Larrak Valley. Two days after the demonstration at the Führer's Bunker. Five days since the Raid.Designation: Schützenbataillon 9 — "Larrakhammer."
A battalion of war-hardened men advanced across the frost-lined fields, their formation steady, unshaken. The air was sharp with the scent of black powder, cold iron, and old blood. They moved not as wanderers, but as an extension of command—sent with purpose, sanctioned by General Otto himself. Their objective was clear: wipe out the scattered remnants of the demi-human forces still clinging to the valley edges.
Schützenbataillon 9, forged from ash and fury, was en route to the front.
At its heart marched 300 riflemen, clad in hardened leather and reinforced belts. They bore Kar98k-style bolt rifles and powder-fed semi-automatics, their uniforms dusted with dirt and dried sweat. These were mobile infantry—lean, conditioned, and deadly accurate. They moved with discipline, boots hitting the ground in rhythm with the beating drum of vengeance.
To their flanks, the 100 heavy knights moved like armored titans. Each was encased head-to-toe in thick iron plate, painted a matte black that drank in the dim light. Their broad shoulder guards were marked with a single, unmistakable symbol—a white swastika, stark against the black steel, hand-painted with grim precision. It was not decoration—it was a declaration. Their helms bore narrow vertical slits, concealing all expression, turning each knight into a faceless executioner. Steam rose faintly from the grills of their masks, their breath fogging the chill air as they marched. Greatswords and crushing maces hung across their backs or rested across armored shoulders. The ground trembled beneath their synchronized stride—walking bastions of death, bred to break ranks and batter down anything foolish enough to stand before them.
Ten mortar's trailed near the middle, manned by 20 crewmen who kept low and quiet. Their tubes were clamped to bipods, carried on wagons or shouldered by two-man teams. Ammunition crates, sealed in blackened cloth, clattered softly with every bump. These men did not speak unless necessary—they would let their fire do the talking.
50 engineers followed, dressed in rough canvas uniforms marked by dirt, ash, and ink. Pistols were holstered at their sides, but more telling were the shovels, axes, spools of wire, and coils of rope hanging off their belts. Some carried pickaxes. Others bore blueprints and firebomb bundles. Their role was to entrench, to breach, to prepare the ground for war.
At the rear, five white-cloaked supply wagons rolled with mechanical pace. Their canvas covers flapped in the wind, the black lettering S.K.G. 9 – Versorgung printed clearly along each side. Within were bullets, rations, barrels of water, and spare rifle parts. Flanked by guards, these wagons were the artery of survival.
The sky ahead was low and gray, and in the distance—barely visible through the mist—waited the shattered ruins of a demi-human fortification.
Perched at the front of the column strode a lone man, cloak billowing behind him. He wore a black leather trench coat, polished boots, and a blood-red armband bearing the swastika in white. No rifle hung from his shoulder—only a Luger pistol gleamed at his hip. His cap was pulled low, but the fire in his eyes burned through shadow.
Officer Richter Lenz—a man not known for speeches, but for his battle experience
He halted atop a rise in the dirt road and turned back to face his men.
His voice, though calm, carried like thunder.
"Thirty minutes, men. That's what you have left before hell opens its gates again."
"You've all lost something. Homes. Families. Names. But you are no longer just survivors. You are the hammer of the Führer. We are the judges meant to bring justice."
He raised one black-gloved fist.
"Ahead lies the last of their filth.Seven thousand of them—hiding behind crumbling walls, behind magic and fear.They think we're tired. They think we'll stop."
He pauses, letting the words settle like the calm before artillery.
"Let them believe it. Let them hold onto their illusions. And then… we burn them down."
"Let's show them what Larrakhammer means."
The riflemen roared.
The knights slammed blades against their chest plates.
Even the engineers raised tools into the air.
"When the cannons of General Ritter open fire—we charge.When their line shatters—we crush. And when the dust clears—we leave no one breathing."
He turned without another word. The column surged behind him.
"Thirty minutes to Judgement."