The Führer's Bunker – Three Days After the Raid
The underground war chamber rattled with heated voices, the sound bouncing off the low stone ceiling like the start of a storm.
"This is insane," barked an older officer, his knuckles pressed hard into the edge of the strategy table. "We're barely holding the valley! Now you want to talk about taking multiple villages? Cities?"
Across the table, a younger commander stood with arms folded. "You underestimate what we've become. We have over twenty thousand under arms now. That's an army."
"An army of farmers and rebels with stolen gear!" the elder snapped. "Half of them haven't seen a real battlefield! The moment a city garrison responds, we'll crumble."
"Wrong," another man cut in sharply. He wore a freshly stitched uniform, medals clinking as he moved. "With the new weapons and training drills, we're not rebels anymore. We're a war horse. That raid and ambush proved it. Burned their supplies right out from under them."
"And lost hundreds men doing it," someone else growled. "Don't twist sacrifice into assurance."
Voices rose. Hands pounded the table.
"There are over fifty villages marked on the old maps! We've only touched two! You think we can just march on the rest?"
"If we push now while they're reeling from the ambush—"
"We don't even have the supply lines for that!"
"Then we make them!"
"—and what happens when the nobles band together? Ten thousand was just a taste—"
"Gentlemen!" one officer shouted, trying to restore order. No one listened.
Another voice shouted over the fray: "Do we even know if the new weapons can be mass-produced yet? Or is this just Otto's little pet project?"
"Otto said they're ready! The weapons are functional and accurate—"
"They jam! I saw two of them fail during drills yesterday morning!"
"You saw idiots using them wrong. That's different."
"This isn't about rifles—it's about the manpower! Twenty-five percent of the population drafted? That's madness. We'll run out of workers before winter!"
"Who cares about workers if we don't even survive the next three months?!"
"Let's see you say that when you're starving!"
Chairs scraped back. A mug slammed against the wall and shattered. The noise became deafening — a dozen voices yelling, swearing, hands waving, maps flapping, tempers unraveling. Men who once fought side by side were now shouting inches from each other's faces.
Then—
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The iron door opened with a cold groan.
Silence dropped like a hammer.
The arguing men turned in unison.
Adolf Hitler stepped into the chamber, flanked by Seris with her note pad in hand, and Otto trailing behind, his coat speckled with soot from the forge.
Hitler eyes swept the room.
Not a word was spoken.
Hitler's voice rang like a blade unsheathed.
"…Continue."
The word fell like a blade.
But no one moved. Not a breath. Not a shuffle. The once-lively debate had collapsed into petrified silence.
Hitler's boots shifted forward as he stepped fully into the room, his sharp gaze cutting across the officers like a knife through smoke. Otto followed closely behind him. Seris, calm but unreadable, came to stand just to the right of Hitler, her hands folded, her eyes fixed downward.
Hitler's voice boomed louder now, echoing off the stone walls.
"I SAID—continue!"
Still, silence.
Not even the bravest among them dared raise their eyes.
"A bunch of cowards," he spat. "Sometimes I regret letting Otto pick any of you for your roles. What a miserable collection of groveling yes-men. Are you soldiers? Or insects?"
He strode to the central war table and took a seat, his gloved hands resting on either side of a yellowed map soaked in waxy candlelight. Otto, more reserved, found a chair beside him and carefully placed his documents on his lap. Seris remained standing—rigid as ever—her shadow long against the wall.
Hitler glanced up again, eyes narrowed.
"Once more. Continue."
A few officers exchanged glances. The weight of the air seemed to double.
One of them finally stepped forward—an older commander with a silver beard and weary eyes. "Mein Führer… I must speak plainly."
"Then speak. You've already wasted my time with your silence."
The man cleared his throat. "We're not prepared for multiple offensives. Our weapons are strong, yes—but logistics are thin. Morale is cracking. The civilians… they're not soldiers, Mein Fuhrer."
"And yet," Hitler replied, leaning in, "you used that same civilian army to drive a professional force into retreat. So tell me—how do you define readiness? By old standards, or by what we've achieved?"
