Salon

The old man stopped. He turned around again, this time examining it more closely. "5 volts? 500 milliamps? That's quite a specification. What's it powering? Military communication equipment? Or one of those fancy new instruments you guys have at university?"

"You could say that." Loran didn't answer directly, but he slowly pulled out a black smartphone from the inside pocket of his coat.

The old man's cloudy eyes narrowed slightly the moment he saw the phone. He didn't cry out in surprise, but instead squinted and extended his calloused, greasy hand: "Bring it closer."

Loran handed it over. The old man took the phone, turning it over and over, his fingers tracing the smooth glass screen and the cool metal frame, then trying to press the buttons on the side. His movements were gentle, with the care an engineer would show to a precision instrument, rather than the curiosity or fear of an ordinary person encountering the unknown.

"Never seen it before."

"I've never seen the casing material before, and I can't fathom its internal structure. There are no knobs, no dial, and not even any obvious ventilation holes. To be frank, this thing doesn't seem to belong to this era."

Lorraine's heart skipped a beat. The old man had noticed something amiss, and pointed it out so directly.

"It could save lives," Loran said, meeting his gaze. "Many lives. But it's out of power now, like a brick."

The old man stared at Lorraine for a full ten seconds, his intact eye gleaming with a complex light—a mixture of doubt, inquiry, and a deeper, more profound intuition for the unusual that Lorraine had also seen in his father's eyes.

"My name is LeBlanc," the old man suddenly said, pointing to himself. "During World War I, I was a communications soldier in Olivier's regiment. Not the kind who carried radios, but the kind who was responsible for maintaining and improving equipment. Sometimes, to get the command post to hear what was happening at the front, we had to tear up the rulebook and use whatever we could find."

He paused, then said, "Your father saved my life in Verdun when a damn sniper had his eye on me, so I owe him one."

He turned around and began rummaging through the mountain of parts behind him, the clanging of his tools echoing through the air. "5 volts, 500 milliamps, and it needs to be stable. The mains power is 220 volts AC, so this requires step-down, rectification, and filtering—it's a real hassle..."

He muttered to himself, but his hands moved quickly, deftly finding several resistors, a rectifier bridge, and a large capacitor that looked like he had made it himself.

"I have a DC power supply base plate from an experimental radio here. With some modifications, it should work." LeBron shoved a bunch of parts to the center of the workbench. "But kid, I have to warn you. The stuff here isn't like what you'd find in a military factory. Unstable voltage, wrong connections, or this thing being too delicate internally—it could burn to a smoking pile of junk in an instant. You take the risk yourself."

"I'll take it," Loran said without hesitation.

He has no access to the military industry, and even if he did, he wouldn't use his sensitive position to get too involved.

LeBron nodded, saying no more. He turned on the desk lamp, put on a pair of reading glasses with his legs wrapped in tape, and picked up the soldering iron. The smell of molten solder filled the air. His fingers, though rough, were exceptionally steady, his movements precise and efficient as he soldered the parts one by one onto the old base plate, muttering the parameters to himself.

Loran stood to the side, holding his breath. Time passed second by second, with only the sizzling of the soldering iron and the occasional whistling of the wind outside the window.

About half an hour later, LeBron stopped. A simple, ugly but clearly structured charging device appeared on the workbench. He plugged in the power cord and carefully measured the voltage at the output terminal with a multimeter.

"4.8 volts, a bit low, but should be enough." He muttered, pulling out two bare copper wires, one red and one black. "I don't have a matching plug for this thing. So, you'll have to carefully and securely connect these two wires to the correct charging port yourself. The positive and negative terminals absolutely cannot be mixed up. Understand?"

Loran took the two fragile wires that represented hope, nodded vigorously, and took out his phone again. By the light of the desk lamp, he carefully examined the charging port. Fortunately, the interface type was common, and he could distinguish the positive and negative terminals. He asked LeBron for a small piece of electrical tape and a pair of tweezers.

The next few minutes were probably one of the most tense moments of Lorraine's life.

He carefully used tweezers to make the end of the copper wire thinner, held his breath, aimed at the tiny metal contact inside the phone charging port, and gently and firmly made contact with it. Then he carefully wrapped it with tape to make sure it wouldn't short-circuit.

Throughout the entire process, LeBron watched intently from the sidelines, his sharp eyes never blinking.

