Location: New Berlin – Underground Bunker, Führer's Study Chamber
The chamber was still.
Deep beneath the capital, behind several layers of security, sat a room unlike the others carved into the earth. Where most of the Reich's underground fortress was lined in raw stone and iron beams, this chamber had been poured from white concrete, smooth and clean, almost unnaturally bright under the glow of ceiling-mounted gemstone lamps. The air was dry, the walls sterile — untouched by the dirt and dust of war above.
Lining those white walls were paintings — not religious, nor abstract, but strict and monumental. Massive panels of cavalry charges, spires reaching through clouds, families in uniform saluting the sun. Other frames showed workers beside towering furnaces or coal-streaked engineers leaning over radio blueprints. Each canvas was balanced, geometric, and purposeful. Every piece aligned with the vision of a single man.
The floor was dark, polished stone, and in the center sat a circular table made of heavy brown oak, surrounded by matching chairs — high-backed, unpadded, built not for comfort, but for discipline. The table's surface was perfectly smooth, save for the spread of scrolls, documents, and hand-drawn blueprints laid across its center.
The bookshelves, also made of dark wood, lined the back wall in perfect symmetry. Most were empty, but a few were beginning to fill — volumes of economic plans, radio tower schematics, cultural proposals, censored histories, and industrial manifestos. Below them, leather binders and carved stone tablets rested like archives of a world still being written.
In the far corner, resting alone beneath a single warm lamp, sat a small rune-powered radio — its wooden frame humming quietly with life. From its brass speaker grille came the soft, steady tones of Mozart, faint but unmistakable. Although made by a different artist following Hitlers taste, it still carried the same beautitful melody. The music floated beneath the silence like incense, coloring the air without dominating it. It was not played for entertainment. It was there to establish order.
Three seats were already occupied.
At the head sat the Führer, posture straight, hands resting calmly on the wood. He wore no coat — only his pressed black tunic, with his gloves folded neatly beside a steel drafting compass and a bronze pen. His gaze was fixed downward, unmoving, as if already envisioning a world not yet built.
To his right, Virella von Weiss sat in silence. Her white cloak was draped over the back of her chair, her pale hair pinned back into a practical braid. She wore formal robes instead of armor — gray, with silver runic threading along the sleeves. Her face was calm, and her eyes watched everything. She brought no scrolls, no ink — only the weight of her presence and the magic quietly pulsing beneath her skin.
To his left, Otto Eisner leaned slightly forward. A thick leather-bound notebook sat open in front of him, alongside a ruler, compass, and several loose drafts. His hands were stained with graphite. One corner of the table was already dusted with pencil shavings and smudged thumbprints. He had been working even before the others arrived.
But the remaining seats — nine in total — were not filled by generals.
Instead, they were taken by civilian figures from across the rising Reich: architects, engineers, economists, state artists, urban planners, and two senior officials from the Media Control Department. Their uniforms were plain. No medals. No rank. Just black sashes or armbands with the new insignia — a silver rune encircled in red. Most of them were quiet, their expressions cautious. They knew where they were. They understood who sat across from them.
Some brought papers. Others brought nothing. They were not here to offer ideas. They were here to witness something being formed.
Above them, the white gemstone lights gave no warmth. The paintings gave no comfort. The music, for all its beauty, gave no emotion. Only rhythm. Balance. Clarity.
This was not a war room.
This was where the blueprint of the future was being drawn.
And it had already begun.
Then, without delay, Hitler spoke.
"As you all know—or at least should—we have made many departments, formed contracts, laws, reforms, and even diplomacy bureaus."
He paused. His eyes swept the room. Twelve chairs. White walls. Paintings. The Mozart symphony played low, like background breath.
The men and women at the table straightened. Their faces were tired, but alert.
"But our departments are quite makeshift, would you all agree?"
There was no defiance in the room. Only quiet confirmation.
The group looked at each other. Nods followed. No one argued.
A woman spoke up — the head of the Media Control Department. Isabella Lang, tall, black coat clasped to the neck, transmitter pendant blinking red near her collarbone.
"I agree, Mein Führer. Contracts with major companies have been in steady flow, but it is hard to manage. The ranking system is… fractured. Information is delayed. Transmission security is weak. We must find a solution before public messaging collapses."
Hitler smiled slightly.
"Exactly. Which is why I plan on restructuring everything."
