Ashes Of the Führer

I stood tall before the city hall — the ruins of a once-proud demi-human village now smoldering behind me. Smoke twisted through the air like serpents, carrying the scent of blood, ash, and something darker… victory.

Flanking me on either side were two men — not the frail prisoners I had freed hours before, but survivors of the old world's brutality. Both had been found in the bar during the first push — former thugs turned zealots, hardened by pain and reborn in war.

The one on his right was massive — a mountain of muscle wrapped in dented iron armor. The plates on his chest bore fresh scratches, some still stained with dried blood. A jagged scar ran down the side of his bald head, disappearing into a patchy black beard. In his grip was a longsword, chipped and stained, but held with the calm precision of someone who'd swung it more times than he could count.

The other, leaner but no less deadly, stood with a slight hunch — not from weakness, but habit, as though always preparing to spring. His armor was tighter, more refined, though still crude by any professional standard. A makeshift crimson sash hung from his shoulder, perhaps once belonging to a demi-human he'd killed. His eyes never stopped moving. They scanned the streets with suspicion, the sword on his back ready to be drawn at the slightest twitch of movement.

Together, they looked like executioners at a king's side — their presence alone daring any soul to step forward.

And beside me, close enough to be touched but never daring to, stood Silv.

Still alive.

Still breathing.

And still untouched.

She didn't wear the smile of the victorious. Nor did she stand with pride. Instead, she lingered like a shadow — ears down, tail tucked, her body tense. Her arm was still bandaged from the wound I gave her earlier, and her leg dragged slightly when she moved. Yet no one dared lay a hand on her.

Not the humans, who whispered behind clenched teeth and clenched fists.

And not the remaining demi-humans, locked in chains, who looked at her with disgust and fear — unsure if she was traitor, prisoner, or something worse.

But they didn't move on her.

Because she was too close.

She had aligned herself with me, the devil and survived — not by fighting, not by resistance, but by obedience.

By staying at my side.

Like a leashless dog who had learned not to bark.

And for now… that was enough to keep her breathing.

I ascended the stone steps of the town hall — a building once owned by demi-human rule, now reclaimed in the name of something far more… absolute.

Two guards stood at the top, each armored in rough-forged iron, their swords strapped across their backs. As I approached, both men snapped into position and saluted in perfect unison. Not with the raised hand I knew — not the gesture of the Reich — but the flat-palmed salute of my enemies.

I said nothing.

Correction would come later.

With trained steps, the men turned on their heels and marched toward the twin doors at the entrance. They each gripped the worn handles and pulled, the heavy wooden doors groaning open on rusted hinges. The sound echoed like the lifting of a tomb.

I stepped through the threshold, my coat brushing the frame, and immediately felt it.

A cold breeze washed over me — not natural, but stale, artificial — like perfume used to mask something rotten underneath. It clung to the air like sweat left to ferment. The scent wasn't welcoming.

It was nervous.

The red carpet stretched ahead in a long, regal strip, stained faintly in spots by old footprints and the remnants of spilled blood too stubborn to scrub clean. It led to a receptionist's desk with a women standing behind it.

further behind the desk lay a grand staircase split left and right, curling upward to a second-floor balcony that overlooked the main hall like a judge's bench. The handrails were carved from old oak, splintered and chipped at the edges but still holding an aura of authority. Drapes — once bright purple with gold embroidery — now hung in tattered folds from the banisters.

Above, the ceiling opened up into a high dome adorned with golden inlays — intricate patterns of animals, trees, and stars etched into the plaster. Some of the gold still caught the candlelight below, reflecting it in gentle pulses across the walls, giving the illusion of a well-lit, living space.

The light, though, was a trick.

The corners of the hall remained in shadow. Statues stood there — demi-human figures carved in stone, all posed nobly. A minotaur wielding a scroll. A fox-woman with a blade. A lizard-man with a child on his shoulder. All relics of a past regime now toppled.

Their gazes, though made of stone, felt judgmental.

I met them with silence.

The chandeliers above were simple — iron and wood, dangling with candle stubs whose flames wavered from the slightest breeze. Wax dripped down like tears frozen in time.

I could see doors branching off from the main hall — likely offices or meeting chambers. Some were still ajar. Papers and quills scattered across tables inside, maps still nailed to walls. Plans. Records. Useless now.

The air here was still heavy with the scent of power once held, and now lost.

And I? I stood in the middle of it all.

Not a guest.

A conqueror.

Seris stood poised behind the receptionist desk, her posture stiffening the moment she laid eyes on me. She couldn't have been older than her mid-twenties, her appearance polished — but undeniably delicate.

