Ashes Of the Führer

I could feel the carriage shaking along the dirt path, the wooden frame groaning softly beneath its weight. The interior was finely crafted — red velvet cushions, gold linings, polished handles. Fit for a king, some might say.

But I am no king. I am a ruler.

My gaze remained fixed on the frost-lined window, though I wasn't truly looking at the trees passing by. My thoughts drifted — not toward dreams, but toward direction.

What is my goal? I have yet to set it in stone.

But this I know: dreams are not a priority. Not yet.

My only priority now is reunification. This fractured kingdom will kneel beneath one banner — mine.

"Mein Führer!" a guard shouted, galloping alongside the carriage, trying to keep pace through the rising mountain trail. His voice strained against the rush of wind and hooves.

I opened the carriage door with my left hand, letting the cold air slash into the warmth.

"What is it?" I barked, voice rising above the howl of the wind.

"We're approaching the mountains," he called. "Sir Leon told me to warn you — to be prepared for danger."

I stared at him, unblinking.

"Do I have eyes, soldier?"

The guard's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the reply — but he quickly straightened his back.

"Y-yes, Mein Führer."

"Then tell Leon that."

I shut the door.

The road grew steeper with every turn, each bump of the wheels rattling through the carriage floor. I could feel the elevation tightening in my chest, the air growing colder, thinner — and yet the horses pressed on with relentless force, hooves pounding the frost-hardened earth.

We climbed in silence, the wheels straining against the incline, the mountain path twisting like a serpent between blackened trees and jagged rocks. Wind howled between the peaks, slicing through the seams of the carriage as if trying to crawl inside.

And then — suddenly — the incline ended.

The carriage rolled onto a wide, flat surface. The dirt here had hardened into stone from the bitter cold, cracked and dusted in frost. A field of silence stretched out before us — no grass, no life, just the breath of winter clinging to rock.

The door creaked open.

Two guards immediately stepped forward, one on each side, trying to help me down before I put a hand up to stop them. My boots struck the frostbitten stone with a dull thud.

Leon stood ahead, waiting.

"Did Wilhelm or any of his men see us coming?" I asked, eyes scanning the ridgelines and tree lines in the distance.

Leon shook his head. "No, Mein Führer. Not from what we've observed."

I narrowed my gaze toward the fog curling along the hill's edge.

"Good," I muttered. "I don't want them to know what's coming."

We began to walk.

No one asked where we were going. No one needed to.

The gunfire was our compass — sharp cracks echoing from beyond the frozen ridge, rolling like thunder across the stone flats.

The ground beneath our boots was uneven, a brittle mix of dirt and frost-caked shale that crunched with every step. Patches of old snow clung to the shadows like dried blood. The wind here was cruel — not strong, but sharp, cutting into the skin through even the thickest wool.

I turned to Leon and the soldiers trailing behind me.

"If any one of you utters a word about what you see here…"I paused, letting the weight of my gaze bear down on them. "You'll hang for treason. And your families? No rations. No names. No graves. You will vanish — and no one will remember you ever lived."

A few gulps. No one spoke. But I saw the fear settle in their eyes — and the silence that followed was the kind I preferred: cold, absolute, obedient.

As we crested the final ridge, the full scope of Wilhelm's training ground unfurled before us.

A massive plain carved into the highlands, blackened by bootprints and scorched powder. Trenches and stone walls marked the perimeter. Beyond them — the silhouette of something monstrous.

A cannon.

No, not just a cannon — a beast of iron and timber, longer than a wagon, mounted on reinforced wheels. A cord of thick rope dangled from a torch post nearby, smoldering at the tip — a primitive fuse, the kind that needed to be set alight by hand to trigger the blast.

Suddenly, it roared.

The boom cracked the sky like God had fired a whip, echoing through the valley with such force that even the frost seemed to shiver.

Smoke belched from its barrel, a black cloud spiraling up into the gray heavens. Far downrange, a stone slab shattered into shards — the impact hurling debris like thrown knives.

