"Mein Führer…"A gentle knock broke the morning stillness.
Seris's voice, muffled yet respectful, slipped through the crack in the heavy oak door. "The army awaits."
I did not reply immediately.
Instead, I stood before the tall standing mirror in my chamber, watching the figure within.
It stared back not with the weariness of age nor the hesitation of a man.No.
What looked back was a creator.A judge.A leader reborn in fire.
The light that spilled through the thin curtains painted my reflection in amber and ash. Sunlight brushed against the dark fold of my coat. Dust floated in lazy spirals through the air, and in the quiet... I saw it. The path. The culmination of every order, every scream, every death.
My gaze dropped to the hat resting on the darkwood drawer.Black. Iron-banded.Adorned with the golden eagle.A symbol not of the past, but of the eternal.
I reached for it. Fingers steady.And in one motion, I placed it on my head.
The weight was familiar. Welcome.
With that, I turned. The door creaked open, old hinges groaning softly like a whisper from a forgotten time.
Seris stood waiting, head bowed in reverence. Her white-gloved hands were folded perfectly at her waist."Mein Führer, all preparations have been made."
I nodded once and stepped into the hall.
Behind me came the synchronized clatter of boots—my personal guard falling into position like parts of a machine. Their coats billowed lightly as the corridor wind whispered past. Their rifles gleamed in the soft glow of morning.
The hall was long, grand, and colder than I remembered.
Magic gemstones flickered faintly in the sconces, humming with restrained energy. Between them, tall windows opened to the winter-blued sky, sunlight stabbing through the glass and casting dancing bars across the stone floor.
To my left, the walls came alive with memory.
Paintings—every frame a legacy.
One showed crimson uniforms clashing with demi-human cavalry in the woods of the East. Another, a woman cradling a child in a wheat field, her arms raised not in plea but in promise.
Then came Wilhelm.
Painted atop a black cliff, sword drawn high, cloak rippling in a holy wind, with a thousand riflemen behind him—marching toward death with discipline and faith.
But the final piece stopped me in my stride.
Massive. Framed in gold. A golden eagle soaring through a red sky, talons clutching a swastika wreathed in fire.A symbol of fear. Of power. Of destiny.
No words accompanied it.None were needed.
I stared for a long moment before moving on.
We reached the corridor's end. I turned left.
And there—through the wide arches of the viewing balcony—the army revealed itself.
Rows upon rows.Blocks of men arranged with perfect discipline.From this height, they didn't look like soldiers.They looked like a tidal wave of iron.
Bayonets caught the morning light.Flags snapped in the breeze—black banners marked with runes, bolts, and eagles.The ground beneath them vibrated with their silence.
Tens of thousands. All waiting. All still.
I walked toward the balcony doors.
Two guards were already moving.
Clad in ceremonial black, each held a rifle over one shoulder.With practiced precision, they stepped forward and pulled the great white doors open.
A gust of wind hit me first. Cold. Fresh. Sharp like a blade.It swept through my coat and sent the edge of my cap fluttering for just a second.
My eyes adjusted.
Virella stood to the right of the podium, her soft blonde hair tied back, veins glowing faintly along her neck. Otto was beside her, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and unwavering. Wilhelm flanked the left, arms behind his back, boots planted wide.
They had given me space.A circle around the pulpit—respectful and tight.Their presence—like watchful titans—held the edge of the world still.
I stepped forward.
The platform beneath my feet was carved stone, lined in black iron. The wind hissed against it like a whisper of fate.
Below me… the sea of men waited.
No movement.
No whisper.
Only breath and steel.
I let the silence linger.
Then, with the barest motion of my hand, I raised it to Virella.
She bowed her head, eyes closing.
Her lips moved—softly at first—and then the veins along her arms and neck lit with searing blue. Magic shimmered in the air like heat waves rising from fire.
And then… it began.
A low hum. A spark. A pulse.
Suddenly, across the cities, towns, villages—across every wall, street, and hall—images appeared. Blue-hued illusions, cast from the sky itself. My image. My form. My army.
From the poorest homes to the shattered towers of captured cities, eyes turned.
Humans. Demi-humans. Those that feared me. Those that worshiped me. All now saw the truth of what had been built.
A soldier approached the podium, hand trembling as he passed a white slip of paper.
"Ten minutes, mein Führer."
Even for one of Virella's power, the toll of casting such a spell across a landmass the size of Bulgaria was immense.
I nodded.
My gaze returned to the ocean of soldiers below me.
And again… I let silence reign.
Every eye was locked on me.
Every breath… held.
Even the wind dared not interrupt.
I stood.
Still.
Unmoving.
Then…
I pushed air into my lungs.
The blue projection hovered in the air like a god's eye.
Across every corner of the kingdom—through village markets, prison courtyards, city alleyways, and scorched farmlands—it flickered to life. Some gazed up in awe. Others in fear. Most, however… stood still. Listening.
