Year 930 — November
Southern Border of the Human Confederation Near the Hills of Darnok
The sun was high, and the skies were a pale, gleaming blue — not a single cloud above the open plain. The cold mountain air swept down in quiet gusts, rustling flags and coats, but the sun kept the earth dry and firm beneath thousands of boots.
Below the ridge, the flatlands stretched endlessly, broken only by the winding silver line of a shallow stream and, far off in the distance, a collection of clustered rooftops — the first border town of the Human Confederation. Small, unimposing, quiet. A few lazy black smoke trails rose from chimneys. No guards. No banners.
Only silence.
And yet, the field before the ridge pulsed with life.
Over two hundred thousand German troops stood in endless formation — row after row of infantry, cavalry, supply teams, and radio officers. The air smelled of gun oil, sweat, iron, and boiled leather. Carts rumbled quietly in neutral. Some soldiers adjusted gear. Others drank from metal canteens, their faces grim but calm.
In front of them all stood Riese.
Seven feet tall. Broad as two men. His long gray coat snapped in the breeze like a flag of its own, the Reich insignia gleaming on his shoulder. His boots were planted firmly in the dirt, arms crossed behind his back, jaw locked in perfect stillness. His black gloves gripped the wind at his side.
He had never led an army of this size.
But none questioned his right to.
Beside him stood Commander Reinhard — shorter, more weathered, a thick scar crossing the bridge of his nose. His silver-trimmed cap sat low over his brow as he studied the sea of men below. A steel baton hung from his hip, and his boots bore the dust of old campaigns.
Reinhard broke the silence first.
"The troops are ready. All unit commanders have been briefed. Officers too. They know this is not a war… but a march."
Riese didn't move at first, only narrowed his eyes toward the south. Then a low grunt.
"Good. I'd hate for some fool to shoot a civilian and turn a peaceful annexation into a graveyard."
Reinhard gave a faint, dry smile, but his eyes didn't laugh. He turned, squinting toward the mountains behind them — snow-dusted peaks that stretched like the edge of a world. Then back to the land ahead.
Flat. Golden. Quiet.
"Do they even have an army?" Reinhard asked.
Riese finally turned his head, eyes like winter steel.
"No. Not a real one. They're a confederation — meaning their power is scattered. Each province has its own council, its own militia, its own petty rules. No central force. No real will."
Reinhard nodded slowly, gaze drifting toward the distant rooftops again.
"Then why the march? Why the full force?"
Riese tilted his head slightly, voice low and precise.
"Because the world is watching. And this—" he gestured across the sea of soldiers, flags, and shining helmets "—is how we remind them that unity follows strength."
He looked south again, his voice barely above the breeze.
"Besides… we already bought or killed every man who could've raised a hand against us. And the ones who remain? They've been eating our bread and listening to our broadcasts since the Revolution ended."
As if on cue, a radio technician passed behind them — a young man with a satchel packed tight with equipment, a wire headset over one ear, murmuring into a crystal mic.
"This is Field Report Eight, transmitting live from the southern border. I repeat, we are looking upon the greatest mobilization of a human army in history. Morale is high. Flags are raised. The Führer's vision continues to advance—"
He moved on, voice fading behind the hum of another engineer team uncoiling cables along a dirt trench.
Near a row of carts, journalists and state artists scurried like ants. Some stood on crates, sketching furiously with charcoal and graphite — capturing the rows of bayonets, the black shadows of cavalry under sunlight, the towering silhouette of Riese himself.
One woman wore a beret and ink-streaked gloves. She held up a notepad and whispered:
"He's so tall… Like a statue carved from war itself…"
Others clutched leather notebooks and thick pencils, interviewing officers, recording uniforms and regiment banners in stunning detail for tomorrow's front pages. A short man in a press armband held up a tin voice-recorder shaped like a flask.
"This is Volkstimme correspondent Holtz. Reporting directly from the southern border. Today — this very moment — marks the beginning of a new chapter in human unity. With over two hundred thousand troops at the ready, and no resistance in sight, Commander Riese stands poised to secure peace through strength—"
Back atop the ridge, Riese watched silently as another column shifted into place — the cavalry, spears raised, long banners fluttering with swastikas in perfect symmetry.
Reinhard adjusted his collar.
"They're already surrendering, you know. I heard three towns sent messengers offering food and lodging if we pass through without gunfire."
Riese's jaw tightened.
"They won't need to surrender. They'll kneel willingly. Fear is no longer our tool. Dignity is. We've turned bread into bullets and radios into rifles."
He nodded once, his voice cold but steady.
"That is the genius of the Führer. Not just in winning wars… but in making people ask to be conquered."
A gust of wind blew dust across the ridge. The flags snapped again.
From the back lines came the steady rhythm of marching drills — company by company rotating through precision steps while bandmasters beat time with silver batons.
The sunlight made the bayonets flash white.
Far off, beyond the fields, a column of smoke drifted lazily from the small town's bakeries. A handful of villagers had already come out to the hills — small, indistinct shapes watching the army in silence. Children held hands. One man waved.
A news painter crouched beside the road, smearing golden streaks of oil on a canvas to capture the sunrise glinting off iron helmets.
Reinhard exhaled.
"They don't even know it yet… but they've already become German."
Riese didn't respond. He stared straight ahead, lips pressed tight, as if waiting for something no one else could hear.
Then he spoke — to no one in particular.
"Tell the signal team. We march at noon."