Ashes Of the Führer

A beat passed.

Just one.

And then the crowd erupted.

Not in panic.

Not in chaos.

But in fury—righteous, unified, unrelenting fury.

Thousands of voices rose as one, not in scream, but in roar. Not of fear, but of purpose.

Men slammed fists to their chests. Women clutched their children with pride in their eyes instead of dread. Teenagers—dirt-streaked and hollow-eyed just moments ago—now stood with spines straight and jaws clenched.

A flame had been lit in every soul watching.

The fire of belief.

The fire of vengeance.

The fire of unity.

And from somewhere in the crowd, the first voice rose—strong, defiant.

"Freiheit!"

Then another. Then dozens. Then thousands.

"FREIHEIT!"

The word shook stone, rattled windows, and throbbed in the very marrow of the earth. It did not echo; it multiplied—rolling over itself, a living tide of intent.

I stood on the highest stair, watching a world beneath me change. Their faces were no longer hollow; their eyes no longer dull. They glowed—blazing with the unbearable brightness of belief.

And I raised my arm.

That arm.

Sharp and true, angled skyward like a blade demanding heaven itself make way.

The salute.

The people saw it.

And without needing to be told… they followed.

A wave of arms rose—awkward at first, scattered—then it caught like sparks in dry grass.

Thousands of arms, raised high.

A forest of fists and open palms aimed toward the sky.

A nation's rebirth captured in a single motion.

Behind me the commanders filled the wide steps—Wilhelm, Otto, Seris, and the rest—iron-faced, shoulders squared. No orders were spoken.

Their arms rose in unison.

The same salute.

The same vow.

The same future.

Virella did not salute—she didn't need to. Magic pulsed at her fingertips, casting faint violet arcs that curled upward, framing the scene like banners of light.

Wind tugged at coats and banners; torches guttered; the chant thundered on. It felt as if the very air tilted forward, braced for marching feet.

I held the salute—and let them hold it with me—until breath itself seemed to hush in reverence.

Then, in a voice low enough that only those nearest heard yet somehow carried everywhere, I spoke a single promise:

"Today the chains shattered. Tomorrow—the world will know we have risen."

A final roar answered—raw, endless, unstoppable.

This was no longer a rebellion.

This was a people awakened.

And the age of man had begun.

Two weeks later…

The meeting room groaned under the weight of heavy rain, sweat, and strategy. Maps lay strewn across the war table, marked with crude charcoal strokes and wine stains. Outside, thunder rolled, but inside — silence reigned.

I stood at the head of the table, arms crossed.

"What plans do you all have?" I asked.

Some straightened. Others lowered their gazes in shame.

The first to speak was a grizzled brute of a man — Gunter, I think. He thudded a scroll onto the table, nearly tearing it in the process.

"We dig pits," he growled. "Fill 'em with spikes. Camouflage the tops. When those demi-bastards charge, they fall right in. Easy."

A few commanders nodded half-heartedly. I didn't bother to respond.

The second, a jumpy young recruit named Halst, stepped forward with visible sweat on his brow.

"I-I say we pile wagons in a circle and hide behind them," he stammered. "Shoot arrows, maybe even throw rocks?"

Someone coughed. No one clapped.

Then a portly commander—Reinhard, with sausage fingers and a wheezing laugh—chuckled as he unrolled his plan.

"We let winter do the work," he said proudly. "Block their trade, starve 'em out. Then clean up what's left come spring."

I stared at him. "And what do our starving people eat until then?"

Reinhard's smile vanished.

Then came Wilhelm.

He stepped forward calmly, dressed in a crisp, dark coat, arms behind his back like a Prussian statue. A man of reason. Order.

"My plan is built on coordination," he said plainly. "First, we divide the demi-human zone into quadrants. Assign each to a battalion commander with overlapping patrol routes to prevent ambush."

He pointed to several red circles. "Using small, elite squads, we conduct nighttime raids on key supply hubs and torch their harvests. Harass. Exhaust. Break morale before engaging directly."

He paused.

"Once they're weakened and fragmented, we launch a unified push from three angles. Controlled, precise. Maximum efficiency with minimal losses."

There were nods. Whispers. Even I was impressed.

Not visionary. But efficient. A soldier's mind, trained and honed.

"Well-structured," I said aloud. "It would work."

Wilhelm gave a respectful nod. "Danke, mein Führer."

But just as I began to step back, a soft voice cut through the room.

"If I may," she said.

The room shifted, turned. Eyes fell on her — younger than the rest. No medals, no booming voice. Just presence.

Elisabeth Ritter.

Brown hair braided back. Firm stance. Brown eyes sharp enough to cut steel.

She stepped forward and unrolled her map.

"Horses and archers will ride fast around demi-human farmlands. Encircle. Harass. Confuse. Like wolves. They strike, then vanish."

She marked outer rings on the map. "Cavalry breaks the storehouses, grain silos, livestock pens. killing any demi-human swiftly."

Then, with a quiet precision that made the room lean closer, she tapped the center.

"Infantry comes last — through gaps we leave open. No siege. No waiting. Just fast, brutal extermination. Before they know they're even at war."

A hush fell. Some stared, uncertain.

"Too bold," muttered one.

"She's thinking like a raider, not a general," grumbled another.

But Wilhelm… he looked at her plan long and hard. Then back at her.

And slowly… he nodded.

"Unconventional," he admitted. "But… brilliant."

I smiled.

"Elisabeth Ritter," I said, locking eyes with her. "You'll lead the operation."

Otto blinked. But to his credit, he didn't object. Only watched her with quiet curiosity — perhaps even respect.

Ritter nodded once.

"Jawohl, mein Führer."

And in that smoke-lit room, filled with old men clinging to old tactics…

A new kind of General had arrived.