The straight road of New Berlin stretched for kilometers — a pale ribbon of stone flanked by white concrete buildings and marble façades. Today, every window was open. Every balcony was crowded. Families pressed against railings. Children sat on shoulders. Old veterans in faded coats clutched medals to their chests.
Every building along the boulevard was dressed in crimson banners. Swastikas four stories tall hung like waterfalls of red and black, swaying in the autumn wind. Smaller flags — thousands of them — fluttered from windows, rooftops, and the hands of civilians behind iron barricades. The air smelled of cold stone, horse sweat, and oil from freshly polished weapons.
A lone trumpet pierced the chatter.
The crowd hushed.
Then came the music.
Not a polite fanfare — but a full military orchestra hidden beneath a marble arch at the far end of the road, their drums rolling like thunder.
♪ "Erika" poured over the boulevard, clear and bold.
A drumline answered:
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Then, from the far gate, the army appeared.
They came in endless columns — gray, black, and field‑green uniforms marching in perfect lockstep. Rifles angled identically across every chest, bayonets glinting under the sun. Helmets shone like mirrors. Belts and boots gleamed like glass.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound of 100,000 boots striking stone turned the road into a living drum. The vibration carried through the barricades and into the ribs of the crowd.
A woman gripped her husband's arm.
"There's no end to them…"
A young man raised his son.
"Look, Hans! The Reich's soldiers! All of them!"
Every regiment bore its own flag — black crosses, iron eagles — but when Battalion 9 emerged, the crowd gasped. Their banner bore a single black hammer striking down on a crimson field.
Formally "Battalion 9."
But everyone whispered the same name:
"The Germanic Hammer."
Their uniforms were darker. Their faces were harder. Their medals caught the sun like fire. These were veterans. Their boots hit heavier. Not a single eye glanced to the side.
An old soldier in the front row whispered hoarsely:
"That's discipline. That's power."
After the infantry came the thunder of hooves.
Five thousand riders in black greatcoats, silver armbands gleaming, lances upright, long banners snapping in the wind. The rhythm of their horses matched the drumline perfectly.
A boy's voice trembled.
"Papa… are they human?"
His father nodded.
"They are. But they ride like death."
Then came the elite Black Riders under General Bruno Hartmann — mounted on enormous stallions clad in partial armor, steel plates over chests and legs glinting like iron wolves. Their crimson-lined cloaks flared with every stride.
No smiles. No gestures. No breaks in formation.
When they passed, the crowd fell silent — not out of reverence… but out of fear.
Behind them came more troops — twenty thousand fresh conscripts, coats still stiff, boots unscuffed, posture perfect. Following them rolled the engineers and labor battalions, black‑gloved men wheeling heavy carriages stacked with weapons, steel beams, and tarp‑covered shapes. One wagon hissed steam. Another bore a new eagle insignia — not yet seen in public.
The music shifted.
♪ "Preußens Gloria" thundered down the boulevard.
Then came the cannons — dozens of field guns drawn by teams of horses, their crews walking beside them. Some were WWI-era relics. Others were new: longer, heavier, with strange fittings civilians didn't recognize.
"That one's new!" someone shouted.
"They've built something different…" another murmured. "Something dangerous…"
Behind them rolled massive supply trains — steel wagons pulled by armored horses, wheels groaning under the weight of food, fuel, and munitions.
Then came the youth brigades — thousands of boys and girls in crisp brown uniforms, each carrying a flag, each wearing a proud armband.
Some clapped.
Others cried.
"They're so young," a woman whispered.
"They're the future," her husband replied.
The straight road led to the Gate of Honor — a towering marble arch casting a long shadow over the boulevard. Soldiers marched beneath it, banners brushing just beneath the keystone.
Chiseled in black stone:
EIN REICH — EIN VOLK — EIN OPFER
One Reich. One People. One Sacrifice.
Beyond the gate, the road widened into the Zeppelin Field — a vast parade ground lined with torches. Its concrete risers overflowed with officers, civilians, and journalists scribbling behind leather pads.
And beyond the field — not a monument, but a wound.
A pit.
Deep.
Circular.
Perfectly carved — its edges braced with scaffolding, rebar, pulleys, and floodlights.