To the left of the cannon, men trained in staggered formations. Lines of riflemen practiced volley fire under barked orders, their movements robotic — raise, aim, fire, reload, march.

To the right, another group sprinted laps through knee-deep mud and snow, faces caked in frost, muscles trembling, yet none dared collapse.

And at the center — standing still as stone, his coat flaring slightly in the wind — was Wilhelm. He barked orders with his hands behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning every man like a surgeon studying a wound.

Not far from him, a different rhythm played out.

Virella.

She moved with eerie grace, sleeves rolled, hair whipping in the wind. One man lunged at her — and she dropped him with a blow to the throat and a sweep of her foot. Another charged — she sidestepped and struck his jaw with the back of her fist, enhanced by a pulse of glowing energy.

Then, as both groaned on the ground, she knelt beside them. Her hand pressed to the first man's chest — a soft, blue light spread across his ribs. He gasped. Bones snapped back into place.

Combat and healing — life and death — wielded in the same breath.

"Let's head down," I said, my voice cutting clean through the cold air.

There was no hesitation.

Boots crunched behind me as we descended the ridge — single file at first, careful not to slip on the frozen stone. The slope was steep, carved by centuries of wind and erosion. Jagged rocks jutted from the ground like broken teeth, and the snow had hardened to ice along the narrow trail.

The wind hit harder now that we were exposed. It howled between the peaks, tugging at our coats and stinging our faces with grit and frost.

Below, the camp sprawled out in brutal motion — men training, cannons firing, voices shouting. But up here, just for a moment, there was only silence and the steady rhythm of boots following mine down a path no one spoke about.

They didn't ask questions. They knew better. Every step they took was weighed with the unspoken truth — that what they saw below was not just training.

It was preparation for something much darker.

My boots struck the ground below with a dull, echoing thud.

A soldier in light armor, rifle slung across his back, turned just in time to see me emerge from the ridge.

His eyes widened — not with fear, but disbelief.

I lifted a single finger to my lips.

A silent command.

The young man froze for a heartbeat… then nodded with robotic obedience. Not a word. Not even a breath wasted. He bent down immediately and lifted a stone brick, returning to his labor as if I were never there.

Good.

He understood the weight of silence.

Then I saw him.

A boy. No older than twelve.

He stood apart from the rest — broad-boned and healthy, his frame built for labor, but still unmistakably young. His limbs moved with strength, but it was the awkward strength of someone still growing into their body. His arms had muscle, yes — not sculpted by training, but hardened by necessity, by hauling, lifting, surviving.

The rifle slung across his back looked almost comically large on him, nearly matching his height, its stock bouncing with every step like a stubborn burden. Yet he carried it without complaint, as if it were just another tool.

He was focused, dragging a heavy sack of powder toward a wooden crate, his boots crunching across the dirt with each determined pull.

I approached him quietly, my footsteps muffled beneath the constant rhythm of gunfire and shouting. As my shadow stretched over him, he paused — and slowly looked up.

"What is your name, young man?" I asked, my voice calm but firm.

The boy turned, squinting up at me beneath his messy hair. His face curled into a smug grin.

"Why do you want to know, old man?"

I chuckled — not out of offense, but amusement. He had gall.

"That's no way to speak to your elders, young man."

A nearby soldier, overhearing the exchange, stepped forward. "Watch your tone, boy, you're speaking to—"

I raised a hand, cutting him off.

"Silence. Let him speak."

The boy stood tall — or tried to — puffing his chest like a rooster in a wolf's den. "You act important. But I don't know you. Why should I care who you are?"

I laughed then. A low, amused sound that carried more weight than anger ever could.

"Do you want to know who I am?"

The boy blinked, unbothered. "No. And why should I?"

I leaned slightly forward, letting my voice drop — not loud, but sharp enough to cut.

"Remember this: ignorance," I said, "is what kills fools before swords do."

I turned and began walking away, my coat billowing behind me.

The boy called after me, frowning. "What does that mean?"

Without turning, I spoke over my shoulder.