Atop the marble podium, the wind teasing at his coat, the Führer gazed down at his army—an endless sea of black, gray, and steel. Tens of thousands. Riflemen. Cavalry. Engineers. Flag bearers. Their chests rose and fell as one.
He did not shout. Not at first.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady. Cold as ice.
"You stand," he said, "not as men beneath a crown. Not as beggars waiting for freedom. Not as victims."
He paused.
"You stand as the creators of history."
A hush spread over the crowd. One could hear the metal buttons tapping gently against coats in the wind.
The projection shimmered across the kingdom.
A mother in the outskirts of Dralvek held her children tighter. The youngest clutched her skirt, wide-eyed at the glowing blue light hovering over the old town square. Farmers abandoned their tools. A horse froze mid-step. Silence. Even the birds stilled.
"You built this," the Führer continued, "with your hands. With your blood. You crawled out of cages—out of chains—out of pits dug for your extinction. You bled so the flag could rise."
His gloved hand moved slightly.
"And rise it has."
His voice grew louder. Firmer.
"We were told we were weak. We were told we were vermin. Filth. A dying breed. And what have we done? We have torn open the lies of this kingdom and made truth bleed from its mouth."
The army did not move. But they were breathing faster now. Some eyes welled. Others narrowed.
A slave in the mines, shirtless and chained, stood with a cracked lip and broken nose. The illusion shimmered above him. One eye swollen shut, he still managed to whisper, "He speaks truth…"
Beside him, another man—older, missing two fingers—gave a slow nod.
"They whipped us like animals," the man muttered. "And now look at them."
The speech thundered on.
"We have seized cities. Toppled nobles. Brought down entire armies who believed we could not shoot, we could not fight, we could not think."
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
"They laughed at our weapons. Called them sticks. Called our ideas madness. But you—you soldiers—you did not laugh. You aimed. You fired. And you did not miss."
His hand struck the podium with a crack.
From the west side of the capital, Wilhelm stood straighter.
From the mountains, riflemen listening via crystal projection saluted.
From the farmlands, where Virella's magic reached even the barns and thatched villages, humans pressed their hands to their hearts.
"You are the sword. You are the flame. You are the new order!"
A roar began in the chest of one soldier in the front row."Sieg Heil!"
The line behind him echoed it. Then the battalion to their left. Then the cavalry. Then the engineers."Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"
The chant swallowed the city.
The Führer's voice cut through it.
"They—the other races—they lived well while you starved. They were fed while your children begged in filth. They called you lesser. They called you beast. They said this uprising would burn out like a candle."
He leaned forward. His hand raised sharply, finger pointed out into the crowd like a blade.
"Well I say—burn the forest! Let the roots of their world smolder in your shadow!"
His voice cracked with fury now. Not uncontrolled—but precise. Like a chisel breaking marble.
"Let them know what it means to be H U M A N again!"
The projection caught his full image—arms stretched wide, chest heaving, face contorted with divine rage.
A boy in the slums stared up at the image, breathless.
His mother whispered, "He's going to end it… all of it."
"Yes, Mama," he said, clenching his fist, "he's going to make them pay."
Back on the balcony, the wind tore through the banners behind him, whipping the eagle emblem into flight.
"We will not stop at this city. We will not rest in these valleys. We will not negotiate."
He slammed his fist into his chest.
"We will TAKE what was stolen. Not by word. Not by treaty. But by BLOOD and FIRE!"
"SIEG HEIL!" the army bellowed.
"Let every mountain echo it! Let every noble in their golden beds wake in terror! Let them smell the smoke of their cities burning, and know—we are coming."
His voice deepened now. Slower. Like scripture.
"You are not a rabble. You are not rebels. You are not savages."
He turned his palm toward the soldiers.
"You are the spearhead of destiny."
The wind howled.
The army began slamming the butts of their rifles into the ground.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound spread like a heartbeat. Like war drums.
"Sons of the broken," he roared, "this is your inheritance!"
He drew his left arm up in a salute.
The entire front line snapped into posture—right arms raised high.
Then the next line.
Then the next.
All in perfect rhythm. Tens of thousands.
"Long live our people," he said. "Long live our blood. Long live this march of thunder."
Then… he said it.
"Long live the human empire."
And with that, the chant resumed:
"SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!"
He held the salute.
The light of the sun hit his face directly now—glinting off his buttons, his belt buckle, the shadow of the eagle above.
Blue flickers faded from the projection. One by one, the illusionary images began to dim.
But the echo of the chant lived on.
In the forests, in the ruins, in the slums.
Children repeated it in whispers.
Mothers whispered it to infants.
And somewhere, far east—in a stone room where demi-human nobles huddled in fear—the sound of drums and thunder reached them.
For they had all heard it.
And now, the kingdom would never forget it.
The silence after the blue light shimmered was brief.
And then—
"Look at you…" the Führer said.
