Ashes Of the Führer

"Mien Fuhrer" Otto said aloud.

"I have called you to this meeting today to introduce you to the finished project of the weapons you made us craft."

The meeting room was a far cry from a royal court — no marble floors, no towering banners, and not a single servant or guard in sight. Just stone walls, a crude oak table scarred by years of use, and dim lanterns casting shadows that flickered like the thoughts of those seated around it. The only sound was the quiet dripping of water somewhere deep in the keep, echoing like a ticking clock.

Only the key minds of the New Order were present. No outsiders. No protection. Just trust — or at least the mutual understanding that betrayal in this room would be suicide.

Otto stood confidently at the head of the table, parchment rolled beneath his fingers and the faint scent of oil and powder clinging to his coat.

Across from him sat the Führer himself, motionless, expression unreadable.

To Otto's left, Virella von Weiss, the rare human magic-user, leaned slightly forward. Her eyes flickered with interest, and her fingertips rested atop a small tome laced with enchantments. Though quiet, her presence always shifted the air — an unpredictable force restrained by discipline. 

Wilhelm stood silently. Watching the display.

Otto's chair scraped back. Without another word he stooped beneath the table and heaved up a long, weather-worn box. Rough pine, iron hasps black with age, the grain still scarred by whatever barn wall it had once belonged to. He set it down with a dull thunk that made the lantern-flames shiver.

With deliberate care he undid the latches and folded the lid aside.

Inside, cushioned by straw and oiled cloth, lay a Mauser-pattern bolt-action rifle—sleek, blued steel married to dark walnut. Every surface had been hand-polished; the bolt's handle caught the light like a razor. Beside it, five-round stripper clips rested in a carved recess, brass casings stamped with the caliber he had demanded.

Otto's voice carried a note of pride. "Exactly the specification you gave us, mein Führer—7.92×57. Barrel rifled one turn in nine. Sights graduated to 1,000 meters."

He reached again, lifting a smaller velvet-lined tray. Nestled there was the pistol: a mirror of the Walther that had cowed an entire village. The slide bore the same rake, the grips cut from blackened birch. A single magazine lay beside it, cartridges gleaming like grains of gold.

9×19 mm just as you suggested, eight in the stack, just as you requested."

I rose.

The room seemed to narrow to a tunnel around that weapon, the lantern light bleaching away every face but Otto's. My hand closed on the Mauser's stock—smooth, faintly warm from the box's straw. For a breath I was back in Flanders mud: the stink of cordite, the weight of a gas mask slapping my chest, the whistle of shells coming down like Judgment itself. We had prayed for a rifle that would not jam, a bolt that would not freeze with blood. We had waited in trenches while the enemy—those enemies—ground men into earth.

No more praying.

I worked the bolt; it glided home with a satisfying metallic kiss. This was not the relic of a lost war—it was the spearhead of the next one.

I lifted the pistol next, feeling its balance, its promise. A twin to the tool that had carved obedience out of beasts, now ready to arm a legion.

"How many have been made?" I asked, eyes still fixed on the rifle in my hands.

Otto clasped his hands behind his back. "Fifty-seven rifles. One hundred twenty-one pistols, mein Führer."

I raised an eyebrow. "And ammunition?"

"We've produced approximately 900 rifle rounds and 1,600 pistol rounds. Enough to arm the first squads. But barely."

I turned my gaze on him. "Why so few?"

He sighed, not from fatigue but from the weight of logistics. "They are simple enough to manufacture—brass, lead, powder—but the materials, as you know, are not in abundance. We lack a steady iron source. Our current stock is scavenged from chains, scrap, tools—whatever we can melt down. It won't last."

"And powder?" I asked.

Otto nodded grimly. "The sulfur mine continues to operate, but barely. The fumes kill a man slower than a blade, but just as surely. We are losing workers by the week."

"We'll need more bodies," I muttered.

Otto nodded again. "Precisely. If we are to scale this—if you want a battalion with rifles in hand—we will need more iron, more sulfur, more charcoal... and a far greater population to mine it."

I narrowed my eyes. "Then perhaps we do not wait for the world to give us people. We take them."

One more matter Otto." I said plainly.

"Yes?"

I leaned forward slightly. "Has any of this—any of it—been leaked? Sabotaged? Whispered into ears that don't serve us?"

Otto shook his head. "Not to our knowledge. We've limited access to the forges and kept the blacksmiths under close watch. All work is done under armed supervision. No known defectors. Virella swept the minds of three craftsmen last week—no foreign thoughts detected."

