Austro-Hungarian Empire, Zagreb Railway Station.
The platform was crowded with travelers carrying wicker suitcases, vendors peddling black bread, and patrolling Imperial Gendarmes.
Fourteen-year-old Nikola Tesla, wearing a slightly oversized gray suit, stood by the door of a first-class carriage. He tightly clutched a kraft paper notebook filled with drawings of coils and geometric figures.
Klaus, the head of the Vienna branch, stood behind him, carrying the luggage for both of them.
Timmy, wearing a dark, high-collared trench coat, stood at the edge of the platform without boarding the train.
"I'll stop here. Klaus, Nikola."
Timmy reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a thick kraft paper envelope, handing it over.
"This is the living allowance for the next six months and the initial procurement budget for the laboratory, all converted into bearer drafts of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Use them as you see fit; if it's not enough, send me a telegram."
Timmy said, looking into the branch manager's eyes.
"Remember. Once you arrive in Graz, get Nikola settled. I've already had that house with the laboratory registered under the name of a shell trading company. Remember, do not interfere with any of his research. If he needs copper wire, magnets, or mercury—even if it's the middle of the night—you must go and knock on the hardware store's door for him."
Klaus took the envelope and nodded solemnly.
He wouldn't dare take these words lightly.
"Rest assured, Mr. Timmy. I will take good care of Nikola and won't let anyone near that house."
Timmy turned to look at Tesla.
The boy's gaze remained calm, showing no fear of the unfamiliar environment, only an intense longing for the world of physics that was about to unfold.
"Go on, Nikola."
Timmy reached out and patted the boy's shoulder.
"The professors at the Graz University of Technology will teach you basic theory. But as the boss said, that 'Rotating Magnetic Field' in your head is your true study. The laboratory in America will always be waiting for you. Waiting for you to turn those blueprints into a running machine."
Tesla gave Timmy's hand a firm squeeze.
To be honest, he was very grateful to Timmy for helping him get away from home to study in Graz.
"Thank you, Mr. Timmy. I will study hard in Graz. Finally, please thank Mr. Argyle for me. Mr. Timmy, I will prove that his investment was not in vain."
The conductor blew a brass whistle, and the carriage doors began to close one by one.
Seeing this, Klaus led Tesla into the carriage.
"Then we shall take our leave~"
Accompanied by the dull sound of mechanical friction, the wheels turned slowly on the rails. The locomotive blew its whistle, gradually accelerated, and finally disappeared into the distant, pervasive fog.
Timmy stood in place until the train's taillights were completely out of sight before turning around.
He pulled a box of matches from his trench coat pocket, struck one, and lit a cigarette.
Instead of heading toward the station exit, he turned into a narrow, gravel alleyway next to the station.
At the end of the alley was a tavern with an oak sign.
The tavern was not yet open for business, and its doors were tightly shut.
Timmy walked up and knocked on the door three times with a specific rhythm, paused for two seconds, and then knocked twice more.
The bolt slid back.
A man wearing a bartender's apron poked his head out, and after seeing Timmy's face clearly, immediately stepped aside.
Timmy walked into the back room of the tavern.
There were no patrons here, only four long tables pushed together. Six men sat around the tables.
They were dressed differently; some looked like salesmen, some like impoverished aristocrats, and others wore the short jackets of dockworkers.
They were all key undercover agents for the Argyle Intelligence Department across various European countries.
Timmy walked to the head of the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray.
"The business in Vienna is finished."
Timmy got straight to the point, his gaze sweeping across everyone present.
"Now, let's talk about the second task assigned by the boss."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a hand-drawn map of Europe, spreading it out on the table.
On the map, the border between France and Prussia was covered with red and blue pencil arrows representing military deployments.
"War has broken out, Gentlemen."
Timmy's finger pointed to the Rhine River region.
"The Prussian offensive is fierce, but the French have just received life-saving weapons from our boss. This war won't end in a month or two. It will turn into a quagmire that drains the blood of both empires."
An intelligence agent lurking in Paris frowned.
"Mr. Timmy, if the war becomes prolonged, how will the safety of Metropolitan Trading Company's merchant ships in the English Channel be guaranteed? The French Navy is already blockading the North Sea."
"Maritime affairs are handled by MacGregor's armed merchant ships; our mission is on land," Timmy interrupted him.
Timmy took a stack of blank Imperial Bank bearer checks from his briefcase and threw them onto the center of the table.
"The boss's orders are clear. War is a meat grinder; while it consumes soldiers, it also destroys the research systems of these two countries. When shells fall on the streets of Paris and Berlin, the laboratories of those university chemists, metallurgical experts, and electromagnetic engineers will be requisitioned, and their research funding will be cut to buy bullets."
