City Hall – Führer's Underground Bunker
Three Months in to winter
The silence of concrete and cold steel filled the chamber—an underground bunker carved beneath the very nerve center of the human rebellion. The air was heavy with candle smoke and magic residue, laced with sweat, oil, and the weight of history in motion.
Dozens of officers and advisors filled the grand war room. Long tables pressed end to end. Maps curled at the edges. Folders stacked high. Binders of strategy, manufacturing, logistics, and magical research were scattered across every desk. Guards lined the perimeter, rifles strapped, eyes forward.
In the center—one raised platform.
A pale torch burned on either side of it.
Seris stepped up.
Dressed in her long navy coat, sleeves rolled tight, black gloves neatly folded under her arm, she raised her chin and addressed the crowd.
"Mein Führer," she said clearly, her voice crisp and commanding. "All key members of the Reich are present and accounted for."
She turned from the Führer's shadowed silhouette and faced the gathered officers.
Her tone sharpened like a blade unsheathed.
"Today's meeting will cover every aspect of our future as a nation. Including—but not limited to—food production, labor assignments, housing infrastructure, currency standardization, military manufacturing, strategic planning, technology and magical advancement, ranking and governance systems, and finally—our post-war vision."
She clapped her hands once—sharp and sudden.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
Not a whisper, not a shuffle. Only the distant hiss of burning torches.
"Good," Seris said, lowering her arms. "Then we begin with food production and agricultural allocation."
She walked to a tall rectangular board on the east wall of the room. It stood nearly seven feet high, surrounded by railings of steel. Rows of blank stone panels were carved into its surface—prepared to receive whatever she wrote.
The crowd leaned forward, murmuring softly.
Seris took a piece of silver chalk from her coat and raised her hand—
FOOMP.
A sudden gust of air. The torches died. One by one, the guards at the walls had extinguished the flames with practiced precision.
Darkness fell like a shroud over the room.
Shouts and gasps filled the void.
"What's going on—?!"
"I can't see—!"
"Hold—hold!"
Then a ripple of blue flooded the stone floor.
A hum, low and ancient, stirred the air.
From the shadows behind the platform, Virella von Weiss stepped forward. Her calm face aglow with otherworldly light, hands lifted, palms open.
Streams of glowing blue light poured from her fingertips and curled around the edge of the board. It shimmered, then lit up like etched moonstone.
The numbers Seris wrote pulsed faintly. Crystal-clear and luminous in the darkness.
[Projected Figures - Food Supply - Winter Quarter]
Grain Silos (Larrak Valley): 472,000 units
Preserved Meats (Smoked/Dried): 98,400 kg
Cabbage, Rootstock, Fermented Veg.: 213,000 kg
Water Purification Efficiency: 88% (target: 93%)
Active Farms: 127 under supervision
Farm Labor Assigned: 12,365 workers (including 812 trained youth)
Murmurs rose across the room.
"Saints above…"
"That's double what we had three months ago."
"It's working. The valley's feeding us."
Seris turned, face lit by the board's ghostly glow.
"Our food situation is stable, but not eternal. We are dependent on the valley. Raids may compromise harvests. To mitigate this—four new underground granaries are being constructed under the direction of Commander Drossen and Engineer Haupt. Progress is ahead of schedule."
She stepped aside to let the light shift and wrote a new column.
[Planned Allocations - Winter Mobilization]
Civilians (Non-combatant): 48%
Civilians (Farm/Forge Labor): 19%
Frontline Soldiers: 25%
Reserve Guard + Scouts: 6%
Medical/Magical Personnel: 2%
The numbers glowed brighter now, illuminated by flickering lines of Virella's magic. The guards stepped back into the shadows. No one moved.
Seris faced the officers again.
"This is not ideal. It is a compromise. But it is enough—to survive the winter."
She paused.
Then: "There is one caveat. We expect a shortage in citrus, spices, salt, and some anti-inflammatory herbs. Medical staff are working with Virella to produce magical supplements using alchemical extract. There will be trials."
She stepped back.
"Next topic—manufacturing."
Before Seris could speak, a lean woman near the eastern benches stood. Her arms were thick with soot stains, a bronze smith's badge pinned beside her collar.
"Ma'am—may I speak?"
Seris nodded once.
"Our blacksmiths are falling behind on bayonets and bolts," the woman said. "It's not laziness. It's the steel. We're using scrap—breaks too easy, bends after one or two strikes. We need proper iron."
Murmurs followed. Heads nodded across the room.
Seris turned her gaze toward the right.