Her skin was pale, almost porcelain-like beneath the soft lighting of the hall. A hint of pink dusted her cheeks, and her lips — carefully painted with a rose-pink lipstick — formed a polite smile that wavered as I approached.

Her eyes, wide and sapphire blue, blinked with nervous surprise as she extended a trembling hand toward me. Her brown hair was neatly tied back into a low, conservative ponytail, with a few gentle strands framing her face.

She wore a modest white blouse tucked into a soft white skirt that brushed just past her knees — clean, pressed, and clearly chosen to present her best. A silver pin glimmered on her collar — likely a badge of her role within this building.

But beneath the calm uniformity of her outfit, I could see her hands shake. Just slightly. Enough.

Her voice was practiced, formal.

"Welcome, sir. It's nice to meet you. My name is Seris, and I will be your guide for today."

I looked at her.

"Do not call me sir," I said, voice low, calm — but final.

A crack of confusion passed over her features.

"I— I'm sorry. What should I call you?" she asked quickly, her eyes widening with a flicker of alarm.

"I am your Führer," I answered. "You will call me as such."

A beat passed. She stood frozen, then dipped her head so quickly it was nearly a flinch.

"Yes, my Führer. I apologize." She bowed — not deeply, not from training — but from instinct. From fear.

Good.

"I will now lead you to the meeting room, my Führer," Seris said, her voice steady though her steps were brisk.

Without wasting a moment, she turned and began to ascend the wide staircase. I followed, my boots echoing against the marble steps. Behind me, the two guards flanked my sides — iron armor clinking with every motion, their hands never straying far from their swords.

At the top of the stairs, we reached a long horizontal corridor, brightly lit by golden sconces affixed to the stone walls. The flame from each torch danced against the polished surfaces, casting flickering shadows that gave the hallway a surreal, almost sacred atmosphere. The air here was still — too clean, too curated — as though trying to hide the stench that once belonged to beasts.

The walls, however, betrayed it all.

Portraits lined either side of the corridor — large, gilded frames containing images of various demi-humans. Fox-tailed aristocrats, horned council members, and lion-headed generals posed with false pride, draped in robes and jewelry. Each one stared down at us as we walked, smug and arrogant, even in paint.

Disgusting.

As we reached the center of the hall, Seris took a sharp left down a narrower passage. More paintings clung to the walls like parasites.

"Why haven't these depictions of filth been removed and burned?" I asked coldly, my voice slicing through the silence like a blade.

Seris paused, then quickly turned her head without stopping.

"My Führer," she began, "the guards have been prioritizing the extermination of the remaining demi-humans. Though their numbers have dwindled — perhaps twenty at most — they are strong and well-hidden."

Her tone became firmer, more urgent, as though rehearsed.

"Once our task is complete, every piece of their legacy — including these wretched paintings — will be purged. We will not leave a trace behind. That, I can assure you."

I said nothing in return.

But I didn't need to.

The moment the last of the vermin were crushed, their idols and illusions of power would follow.

And this hallway — this building — this entire village…

Would bear only the marks of mankind.

Of order.

Of me.

As I entered the room, three figures awaited me — already seated at the table, their gazes snapping to attention the moment I stepped through the door.

The first was an older man — easily in his seventies — his gray hair slicked back, yet strands still curled stubbornly at the sides. His face was a battlefield of its own: a deep scar carved across his left cheek, another trailing just beneath his jawline. His brown eyes, though aged, held a sharpness that hadn't dulled with time — the eyes of a survivor. Across his chest hung a set of old medals — worn, dulled, yet proudly displayed. Relics of a long history. His coat was dark and finely tailored, the kind of material only earned through status, not purchased. A silent testament to victories long buried, but not forgotten.

Next to him sat a woman, poised and deadly in presence. Blonde hair framed her face in clean, controlled waves — not a strand out of place. But it was her eyes that struck like lightning: piercing, ice-blue, and unblinking. She wore a suit that looked more fit for royalty than rebellion — sharp-lined, tailored to perfection, and adorned with streaks of gold across the collar and cuffs. The buttons shimmered under the candlelight, and every thread seemed to scream importance. She did not smile. She didn't need to. Her stare alone could kill a weaker man's confidence.

Lastly, at the far end, sat a younger man — perhaps in his forties — clean-shaven, hair parted neatly, his posture upright. He bore no medals. No gold. No scars. But the black suit he wore was pristine, every crease sharp, every movement measured. He looked less like a warrior and more like a tactician — a man of numbers, logistics, and planning. The kind who didn't need to lift a sword to be dangerous. His hands rested calmly on the table, but his eyes never left me — watchful, calculating.

