WARNING: heavier content in this chapter! A bit of Adolf and Captain's past, and a bloody scene! And radical terms! Again! This is all fiction, I don't condone any of these practices! Thanks for reading❤️
¹
World War II, one of humanity's most desperate events, a "star of misfortune" across Europe. Especially with the recent fall of Nazi Germany at the hands of the Allies.
Crisis struck everywhere, Berlin was devastated—not just the capital, but more than 60% of Germany's battlefields had been reduced to rubble. The Red Army and the Allies were their executioners, and now dictated their lives.
Being a child in this era was hell, no matter which side you were on.
Abandoned like rats and given the name "Wolfskinder," a label for post-war orphans—mongrels forced to hunt for scraps of food among ruins and debris—reduced to vermin.
Eating from the garbage was a rational choice at that point.
And in the middle of this, a well-known orphaned child found themselves lost. Clothes torn, stained with dry blood that ran down pale skin to their ankles, and eyes as hollow as abysses devoid of life, telling a story tragically common in such turbulent times.
This child stared at a dark giant in a filthy alley. He was as tall as an ordinary man, his dark skin and gray hair a sharp contrast to the environment. He, too, was dirty and poorly dressed, but the massive military overcoat he wore was proof of possible past deeds.
"…kill me…"
The child murmured with empty eyes at the dark man, who merely watched. His ruby eyes, stripped of all emotion, stared into the lifeless void. It was as if two corpses had met.
"…"
The giant said nothing, but the sheer indifference on his stone face was a clear answer: he would not lift a finger for the child's suffering.
"Kill me, y-you filthy n-Nigga!"
The offensive, immoral words oddly lacked hatred or malice. It was as if a child were mimicking an adult to seem grown-up, deprived of any true intent to hurt. No—the only thing this child wanted was an answer that would end their suffering.
The giant only stared at them without emotion, then stood.
"Ah… finally." the pale child whispered, eyes closing like a lifeless corpse in a funeral pose. Yet the hands that touched them were neither malicious nor grasping to hurt, but strangely soft and warm.
It was like the touch of a—
"Mein Vater—"
◇◇◇
²
Back to the present, in 20XX. Adolf awoke in the dusty room of his new base. His body ached and all he wanted was to go back to sleep. Yet now he was a leader, and he had to reform this ridiculous party into something that could detach itself from the old image of the Third Reich. Maybe throwing all that racial hatred into the supernatural might help.
"Hmm~"
Groaning as his bones cracked when stretching, he could feel—even without looking—his eternal shadow in the corner of the room. Always alert, always vigilant.
Hans Gunsche.
He didn't even remember how long they had been together, but he knew that as long as his hunting dog was at his side, he was not defenseless.
Never again.
"Well~ let's start the day, Captain!"
Shedding the thin sheets, his slim, naked body emerged into the open air, but he felt no shame at being seen by the giant Werwolf. Captain was completely devoid of such mortal emotions, a true loyal hound~
(I have to stop thinking about him like that. This damned image of Hitler is corrupting me.)
Putting on his uniform and cap, he adjusted himself in the mirror, smiling at his reflection.
"Well then, at least today's going to be a calm—"
…
"WHO THE HELL DREW A DAMN PENTAGRAM ON THE WAREHOUSE FLOOR?!"
In front of him, in the same warehouse he had been using as a base, there was now a roughly drawn pentagram on the ground. Whoever had made it had clearly just scribbled whatever came to mind—it wasn't even a sigil from demonology (and he had memorized those). No, it looked like something a stupid teenager would do.
"Ugh! Damn Nazi brats!"
Hitler grumbled, rubbing his face with one hand and waving to Captain with the other. With a single swift movement, the giant erased the ridiculous drawing from the floor.
(It's not even been a day since I announced the supernatural, and I already have idiots trying to summon them? Grrr!)
He was truly furious now. These fools thought seeking help from the "other side" would be good?