"You'll find out in due time."

I continued to walk through the training camp, boots crunching over loose gravel and frostbitten soil. Every few steps, another soldier looked up from his drills, only to freeze mid-motion. Eyes widened. Backs straightened. Some stared too long, unsure if their minds deceived them.

It was as if a ghost had wandered into their ranks — and in a way, I suppose I had.

Whispers spread like wildfire. Helmets turned. Fingers twitched around rifle grips. Yet none dared approach me.

Until one voice shattered the quiet.

"Mein Führer!"

The shrill call broke across the open field like a bolt of lightning. Virella was already halfway across the clearing, coat flowing behind her, boots pounding the dirt. Her blonde hair whipped in the wind, eyes glowing faintly with that eerie magical shimmer. She skidded to a halt before me, breathing hard.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice nearly cracking with surprise. "If we knew you were coming, we would've—"

I raised a hand.

Just a gesture.

She fell silent instantly.

"I didn't come to be announced," I said calmly. "I came to see an unmasked truth."

Virella's breath caught in her throat. The words hung heavy in the air.

I let my gaze drift past her — over the rows of recruits with soot-streaked faces and calloused hands. Over Wilhelm barking orders at a line of sweating men dragging cannon wheels. Over the rising plumes of black smoke from forges in the distance.

"You only learn what people are when they're unobserved," I continued, voice low but firm. "When there's no curtain. No orchestra playing. Only the labor. Only the war."

Virella swallowed, her hands clasped behind her back now — posture stiff, unsure whether she had failed me or impressed me by default.

I turned to her again. "Continue your duties. Pretend I'm not here."

She bowed her head. "Of course, Mein Führer."

I paused before stepping past her. "And Virella."

She looked up quickly.

"Today… I'll be watching everything. So be who you truly are — not who you wish to be."

Her lips parted slightly, unsure how to respond. But I didn't wait for one. I walked on, leaving her behind as the weight of my presence rippled outward through the camp like an invisible shockwave.

Virella rushed back across the camp, her coat fluttering behind her as she returned to the makeshift combat ring. A circle of scorched dirt, marked with blood stains and boot prints, surrounded by a growing crowd of soldiers eager to watch.

She was already mid-motion by the time I reached the edge — dodging, weaving, striking.

One opponent lunged, then another from behind — a double-team — but she twisted between them like smoke, a blur of speed and precision. A well-placed palm to the chest sent the first sprawling. A spinning kick took the second by the jaw. Both hit the ground within seconds.

Another man stepped up — larger, more experienced — his stance tighter, eyes focused.

She smiled.

This one lasted longer. His arms blocked, his feet moved, but even then... he fell. Not easily, but inevitably. Virella ducked beneath a jab, planted her heel, and slammed an elbow into his gut. When he doubled over, her magic flared — not in fire or light, but in silence. He collapsed unconscious, his limbs locked in place from a spell I couldn't quite name.

Then came another.

And another.

She didn't stop.

Her hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat, her knuckles bruised, but she never flinched. Each time she fell back, she healed herself with a flicker of light. Or sometimes she didn't — instead walking back into the next match with a limp, only to win anyway.

"Beautiful," I thought to myself. "Not just her skill… but the principle."

Endurance through repetition. Discipline through pain. Recovery through magic.

To be broken, rebuilt, and thrown back into the fire. Again and again.

These men — they fought like they'd been in war for months. In truth, they'd been here mere weeks. And yet their eyes already held the thousand-yard stare of battle-hardened killers.

"The healing of their limbs… and then forcing them to fight again… it forges something."

I smiled faintly.

"What a wonderful way to train."

My gaze narrowed on Virella — how her body moved, how her focus never wavered. How her magic wrapped her like a second skin, flaring only when she chose to use it.

And a stray thought crept into my mind.

"I want more magic users."

Then another, darker curiosity followed.

"If she were to marry… would her children inherit it? The blood, the gift?"

"Could they be cultivated? Conditioned?"

