“Wait, where is this, what’s the date today?” William Thompson suddenly stopped and asked.

“Stop with all the nonsense, let’s go. This is the Taihang Mountains, and today is November 7th, the 28th year of the Republic of China.” The boy, annoyed by William Thompson’s endless questions, pointed his gun at him, intentionally or not.

“The 28th year of the Republic of China, oh my god, isn’t that 1939? The War of Resistance Against Japan?” William Thompson was stunned, but before he could react, the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him into the woods.

The three of them moved quickly through the dense forest. The two boys were clearly used to the mountain terrain, nimbly dodging branches and rocks, while William Thompson stumbled along, barely keeping up.

After crossing four or five mountain ridges, they arrived at a small village nestled against the mountain. Besides the local villagers, there were also many people in yellow uniforms carrying guns.

“Heavens, it really is 1939, not a movie set?” William Thompson recognized the armbands on those yellow uniforms, which read “Eighth Route Army.” The guns on their backs included brand-new Type 38 rifles, Zhongzheng rifles, even classic German Mauser pistols, and Maxim heavy machine guns—such old equipment. William Thompson couldn’t imagine what it was like to see weapons that should only exist in museums being used right before his eyes.

The two boys greeted the people around them enthusiastically.

Following the boys, William Thompson felt the villagers and Eighth Route Army soldiers were all staring at him with curiosity, making him feel awkward. He looked down at himself and laughed—no wonder! He was wearing a Pepsi T-shirt, Crocodile jeans, Li-Ning sneakers, and a Piaget watch on his left wrist, not to mention a SONY MP3 and a Nokia phone in his pocket—all extorted from Brian Clark. Not only did none of these things exist in this era, but it was also early November, late autumn, and he was still dressed for summer. No wonder he attracted so much attention. Just as William Thompson expected, his Nokia phone constantly showed “no signal” here. In these times, there were very few places with mobile coverage.

William Thompson gave a slight smile to the people, and the villagers and Eighth Route Army soldiers responded with faint smiles, no longer looking at him so strangely. Only some kids under thirteen or fourteen peeked at him from behind the wall, grinning as if they were looking at something rare.

William Thompson was brought to a small courtyard, with two soldiers standing at the entrance.

The older boy pulled William Thompson to a long bench by the big table in the main room and sat down. The other boy went out and came back with a kettle and a few pieces of flatbread.

On the table was a pile of odd parts—wires, batteries, carbon rods, and things like small lightbulb-style vacuum tubes.

The older boy swept the parts aside and said, “You haven’t had breakfast yet, right? Here, have some bread.”

He tore off a piece of flatbread and handed it to William Thompson, then tore off another piece for himself and started eating with a bowl of water.

“What are your names?” William Thompson finally remembered that after trekking through the mountains with these two boys, he still didn’t know their names.

“I’m Paul Martin, and he’s Charles Dean. We’re in the same unit.” The older boy buried his head in the bread, clearly starving.

William Thompson nodded, took a bite of the bread in his hand. It was made of coarse flour, a bit gritty and rough, a little salty, with a unique grain fragrance. Maybe it was pure, natural food without chemical fertilizer. William Thompson realized he was hungry too, and slowly chewed, lost in thought.

It really seemed to be 1939 here. But how could he get back? It seemed impossible—must be fate. His parents, classmates, even everything about Helen Carter was no longer related to him, and even his enemy Brian Clark no longer mattered. The people from his old life might not even have been born yet.

William Thompson silently gnawed on the bread. Since he was here, he might as well make the best of it. Maybe this was heaven’s arrangement. If he was lucky, maybe he could live to his original era, maybe even take care of Brian Clark’s whole family in advance, and maybe Helen Carter wouldn’t leave him.

Thinking this through, William Thompson relaxed and focused on eating.

“Full already, brother? You eat so politely—no wonder you’re a student. Alright, you keep eating, I’ll be right back.” Paul Martin had already finished his bread, greedily licking the oil from his fingers, slung his Hanyang rifle over his shoulder, and went out.

“Brother, lost in thought?” Charles Dean came over, watching William Thompson take small bites of bread.

“Yeah, thinking about my old classmates.” William Thompson looked at this dark-skinned, somewhat shy mountain boy. He hadn’t said much along the way, always following Paul Martin.

“How old are you now?”

“Seventeen!”

“Wow, seventeen and in high school. Your family must be great. Not like me, I’m already sixteen and barely know a few characters. In our unit, there aren’t many in high school, and those who can read are all in the regimental headquarters.” Charles Dean looked envious. At this time, education in China was still underdeveloped. Very few people received modern education above junior high, and admission requirements were high. High school students were like today’s PhDs, and college students were even rarer.