The streets were a blur.

  Reinhard sprinted, boots smming against cracked cobblestone, dodging the smoldering wreckage of carts and shattered stone. Fires raged all around him, licking up toward the ash-choked sky. His breath echoed harshly inside the mask of his rebreather, and his HUD flickered as smoke and interference blurred his vision.

  He barely noticed.

  The drones had gone ahead, marking the path — and the signal had gone dead just before the square.

  That square. Their st known location. His family.

  He didn’t need the HUD to guide him now.

  He felt it.In the gut.In the bones.In the trembling pull of something inside him tearing loose.

  He rounded the st corner, past the burned-out stalls and the remains of broken market umbrels, and—

  No.

  The square had been torn apart. One of the buildings — familiar — was gone. Not leveled. Obliterated.

  The storefronts were crushed inward as though the gods themselves had smmed a fist onto them. A crater of rubble and twisted metal was all that remained. Frozen fragments of ice glittered among the debris, catching what little light remained.

  Time slowed. The sound faded.

  Reinhard stood there, unmoving, as the world around him screamed.

  Muted.Distant.Wrong.

  He stepped forward — slow, mechanical. Rubble shifted under his boots. His arms hung limp at his sides. His rifle was still strapped to his chest, untouched.

  Then he saw it. A pale ribbon. Burned at the edge, caught on a bent beam.

  Annabel’s.

  He reached out, hands trembling as he took it between gloved fingers. The soot clung to the strands, smudging his gloves. The world swayed, his chest tightened, and for a moment he thought he might fall.

  He did not.

  Instead, he dropped to his knees, digging.

  With bare hands.

  Throwing aside splinters, stone, twisted beams. Desperation overtook sense — it wasn’t rational, it wasn’t tactical. He had to see. He had to find them. He had to know that it wasn’t true.

  He pulled free a scorched piece of clothing — a child’s. Blue fabric. His vision blurred.

  A sob cwed its way from his throat, ragged and dry. He hadn't realized he was screaming.

  Mars sat beside him, silent. The direwolf didn’t whimper. He didn’t howl. He simply lowered his head and pressed his snout into the rubble beside Reinhard’s hand, tail still, ears pinned back. He understood.

  Reinhard’s shaking hand came to rest on the back of Mars’ neck, fingers curling into the fur.

  They were gone. Alice. Heinrich. Emma. Annabel.

  Everything he had built. Everything he had lived for. Taken.

  The bastard who did this… was already gone.

  His fingers curled into a fist.

  A crack echoed from somewhere deep in his chest.

  And then the world stopped.

  Time slowed—no, it broke. Sound vanished, swallowed whole by an unnatural silence.

  A chime. Distant. Faint. Metallic.

  Then—

  *******************************************************************

  [SYSTEM TRIGGER DETECTED] Soul Point System: Standby... Analyzing Trauma: Category Ω - Irrecoverable Personal Loss Spiritual Sync: 92%... 97%... 100% Synchronization Complete.

  *******************************************************************

  The world shattered.

  He screamed.A sound torn from the depths of a soul on fire.And the shadows answered.

  From the blood-soaked stone, darkness boiled. Tendrils of ink-bck smoke slithered up from between the shattered cobbles, writhing with purpose. They danced in time with his grief — a symphony of wrath given form.

  Mars backed up a step, ears ft, then looked at Reinhard. No fear. Just recognition. Loyalty.

  And then, from that shadow, came shape.

  Jackboots.Metal.Weapons.

  Dozens of silhouettes emerged from the darkness, first as hollow outlines, and then with a sharp snap of finality — they became real.

  Steel helmets glinted in the red-orange glow of the fires. Gas masks hissed with the first draw of breath. Dusty, soot-covered uniforms snapped tight against their forms as if they'd always belonged here.

  A full Panzergrenadier ptoon, World War II-era, armed and equipped to the st man.

  They were followed by the low, rumbling growl of engines. Panzers. A line of armored vehicles rolled out of the darkness behind the infantry, the iron beasts gleaming under a sun that did not shine — 2 Panzer IVs, 2 Tiger IIs, and 2 Hummel 150 mm self-propelled artillery pieces accompanying, MG crews, mortar teams and Panzerj?ger teams, all in proper formation.

  A total of forty-nine men, rifles at the ready, Panzerschrecks slung over their backs, and MG42 and mortar teams setting up with uncanny efficiency.

  Each soldier looked alive. Not undead — not hollow puppets. Living men, souls ripped from another war, drawn by something greater than orders. Drawn by the scream of their new Commander.

  They stood at parade rest.

  The Tiger commander in the lead hatch raised his hand in salute.

  The soldiers stood still, awaiting the voice that had summoned them. The man who had been broken. The man who now held the power to reshape everything — one soul at a time.

  The HUD flickered — no longer a tool of his world, but something else entirely.

  [Soul Points: 213][Combat-Ready Units: 56]Awaiting Designation...Commander: Reinhard Stahl — Confirmed.

  The dead had heard their commander’s cry… and the world would tremble for it.

  Reinhard’s breath was shallow.

  He looked around — eyes wide, hollow — then down at his own shaking hands.

  And they waited.

  A cruel stillness descended across the square.

  Until Reinhard, broken voice barely above a whisper, spoke:

  "With me... we're not done."

  And the dead — the wronged — followed.

  Reinhard Stahl, who had once lived for peace, now marched toward total war.