Chapter 99: He’s Here! (Second Update)

Hydra is the Nine-Tailed Serpent organization! In the Marvel universe, it stands as one of the most notorious villainous groups, its emblem a skull crowned by six snake-like tentacles. Its rallying cry echoes the mythological Hydra: cut off one head and two shall grow in its place. This motto is fulfilled through an endless supply of disposable cannon fodder, perfectly mirroring the ancient legend. At this juncture in World War II, the Nine-Tailed Serpent remains firmly under German control, with its supreme leader none other than the infamous Red Skull of the Marvel pantheon. The man now calls himself John Schmidt.

Mei Mu Mu knows none of this. His own meddling has already embroiled three generals in the affair, hastening the Nine-Tailed Serpent’s appearance on the world stage far ahead of the original timeline. Yet this does nothing to diminish his credentials as a seasoned Marvel enthusiast. Under the system’s instant scan, he spots the miniature Hydra insignia peeking from the guard’s sleeve lining. In their world, such subtle signals serve as recognition tokens: a casual gesture revealing the badge confirms an ally, while a stranger is met with cold dismissal.

The sentry, of course, belongs to Hydra. He pauses, brow furrowed, then murmurs a greeting only his own would understand: “Hail Hydra.” Such theatrical display—heaven above, earth below, Buddha rules the earth—has been a favorite pastime of the Celestial Empire for a thousand years. Now it is Mei Mu Mu’s turn. “Cut off one head…” “Two shall grow in its place!” The guard’s suspicion vanishes instantly. He whispers, “Once inside, seek Captain Gomez Miller; he will be on duty tonight.”

Pretending to examine any pass at all is merely a formality. Seeing Mei Mu Mu produce a Berlin-only travel permit, the guard rolls his eyes, a string of muttered curses flickering across his face. Yet in the end he makes a gesture only his own kind would recognize for the gate sentry.

“Klara!” Massive wheels grind into motion, drawing the heavy steel gates open to either side.

“Drive,” Mei Mu Mu instructs the driver with perfect calm.

Thus Mei Mu Mu strides boldly into Sachsenhausen concentration camp, while intelligence personnel watching from afar are left stunned. One should not assume the Muscovites’ rescue plans are invariably flawless. In truth, they are in a wretched state themselves. In the history of Mei Mu Mu’s original world, in 1943 Hitler attempted to exchange Yakov for the captured German Field Marshal Paulus, taken by Soviet forces at Stalingrad. Stalin refused, instructing the Red Cross of neutral nations to convey his refusal: “I dislike exchanging a general for a soldier.” Yet Stalin never abandoned the son imprisoned in the German concentration camps. On the contrary, unease gnawed at him. In 1943 he twice dispatched agents from the Soviet Intelligence Directorate to rescue Yakov; the attempts failed, and many elite operatives who should have survived were lost.

In this life, Stalin has chosen a similar path in advance. He is a rash leader. On matters of principle he never yields; when national interests are bartered for private gain, he will destroy his political enemies utterly. Facing mounting pressure, he disregards the objective realities that Berlin intelligence is unprepared and has not penetrated the camp’s walls. He therefore places the rescue in the hands of Mei Mu Mu, who has already twice demonstrated the miracle. “Specifically entrust the matter to Comrade Derosky. If discovered, cover his escape with your lives.” Such an order is reckless beyond measure. Had it not been for Mei Mu Mu—ordinary in appearance yet a true sorcerer—they would have been broken like their counterparts in the parallel world, destroyed by Stalin’s impulsive command. Yet now everything seems changed.

Sachsenhausen concentration camp lies near Berlin, serving as the command headquarters for all concentration camps in the German-occupied territories during the war. Covering four hundred hectares, the entire layout is triangular. Wooden barracks housing the prisoners form fan-shaped sectors. The camp was built to Himmler’s specifications as head of the SS.

Passing beneath the underground passageway of a three-story tower, one confronts the vast parade ground where prisoners assemble twice daily. More than two hundred and twenty thousand souls—German POWs and Jewish civilians alike—have passed through these gates. Whether battered by storm or scorched by sun or frozen by ice, they must stand motionless for hours before and after labor to await roll calls. Machine guns stand ready on the towers, trained downward upon the prisoners. Tall walls and electrified wire complete the enclosure, rendering escape nearly impossible. Those who flee in desperation are shot on the spot or hanged after capture.

At this hour, guards in several towers stare curiously at the car that has arrived in the dead of night. There are many concentration camps, but this is the most important, holding the most critical inmates. Every official vehicle bears its own number and designation. This car is clearly irregular. Why did the gate guards admit them?

Entering the first small square, eight five-story towers rise around it. Searchlights and machine guns are all trained upon Mei Mu Mu’s vehicle. Yet the man glances at the officer approaching, spots the familiar insignia, and smiles coldly. He utters one sentence and the officer steps aside at once: “Baron Strack sent me.”

Baron Strack was born at the end of the nineteenth century into a Prussian noble house, inheriting the title of Baron Strack, also known as Wolfgang von Stark. He fought in the Franco-Prussian War, the First World War, and the Second. During the war he became Hitler and the SS’s henchman, founding the Nine-Tailed Serpent organization and rising to one of its inner circle.

Outsiders can never know such secrets. For a traverser, they are public knowledge. The officer registers mild surprise, then makes a gesture unmistakably different from the external guard and continues to allow passage.

As they thread the dimly lit tunnel beneath the tower, the driver’s palms are slick with sweat. “What do I do next? Do I not switch off the engine and wait for you?” “Stay calm. Switch off the engine as usual. Wander the rest area, ask for cigarettes. Answer anything with ‘nothing to report.’” “Understood…”

Soon Mei Mu Mu meets Captain Gomez Miller, who greets him without preamble: “The man who assassinated two generals and captured Hermann Hoth has arrived. He will be here within three days.”