"Wait… Didn't the Nazis have a division specialized in occultism?" Hitler asked, turning to Captain. But before the Werwolf could answer, another voice intervened:
"Almost, mein Führer. More specifically, we had the Ahnenerbe, led by Herr Heinrich Himmler, dedicated to 'research on German ancestral heritage,' where sacred artifacts of our history were catalogued—including the legendary Spear of Destiny, Longinus, which Your Excellency demanded in Nuremberg, over sixty years ago, in your past life."
Michael, the man responsible for sponsoring Adolf, stepped out from the shadows. His thinning dark hair and unshaven face made him look older, but his sharp eyes revealed a lively mind full of devotion to his young master.
"I see." Hitler muttered. "But I take it we lost it, correct?" he asked while walking toward the main hall, always accompanied by the giant Werwolf, with Michael always one step behind, a gesture of respect to his authority.
"Yes, mein Führer, American troops managed to steal it from us and take it back to their decadent Hofburg museum."
"Ach so…"
The "Spear of Longinus," an artifact greatly coveted by the original Hitler, was, in this world, one of the 13 Sacred Gears capable of slaying gods—the greatest among them in this reincarnated world of "Highschool DxD."
"A complete loss." He was serious—having it in his hands today would improve any plan he could devise. But in the end, he had to work with what he had. "If I had the spear, it would be perfect to restructure this pathetic excuse of a party we've become… or at the very least, skewer a few meddling angels and demons. They're the worst."
Michael coughed awkwardly.
"Mein Führer, forgive me, but… the Spear of Longinus is… well-guarded in the United States. The Pentagon would never allow—"
"Bah!" Adolf cut him off, twirling his cap and pointing at the ceiling. "As if that piece of junk was the real one. No, the true spear would never be kept safe in the hands of foolish humans. Such a divine object must already have a new wielder. We lost it…"
Captain, unmoving like a statue, only raised a heavy brow, silently questioning the idea.
Adolf sighed, massaging his temple.
"Anyway… enough nostalgia. We need something realistic. Black magic, sacred weapons, an army of monsters—anything but a bunch of skinheads painting crooked pentagrams on my warehouse floor!"
Michael, eager, opened an old notebook filled with notes.
"In fact, mein Führer… there is an alternative. A smaller occultist cell, descended from the Ahnenerbe, still operates in the Eastern regions. They claim to possess fragments of grimoires stolen from the Church."
Adolf's ruby eyes gleamed.
"Grimoires, hmm…? Finally, a useful idea."
Beside him, Captain folded his arms, tilting his head slightly in disapproval—like a giant hound silently warning its master.
Adolf turned slowly, meeting the Werwolf's gaze with a dark smile.
"Captain, don't look at me like that. My soul was corrupted eighty years ago. I have no problem dealing with such artifacts. Besides… you'll be there to protect me, won't you?"
Master and hound locked eyes, testing each other's will. Yet the silence that followed was broken only by Michael's frantic scribbling, as if he were witnessing an oracle's prophecy.
Adolf adjusted his cap once more in the dusty warehouse and smiled to himself.
"Then it's settled. If I can't have the spear, I'll have grimoires. And with them… I'll build the Supernatural Fourth Reich."
"But…" Michael timidly raised his hand. "Don't you think the name is a bit… too flashy?"
Adolf glared coldly at him, until an ironic laugh escaped his lips.
"Hah. You're right. Sounds a bit chuuni. Perhaps… 'Progressive Occultist Party'? Yes… that sounds respectable."
Captain only narrowed his eyes, as if to say: "Seriously?"
Adolf ignored it, striding toward his meeting room to organize the new plans.
◇◇◇
³
Apart from the morning confusion, the rest of the day passed normally, calmly… aside from the paperwork.
"WHY THE HELL DO WE HAVE SO MUCH PAPERWORK?!"
The little dictator roared, scattering the mountain of papers before him. He had been at it for hours, yet nothing seemed to decrease.
Prices of new supplies.
"Exclusive" establishments that had to be maintained or closed.
Bail for foolish young recruits who spoke too much in public.
