Captain Wilhelm Drossen stood atop a collapsed cart, his boots slick with blood and dust. Around him, the battered remnants of Schützenbataillon 4 scrambled for cover behind burned columns and shattered stone.
In his left hand was a rifle, its barrel chipped and smoking. In his right — a strange, boxy device of wood, bronze, and twine.
A radio. Makeshift. Ugly. But alive.
Its outer shell was cobbled from clockwork parts, dented brass shells, and magnetized copper plates, hammered into a cracked box the size of a loaf of bread. At the top, a bent antenna arced forward like a broken insect leg. Strange violet sparks flickered across the coils inside.
Its range was limited.
Its signal barely stable.
But it worked.
The Führer himself had explained it—roughly, with chalk on a table. He couldn't replicate the long-range function. Nor did he know how to make the energy needed for it. Even the copper wiring had to be discovered. The crystal amplifiers needed refinement. The broadcast signal wavered in heavy fog or under stone. But the design worked. Even if the Fuhrer did not know its full workings. The concept worked. That was enough.
And now, it was war's mouthpiece.
Wilhelm flicked the side switch. A hum buzzed from deep within.
He pressed the copper switchboard and spoke, voice low, brutal.
"All officers on eastern front. This is Drossen. Pull back. Retreat ten blocks. Set flare charges. I repeat—fall back. Begin mass retreat now."
A pause.
Then crackling replies—half-choked, but clear.
"Understood—Corporal Albrecht falling back."
"This is 3rd Company. Pulling from boiler district."
"East barricade collapsing. We're moving, sir."
Behind him, one officer looked pale.
"They'll think we're breaking."
Wilhelm nodded once.
"Let them."
He turned the knob. The radio sputtered again.
"Command center. Drossen. Prepare all mortars and heavy Artillery for final barrage. Location: Eastern city sector. Marked retreat zone. Confirm when shells are loaded."
Seconds later, the response came.
"Confirmed. Fifty-four mortars. Eight field cannons. Awaiting your command."
Wilhelm looked toward the east—now quiet, eerie.
The beastmen were watching. Some were cheering. Others cautiously emerged from bunkers and towers, weapons raised to the sky, barking in disbelief. They thought they had won.
One jackal-kin hoisted a rusted saber into the air.
A hyena-kin tore down a fallen human flag and howled at the smoke-filled sky.
Cheers erupted through the craters and alleys.
Until—
"Now," Wilhelm said.
He lifted the signal flare with his gloved hand.
Pulled the pin.
And threw it high into the gray.
It screamed as it rose—then burst into violet fire.
And the world collapsed.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The first wave of mortars hit just beyond the bakery quarter. Flame consumed rooftops. Shockwaves crushed windows and sent balconies tumbling.
The cheering stopped.
CRACK. BOOM. SHRIEK.
The second volley tore through the eastern plaza.
Stone shattered. Statues crumbled. Wooden beams flew like spears through the air, impaling anything in their path.
Screams returned—but from the wrong mouths.
Demi-humans scrambled for cover. Some ducked behind overturned carts. Others tried to flee into collapsing tunnels—but the streets were aflame, the air unbreathable.
From a tower balcony, a raccoon-kin priest shrieked at the sky—
"It's a trick! It's—"
A artillery shell tore the tower in half.
Ash rained down like snow.
And then, as if summoned by blood itself—
The chorus began.
"Sieg Heil…"
Soft. Distant.
"Sieg Heil…"
Then louder.
Marching boots emerged from the smoke.
Human riflemen. Dozens. Then hundreds.
Eyes glowing with rage and pride.
"Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"
The east burned behind them, but the front surged forward.
Infantry opened fire down both alleys. Mortar shells landed behind the remaining beastmen, cutting off retreat. Flamethrowers hissed in tunnels, clearing out burrowed bunkers.
Wilhelm stepped forward, rifle raised.
"Advance. Sweep the ash. No one survives."
The human assault began anew.