeant MacTavish narrowed his eyes. As a veteran, he knew there were men on the battlefield with an almost animal instinct. But it could not be Lord Stirling.
"What nonsense are you talking?" the Sergeant growled, stepping forward. His tall frame nearly blocked the dim light. "The engine's off. If they'd found us, they'd have thrown grenades by now. They don't know we're here! If you want to die here, fine. But don't drag us down with you!"
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't even deign to look directly at the Sergeant's angry face.
He turned, placing his empty flask gently on the floor — he couldn't make a loud noise now; the Germans outside weren't deaf.
He raised his hands, slowly unfastened his collar button, re-fastened it, then patted the dust off his lapel insignia.
"Sergeant," Arthur looked at him, the corner of his mouth curling into a self-mocking smirk, "I'd have thought your first question would be whether my hair is out of place."
The Sergeant blinked, confused by this utterly inappropriate, almost absurd humor. "What?"
"The hair is out of place. But that's not important. What's important is..."
Arthur raised his head. Those eyes, once dull, now gleamed in the dim lamplight with a chill that made even the veteran's heart skip a beat.
He raised a finger, pointing at an inconspicuous gap in the ventilation grille above their heads, hidden by weeds and camouflage netting.
In his god's-eye view, the StuG's commander was sitting on the open hatch edge, having removed his throat microphone, a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, chatting with the infantry below.
That commander was reaching his hand over the top of the ventilation grille, about to flick his ash.
"What's important, Sergeant, is that I know where the Germans are. And I know... that commander's ash is about to fall."
All eyes followed his finger.
"You're insane..." MacTavish began to retort.
But then—
One second. Two seconds.
A stub of grey ash, still faintly glowing with embers, drifted down through the ventilation grille. It traced a weak but glaring red line through the dim, murky air, and finally landed precisely beside Sergeant MacTavish's mud-caked boot.
Still smoking.
In that moment, the air in the cellar seemed to solidify.
But the chaos Lin Rui had anticipated did not occur.
Lance Corporal Jenkins, who had been about to pull the bolt, froze as if electrocuted. He didn't scream, didn't even let his boots scrape the floor.
The young soldier's face turned deathly pale in an instant, cold sweat beading on his forehead — it was the bone-deep fear of the 'devil' outside the door. In the past three weeks, that fear had been etched into their DNA by German machine guns and tanks.
Yet, within that extreme terror, the muscle memory of the Coldstream Guards took over his body.
Jenkins, like a statue, slowly withdrew his hand from the bolt. His movements were as gentle as if defusing a fuse. His thumb silently clicked the safety of his Enfield rifle, and his body instinctively slid sideways, clearing the door's field of fire.
The other veterans reacted even faster.
There was no panicked eye contact, no unnecessary movement, no clatter of trembling rifles.
The instant they saw the ash, they became a silent killing machine on mute. Their previously slumped, seated postures instantly shifted to kneeling alerts. The muzzles of several rifles silently rose in the darkness, cross-locking onto the wooden door and the weak points in the ceiling.
The entire process took less than a second. Quiet as the grave.
Arthur watched, his pupils contracting slightly, inwardly impressed.
This was the Coldstream Guards, indeed.
Despite having been routed by Guderian's panzers for the past twenty days, their spirit nearly shattered by the Stukas, looking like a pack of beaten curs —
But when Death really came knocking, that tactical discipline, honed by centuries of harsh tradition and thousands of drills, still made them, when faced with the 'invincible Germans', instinctively choose the correct tactical response.
They were terrified, but they would still pull the trigger with lethal professionalism.
Sergeant MacTavish's Adam's apple bobbed violently, his eyes fixed on that cigarette butt. He couldn't hear anything above because the tank engine's rumble still echoed in his eardrums, but he understood the meaning of that ash: the Germans were right overhead, and they were resting.
If Jenkins had opened that bolt and made a sound... the consequences were unthinkable.
What chilled him even more was: how did this 'vase' know?
Arthur didn't explain. He was pleased with the effect — this was still a pack of wolves with fangs, just with broken legs.
In this godforsaken era, on this hopeless battlefield, to make a group of soldiers ready to abandon you obey, you either relied on strict military discipline or on abilities beyond the ordinary. Since the British Army's discipline had collapsed here, he would have to rely on a 'miracle'.
"Now then, gentlemen."
Arthur drew the Webley revolver from his waist — a sidearm that had never been fired, its finish still gleaming like a mirror.
Click. He thumbed back the hammer. The movement was practiced, not like a playboy, but like a butcher ready for dirty work.
He looked towards the side wall, which had been boarded up, leading to the neighboring wine cellar. In his vision, it was a path with no red silhouettes — an escape route.
"Since our guests are blocking the front door for a rest, we won't use the front door."
Arthur turned to look at the stunned Sergeant, offering a smile that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Fix bayonets, Sergeant. We're going hunting."