Chapter 83: The Army at the Gates

Time travel—now that sounds absolutely mind-blowing. But experiencing it firsthand? Not so great.

Mei Mumu felt as if his body had been stretched into a noodle dozens of meters long, racing above the river of time at breakneck speed. The timeline of the Marvel universe, he realized, was subtly different from his own Earth. The broad strokes were similar, but in the details, major events were filled with black technology and all manner of gods and miracles.

On Mei Mumu’s Earth, Norse mythology was just that—a myth. In the Marvel universe, however, a whole bunch of Asgardians ruled the show, stirring up all kinds of trouble. If you landed at the wrong point in time, you might find yourself facing a frost giant wielding an axe, ready to split you in half.

Countless images flashed by as he soared along the river of time. Mei Mumu saw scenes intimately tied to Marvel heroes: the government ordering Iron Man and the others to sign the Sokovia Accords, just like in “Captain America: Civil War”; the climactic battle against Ultron in “Avengers: Age of Ultron”… But as the scenes fast-forwarded, time’s rewind soon exceeded what his vision could possibly keep up with.

“Miss Balance, don’t mess with me! If I hit a high-energy timepoint, I’m a goner!” Mei Mumu prayed desperately, yet couldn’t stop the backward rush of time. As a rookie time traveler, he’d lost almost all control over the Eye of Agamotto. All he could do was follow the instincts that guided him toward fate.

He noticed that whenever the images included superheroes he recognized, his psychic senses grew stronger. The unfamiliar time fragments, on the other hand, left him feeling utterly lost.

Several times, he could have stopped. Yet his intuition screamed at him that it would be a bad move.

Yes, he was painfully weak. He’d expended a staggering amount of energy maintaining the 2016 timepoint to keep Dormammu trapped, draining his magical circuits to the limit. He had barely a tenth of his magic power left—hardly better than before he’d inherited the Ancient One’s circuits. Even if he landed in another time, he likely couldn’t use the Eye of Agamotto at all.

“I’ll just have to rely on myself.”

With that stubborn resolve, Mei Mumu fought to choose the right moment to cut into the river of time. At last, he sensed a faintly familiar presence, one where the energy fluctuations weren’t too intense.

This is it!

He reflexively took a deep breath—not that he was really inhaling air, but it was a natural gesture. Mei Mumu dove headfirst into that point in time.

A blinding white engulfed his vision. His consciousness blurred and faded. Just before he lost himself completely, he thought he heard Miss Balance’s voice.

“Hey! You bastard host, don’t you dare die on me!”
“Damn it!”
“Fine, I’ll give you something to help…”

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he awoke, groggy and disoriented. Around him was a cacophony of noise—shouting voices, but even more thunderous explosions.

“Get down! If you don’t want to die, get out of the train! Don’t stay inside!” a gruff voice barked, jolting Mei Mumu fully awake.

He was certain that wasn’t English—yet somehow, he understood every word.

Startled, he opened his eyes wide and saw the Balance System interface still active, green letters flashing across his retina:

“Balance System has borrowed a fragment of the host’s fate to redeem: [Russian Mastery].”
“For the host’s safety, [Basic Illusion Protection] applied.”

Mei Mumu looked up. In the sudden flare of firelight, he realized he was in a boxcar, surrounded by a chaotic crowd. Reflected in the station window, he saw his own face—a young man with black hair and pale skin. Though his features still bore a resemblance to his original self, he now looked like a typical Russian.

What the hell! I’m Russian now?

Where is this…

Before he could react, a shrill buzzing pierced the sky. As a university student with a taste for all things dark and toxic—and some knowledge of World War II—Mei Mumu immediately recognized the sound: a German Stuka dive-bomber.

No need for further thought—he leapt out of the open train door.

Almost as soon as he jumped, a hail of 20mm MG FF twin autocannon fire tore into the boxcar. The freight car, never designed for battle, might as well have been made of paper. The roof shredded under the barrage.

“Rat-tat-tat!”

In seconds, over a dozen cars became a slaughterhouse. Soviet soldiers who hadn’t escaped were cut down where they sat. Even those who survived had limbs torn off by the autocannon’s horrific wounds.

Painful groans rose from the dying soldiers. The Red Army at the station fired desperately at the sky in return. The German pilots, skilled and arrogant, piloted their Stukas into a graceful climbing arc, showing off before retreating.

Show off, then run—how thrilling!

Mei Mumu stood frozen in shock.

He stared at the distant city, writhing in smoke and explosions, and then checked the nearby sign with his newly “acquired” Russian. He knew where he was—Stalingrad, 1942.

You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m a mage, not a soldier—what am I doing on a World War II battlefield?

In all those Marvel movies, only a handful even mention WWII—and none of them take place in Stalingrad. Mei Mumu was certain of that.

“Did I jump to the wrong point in time?”

But worse things were to come. He realized he wore nothing but an animal-fur coat—better than some of the corpses around him, but still freezing. He had nothing else on him, not even a weapon.

Suddenly, an officer-like figure strode over and extended a hand.

Normally, Mei Mumu would’ve taught him a lesson on the spot. Even if he was a mere fledgling mage before Dormammu, he was still more than a match for ordinary men.

He decided to hold back.

“Soldier! Your name!”

My name?

A mischievous impulse seized him. “Meijecao. Meijecao Delauski!”

The officer paused for a moment, but thought nothing of it. After all, until the 1920s and ’30s, nearly half the rural population of Russia had no formal surnames—only with the introduction of national IDs in late 1932 did surnames become the norm. It didn’t matter much, as long as the name sounded Russian enough. In a land as vast as Russia, foreign names and surnames were commonplace.

“Very well! Delauski! You are now a corporal.” With that, the officer pinned a bloodstained insignia—obviously scavenged from a corpse—to Mei Mumu’s collar and shoved a PPSh submachine gun into his hands.