Otto Eisner stepped forward, his lab coat dusted in black, sleeves burned from flame and forge.
"We've always had the iron," he said calmly. "We just needed more hands."
The room fell silent.
"The mountains to our east are filled with it. Deep veins, wide seams. It was never a question of supply—but of manpower."
He glanced around the room.
"In the past eight weeks, we've expanded our mining teams from seven to forty-two. That's triple the hands. We've assigned extra wagons, rails, and pulley rigs. Now the forges run day and night. If we keep this pace, the mountain could supply us for the next hundred years."
Otto raised a slate board and tapped it.
"Rifle forging is steady. We've completed 675 standard-issue rifles with fixed bayonet capability. Within two months, that number will rise above one thousand. Rifles will go to frontline troops first—scouts, cavalry, elite sharpshooters. Everyone else will rotate through drills until supply meets demand."
A few seated commanders nodded.
"Mortars are also underway. We've finished thirty-two. Small, light, two-man operation. Twelve-meter blast radius. Reliable reload, low recoil, minimal maintenance."
He paused, face turning serious.
"And as of last week—we have ceased all cannon production."
A wave of tension rippled across the chamber.
Commander Krieger stood at once. "Explain."
Otto met his stare evenly.
"One cannon consumes the iron of thirty rifles. It's immobile, needs five to move, and one barrel flaw renders it useless. We've outgrown it."
Another officer barked, "They won us the valley! They tore Norhadar's walls apart!"
Krieger's palm slammed against the table. "You're throwing away our loudest thunder."
Otto didn't react.
Seris raised her hand—but let Otto continue.
He pulled a sheet from his folder and raised it above his head. A second aide brought over a large diagram board and flipped it to reveal detailed blueprints.
Lines. Cross-sections. Curved barrels and spiked stabilizers. A new shape entirely.
Otto tapped the diagram.
"This is the Brunhilde Launcher."
Gasps escaped from the front row.
"It is too large to bring into this room. Stands taller than a man. Crew of four. Designed for long-distance arcing fire. High explosive payload. Built to reach over ridges and fortifications."
He lowered the sheet slightly, then looked across the rows of officers.
"The amount of firepower this brings… is far beyond anything our cannons ever offered. The blast radius is wider. The range is nearly twice that of our old guns. It can fire from behind hills, from cover. Its very presence changes the battlefield."
Silence.
"This is not for intimidation—it is for annihilation."
Seris stepped forward beside him.
"We will produce sixty of them by winter. No more cannons. No more dead horses dragging wheels. We're moving into a new age."
Otto added, "And it will be fire from the sky—not thunder from the walls."
Krieger sat back slowly. No further objections followed.
Seris cleared her throat.
"Pistols."
She held up a small sidearm, matte black with simple mechanics.
"We have forged over ten thousand units. Pistols for field troops. Revolvers for officers. Cavalry and engineers will receive sidearms as standard backup."
She let the pistol lower into the case.
"Rifles for our soldiers. Pistols for our leaders. Mortars for precision. Brunhilde for terror."
Her voice was calm now.
"We are no longer scraping to survive. We are preparing to endure. Permanently."
She closed the case.
"Next—population housing and birthrate analysis."
The room fell silent as Officer Elber stepped forward, boots still caked with dried valley clay. He laid a thick ledger on the table, flipped it open, and began.
"Total population under our protection stands at 391,052."
He let that number settle in the room.
"Of that, over 68,000 are currently housed in makeshift structures—huts, shacks, or communal buildings with multiple rooms. These are often built from salvaged lumber, cracked stone, and patched cloth. Many families share large rooms separated only by hanging sheets. Privacy is nonexistent. Ten to twelve people sleep in quarters meant for three."
He turned a page.
"Another 34,000 have opted for field tents—erected near farmland and granaries. These are volunteers. Laborers. They sleep beside the wheat they plant, drawn by the promise of extra food in exchange for work. Conditions are harsh. Some dig shallow fire pits to stay warm at night. Others use overturned carts as shelter when their canvas rips."
Elber raised his head, voice steady.
"It is not ideal. But it is manageable."
He walked to the map pinned along the stone wall.
"We are now building entire villages from the ground up."
He pointed to key areas marked in red ink.
"In the past two months, we have begun construction of 22 new settlements. Four are nearly complete. The rest have foundations laid, roads cleared, and wells being dug. Materials are sourced from captured demi-human estates, dismantled manors, and sunken towers."