He lifted a leather-bound black book from the table. Unsnapped the strap. Opened to a bookmarked page.
"That is exactly why all company contracts have been terminated for the next three months."
The table was still.
No one objected. All knew better.
Heads nodded. Not one word spoken.
"Now, without wasting time — here are the main departments of the Reich," he said, flipping the page.
He began to read aloud:
"First. The Department of Technology and Innovation.""Head: Otto Eisner."
Otto looked up briefly, brow heavy with thought. The name didn't surprise anyone. He had already built the weapons, the trains, the towers, the early cameras. It was natural.
"Second. The Department of Arcane Rune Development.""Head: Virella von Weiss."
All eyes briefly turned to her. She didn't react. Her face remained still, fingers resting on her lap. She needed no introduction.
"Third. The Reichsbank.""The central authority for national and foreign wealth. All industrial financing, treasury control, and state expenditure runs through it.""Head: Jerald Grünt."
Jerald nodded and adjusted his coat. Thin, sharp-featured, mid-forties. Always quiet.
"I have been financing everything so far," he said. "I don't plan to stop now."
"Good," Hitler said. "If you fail — know you will be replaced."
"Fourth. The Ministry of Labor.""Responsible for workforce scheduling, ration enforcement, factory management, and worker protection.""Head: Aaron Mikkel."
A stout man at the far side of the table raised his hand slightly. His fingers were stained with ink and soot. He had come from the industrial camps, promoted from within. A worker loyal to the Reich.
Hitler paused for a moment.
He stared at the table, expression unreadable.
"In the past," he thought, "I would have handed everything to a central authority. One command. But not now. These people have been enslaved long enough. I will let them feel free—"
He looked up again.
"—but not enough to taste it."
He turned the page again.
"Fifth. The Ministry of War.""Led by myself."
No further comment was needed. No one looked surprised.
"Sixth. The Department of National Culture and Propaganda.""To control all literature, art, public education, theater, and radio content. Every statue, every phrase, every brushstroke must serve a unified vision.""Head: Isabella Lang."
The woman from Media Control nodded, expression unreadable. She was already managing broadcasts. Now she would oversee every word heard in public.
"Seventh. The Ministry of Interior and Population Control.""Responsible for citizenship records, population movements, refugee assimilation, internal surveillance, and public loyalty assessment.""Head: Viktor Halder."
A thin, pale man near the corner gave a brief nod. He wore no decoration. Only black gloves and a steel badge.
He had been handpicked by Otto. Efficient. Cold. Quiet.
"Eighth. The Department of Infrastructure and Urban Planning.""To oversee the construction of roads, water lines, bridges, tower relays, and all civilian zoning laws.""Head: Emilia Strauss."
She sat tall, early thirties, hair tied back, coat folded over her lap. She had once been a landscape architect — now she would build cities.
"Ninth. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Empire Diplomacy.""To handle contact with outside kingdoms, peace treaties, trade negotiation, and intelligence-gathering abroad.""Head: Heinrich Löwe."
A former noble. Stripped of his house title, but offered redemption through service. His face was sharp, words always measured.
Hitler closed the book.
No one spoke.
Outside the chamber, the silence of the bunker stretched like stone.Inside, only the Mozart music still played — soft, mechanical, distant.
He looked at each of them again.
"From this moment forward, you do not answer to your titles. You answer to your purpose."
He let that settle.
"No more fragments. No more chaos. You are the spine of this nation. If one of you breaks — I will replace the bone."
The radio clicked softly as the movement changed. Another Mozart sonata began, slower.
The Reich was organizing itself.And the shape it would take — would be carved in concrete, in blood, and in memory.
As the others sat in silence, the Führer lifted his hand again.
"There is… one more department."
He didn't open the book this time. This wasn't written. It was planned long before any ink touched paper.
"This one will not govern civilians. It will not manage banks or towers or food."
He glanced at Otto. Then at Virella. Then at no one.
"It will observe."
The others listened without blinking.
"This department will answer only to me. It will have no official seal, no banner, no press conferences. It will operate in silence, between walls. It will collect secrets, control flow of internal knowledge, monitor each of your ministries. Not for sabotage. For loyalty."
He let the words hang.
"It will be called the Department of Internal Order."
A name simple. Deceptive. Terrifying in its reach.