Timmy leaned forward, his hands pressed on the table.
"This is our hunting ground."
"Go to the University of Sorbonne, the Humboldt University of Berlin, and the École Polytechnique," Timmy spoke very rapidly.
"Identify the professors and senior researchers with research achievements in the fields of insulating materials, alloy smelting, and high-frequency currents. Find them."
"Tell them that if they stay in Europe, they can only hide in air-raid shelters and watch their blueprints mold. But across the ocean in New York, the Argyle Central Laboratory has endless coal, inexhaustible copper wire, and absolutely safe laboratory benches."
Timmy pointed to the checks on the table.
"Use money to smash open their doors and buy them ship tickets. Pack them up with their families and send them on passenger liners bound for New York. If the Prussian military administration or the French security bureau interferes, use money to bribe port officials. The boss doesn't care how much it costs; he only wants the brains that can make machines turn faster."
The several intelligence agents looked at the thick stack of checks and nodded silently.
"Remember, this is a covert operation. Do not let the European governments realize we are digging up their roots."
Timmy stood up and straightened the cuffs of his trench coat.
"Let the Prussian and French generals fight over those blood-stained positions. We are going to empty out their wisdom."
Second French Empire, Lorraine region.
Rain was drizzling outside the Metz Fortress.
Muddy water in the trenches reached the soldiers' calves, and the air was filled with the stench of rotting corpses and pungent excrement.
Marshal Bazaine, Commander-in-Chief of the French Army of the Rhine, stood in an underground command post built with heavy logs and sandbags.
His military uniform was covered in mud.
On the military map hanging on the wall, black arrows representing the Prussia army had already formed a semi-encirclement of Metz.
"Marshal! Three infantry divisions of the Prussia First Army are charging toward our right-wing heights!"
A messenger rushed into the command post, scrambling and gasping for breath.
Marshal Bazaine was not as panicked as he had been a few weeks ago.
He walked to the observation hole and raised his binoculars.
Through the curtain of rain, he could see tens of thousands of Prussia soldiers in skirmish lines, holding repeating rifles with fixed bayonets, climbing up the muddy slope.
The Prussians' Smokeless Powder still gave them a significant concealment advantage on the battlefield.
"Send the reserves up."
Bazaine turned around, his voice hoarse but unusually steady.
"Tell the artillery positions not to worry about the Prussia infantry. Aim for their rear artillery positions and fire for effect. The infantry will be handled by the Third Regiment."
The adjutant hesitated for a moment.
"Marshal, the front defended by the Third Regiment is too wide. Our chassepot rifle is at a disadvantage in terms of rate of fire. If the Prussians charge within fifty yards..."
"They won't get in."
Bazaine rudely interrupted the adjutant, pointing at several red dots on the map.
"Those American weapons the Tuileries Palace exchanged for the Louvre's oil paintings were all transported to the positions in the middle of the night yesterday. Go tell the commander of the Third Regiment to uncover those things under the tarpaulins. Let the Prussians taste the bitter fruit they sowed themselves."
At the front lines.
Soldiers of the French Third Regiment lay on the edge of the muddy trenches, the gray-blue uniforms of the Prussia soldiers becoming clearer and clearer in their binoculars.
Three hundred yards.
Two hundred yards.
One hundred yards...
Prussia infantry began to level their rifles and fire.
A silent, deadly rain of bullets swept across the sandbags of the France trenches, sending mud flying.
"Uncover the waterproof tarps!"
A France frontline major drew his saber and roared at the top of his lungs.
At several outposts in the trenches, dozens of France gunners pulled off the heavy rainproof tarpaulins with force.
Over a dozen Gatling gun units mounted on wheeled bases revealed their sinister brass feed hoppers. These were the life-saving weapons obtained by mortgaging Louvre antiques and colonies.
The gunners slammed magazines filled with American-made Smokeless Powder fixed ammunition into the hoppers.
"Turn the handles! Fire!"
"Da-da-da-da-da—"
A familiar, metallic roar like tearing coarse cloth suddenly echoed across the France positions.
There was no thick smoke, only orange tongues of fire continuously spitting from the muzzles.
Over a dozen intersecting lines of fire instantly covered the slope where the Prussia infantry were charging.
The Prussia soldiers in the lead didn't even have time to perform the tactical maneuver of dropping to the ground before being cut in half by the dense rain of bullets. Human bodies shattered like rag dolls under the kinetic energy of the bullets.
The originally unstoppable Prussia charge collided with an absolute wall of death composed of equally advanced American-made weapons.