The commander hesitated. "I… I only mean—"
"Answer the question."
"I… define it by—by what we've done, yes, but also by what we must endure next. The supply lines—"
Hitler cut him off with a flick of his hand and turned his attention to another officer across the table. "You. Do you share his fears?"
The man, younger and less sure, nodded slowly. "In part, Fuhrer. But I believe with time—"
"Time?" Hitler scoffed. "Time is the only thing the enemy has more of. We have only blood. If you cannot trade blood for victory, then get out of my war."
The young man looked down.
Another officer, perhaps emboldened by the exchange, stepped forward. "If we strike eastward, toward the citie, we can catch them in disarray. The valleys are ours—we should capitalize before they regroup."
"A decent point," Hitler allowed. "But tell me—who will guard your flanks? Who will deliver the grain when your wagons are torched? Who will command the rear if you stretch your lines that thin?"
The officer's mouth opened. No sound came.
Hitler's smile was bitter. "You see? You all know how to criticize. But when I press you to think—your minds turn to mush."
Hitler gripped the edge of the table. "If you dare to question my orders—then make your own. Replace them. Add reason. Add vision. But I suppose… fools can't do such things."
No one replied.
Only the candles crackled.
"Now let us continue with a real plan."
He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Otto.
"Bring me the map I drew last night."
Otto straightened. "Yes, Mein Führer."
He reached beneath the inner pocket of his coat and retrieved a tightly rolled scroll bound in red twine. Its ends were stained faintly with soot and ink. With both hands, he extended it forward.
Hitler stepped forward, took the scroll — and without another word, he turned toward the center table.
With one sudden, violent motion, he swiped his arm across the surface of the table— sending scattered reports, old maps, half-eaten rations, and a candleholder clattering to the floor.
Papers fluttered like panicked birds. A tin cup bounced off the stone.
Several officers instinctively flinched and stepped back, boots scraping against the floor. But none dared speak. They only watched. Tense. Silent. Waiting.
Hitler laid the scroll down across the now-cleared table. With a firm tug, he broke the twine and unraveled it with a heavy snap.
The map rolled open wide — almost the full length of the table — revealing a detailed, hand-drawn illustration of the region.
It showed every elevation line, forest edge, river, and choke point in the surrounding territory. The mountain cliffs. The Larrak Valley was inked in bold lines. Dozens of notations in sharp Gothic script lined the margins — supply paths, possible ambush points, artillery placements, fallback zones.
Small dots marked known enemy patrol paths. Arrows curved like claws through ravines and forests. Circles indicated bait positions. Several black ink splotches clustered around a cave entrance.
"This," Hitler said calmly, eyes never leaving the parchment, "is a strategy for extermination."
The room was silent, save for the soft crackle of the wall-mounted torches.
Even Otto leaned slightly closer, eager to absorb the next move.
"After we deal with the ten thousand demi-humans — which should not take long, given they have no supply line — we will begin expanding further into the valley," Hitler declared, his voice calm but unmistakably sharp.
"The surrounding villages and farmland will be seized immediately. Winter is coming — in less than a month. Perhaps even two weeks. We do not have time. So we will act quickly. Brutally."
He stepped forward, hands behind his back.
"To solve this, we will perform Blitzkrieg."There was a subtle shift in the room. Officers exchanged glances — many had never heard the word before, except those who participated during Elisabeth campaigns.
"Otto has invented a lightweight field cannon," Hitler continued. "We will refer to them simply as Mortars."
He motioned toward Otto, who stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"These aren't like traditional iron cannons. They don't fire solid balls," Otto explained. "Instead, they launch conical containers — like hollow spears — filled with black powder and packed metal. Upon detonation, they scatter jagged shrapnel across a wide radius."
A murmur ran through the officers.
"So... it's like one of bombs I saw a soldier throw?" one asked, frowning.
"More like a thunderstorm in a tube," Otto said with a half-smile. "They're light enough to be carried by two soldiers, or mounted on carts pulled by a single mule. Range is moderate, but the blast radius is devastating."
"How far can it fire?" another asked skeptically. "And how accurate is it?"
