The tension in Oberfeld was palpable. Snow blanketed the outskirts of the town, but inside Hans's command hall, the air was thick with unrest.
Whispers traveled like wildfire among the ranks. Some officers and soldiers grew impatient with Hans's cautious approach. They wanted action, swift and decisive. Others feared the growing power of the International Guilds Coalition, sensing that diplomacy might no longer be enough.
Hans stood at the large window overlooking the town, the faint glow of lanterns flickering against the cold night. Behind him, the murmurs in the room grew louder — arguments about strategy, loyalty, and the future.
"Commander," one officer interrupted, "the men need a rallying cry. Something to unite them. Your presence on the front lines could turn the tide of morale."
Hans turned slowly. "I won't abandon my duties to strategy and diplomacy. But I also won't hide behind my officers."
Colonel Engelhardt stepped forward. "Hans is right. We need to balance caution with strength. The Coalition watches closely — any misstep and they will crush us."
Albrecht sneered. "Caution will get us nowhere but buried in red tape. Sometimes, the only language the Coalition understands is force."
A heated argument erupted, voices clashing like thunder. The room split between supporters of Engelhardt's steady hand and Albrecht's fiery aggression.
Hans raised his hand. "Enough."
Silence fell.
"We stand at a fracture point," Hans said, voice calm but firm. "If we fracture here, we lose everything. I will not let that happen."
He turned back to the window. "I will go to the front lines — not just as a commander, but as a symbol. If I bear the scars, the men will fight harder. If I lead, they will follow."
A murmur of approval rose.
"Prepare the men," Hans ordered. "Tomorrow, we move toward Carinthia."
As the officers dispersed to carry out his command, Hans allowed himself a brief moment of doubt. The path ahead was dangerous. The Coalition's shadow was long, and the fractures within his own ranks threatened to tear him apart.
But he was no longer the man who woke up confused in his small house with four soldiers. He was a commander, a leader. And he would carve his legacy with blood and fire if he had to.
Hans spent the rest of the night preparing. His officers debated strategy late into the evening, each pushing their vision. Engelhardt mapped out defensive positions, emphasizing securing supply routes and communication lines. Albrecht argued for swift strikes to disrupt Coalition movements before they could fully mobilize.
The other two officers—Karl and Dieter—remained silent observers, their loyalties quietly shifting between the two camps. Rumors swirled that Karl favored Albrecht's boldness, while Dieter leaned toward Engelhardt's pragmatism. Hans knew the fragile peace among his officers could shatter with a single misstep.
Morning came cold and gray. Hans donned his leather coat, adjusted his Luger, and stepped outside. The soldiers gathered in formation, their breath misting in the frosty air. Eyes fixed on their commander, waiting.
"Today," Hans began, voice steady but filled with fire, "we take a stand. Not just for Oberfeld, or Austria — but for the future of our people. The Coalition thinks they can divide and control us. They underestimate what we are willing to fight for."
He raised a fist. "We fight as one! For honor! For our homes!"
The men erupted in cheers, their morale igniting like a roaring flame.
As the column marched out, Hans felt the weight of history on his shoulders. The road to Carinthia would be dangerous. The Coalition's agents lurked everywhere, and internal divisions threatened to fracture his command from within.
But Hans steeled himself. If scars were to be earned, he would bear them with pride.
Days later, as the sun set behind the mountains, Hans found himself leading his men through narrow passes. Skirmishes with Coalition-aligned mercenaries tested their resolve, but they pressed on.
One night, under a moonless sky, a stray bullet tore through Hans's left cheek. The searing pain shocked him, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to fall.
The scar would mark him — a symbol of his leadership and sacrifice.
His officers rallied around him, the fractured command slowly knitting itself into a single unit.
The battle for Carinthia was only the beginning.