Three minds. Three roles.

A soldier of the past.

A queen without a throne.

And a man who looked like he'd come to build one.

"Interesting," I thought to myself, eyes sweeping across the room.

A long table stretched before me, the center of attention in an otherwise quiet space. My gaze locked onto the seat at the far right — a position that offered both distance and control.

Without a word, I walked over and took my place, anticipation stirring beneath the surface.

The woman spoke first.

"Welcome, Mr. Hitler," she said, her voice crisp, deliberate — every word carefully chosen. "My name is Virella von Weiss. A pleasure to meet you."

Next, the older man rose — his movements slow but deliberate, posture still sharp despite the weight of years.

"Wilhelm Drossen," he said, voice rough with age and experience. "It's an honor."

Then the final man stood — calm, composed, eyes steady.

"Otto Eisner," he introduced, offering a nod. "A pleasure, Mr. Hitler."

I nodded, making no effort to introduce myself. There was no need — they already knew who I was.

"What information can you provide me?" I asked, my voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the silence like a blade.

The woman — Virella — spoke first.

"Well," she began, her tone calm but edged with admiration, "before we get to that, allow me to congratulate you. Becoming a leader in a single night? That's… remarkable."

I didn't respond. I simply nodded again, expression unreadable, waiting for answers — not flattery.

The old man leaned forward, clearing his throat.

"Well, si—"

"It's my Führer," I interrupted, voice colder now. Firm. "Not 'sir.'"

He blinked, confused.

"My Führer?" he repeated slowly, tasting the word. "May I ask… what does that mean?"

Ignorant. They speak German — or something close to it — yet they don't even recognize the word that once commanded millions. Or perhaps I understood them... and they understood me. I didn't dwell on it.

"It means leader," I said plainly. "Remember it."

The old man lowered his gaze slightly, nodding.

"Yes… my apologies, my Führer." Then he continued.

"My Führer, we are gathered here to outline our future operations."

The most knowledgeable of the trio stepped forward, posture straight, voice precise.

"Yes, my Führer. I will give you a complete breakdown of our current situation."

I inclined my head. "Proceed."

"First—troops," he began. "After a full count with our commanders— including the freed prisoners who volunteered to keep fighting— we have 203 combat-capable fighters. Over half come from the old resistance. Kaela once commanded them; with her gone, they answer only to you."

He added, "The civilian population currently stands at 4,323 humans within the village."

He pointed to the large map on the table."The red X is our position. The nearest city, marked O, is roughly 82 miles (132 km) away. With roads under our control and scouts eliminating any who approach, news of our revolt will spread slowly. The local noble was a drunkard of minor rank; his absence will not raise alarms quickly. Even if word reaches higher lords, bureaucracy and corruption will delay any response. Conservatively, we have three to nine months before a serious counter-attack."

The man did not wait for approval; his tone remained deliberate— a scholar speaking of war from necessity.

"Next matter, my Führer—food and water."He slid a parchment inventory forward.

"Most demi-human stores were hoarded or burned during the uprising. We salvaged dried meats, grain sacks, preserved fruit—enough for two, perhaps three weeks at full rations."

He adjusted his collar.

"Rationing has begun. Hunting, fishing, and foraging parties are already drafting. Abandoned farmland lies northeast; if reclaimed, we can secure stable crops within two months."

He tapped the map again.

"A river west of the outer wall is clean and reliable for irrigation, but exposed. Patrols must cover all water-gathering parties."

"Roughly 1,100 civilians lack adequate housing. Fires destroyed nearly thirty dwellings. Many demi-human homes still stand—some still occupied. We are… removing any holdouts."

His tone stayed clinical.

"Reconstruction teams— former blacksmiths, carpenters, tailors— are already cutting timber from the southern forest. With discipline, all families should have shelter within six weeks."

He grew somber.

"Yet many remain weak. Illness could spread."

"No formal physicians remain, but several freed women know herbs, midwifery, and field surgery. They're organizing a makeshift infirmary. Supplies are scarce. With your permission, we can raid nearby patrol posts for salves, bandages, and tools."

His voice hardened.

"Of the 203 fighters, only sixty-seven are seasoned. The rest are untrained recruits, vengeful survivors, or youths."

He met my gaze.

"But they are eager."

He tapped three points on the map.