"Additionally, 41,000 people have been resettled in former demi-human homes. Though conditions vary, the structures are stable. We patch holes, reinforce beams, and install communal kitchens and rainwater barrels. Patrols are active in every reclaimed zone to maintain order."
He paused.
"There's progress, my Führer. But there is no comfort—not yet."
Someone muttered in the back.
Another officer interjected.
"And the children?"
Elber nodded grimly.
"We estimate over 23,000 of our civilians are children under the age of twelve. Most live in overcrowded rooms. A few villages have organized rotating shelters—converted barns or storehouses where the young can sleep more safely. We are training local caregivers. Mothers take turns watching the children while others harvest grain or sew boots."
He flipped one more page.
"Birthrates are rising. Slowly. One in thirty-two women is confirmed pregnant. It's not rapid, but it shows stability. Hope. Many of them say they want their children born in a world where they're not afraid."
The Führer's voice, calm and cold, broke the silence.
"And morale?"
Elber didn't hesitate.
"The people suffer. But they do not break. They sing when they carry stone. They hold hands at night to stay warm. They trade seeds for candles. When rain pours, they patch leaks with old shirts and laugh about it later. It is not just survival—it is resilience."
He raised his eyes.
"They are not waiting for peace. They are building it with their bare hands."
A pause.
The Führer turned his gaze to the map.
"Begin categorizing all carpenters, masons, seamstresses, and midwives. Anyone with a trade. I want numbers on their locations, and I want the builders trained to lead. We will scale construction. Rapidly."
Officer Elber saluted.
"Jawohl."
Seris stepped forward again, her fingers brushing across the parchment she held. Her expression was calm, eyes steady behind her glasses.
"The next matter," she said, "concerns governance, ranking structure, and the question of promotions."
There was a pause. One that lasted just long enough for low voices to rise beneath it.
Two officers sitting near the back leaned toward each other.
"You realize none of us are here because we earned it," one muttered. "Merit's got nothing to do with it."
His companion kept his eyes forward, replying under his breath, "Don't be stupid. You know what he values. Obedience. Discipline. Praise him in the right hall, and you skip five names on the list."
"Just keep your mouth shut. The walls listen."
They both stiffened slightly as Seris turned.
But she hadn't heard.
Or chose not to.
She spoke again, this time louder. Formal.
"In the new state," she said, "each rank holds defined authority over both military and civil sectors. Promotions are evaluated based on leadership, reliability, and effectiveness. Every officer who holds a medal in this room has been recognized for distinction—whether in logistics, battlefield command, or population control."
Several heads nodded.
One man, decorated with the crimson badge of the Banner of Flame, shifted proudly in his chair.
But Seris didn't pause for long.
"The structure is modeled around layered command. Each sector functions under direct supervision of an officer, who is then reported on weekly by their subordinates. Chain of command is sacred."
Someone in the corner cleared their throat.
Another leaned back in his chair.
Seris continued anyway.
"The ranks begin at Schütze, our common footmen. Most men begin their service there unless promoted directly through recommendation. Above them—Unteroffizier. Small-unit leaders. Then comes Sturmoffizier, often those who've led offensives or specialized in close-combat theater."
Her eyes landed briefly on one of Bruno's lieutenants, whose scarred face and burnished medal said more than any report.
"Kommandant oversee regional fronts or serve as governors when necessary. Oberkommandant carry broader authority, often over entire divisions or supply branches. Finally—General der Menschheit—our highest tier beneath the Führer himself. There are only three."
As she spoke, officers shifted in their seats. Some wore their insignias proudly. Others stared blankly, arms crossed, unmoving.
"You all have your own histories," she added, scanning the room. "Some of you rose by action. Others by being the first to organize a grain line. Others… for surviving what others didn't."
She gave the faintest pause.
Then:
"Each medal speaks. Each ribbon tells a story. The Cross of Iron Will. The Medal of Order. The Obsidian Eye."
The way she said that last one, a silence filled the chamber. Everyone knew what that meant.
Covert operations. Loyalty without paperwork. Obedience without question.
Riese stood near the door, arms crossed. He had three medals. But none of them ever shined.
When she finished, Seris stepped back.
The candlelight flickered across the table.
A few claps echoed from the left side—slow, polite.
Then silence again.
Until Wilhelm stood.
"Then let it be made clear," he said. "Merit or loyalty, it matters little if the command chain holds. Discipline must come first."
He gave a hard glance at the back of the room.
"Those who earned their place," he added, "prove it each day. The rest… will be weeded out in due time."
A few heads turned. One man went pale. No one replied.