He stood on the podium, coat crisp, the wind tugging at his black trousers and the golden eagle pinned to his cap. His voice was low at first. Slow. Yet commanding.
"Look at what you've become."
He took a breath, almost calm.
"You, who were once shackled. You, who were once hunted. You, whose children were spat upon in the gutters of this land—look at what you are now."
His hand extended over the sea of soldiers.
"You are not rabble. You are not prey. You are an army. And not just any army—no. You are the first true human army in history. Not under nobles. Not for gold. But for blood. For justice. For vengeance. For truth."
Somewhere in the valley, a woman holding a baby pressed her forehead to the projection.
The man beside her whispered, "He's going to set this world right."
Back on the podium, Hitler's voice deepened.
"They called you dogs."
He paused.
"They beat you like dogs. They tossed you scraps. Made you build their roads. Carry their filth. Harvest their grain while your children withered."
His hand clenched into a fist.
"And when you begged—for mercy, for food, for life—they laughed. And when you rose? They called you monsters."
He spat to the side.
"They fear us. Because they know the truth."
He stepped forward. One slow step. His boots thudded against the stone.
"The human race—our bloodline—was never weak. It was betrayed. Sold. Broken by the very beasts we once fed. It is they who drained our strength. They who murdered our sons and enslaved our daughters."
He turned, arms spreading, as though speaking to the whole world.
"But no more!"
The crowd began to shift—bodies tense, faces lit with fire.
"No more tolerance. No more kindness. No more waiting. We are not equal! We are greater!"
The first wave of salutes rose.
"SIEG HEIL!"
He raised his hand. Sharp. Swift.
"You have earned this right! This soil. This land. This breath! It belongs to you, and only to you!"
His voice began to thunder.
"We will rebuild our cities—not in the image of Larrak, but in the image of our Empire! A human Empire! One language. One banner. One law. And I will lead it—not for gold, not for crowns, but for victory!"
A soldier's voice echoed from below, fists raised high:"Victory to the Führer!"
"Victory to the Empire!"
"Victory to the Human Race!"
"SIEG HEIL!"
He shouted over them.
"We have invented weapons that they cannot understand!"
"They call our rifles 'sticks'—until they taste their fire."
"They mock our machines—until they crumble beneath them!"
"They think our minds are slow—yet we have outsmarted every general, every council, every throne!"
The army screamed.
"SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!"
He pointed outward—out across the horizon.
"There are still cities held by the enemy. Still towns where humans live in chains. Still noble halls where they drink and mock our dead."
He lowered his voice.
"And we will go to those places."
His brow lowered. His voice became sharp—like a dagger.
"And we will burn them."
Roars erupted.
"We will rip their flags from their towers and crush their thrones under our boots!"
"We will leave nothing of their lies—no temples, no idols, no illusions. Only the truth shall remain."
Another wave of salutes followed.
"SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!"
A flash of heat crossed his face. His fist slammed the podium.
"I did not come here to rule over ruins."
"I came to raise a new order."
He turned slowly to his commanders—Otto, Virella, Wilhelm.
"And you…"
He returned to the army.
"You are the bricks of that order. You are the fire. You are the hammer."
He raised both arms.
"They thought you would break."
"They thought you would starve."
"They thought you would scatter in fear."
He stared out.
"But you did not break."
"You stood."
"You fought."
"You won."
The crowd now shook the ground. Boots stomped. Helmets clattered. Shouts rose from every street where the projection flickered.
Even the demi-humans in hiding watched in silence.
And then—
The voice changed again.
Softer. But colder.
"The other races," he said, "have lived like gods."
"They ate while you rotted. Laughed while you wept. Built their palaces from your bones."
He glared.
"They were never meant to rule."
"They are unnatural."
"They are parasites."
He let the words hang.
"The elves with their smug wisdom."
"The beastkin with their claws and false pride."
"The scaled ones who hiss from towers of stone."
"They are the reason your mothers wept!"
"They are the reason your fathers drank themselves to death!"
"They are the reason your people died!"
"Not anymore."
The soldiers trembled.
"They will kneel, or they will burn."
A thunderous scream rose from the ranks.
"SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!"
"Führer! Führer! Führer!"
A girl in the hills cried as her mother clutched her shoulder.
"He's going to make a world where we're safe," the mother said.
"No more collars," said a man chained to a field post.
"No more fear."
Back on the platform, Hitler's voice grew solemn.
"I will not lie to you."
"There will be war."
"There will be blood."
"There will be sacrifice."
He scanned the crowd.
"But in the end…"
He raised his left hand.
"There will be peace."
"There will be a home."
"There will be a future!"
He threw his arm forward into a final salute.
"And it will be ours."
"LONG LIVE THE HUMAN EMPIRE!"
The army exploded.
"LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!"
"SIEG HEIL!"
"LONG LIVE THE FÜHRER!"
The banners whipped. The ground shook. The skies thundered with chants and fire.
And so began the next chapter of war.