"Watchtowers here, here, and here are now manned. Patrols rotate every six hours. Daily drills have begun in the square. Given time and discipline, these people will become soldiers."

He stepped back, hands clasped behind him.

"In summary, my Führer: we are short on supplies, rest, and organization, yet unbroken. If we move wisely—and strike pre-emptively—we can hold this ground… and from here, expand."

He bowed.

"Orders, my Führer?"

I let the silence linger a heartbeat—long enough for them to feel the weight of expectation—before answering.

"Can you step next to me for a moment?"

I gestured for the guards and Silv to step aside.

Without hesitation, Otto obeyed, his boots clinking softly against the floor as he came to stand at my side.

I reached into my coat and slowly pulled out the pistol — my Walther — the weapon that had reshaped everything. The room went still.

"Do you know what this is, Otto?" I asked, voice low but deliberate.

"No, my Führer," he replied, eyes fixated on the weapon. "But the soldiers… they tell stories. Of your magic tool. May I ask—is this the one?"

"Magic, you say?" I let out a dry laugh.

"This is not magic, Otto. This is man-made. Crafted with knowledge, precision, and will. And now, I leave you with the task to recreate it."

His brow furrowed, unsure.

"Recreate it, my Führer? I… I don't know its inner workings. How can I replicate something so foreign?"

I gave no answer at first. Instead, I lowered myself to the floor and began to disassemble the pistol piece by piece — removing the slide, the spring, the barrel, the pin, the magazine. Each part laid out like bones on an altar.

Then I looked up.

"Is this enough?"

Otto crouched beside me, eyes wide, the gears in his mind already turning.

"Yes, my Führer… this is quite simple, in structure. Remarkable, even. But where are the little pebbles that fly from it? The ones that tear through flesh like lightning?"

I smirked.

"Those pebbles, as you call them, are bullets. And they are not just metal — they are science. They are purpose."

I reached into my coat and pulled out a full round. Then, without ceremony, I bit into it, cracking open the casing with my teeth. I spat the copper shell to the ground and let the black grains fall into my palm.

"This," I said, holding it up, "is black powder. It is what sends death forward. And you will learn to make it."

Otto leaned closer, his face filled with awe.

"How, my Führer?"

"With patience — and dirt," I replied. "Gunpowder is made from three things: charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter."

I began to explain each one as if I were instructing a soldier in trench warfare:

"Charcoal comes from burned wood. Not to ash — slow-burn it, buried in soil or sealed pits. Any softwood will do, but willow is best if we can find it."

"Sulfur stinks — like rot and eggs. It forms near hot springs, caves, or cracks in the earth. If this land has a volcanic past, we will find it."

"And saltpeter… that will be the challenge. Look for white crystal growth on cave walls, rotting waste, or bat droppings. Even decomposing bodies or old latrines will yield it. Boil the soil. Filter it. Dry the crystals."

Otto nodded, committing every word to memory.

"Three parts saltpeter, one part charcoal, just under one part sulfur," I continued. "Mix it finely. Damp it slightly as you grind — or you'll kill yourself before war even begins."

Otto's expression darkened — not in fear, but in understanding.

Then I stood.

"Bring me parchment. And a proper writing tool."

A servant scrambled over, offering a scrap of parchment and a stick of charcoal.

I crouched again and began to draw — not a pistol this time, but a rifle. Long, brutal, reliable.

Lines took shape — the bolt-action, the internal magazine, the sight, the wooden stock. Memories guided my hand. Not of victories — but of trench lines. The kind of weapon any soldier could trust.

"This," I said calmly, "will be the backbone of our new army."

Otto leaned in, nodding rapidly.

"What is it called, my Führer?"

I gave the drawing one last stroke.

"Mauser. Begin with the bolt. It is the soul of the weapon."

And just like that, the old world was beginning to be reborn — in fire, in steel, and in silence.

Next I stood up and commanded.

I rose from my seat with purpose, the parchment still in Otto's hands. The air in the room felt heavier now — no longer a meeting of rebels, but the command center of a rising force.

I turned to the others. My voice cut through the silence, cold and absolute.

"Gather the citizens and soldiers tomorrow evening — right here, in the square. Every man, woman, and child. I will speak to the masses."

No one dared to question the order.

Wilhelm gave a nod. Otto stood upright, already turning the design over in his hands like a holy relic. Even Seris, who had remained still and quiet, seemed to sense the weight of what was coming.

I looked toward the window. The sun was beginning to dip behind the ruined skyline, casting long shadows across the blood-stained rooftops.

"This village — and all the surrounding lands — now lie completely under my control."