I watched her drop another soldier with a brutal backhand, his body hitting the dirt like a sack of stone.

The crowd erupted in shouts and laughter. But I remained still.

Thoughtful.

Scheming.

"And what if we didn't need children?"

The idea lingered.

"What if… the blood itself was the key?"

My hands clasped behind my back, fingertips tightening. I watched her — not as a commander observing a subordinate, but as a scientist staring into a rare element.

"Magic... it runs through her veins. It's not learned. It's inherited. Innate. What if we could take it? Distill it? Extract it and replicate it?"

I felt something stir in my chest — a slow, dark thrill. Like a candle in a sealed tomb.

"We could draw blood. Study it. Inject it. Feed it into our strongest men. Merge magic with will, spellcraft with discipline."

"Why wait for generations to pass magic down through wombs and births… when we could take it now?"

I watched Virella land another blow. The man before her collapsed, gasping. She healed him again — not gently, but efficiently. Her magic didn't soothe. It activated. Repaired what was broken and sent it back to fight.

"Yes… blood as a weapon. Her blood."

"Does it require lineage? Ritual? Or just raw transfer?"

"Could we drain her, drop by drop, and turn her into a wellspring for the New Order? Would the magic survive outside of her? Would it bond with another host?"

My lips curled, ever so slightly.

This wasn't cruelty.

This was necessity.

"A single woman can only fight so many battles. But her essence—her power—could win wars."

I said nothing aloud. Not yet. These thoughts belonged only to me.

But the gears had begun to turn.Slowly. Inexorably.And once they began, they did not stop.

Crack.

The sharp report of a rifle snapped me from my thoughts.

I turned my head toward the firing range carved into the mountain slope. Wilhelm stood at the center of it — tall, rigid, and commanding as ever. He wasn't barking orders like a desperate sergeant. He didn't need to.

The men responded to his presence like hounds to a silent whistle.

"Hold!" he shouted, his voice thunderous and precise, echoing against the cold stone.

One recruit stumbled. His stance was off. The barrel dipped.

Wilhelm turned to him slowly. "Push-ups," he said flatly, as if declaring a funeral. "Twenty. Now."

The young man hit the ground without protest, palms slapping the frostbitten dirt.

"Sloppiness is a disease," Wilhelm continued, pacing behind the line. "And I do not tolerate infection in my ranks."

Rifles raised again. Movements synchronized like clockwork.

I watched as Wilhelm stopped beside another recruit and adjusted his grip with a gloved hand — no words, just a short, corrective motion. The boy swallowed hard and nodded.

Then Wilhelm looked up. His eyes caught mine.

A flicker of recognition.

Then — nothing.

He turned away, unbothered. Not out of disrespect, but discipline. He had a job to do. My presence didn't change that.

Like a mountain: aware of the wind, but unmoved by it.

I didn't need him to bow. He was Wilhelm Drossen — forged in fire, polished by war. There was no need for ceremony.

His loyalty had already been carved into stone.

And his methods…They were brutal. Efficient. Beautiful.

I turned to Leon, still trailing just a few paces behind me — eyes constantly scanning, tracking every flash of metal and puff of smoke around us. I couldn't blame him. These weapons were foreign wonders to this world. Strange shapes, sharp angles, thunderous power — even I could feel the gravity they carried.

"Leon," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the distant rhythm of gunfire.

He snapped to attention instantly. "Yes, Mein Führer?"

"Go fetch me a rifle," I commanded. "And while you're at it — begin preparations for the hunt."

"Well wait" I added.

"Do you and the men still carry the bottles I ordered for you?"

Leon quickly tapped the side pouch at his waist. "Yes, Mein Führer. All the men have one on hand, just as you ordered." Then his brow furrowed. "May I ask… what exactly does it do?"

I allowed a pause, just long enough for the tension to thicken.

"You'll see in due time," I said, flatly. 

Leon gave a slow, uneasy nod.

"Now go," I said, turning my gaze back toward the mountain. "Let's see if that thing can stop a bullet."