Attacks against minorities.
It was hell.
"Grrr, I hate these brats—" A sigil glowed in Hitler's eyes as he crumpled yet another complaint against one of the new recruits. It was maddening.
At his side, Captain—his eternal shadow—stood, holding a box of World War II documents being restored (or what was left of them). His indifferent eyes carried something close to "regret."
In the end, politics was hell for the boy.
A knock at the door distracted Hitler from his suffering and shouting. Quickly, the little dictator straightened his messy clothes and armband, hurriedly fixing the scattered papers. Coughing into his gloved hands, he called out loudly, "Who is it?" trying to maintain some shred of respectability.
"M-Mr. Führer?" It was Cristoff's voice from outside, full of fear and urgency. Immediately, the Führer narrowed his eyes in suspicion, reaching beneath the table for the revolver hidden in a secret compartment.
Beside him, fur began sprouting across Captain's face. From his holster, he drew two long-barreled revolvers—almost comical, if not for the cold, machine-like look of a killer that Captain embodied. Both were ready to fire at the slightest sign…
…
…
…
And in a second—
*Bang*
Bullets ripped through the doors, riddling the walls of the room.
The walls, the cabinets, the crates storing files—even the floor and furniture—all were shredded with a full intent to kill.
And finally—*Clink*.
The sound of an empty clip. The storm of bullets ceased. The once-polished door was now nothing but splinters, smoking as it collapsed onto the ground with a hollow thud.
The attackers entered.
A group of youths—the very same from the day before, dissatisfied with their new childish leader.
They stumbled through the destroyed doorway, their steps clumsy but filled with almost dreamlike fury clouding their eyes. There were six in total. Their faces betrayed not soldiers, but boys consumed by anger, like "dogs" hungry for an ideology they themselves had never lived or fought for. Their eyes were fixed on the little Führer, as though killing him were a sacred sacrifice.
Blood and gunpowder filled everyone's noses.
Yet Adolf sat still for a moment, unmoving, abyssal eyes glowing in the shadows. It was a disturbing sight: a frail child, but radiating the aura of one who had witnessed—and caused—centuries of destruction and death. For a moment, he wasn't the boy trying to lead. He was the Devil of Germany itself. Adolf K. Hitler.
His desk overturned, the room riddled with bullet holes—yet he himself had not a single scratch. All thanks to Captain, who had stood in front of him, body hardened like steel, catching every bullet meant for his master. Not one pierced deeper than the first layer of his lupine skin. His coat long since discarded for mobility.
Now, everyone could see the towering figure of the dark-skinned man, muscles carved like iron. Wearing only pants and a dogtag. His face remained cold, even after being riddled with bullets. The Werwolf seemed immune to pain.
"Traitors…" Adolf whispered. His voice echoed with an almost ancestral tone, as though the room itself heard him despite the soft utterance. "You dare raise weapons against me?"
The boys hesitated. The eldest—perhaps their improvised leader—gritted his teeth and spat on the floor.
"You're not the real Führer. Just a fragile body wearing the mask of a legend! We'll end this farce before you corrupt our party! Letting minorities like that filthy blood live alongside us? We are the remnants of the superior race! You're nothing but a girl infiltrating and twisting the legacy of our beloved leader!"
"Beloved leader?" Adolf repeated, venom in his tone, eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them, hatred and resignation burned in the abyss.
"You're strays…" he said coldly. "Garbage that can't even follow orders to stay silent. Nothing but dogs… mongrels biting their masters…"
The black aura that always surrounded him pulsed, almost tangible, like a living shadow writhing behind him. Captain's presence swelled with it, the Werwolf raising his head slowly, eyes glowing like burning coals.
One of the boys stepped back, sweat pouring down his temple. Instinct screamed that they weren't facing a defenseless child—but something far greater.
Adolf raised his small hand. A red sigil flared in his iris like a sick sun.
"Captain."
Just a name. An absolute order.
The giant moved. Not quickly, not like a dog—but like a war machine that never forgot its purpose.