"Publicly, it will appear as a small clerical branch — perhaps three desks and a filing room. But behind it will be hundreds. Watchers. Listeners. Analysts. Rune specialists. Shadow auditors. If a minister lies, I will know. If a city councilman plots his own idea of freedom… I will hear it before he speaks."
He looked to the paintings on the walls — workers, towers, cities.
"This world cannot fall to corruption before it even rises."
There was no applause. No comment.
Just the soft rhythm of Mozart playing beneath the heartbeat of the Reich.
The room had fallen still.
Only the scratch of quills and the faint humming of the Mozart broadcast remained. Hitler stood at the head of the long brown oak table, arms behind his back, eyes scanning the ministers before him one last time. His gaze, sharp as iron, passed over each of them: planners, financiers, party loyalists, and cultural officers — the scaffolding of the emerging Reich.
The discussion was over. Orders had been given.
No one dared speak further.
The white concrete walls reflected the quiet like a cathedral.
Then, Hitler stepped forward.
"This meeting is concluded. You are dismissed."
The words were flat. Clean.
Chairs shifted. Paper was gathered. The ministers began to rise — coats buttoned, folders closed. No one lingered. No one made eye contact. Each of them turned toward the reinforced chamber door in practiced silence.
But just as the first hand reached for the door latch—
"Otto stays."
The command landed like a hammer.
The room paused.
No one turned. No one asked why.
One by one, they exited without a word, leaving their chairs pushed in and their questions buried. The door sealed behind them with a metallic hiss, cutting off the outside world.
Silence again.
Only the Führer… and Otto.
And that soft piano melody in the corner.
The chamber was still.
The ministers had all gone — their coats trailing behind them, shoes clacking on the polished stone floor. The door had shut behind the last of them with a final metallic hiss.
Only Hitler and Otto remained.
The paintings on the walls no longer felt decorative. They loomed — scenes of spires rising, workers saluting, the Volkshalle towering over a burning horizon. The white concrete walls reflected the sterile light of the crystal fixtures above, and Mozart's soft piano notes pulsed faintly from the wooden radio in the corner. The rhythm was slow. Clean. Exact.
Hitler sat quietly at the oak table, his hands folded over a closed ledger.
Across from him, Otto Eisner waited, still standing.
He did not ask why he had been kept behind. He already knew.
The Führer looked up, eyes steady.
"You're not a politician, Otto. You're not a speaker. You're not a hero."
He paused, just long enough for the weight to land.
"But you are necessary."
Otto didn't flinch. His face held no pride. No fear. Just readiness.
"I've designed this nation to move forward with or without me. But reality… is cruel. Accidents happen. Assassins wait. Disease spreads. Even gods bleed."
He leaned forward now, elbows on the table, voice lower.
"If I die before a true heir is chosen — before a man exists who can carry the vision as I have — then it must be you who holds the line."
Otto inhaled once, slow.
"I understand."
"You are not to claim leadership. You are not to raise flags with your name. You are not the soul of the Reich. But you are its spine. If I fall, you will make sure this machine doesn't grind to dust."
Otto's voice was calm, but dry.
"And what if I'm challenged?"
"You will not be challenged," Hitler said flatly."Because I've already made it known — silently, in every ministry — that you are the axis of continuity. No one dares cross a man I've written into the foundation."
He stood slowly, the chair creaking as he rose.
"You are not my heir. You are not to be remembered."
He turned his gaze toward the paintings along the far wall.
"You are the placeholder. The weight that keeps the structure upright. Until someone comes who deserves the crown."
Otto nodded once. "And if no one comes?"
"Then the Reich dies with you."
Another long silence passed.
The piano in the background shifted to a minor key.
Hitler walked toward the small table on the side wall, lifted a silver pitcher, and poured a glass of water. He drank it slowly, eyes fixed on the floor — not in reflection, but in thought.
Then he reached to the shelf.
Pulled out a leather-bound book titled "Tales of the Beast", its pages filled with state-edited myth rewritten to suit the Reich's vision.
He turned the book in his hand. The font was too flowery. The prose too slow.
"So… this will be the new German literature?"
He scoffed.
"Maybe I should create a Language Department."
His tone was half-serious, half-joking.
Then he placed the book on the table beside him — open to the title page — and returned to his seat.
Alone in the bunker.
With Mozart. With concrete. With silence.
And a man like Otto — waiting in the wings.