Location: Larrak Valley – Southern Plains, Before Sunrise
The frost-laced wind whispered across the open field, tugging at coats and rattling steel clasps as boots thundered in rhythmic unison. Seventeen thousand human soldiers marched in wide, endless columns—shields clattered, rifles swayed on shoulders, and banners flapped against the dark.
Dozens of torches were stabbed into the cold dirt, casting flickering halos of gold across the supply depot grounds. A sea of wagons creaked along nearby paths—loaded with crates, barrels, and tarp-covered cannons. In the center of the open plains, men hauled bundles of ammunition, lifted iron beams, rolled out canvas, and stuffed satchels with black powder. The only light came from moon-glow and the torches lining the trails like beacons of purpose.
Near a cluster of scribes hunched over crates, an officer barked in a clipped voice, his coat drawn tight.
"Make sure every barrel, every man, woman, and cart is accounted for. We finish by morning—no excuses."
A second officer approached, glancing over a stained manifest sheet. "We've confirmed two hundred and fifty riflemen heading west, cavalry moving east."
"And Schützenbataillon 9?" asked a scribe nearby.
The officer didn't hesitate. "They're heading north with the Führer. Forty cannons will support them—he intends to take the city by force."
"The city?" someone whispered. "That's madness."
"Possible," the officer replied without blinking. "With that much firepower? He'll turn stone to dust."
"And the mortars?"
"Ten to the west. Ten to the east. The rest north. Make sure they're the ones that fire over a thousand meters."
"Yes, Officer Wetz. I'm on it."
The low clang of boxes being stacked echoed through the dark. Workers strained under weight, hauling iron and timber into wagons. Muffled grunts, soft whistles, and scribbling notes filled the night. Across the depot, men moved like ants over a giant carcass—tireless, focused.
Then came the sound of footsteps. Hundreds, then thousands.
From the southern hills emerged a great tide of soldiers.
Riflemen in long coats. Heavy infantry with full iron plating. Cavalry leading their steeds by the reins. Even simple farmers—once bent-backed and broken—now marched in chainmail and hardened boots, helmets strapped tight and rifles in hand.
The road trembled beneath their synchronized march.
A young soldier nudged his friend, nodding toward a column marching with eerie calm and perfectly matched steps.
"Hey," he whispered, awe in his voice. "That's Schützenbataillon 9."
"No way," his buddy muttered. "The same ones from the last battle?"
"Yeah. I heard they wiped out over seven thousand demi-humans in a single operation. Not one scout left breathing."
The other whistled low. "If they're marching with us… we might actually win this."
Behind them, another voice chimed in—older, deeper.
"With men like them, this world's about to change. For good."
Then a loud voice rose near the rear of the column.
An officer—weathered, scar down his cheek—stood atop a wagon, clearing his throat.
"Attention!"
The men turned slightly.
"By the Führer's order—let no man march silent tonight. We are not afraid. We are not defeated. We are the hammer."
Then, without warning, he began to sing.
Low at first, slow and sharp like a blade drawn from a sheath.
🎵 "Through fire and frost, we rise again, Steel in our hands, no need for men, The gods have fled, the weak have lied, But human strength will never die…" 🎵
Another soldier picked it up—then two more.
A ripple ran through the ranks.
One young soldier glanced at his friend. "Wait—isn't that the song from training?"
"Yeah," the other replied, eyes forward. "The one they said we'd sing on the march to war."
Within seconds, the whole column swelled with voices.
🎵 "We forge the dawn, we break the chain, Our boots will march through ash and flame, No throne above, no fate to fear, The Führer leads, and we are near." 🎵
The plains echoed with song. Deep. Powerful. Alive.
Even the workers in the supply fields paused, their eyes drawn toward the great sound rolling through the valley like thunder.
Under torchlight and cold wind, seventeen thousand soldiers sang into the night—not as peasants, not as prisoners—but as the army of man.
Their breath steamed in the dark, their rifles gleamed in firelight, and their boots carved the frozen ground with purpose.
The offensive had begun.