I nodded slowly. "Good."

A hush settled over the oak-panelled room.The rifle still lay in its velvet cradle—beautiful, lethal, unproven.

I pushed back my chair.

"Arrange a demonstration," I said. "Now."

Otto's cheeks blanched, but he nodded once. "The specimen is secured in the lower cell, mein Führer. Follow me."

No guards. No servants. Only Otto, Wilhelm, Virella, and myself filed through a narrow servant door and down a spiral of torchlit stone. The air grew cooler, tinged with the metallic smell of damp iron and something musky—fear, perhaps.

A final gate groaned open. Beyond it waited a cramped firing gallery: straw on the floor, a soot-black backstop of stacked timbers, and—chained to an iron ring in the centre—a demi-human. Scaled skin, reptilian eyes, wrists shackled high so that he could only half-kneel, half-hang. He hissed when he saw us; the sound echoed like steam from a dying boiler.

Wilhelm remained by the door, arms folded. Otto set the wooden case on a bench and opened it again. Inside, the Mauser rested beside its sister Walther—fresh-blued, oiled, identical in form to the weapon that had changed the prison block weeks prior.

Otto lifted a five-round stripper clip. "Exact calibre you specified, mein Führer—7.92 millimetre. Powder charge reduced by half until we gauge pressures."

I slid the bolt open, pressed the brass rounds home, and locked the action. The weight felt correct—heavier than the carbine I once carried at the Somme, yet reassuringly familiar. Old ghosts stirred: mud up to the knees, artillery smoke thick as night, and the hard comfort of cold steel in weary hands.

I stepped to the chalked firing line. The demi-human spat and cursed.

I raised the rifle to my shoulder.

One deep breath. Exhale.

Crack.

The report snapped off stone like a hammer on an anvil. A neat hole blossomed in the beast's upper arm; scaled flesh erupted in a spray of dark blood. He shrieked, half-strangled by his own chains.

Recoil—manageable, straight back. Action—smooth, feeding the next round cleanly.

I worked the bolt. Crack. A second round punched into the shoulder. Bones splintered; the creature sagged, breathing in wet rattles.

"Grouping looks tight," Otto murmured, scribbling notes on a slate.

Two more shots—centre mass—ended the experiment. The prisoner slumped, chains creaking, blood pooling into straw. Silence, but for the drip.

Rifle cleared, I returned it to the case and picked up the Walther prototype. Otto offered a fresh magazine.

"Eight rounds, standard 9×19 mm cartridge," he said. "Same barrel length, same rifling twist as your original with a bigger diameter in the chamber to fit such a bullet. A upgrade from the .32ACP round you mentioned."

The pistol's balance was perfect. I raised it with one hand—remembering cellar walls, the crack in Silv's arm. Memories tasted of gunsmoke and victory.

Crack. The first bullet shattered the demi-human's kneecap, jerking the corpse upright like a marionette. Crack. Crack. Two rounds stitched the torso. The pistol ran flawlessly—no stovepipe, no weak strike.

I lowered the weapon, ears ringing pleasantly.

Otto exhaled, shoulders relaxing for the first time. "Both function as intended, mein Führer."

I wiped a fleck of blood from my cheek with a gloved thumb.

"Good," I said, narrowing my eyes as I inspected the weapons once more."I'm surprised—no immediate flaws. That's a promising start. Assign a select group of soldiers to continued testing. Rifles and pistols both. Look for misfires, jams, corrosion… anything."I paused, then added,"Keep them cleaned, oiled, and smooth. No excuses."

Otto nodded crisply."Yes, mein Führer. I'll see to it personally."

I slung the Mauser over my shoulder and holstered the pistol myself.

The corpse of the demi-human still twitched faintly in the corner—steam rising from the bullet holes. The smell of blood and powder hung thick in the low stone chamber.

I turned to the stairs, their narrow wooden steps creaking beneath my boots as I began to ascend. Otto followed a step behind, carrying the empty box and the spent casings.

The light from above grew brighter with each step until we breached the basement door and emerged once more into the meeting room.

No guards. No servants. Just maps, blueprints, and the quiet hum of an empire in the making.

I looked around the room briefly, then to Otto.

"These," I said, patting the rifle stock, "will be placed in my personal chambers. Understood?"

Otto dipped his head. "Understood, mein Führer."

I gave the rifle one final glance.

Primitive. Rough. But it was a beginning.

And beginnings—when guided by purpose—can remake the world.