The connection was complete. Loran glanced at LeBron, who nodded.

Loran took a deep breath and plugged the charger into the wall socket.

A loud buzzing sound came from the rudimentary device.

Loran's heart leaped. A small light bulb on the device flickered a few times before emitting a steady, dark red glow. The voltage reading on the multimeter fluctuated between 4.5 volts and 5.1 volts, not very stable, but it seemed to be working.

Loran stared intently at his phone screen.

One second, two seconds, three seconds...

Suddenly, a bright battery icon in the center of the screen flickered very faintly!

Immediately afterwards, the icon changed from a completely blank red to an outline with a barely perceptible hint of green, and a small number appeared next to it: 1%.

"It's done!" Loran almost shouted out loud, forcibly suppressing the ecstasy in his heart.

The battery level began to fluctuate extremely slowly: 1%...2%... LeBron's engine was in full power and continued to roar.

"Don't get too excited," LeBron poured cold water on the idea. "This thing is inefficient, generates a lot of heat, and can't be charged for long. Unplug it when it's charged enough to turn on. Besides, this might be its only chance to charge. I can't guarantee it will work properly next time, or that your little darling can withstand this kind of rough treatment."

Loran nodded, though he was still very happy to have managed to charge the battery in a little.

The familiar brand logo lights up, then the main interface appears. Battery level: 5%.

He immediately turned off all wireless connections, even though it was pointless in this day and age, turned the screen brightness to the lowest setting, and then began to browse.

He already knew the timelines of historical events and military deployment maps by heart. He quickly swiped, searching for more technical details he had previously overlooked.

Soon, he found several PDF documents. Like before, these files were completely unfamiliar to him; however, the titles made his heart race.

A Brief Analysis of the Principles and Limitations of Early Radar;

A Comparison of Tank Armor Welding Techniques and Weaknesses in Various Countries During the Early Stages of World War II;

"Statistics on Enigma Vulnerabilities Caused by Operator Habits of Enigma Machines";

What made him even more breathless was a folder named "Misc_Photos".

Inside were numerous military photographs. One set of close-ups of the cockpit instruments of a German Stuka dive bomber was remarkably clear; he could even make out a line of small print on the nameplate on the edge of the instrument panel: "Ju 87B-2, Werk Nr. 0456, 3./StG 77" (Jukers 87B-2, production serial number 0456, belonging to the 3rd Squadron of the 77th Dive Bomber Wing). Another photograph was a close-up of the side armor of a Panzer IV Ausf. A, with the weld seams clearly visible.

These details are absolute military secrets in this era.

Loran didn't have time to examine it closely. He took out his notebook and pen and quickly jotted down the most crucial points: the Stuka's unit designation and serial number, the approximate thickness and welding characteristics of the early Panzer IV's side armor, and a description of the significant blind spots of early radar in low-altitude detection.

He wrote incredibly fast, the pen almost tearing through the paper. The battery percentage climbed slowly but steadily: 8%...12%...

"That's about it," LeBron reminded him, the device's casing already getting quite hot to the touch.

Loran nodded, and when the battery reached 15%, he decisively unplugged the power. The phone screen went dark, turning back into a silent black glass.

He carefully put away his phone and laptop, looked at LeBron, and didn't know how to express his gratitude.

LeBron waved his hand and started tidying up his parts again, as if he had just fixed an ordinary radio.

"Take your things. You weren't here today, and I haven't seen anything that shouldn't be here."

"Olivier's son, if what you want to do is stop another Verdun, then all this junk I've gathered won't have been for nothing."

Lorraine nodded solemnly and placed several crumpled franc banknotes on the worktable; this amount of money far exceeded the value of the parts.

LeBron didn't even look at him, he just waved his hand, signaling him to leave.

7th Ward, 7 Tsurugi Street.

Charlotte stood in front of an unassuming apartment building, clutching the Sphinx bookmark tightly in her hand, her palms sweaty.

Night had fallen, the streets were deserted, and only the faint sound of jazz music could be heard in the distance.

She kept looking at the small print on the back of the bookmark, trying to hide the panic in her heart.

Ultimately, worry and an urge to do something overcame her fear, and she took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

After a long while, a frail and wary female voice came through the walkie-talkie: "Who is it?"

"I'm Professor DuPont's student. He said that the Sphinx's guests can be found here." Charlotte tried to keep her voice steady.