Two shots rang out, sharp and final. Two boys fell before they even realized their skulls had been pierced clean through. Blood splattered across stacks of papers, staining bureaucracy with the price of blood.
The others screamed, but it was already too late. Adolf rose from behind the desk, slim and small, yet cloaked in an aura that crushed resistance.
"The Fourth Reich has no place for cowards or traitors."
His voice wasn't that of a child. In that moment, he was the one once called "evil incarnate"—the most wretched human who ever lived.
The sound of revolvers hammered again, and before they knew it, two more dropped dead—this time with holes straight through their hearts.
"A-ah—AAAAH!"
One of the last three tried to reload his weapon, but before he could—
*CRUNCH*
A maw full of knife-like teeth clamped down on his throat. With a single tug and a sickening snap, it tore his larynx apart completely. Blood sprayed like a waterfall, painting the floor and nearby wall.
*CRACK!*
With a fist hard as steel, Captain punched through the chest of the boy beside him, destroying lungs and heart in one blow.
And just like that, in less than two seconds, only one remained: the makeshift leader. The one who had spoken just moments earlier. By now, he had wet himself.
The once-noisy room now echoed only with the dripping of blood down the walls, forming small pools around mangled corpses. The metallic stench saturated the air, suffocating.
The last boy stood frozen, eyes wide, breath shallow. The foolish bravado he'd shown seconds ago vanished like smoke in the face of such one-sided carnage.
Captain stood still, a mountain of muscle and violence, blood dripping from his teeth and fists. A hound waiting for the next command.
Adolf walked slowly to the center of the room, his footsteps echoing with confidence. His soulless black eyes burned with near-demonic disdain.
"So… do you consider me an heir to the legacy now?"
His voice was calm, almost gentle, but each syllable cut into the boy like knives.
The boy choked, gasping for breath, unable to speak. His whole body trembled. The pistol slipped from his hand and clattered against the blood-soaked floor.
"Pathetic." Adolf whispered, leaning in—his childlike face marked by an aura of evil that transcended human history.
He raised his small hand, gesturing dismissively at the corpses.
"I've seen brave soldats fall. I've seen men call themselves gods and die like worms. My own death was dishonored… but you…" His abyssal eyes pierced the trembling boy. "… you're nothing but a rat. Not even worthy of the lowest Soldat who died for our holy mission…"
The silence lasted a single, eternal second.
Then—CRACK.
Without hesitation, Captain snapped the boy's neck with a single brutal kick, twisting his head ninety degrees. Death was instant, his eyes frozen in terror and anguish. His body collapsed like trash.
Adolf sighed, adjusting the cap that had fallen onto the ruined desk.
"Cristoff."
The secretary—who had been hiding behind a cabinet outside during the entire massacre—emerged pale, trembling as if he'd seen Death itself in the flesh.
"Y-yes, m-mein Führer…?"
Adolf wiped a bloodstain from his cheek with a white handkerchief, immediately staining it red.
"Note this: any youth cell that shows reluctance or clear rebellion against the new commands and directives must be purged immediately. Traitors and foolish dreamers cannot share space with us in our Reich."
He breathed deeply, almost tired, then added with a dark smile:
"And find someone to clean up this mess. Blood dripping onto the papers I need to read is making me nauseous."
Captain remained still, eyes fixed on the corpses, before slowly returning to his more "human" form. He picked up his blood-soaked coat from the floor, putting it back on without hurry.
In his mind, Hitler was already hammering out new ideas—how to use this small rebellion to instill fear and order. Perhaps a little massacre was exactly what was needed to keep everyone in line with his order of "target only non-humans," as the Fourth Reich had declared.
With an ironic smile, Hitler sat back in his tall chair behind the ruined desk, finally relieved from the stress of paperwork, humming while picking up a handful of bloodstained papers. He ignored the trembling secretary hurrying off to deliver the new orders.
And with a smile and abyssal eyes of pure evil, Adolf murmured his mantra:
"Sieg Heil."