The morning sun rose over Seigmer's Hold and found six hundred and thirty men standing in perfect formation in the central square.
They were no longer a war-band. They were something new — something that had never existed in Germania before.
Two hundred and thirty of them were the original men of the Forge — the ones who had trained under Seigmer from the very beginning, who had carried the first crossbows into the night, who had lit the fuses on the first wagon bombs. They stood at the front of the formation, faces calm, eyes steady, black feathers tied to their left shoulders. Behind them stood the four hundred volunteers who had chosen to remain after Reik Hans marched south with the main war-band and the bulk of the loot. These men had arrived in waves over the past days — young warriors from nearby clans, older men who had seen enough Roman blood spilled to believe, even a handful of grizzled veterans who had quietly walked away from their old chiefs to stand with the boy who had broken a legion.
They stood in neat ranks of ten, each decuria led by a sergeant wearing the black feather. Shields rested at their feet. Crossbows were slung across their backs. Their eyes were fixed on the figure standing on the praetorium steps.
Seigmer looked down at them.
He wore the same black cloak, the same hand-and-a-half sword at his hip. At fourteen years old in body, he still looked like a youth — but no one in the square saw a boy anymore.
He raised his hand for silence.
The square fell deathly quiet.
"You are six hundred and thirty," he began, voice carrying clearly across the stone. "Two hundred and thirty of you were with me when the Forge was just a hidden valley and a handful of crossbows. You carried the first powder pots, you fired the first cannons, you walked through Roman camps while they slept. You are the core. You are the example."
He let that settle.
"The other four hundred of you came after Hans marched south. You chose to stay when you could have gone home with cattle and glory. You chose discipline over the old songs. You chose knowledge over the old ways. You chose progress over comfort. Today I give you a name worthy of what you have all become."
He paused.
"From this day forward, you are the First Prussian Regiment."
A ripple of sound went through the ranks — not quite a cheer, but a low, hungry murmur of recognition. The name meant nothing to most of them yet, but they felt its power in the way Seigmer spoke it.
He continued.
"The Prussians are a people who do not yet exist in this world. But they will. They will be known for three things: discipline, knowledge, and progress. Those are the only things that matter now. Without them, we die. With them, we become something Rome cannot break."
He stepped forward on the platform.
"Rules. You will live by them or you will leave. No stealing. No man takes what is not his — not food, not weapons, not another man's wife or child. No killing without my direct order. No raping. Ever. Anyone who breaks these rules will be hanged from the eastern wall as an example. Hygiene will be enforced. Every man washes his hands before every meal. Every man bathes at least twice a week. The sick will be separated. The dirty will be punished until they learn. We will not lose men to filth and disease like the Romans do."
He let the rules sink in.
"Not all of you are fit for the front line. That does not make you worthless. The man who mixes powder correctly is worth more than the man who swings an axe badly. The man who keeps the concrete curing properly is worth more than the man who misses his target. The man who teaches children to read and write is worth more than the man who cannot do either. Every role serves the Regiment. Every role serves the future."
He pointed to the families watching from the edges of the square — wives holding babies, older children standing straight.
"You are heads of your families. That means you are responsible for teaching your children. Every child old enough to speak will learn to read, to write, and to do basic math. No excuses. No exceptions. The next generation must be better than this one."
He paused again, voice growing quieter but no less commanding.
"We are building something that has never existed here. A standing professional army. A people who do not raid for cattle but for knowledge, for iron, for the future. You are the first. You will set the standard."
He raised his right fist.
"Discipline. Knowledge. Progress. That is our creed. That is our name. That is our future."
The six hundred and thirty men answered as one — fists raised, voices thundering across the fort:
"Discipline! Knowledge! Progress!"
The chant rolled over the walls and echoed across the valley.
Seigmer lowered his hand.
"Dismissed to your duties. Sergeants, begin training. We have work to do."
As the men broke formation and moved to their tasks, Seigmer remained on the platform for a moment longer.
He turned to the smithy where the hammers had already begun ringing again.
Bodkin arrowheads — long, needle-pointed, designed to punch through Roman mail and plate — were being mass-produced. The crossbow bolts would now be far deadlier than before.
In the cannon yard, the smiths were already working on the next evolution: rifled bronze tubes for 10-pounder and 20-pounder cannons, designed to fire conical shells instead of simple round shot. The Parrott-style design he had sketched was taking shape — slow, difficult, but possible with captured Roman bronze and patience.
Gunpowder production had been tripled. The refining process was now stricter than ever — every batch sieved, dried, and tested. He could not afford misfires or weak charges when the next legions came.
And they would come.
Seigmer looked west again.
Rome would send three legions next time. Maybe five. Maybe ten.
He needed to stop them before they even crossed the Rhine.
He needed intelligence networks, alliances with other tribes, preemptive strikes, and fortresses that could withstand anything Rome could throw at them.
He needed time.
And he would buy it with blood, with bronze, and with the minds of six hundred and thirty men who now believed he could do the impossible.
He stepped down from the platform.
The First Prussian Regiment had been born.
The real work was only beginning.