The metal storm lasted for a full five minutes.
When the France gunners stopped turning the hot cranks, there was not a single Prussia soldier left standing on the slope ahead.
The mud was dyed a striking dark red by blood.
Marshal Bazaine watched all this through the observation hole and let out a long breath.
The front line was held.
This war, which in the eyes of the Prussians could have been settled quickly, had completely slid into the quagmire of a brutal war of attrition due to the intervention of these American arms.
At the same time.
In the English Channel, in the high seas near the North Sea.
The waves rolled as a massive ironclad plowed through the giant swells at full speed.
No national flag was flying from the bow.
The stern, which originally had the name "neptune" painted on it, was covered in thick black paint.
Inside the armored command tower of the bridge, a France naval captain was staring intently at the nautical chart. Beside him stood several France watermen. This ship had completed its handover on the high seas, and now, its control belonged to France.
"Captain, fifteen degrees to starboard. Spotted a Prussia cruiser squadron."
The lookout's voice came down through the copper tube.
"Two wooden steam frigates, one gunboat."
The France captain grabbed his binoculars.
At this distance, the silhouettes of the Prussia warships were clearly visible. That was the Prussia squadron responsible for blockading the northern ports of France.
"No need to evade, maintain course. Speed fifteen knots."
The captain put down the binoculars, a long-suppressed madness glinting in his eyes.
The frustration the France navy felt on land needed to be redeemed at sea.
"Unlock the main turret, load eight-inch armor-piercing shells. Aim for the lead frigate. Don't use broadside maneuvers; charge straight at them with the bow ram!"
The massive ironclad let out a deafening roar as the stokers in the boiler room frantically shoveled coal.
Obviously, the Prussia cruiser fleet discovered this stateless steel monster.
They quickly adjusted their formation, and the cannons on their broadsides began to spit Black Powder smoke.
"Bang! Bang!"
Several sixty-pound solid iron balls slammed into the ironclad's waterline armor belt.
After the dull thuds of impact.
Only a few shallow dents were left on the eight-inch thick case-hardened steel armor.
The France captain let out a cold laugh; it seemed the Americans' steel was even stronger than they boasted.
"Distance two thousand yards, main guns fire!"
The enclosed twin turret on the ironclad's foredeck slowly rotated.
"Boom!"
Two huge fireballs erupted from the muzzles; the eight-inch breech-loading guns displayed terrifying power.
One of the shells precisely hit the boiler room of the lead Prussia frigate.
The wooden hull was like paper in the face of the alloy armor-piercing shell.
A violent explosion occurred inside the frigate.
The middle section of the entire ship was instantly torn apart, and a pillar of fire reaching the sky, mixed with wood splinters and the severed limbs of sailors, flew into the air. Only a few minutes later, the frigate broke in two and sank into the icy depths of the sea.
Seeing this, the remaining two Prussia warships immediately turned around and fled this sea area for their lives.
The France captain did not order a pursuit. He stood in the command tower, touching the cold armored steel plate.
"Send a telegram to Paris once we're ashore."
A hint of awe was present in the captain's voice.
"Tell them the Atlantic Ocean route is open."
...
Prussia, Berlin. General Staff.
General Moltke slammed the battle reports from the front onto his desk.
Bismarck sat on a nearby sofa, smoking a cigar with a deep frown.
"The Lorraine front has reached a stalemate. The French have gotten their hands on identical Smokeless Powder and Gatling gun, and our charging troops have suffered heavy casualties."
Moltke's voice was hoarse with anger.
"Not only that, a frigate of the North Sea Fleet was sunk by a stateless ironclad. That ship's armor thickness is similar to the neptune we just bought."
Bismarck exhaled a ring of smoke.
"Hmph... where else could it have come from. Who else but Argyle of America could provide these things."
Bismarck's tone was unusually calm.
"Shit. He's selling arms to both sides! Using the gold we gave him to expand production, and then selling the weapons to the French to fight us!" Moltke slammed his fist on the table.
"This violates the principle of neutrality! We should lodge a serious protest with Washington!"
"A protest is useless, Helmuth."
Bismarck stood up and walked to the window.
"The politicians in Washington have long been fed with dollars by Argyle; they'll just say it's normal private commercial trade."
Bismarck turned around and looked at the map on the wall.
The war that was originally planned to be settled quickly had now turned into a war of attrition comparing logistics due to the intervention of these American arms.
"We cannot stop." Bismarck gritted his teeth.