No dome. No columns. No statues.
Just the raw foundation of the Volkshalle.
And yet… it commanded reverence.
"Papa," a boy whispered, pointing. "Look at that…"
His father nodded, voice low.
"That's where history is going to be written."
At the far end of the road, atop the Grand Hotel Königshof, stood Hitler — hands clasped behind his back. The white stone beneath his boots shimmered in the sun. Crimson banners hung like curtains behind him.
From here, he saw it all — the sea of men, the iron rifles, the flags, the ceaseless march toward destiny.
The crowd erupted:
"Heil! Heil! Heil!"
Arms shot up in perfect rhythm. Flags waved. Chanting overtook the music.
"EIN REICH!"
"EIN VOLK!"
"EIN FÜHRER!"
Beside him stood Riese, motionless, towering, hawk-eyed.
Behind him: Otto, Seris, and Virella — composed, unreadable, watching history unfold beneath the weight of office.
Hitler didn't wave.
He simply watched.
The youth brigades passed under the Gate of Honor and entered the field. A silence fell — the kind that came before something sacred.
Then Hitler turned.
At the rear of the suite, a discreet door stood open — a corridor not on any blueprint. Two guards in black stepped aside. He paused once, glancing over his shoulder — at the straight road, the banners, the Gate, the field, and the pit beyond.
A monument soon.
Then he stepped into the corridor and vanished.
At the edge of the Zeppelin Field, the diplomats' viewing box sat elevated — lined with red velvet and brass, its marble rail overlooking the entire boulevard and parade ground.
It should have felt prestigious.
But no one was at ease.
The foreign envoys leaned forward, eyes wide as the final waves passed beneath the arch and spilled into the field like floodwater. The sound of war still echoed in their bones.
Princess Valerie sat at the center — cloaked in sapphire silk, arms folded, lips tight. Her eyes scanned every unit like a general preparing for siege.
To her left: Lady Thariel, a deer-horned noble from the western provinces of the kingdom of Thylon. Her fingers dug into the marble rail.
To her right: Karsen, the young envoy from the Southern Confederation. His stylus hung limp. His mouth was open.
Further down: Ambassador Ghrunthal, the dwarven trade diplomat, sat with a grimace etched into his beard. He hadn't spoken since the Black Riders passed.
Below, Battalion 9 snapped into formation. Faces like stone. Medals burning in the gray light.
The civilians screamed with joy.
Flags lashed the air.
Voices rose:
"EIN REICH!"
"EIN VOLK!"
"EIN FÜHRER!"
Then came the children.
Thousands of them. Uniformed. Armbanded. Eyes blank.
It was Thariel who whispered first.
"…They're not cheering for freedom."
No one answered.
Valerie leaned forward, voice soft as a blade.
"This feels less like a kingdom…"
The chants grew louder.
"…and more like a cult."
Karsen swallowed.
"But the scale. The coordination. The cities they've built—"
Valerie cut him off.
"That's not discipline. That's obedience. Look at their faces."
She pointed at the infantry — arms raised, eyes fixed, unmoving.
"They don't march because they're proud. They march because they've been made into parts."
Ghrunthal grunted.
"Parts of what?"
Valerie didn't answer.
Her gaze drifted toward the pit.
Not a monument. Not yet.
Just a chasm.
But even from here, people stared at it with reverence.
Thariel murmured:
"It's not even built. And already they worship it."
Valerie's voice was barely a breath:
"They don't need a temple. They already have a god."
Then — movement.
A figure stepped onto the platform beneath a sea of crimson banners.
Black coat. Pale face. Steel posture.
Adolf Hitler.
He walked slowly, hands behind his back, boots clicking on polished stone. Behind him came his shadow: Riese, silent and colossal.
The Zeppelin Field didn't roar.
It hushed.
Tens of thousands froze.
Civilians stopped breathing.
Guards stood taller.
Flags stilled — not from wind, but from awe.
From the diplomatic box, Karsen whispered:
"He commands silence…"
Valerie's tone darkened.
"No. Silence commands them. He just happens to speak through it."
Hitler stepped to the podium. The Reich insignia glinted on his chest.
And the world went still.