After a brief silence, the door clicked open.

"Third floor, on the left."

The stairwell was filled with dust and the smell of old books. Charlotte went up to the third floor and knocked on the dark wooden door on the left.

The door opened a crack, revealing the face of an elderly woman with wrinkles and glasses. Her sharp gaze scrutinized Charlotte through her lenses, then she turned slightly to the side: "Come in, child. You've arrived sooner than we expected."

The room was larger and more cluttered than Charlotte had imagined. It resembled a hybrid of a private library and a club. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined all four walls, crammed with books, files, and maps in various languages. In the center of the room sat several old sofas and coffee tables, scattered with newspapers, ashtrays, and wine glasses. A weak fire burned in the fireplace, offering a small measure of warmth.

At this moment, there were five or six people sitting in the room. Besides the lady of the house who opened the door, there was an elderly man with gray hair who looked like a scholar and was wearing an old-fashioned velvet coat; a middle-aged man with a serious face and upright posture who could not hide his military bearing even in casual clothes; a young woman who was quickly scribbling something in a notebook; and two men who looked like government clerks.

All eyes turned to Charlotte, filled with curiosity and scrutiny, but without hostility.

"I'm Leonie Varyan," the hostess said, gesturing for Charlotte to sit on an empty sofa. "This is a place where old friends gather and exchange some outdated ideas. DuPont mentioned you in his letter, as well as your worrying boyfriend, Mr. Lorraine."

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't expected Professor DuPont to be so direct.

"Don't worry, child," the scholar-like old man said gently. He introduced himself as a retired history professor from the Sorbonne University. "What is said here will remain within these walls. We are just a group of old folks uneasy about the current overly optimistic atmosphere and a few less blindly optimistic young people." He glanced at the young woman taking notes.

"We've heard," the middle-aged man, sitting upright, began in a deep, resonant voice, "that Mr. Loran has some interesting insights into the direction of the Ardennes Forest. It has even attracted the attention of some officers in the General Staff."

Charlotte understood instantly. This salon wasn't isolated; they had their own information channels and might even have connections with certain "sophisticated" individuals within the military. Lieutenant Marchand's afternoon phone call to his father had likely also come to their attention.

She carefully chose her words: "Lorraine was merely raising some possibilities based on historical research. He was too anxious and perhaps a little too outspoken."

"Speaking frankly is a virtue in many ways, though dangerous." Mrs. Leonie poured her a cup of hot tea. "We pay attention to him precisely because his frankness touches upon issues that we share the same concerns about, but which we cannot discuss openly due to our positions. The Maginot Line is not omnipotent; everyone in this room knows that. The question is, how many in power are willing to admit that?"

Charlotte was stunned by this outrageous statement and opened her mouth wide. She hadn't expected that such a knowledgeable person here would have the same thoughts as Loran and have been paying attention to him all along.

How far ahead had Lorraine really thought? A feeling of alienation welled up in Charlotte's heart.

For the next hour, Charlotte listened as these people from different fields—history, retired officers, low-ranking civil servants, and the press—analyzed the French army's rigidity, the complacency of its high command, the intelligence gaps, and the fragile relationship with its British allies in a calm, even ruthless tone. The picture they pieced together from the fragments of information was far bleaker than the "peace on the Western Front" proclaimed in the newspapers.

The young woman taking notes was an intern reporter for Le Figaro. She whispered, "I tried to write a report about the military requisitioning civilian telephone lines in the border region, which caused communication chaos, but the editor-in-chief suppressed it directly, saying it would affect morale."

A retired officer lamented, "The army today is not fundamentally different from the one in 1914; in fact, it's even more superstitious about static defense. They see the German armored divisions rampaging through Poland, but they just see it as a trick to bully the weak and think it's insignificant in the face of our defenses."

Charlotte felt a chill. These rational, fact-based concerns were completely ignored or even suppressed by the mainstream.

She suddenly understood even more the pain of having no one to listen to her and the urge to do something.

As Charlotte was leaving, Mrs. Leonie saw her to the door, took her hand, and whispered, "Tell your Mr. Lorraine that if he is fortunate enough to have a different voice on some formal occasion, however faint, he should try his best. Because in this country, there are ears that are listening beyond the official channels. Perhaps, just perhaps, his voice will be caught by someone who truly needs to hear it."