From the head of the table, the Führer had said nothing.
But his fingers tapped once against the oak.
Seris bowed slightly. "Shall I continue to the economic forecast, my Führer?"
Still no words.
Just a quiet nod.
She moved to the next parchment.
And no one dared whisper again.
Seris stood once more, stepping beside the strategy table, her hand firmly gripping the leather-bound folder. The room had just gone quiet after discussions on governance and conscription. Now, the flame of the lanterns caught the edge of a silver coin as she slowly rolled it onto the table.
"Economy," she said. "Our new era begins today under what will be remembered as the Gold-Backed Era."
Riese tilted his head. "Gold-backed?"
Seris gave a short nod.
"All seized assets from the noble class, including the royal treasury, will be converted to a central reserve. We are dismantling the blood-stained wealth of the old regime. That reserve—our gold—will back the Mark. Our new currency."
She pulled out a stack of newly printed bills. There was no magic in their design. No runes. No enchanted inks.
"This is paper. Real paper. Thick, fibrous pulp manufactured by hand and pressed by steel molds. Every bill requires multiple pressmen to align and stamp the print. Denominations are as follows: One, Two, Five, Ten, Twenty, Fifty, and One Hundred Marks."
Wilhelm narrowed his eyes as he leaned forward. "And the coins?"
"Iron marks for ones and twos Marks. Bronze coins for one, five, twenty-five and fifty cents," she answered. "The design is based on the Fuhrers Visions. Stamped faces and symbols. No one can copy these by hand. It takes five men pressing down a heavy tool just to make a stack."
A junior officer in the corner raised his voice. "But how do we know a counterfeiter won't try?"
Seris turned to him.
"They'd need access to the printing molds, which are under armed guard. They'd need the press itself—over a thousand kilograms of iron. They'd need the ink ratios, the metals in the ink, and the paper recipe. No single person can replicate it. It's easier to steal a brick of gold than forge a bill."
Bruno scoffed. "Good. Then let's talk taxes."
"Already drafted," Seris replied, flipping to the next page. "A fixed income levy based on the amount of people living under one roof and the amount of income received. Companies will be taxed based on earnings. There is more details but far to much to cover in one meeting but that's the gist. The state will monitor earnings through our new Office of Civil Auditing."
Riese raised his brow. "What of loans?"
Seris stepped back.
"There will be two types. State Loans, given by the government. And Public Loans, offered by private companies. In both cases, interest rates and lending regulations are controlled centrally—no predatory lending. No criminal rates."
"What happens if a man defaults?" another officer asked.
"If it's a public loan—he deals with the company under rules and regulations. If it's a state loan…" she glanced toward Hitler's end of the table, "…then his assets become the property of the State. His land. His tools. His business."
No one spoke.
Seris moved to the next subject.
"We will use these loans to grow business. New ventures—farmers' guilds, mining companies, infrastructure efforts, weapons manufacturers—can apply for a startup loan. But payment will be enforced. If they fail, we seize control."
Virella crossed her arms. "And credit?"
"Yes. Citizens will be issued a credit ranking through the People's Ledger—a record of every contract signed and loan taken. managed by name and seq and even photo. Everyone will receive a photo id using technology from dwarves to record their identity. every person will need it to receive work and pay and receive loans. This makes sure no one fakes their identity. Secondly, If a person pays on time, they'll build trust. If they default, they'll lose borrowing privileges. No more loose coin passed hand to hand. Every large transaction will be documented."
"And who watches the banks?" Wilhelm asked.
Seris smiled faintly.
"We do."
She laid a single black wax seal on the desk—the symbol of the new Financial Authority.
"The state will allow competition between private banks—but all are required to report earnings, interest rates, and policies. Any deviation—any trickery—and their license is revoked."
"Harsh," Bruno muttered.
"Stable," Seris corrected.
She flipped the page once more.
"In time, when the system is stable—when we've reached a mature network of businesses and financial institutions—we will move away from a gold standard. That is far in the future. For now, all currency is backed. All currency is regulated."
"And if war breaks out again?" someone whispered.
Seris answered coldly.
"Then all accounts freeze. We will divert to State Command Economy—temporary seizure of all grain, steel, and arms. The people will be fed. The army will be paid. The rest… will wait."
The room went still again.
Adolf Hitler hadn't spoken since the beginning of the economic segment. But now, he slowly leaned forward, his voice low.
"Those who build the foundation of this economy will be remembered. Those who betray it… will be erased."
His eyes burned across the table.
Seris lowered her head and closed the ledger.
"No further questions."