"The war has turned into a quagmire. Whoever retreats first, their country will collapse. Tell the logistics department to continue placing orders with New York. If they want gold, give them gold. Buy up every bullet and machine gun in their factories. We absolutely cannot let the French get more ammunition than us."
Pittsburgh.
Westinghouse Electric, second-floor laboratory.
Several large cast-iron pots were set over charcoal fires; black liquid bubbled inside, emitting nauseating yellow smoke.
Edison wore asbestos gloves on both hands and held a pair of long-handled iron tongs.
The corners of his eyes were reddened by the smoke, and several black asphalt stains streaked his cheeks.
George Westinghouse stood before a switchboard, a stopwatch in his hand.
"Thomas, the temperature is high enough. This batch of tar sent by Carnegie is of very high purity."
Westinghouse shouted loudly, his voice drowning out the crackling of the charcoal fire.
Edison gritted his teeth, exerting force with both hands.
Using the iron tongs, he lifted a massive coil wound tightly with purple copper wire. The outer layer of the coil was wrapped in over a dozen thick layers of industrial cotton cloth.
"Put it in! We must let the asphalt completely saturate the gaps in the cotton fibers, sealing the copper wire tightly inside!"
Edison directed two workers wearing gas masks.
The coil was slowly submerged into the boiling asphalt pot, bubbles frantically surging out.
Ten minutes later, the coil was pulled out and hung on a ventilation rack to cool.
The originally white cotton cloth had turned into a hard, black shell that emitted a pungent odor.
Clive Cavendish pushed the door open, covering his nose and mouth, and tapped the doorframe with his cane.
"Mr. Edison. Can such crude workshop methods really solve the insulation problem for two-thousand-volt high-voltage electricity?"
Cavendish looked at the ugly black coil.
"Argyle bought out all the rubber; we have no choice but to use this."
Edison picked up a rasp and tapped the cooled asphalt shell, producing a 'bang-bang' sound similar to striking stone.
"The molecular structure of asphalt is extremely stable. Once it's dry, it's impervious to water and fire. As long as it encases the copper wire, the electric arc won't be able to jump out."
A few hours later, the coil had completely cooled.
Edison stuffed the asphalt-wrapped copper coil into a ring-shaped iron core cast from a single piece of pig iron.
This was the prototype transformer model he had designed.
The center of the laboratory was cleared, leaving only this transformer and a small Alternating Current generator driven by a steam engine.
"Everyone, stand back."
Edison held the test probes of a voltmeter.
Westinghouse stood before the switchboard, his hand on the brass knife switch.
"Turn on the power, output five hundred volts," Edison ordered.
Westinghouse pushed down the knife switch.
The generator roared, followed by a low-pitched hum of Alternating Current from the transformer. The voltmeter needle jumped, stopping steadily at the five-hundred mark. The black asphalt insulation layer showed no reaction; no blue electric arcs appeared from breakdown.
"One thousand volts."
Westinghouse continued to push the switch; the humming grew louder. The insulation layer remained resilient.
A hint of joy appeared in Cavendish's eyes.
"Go straight to two thousand volts!" Edison roared.
Westinghouse pushed the knife switch all the way down.
Current surged into the coil, and the transformer's hum turned into a piercing shriek.
Everyone stared intently at the black device.
One minute passed.
Two minutes passed.
The asphalt shell did not catch fire, nor did it short-circuit.
"We did it!" Westinghouse pumped his fist.
But Edison's expression suddenly changed.
He didn't celebrate; instead, he dropped the test probes and rushed toward the transformer. Without even taking off his asbestos gloves, he reached out to touch the ring-shaped pig iron core.
*Sizzle—*
A wisp of blue smoke rose from where his glove touched the iron core. Even through the thick asbestos, Edison felt a terrifyingly high temperature.
"Cut the power! Cut the power now!"
Edison jerked his hand back as if bitten by a snake and shouted frantically.
Westinghouse was stunned for a moment, then immediately pulled the main switch.
The generator stopped spinning, and the piercing shriek vanished.
But the air above the transformer was severely distorted by the high heat.
On the surface of that massive pig iron core, the asphalt insulation layer was rapidly softening and melting under the high temperature, with black liquid dripping onto the wooden floor.
"What happened?"
Cavendish stepped forward.
Edison stared fixedly at the iron block, which was radiating incredible heat.
Although he was a practical man, he knew basic physics.
"The insulation layer held back the voltage, but the iron core couldn't withstand the magnetic field."
Edison gritted his teeth, his voice tinged with despair.
"The direction of Alternating Current changes dozens of times per second, and the alternating magnetic field has generated massive Eddy Currents inside this solid piece of pig iron. The Eddy Currents have turned the iron core into a heating element! This is Hysteresis Loss!"