"Two hundred meters, if angled properly. Accuracy isn't the point," Otto replied. "Suppression is."
Another officer crossed his arms. "And how many do we have?"
"Twenty-four are complete. Eighty more are in production. Metal remains our bottleneck."
Despite a few furrowed brows, the room grew quieter. Some were skeptical — most were visibly impressed.
Hitler raised a hand. The murmuring stopped.
"You don't have to imagine it," he said firmly. "I've brought a live demonstration."
Officers straightened, some blinking in surprise. A few turned to each other.
"A live demo?" someone whispered.
Without another word, Hitler stepped away from the map table and made for the iron-plated door at the rear of the chamber.
"Follow," he commanded.
Boots echoed behind him as chairs scraped and figures hurried to catch up. The door groaned as it was pulled open, revealing the long structured hallways built in the mountains.
Each guard stationed at the corridor stood tall the moment Hitler passed — saluting sharply with the Reich salute, arms extended.
"Heil, Mein Führer."
The phrase repeated down the hallway as the procession moved through the mountain bunker.
The group stepped out into the cold. Breath fogged the air. Snow blanketed the stone paths, and thin mountain wind bit at their coats.
The guards outside wore thick winter cloaks. Each held a bolt-action rifle slung over their shoulders and a pistol secured at their hip, polished and standard. They saluted just as sharply as their counterparts inside.
Officers huddled tighter as they marched along the ridgeline, eyes adjusting to the white void of snow.
"Are they really testing a new cannon in this weather?" one whispered.
"If it works here," another muttered, "it'll work anywhere."
Up ahead, a makeshift firing ground had been cleared. Snow shoveled aside, flags marking distance.
A lone wooden cart sat beside it — and resting atop that, an angular, lightweight cannon with a short, steep barrel and cone shape metal resting on the cart beside it.
The mortar.
The wind slowed.
Silence fell over the officers as the mortar crew finished preparing the weapon in less than ten seconds. A smooth, conical shell — dark, jagged at the tip — was slotted into the angled barrel.
Fifty meters downrange, a figure struggled against thick restraints — arms and legs bound to iron stakes hammered deep into the frozen dirt. A demi-human prisoner. Gray-furred, broad-shouldered, with a muscular frame now trembling in the cold.
His mouth was gagged. His brown eyes scanned wildly between the soldiers above, and the short, unassuming cannon pointed just slightly skyward.
Hitler stood still. Watching.
"Fire," he said flatly.
Thwump.
The air cracked. Not like thunder — something tighter. Faster. Sharper. It hit the ears like pressure, like the air itself had been punched.
The officers instinctively flinched as a ripple shimmered across the frozen ground.
Then came the whistling.
A long, eerie shriek from above — high-pitched, descending like death with wings.
The demi-human thrashed violently.
CRACK—
The valley shook. A black plume of smoke and dirt erupted where the prisoner had been. A shockwave burst outward.
Blood spattered across a chunk of split stone. Shrapnel peppered the area in all directions.
Nothing human — or demi-human — would remain intact at the center.
The officers stared, mouths slightly parted.
It wasn't silence now. It was awe.
Blood steamed in the snow. Half an arm lay thirty meters off to the side, still twitching.
Two soldiers rushed down to retrieve what remained.
When they returned twenty minutes later, they dragged behind them a sled bearing twisted flesh, torn leather scraps, and a half-destroyed torso — the lower half gone entirely.
The men and women stood motionless as the officers gathered to inspect the carnage.
"Lung rupture. Abdomen shredded. Both legs — gone."
"That's not a kill shot. That's annihilation."
One officer muttered, "Even if he survived the blast, the shrapnel would've torn through his spine… punctured everything."
Another nodded slowly. "A wall of men wouldn't stop this. Not even a full charge formation."
"What's the fire rate?" someone asked, voice hushed.
Otto stepped forward, calm and composed.
"As fast as the loader can move. With a trained two-man crew — six to ten rounds per minute. If mounted on a wheeled cart, potentially faster."
A pause.
Then an older officer exhaled and said what the rest were thinking:
"With this… we might actually win."
All eyes turned back to Hitler.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.