(Note: Early transformers would generate significant Eddy Current heat in solid iron cores under Alternating Current, potentially burning out the equipment, unless laminated silicon steel sheets were used.)
"Not only that."
Edison kicked over a nearby scrap bin.
The laboratory door was pushed open, and Andrew Carnegie walked in, covered in coal dust.
"I heard the machines stop from downstairs. Have you built the Alternating Current grid? My rolling mills are waiting for power!" Carnegie asked urgently.
Edison turned his head and looked at Carnegie.
"We can't build it yet," Edison uttered.
Carnegie was stunned.
"What do you mean? Wasn't the insulation problem solved?"
"Insulation is solved, but the iron core heating isn't," Westinghouse chimed in from the side.
"A solid iron core will melt under Alternating Current. We need to cut the iron core into extremely thin sheets, apply insulating varnish between each sheet, and stack them together to break the Eddy Currents. But for this process, we need time to develop a cutting machine."
"What's even more fatal is something else."
Edison pointed to a small Direct Current motor in the corner used for testing.
"Mr. Carnegie, even if we delivered high-voltage electricity to your factory gates tomorrow, what would you use it with?"
Carnegie frowned.
"By connecting motors to the rolling mills, of course."
"But we don't have an Alternating Current motor."
Edison cruelly shattered the illusion.
"The ones General Electric installed in those factories are all Direct Current motors. The current direction of Alternating Current keeps changing; if connected directly to a Direct Current motor, the rotor will just vibrate violently in place and won't be able to rotate continuously at all."
"Alternating Current can currently only be used to light lamps; it might not be able to provide mechanical power." Edison clutched his hair with both hands.
The laboratory fell into a deathly silence.
Carnegie took two steps back and leaned against the doorframe.
"Only for lighting? It can't drive machines?"
Carnegie muttered to himself, his eyes vacant.
"Then what use is it? I need something to replace the steam engine. I need power to lower the cost of steelmaking!"
Cavendish's face was so grim it looked like it could drip water.
"Mr. Edison. Mr. Morgan invested a million dollars. Are you telling me that Alternating Current is a dead end?"
"Of course it's not a dead end, it's just missing a puzzle piece!"
Edison snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot.
"Give me enough time! I will definitely invent an Alternating Current motor. Solving the iron core heating is just a matter of time!"
"Time?" Carnegie gave a bitter laugh.
"Argyle' coal ships have already blocked the Ohio River. His installment plans have snatched away all my orders. I can't even pay my workers' wages next month. Where do you expect me to find time for you?"
Despair spread through Westinghouse Electric's new factory.
Without an Alternating Current motor, Alternating Current would always be an incomplete system, unable to pose any threat to Argyle in the industrial field.
...
Meanwhile.
Graz, Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Morning mist shrouded the Mur River.
Nikola Tesla pushed open the door of the two-story brick house; the early autumn cold made him shiver.
Klaus was standing outside, carrying a heavy wicker basket.
"Nikola, here is the shopping list you wrote."
Klaus moved the wicker basket into the first-floor laboratory.
The basket was filled with rolls of purple copper wire, dozens of polished horseshoe magnets, and several handmade brass rotors.
"Thank you, Mr. Klaus."
Tesla took the basket and walked to the workbench.
The tabletop was covered with sketches he had drawn over the past few days, all mathematical derivations concerning Rotating Magnetic Fields.
While Edison in Pittsburgh was at his wit's end over the Alternating Current motor, this fourteen-year-old boy, in his laboratory in Graz, had already touched upon the world's most core electrical secret.
"Polyphase Alternating Current."
Tesla picked up a charcoal pencil and drew two sine wave curves with a ninety-degree phase difference on the paper.
"If only one live wire is used, the current can only oscillate back and forth. The rotor won't find a direction to rotate."
Tesla muttered softly to himself.
He took two sets of copper coils and fixed them in a cross shape onto a wooden base.
"If I use two live wires, inputting Alternating Currents with a ninety-degree phase difference respectively... when the first set of coils' magnetic field reaches its strongest, the second set is at zero. Then the first set weakens, and the second set strengthens. The polarity of the magnetic field will continuously rotate in space."
Tesla placed a solid brass rotor, which wasn't connected to any wires, in the center of the cross-shaped coils.
"No brushes or commutators needed. An induced current will be generated inside the rotor, and the magnetic field of the induced current will chase the external Rotating Magnetic Field. It will start spinning automatically."
Tesla looked up at the clock tower of the Graz University of Technology outside the window.
The bells rang.
He knew he had found the key.