The recruits gathered at dawn in the shadow of Friedrich's new estate, their breath fogging the crisp air, curling like specters over the frost-rimed grass. Three hundred men, faces etched with scars and hollowed by years under the dead king's tyranny—Hellsing's reign of purges and paranoia—stood in ragged lines. The scent of sweat, leather, and unwashed wool hung thick among them, their eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and desperation. Friedrich paced before them, his boots crunching the gravel, flintlock at his hip, the lavender sprig from Elsa a faint, incongruous note against the musk of war-hardened flesh.
His criteria were merciless: Survivors of Hellsing's purges—men who'd watched families burn, homes razed, trust shattered by betrayal. Silent killers—those who could slit a throat without a flicker of remorse, their hands steady as stone. No ties—orphans, drifters, ghosts with no past to tether them, no future to lose. A grizzled veteran, his left ear a jagged stump, stepped forward, his voice rough as gravel. "What's the pay?"
Friedrich met his gaze, unflinching. "Freedom from Otto's frontlines," he said, his breath visible in the chill. "And this." He gestured to a tarp-covered pile, yanking it free with a flourish. Black tunics spilled into view, crimson serpents coiled around the sleeves, their scales embroidered with a sheen that caught the weak dawn light. Hoods shadowed all but the wearer's eyes, promising anonymity and menace. The men murmured, fingers brushing the fabric, its weight heavier than mere cloth—a mantle of purpose.
---
Under a moonless sky, three hay-caked wagons creaked onto Friedrich's estate, their wheels groaning against the dirt path. The air carried the exotic bite of Egyptian musk—Khalid, the smuggler, emerged from the shadows, his grin a flash of white teeth in a sun-darkened face. Friedrich sliced open a bale with his dagger, the straw parting to reveal sleek rifles, their barrels etched with hieroglyphs that shimmered faintly, as if kissed by desert moonlight. "*Fire-sticks*," Khalid whispered, lifting one with reverence, its wood smooth and cool to the touch. "A dozen crates. Untraceable."
Friedrich's men moved like wraiths, unloading the weapons with swift, silent precision, the clatter of metal muted by the hay. They buried them beneath the stables, the damp earth swallowing the crates as the scent of manure and straw masked their secret. "Otto cannot know," Friedrich warned, his voice low, the stable's shadows cloaking his face. "Not even Klaus." The risk hung heavy—these rifles could shift wars, and Otto's ignorance was their shield.
---
**Day 1**: Training began in mud-soaked pits behind the estate, the squelch of boots and the slap of flesh against flesh filling the air. Sparring was brutal—losers were branded with a serpent sigil, the iron hissing as it seared their skin, a mark of shame that stung worse than the lash. The stench of sweat and singed flesh lingered long after dusk.
**Day 3**: Night drills plunged them into the forest, the air thick with pine and the rustle of leaves. Archers fired at shadows, their arrows whistling through the dark, thudding into trees or flesh. Screams earned lashings—the leather whip cracked like thunder, its bite a lesson in silence, the coppery tang of blood mingling with the earthy damp.
**Day 5**: Poisoncraft tested their nerve in a candlelit barn, the air acrid with hemlock and nightshade. A recruit, too careless, choked on the brew, his gasps wet and ragged as he collapsed, froth bubbling at his lips—a grim reminder etched into every man's memory, the bitter scent of death a teacher.
**Day 7**: Klaus arrived unannounced, his boots crunching gravel as he strode through the estate's gates, the midday sun glinting off his commander's insignia. "Otto's curious about your... *pets*," he said, his sharp eyes raking over the hooded guards, their crimson serpents stark against the black.
"Hounds," Friedrich corrected, his tone clipped, arms crossed over his chest. "Trained to bite Hellsing's rats."
Klaus smirked, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. "Keep their teeth sharp." He turned away, but the weight of his visit lingered like a storm cloud.
---
Otto toured the barracks that afternoon, his velvet cloak dragging through the hay-strewn yard, its hem darkening with dust. Friedrich's pulse roared in his ears as the king paused near the stables, kicking a hay bale with a casual thud. "Impressive," Otto said, his voice smooth as polished steel, "but why hide them here? Afraid I'll steal your toys?"
Friedrich bowed, his spine stiff. "Afraid Hellsing's spies will." The lie was smooth, the lavender in his pocket a silent tether to calm.
Otto's smile was thin, his eyes cold as winter stone. "See that they don't." He swept away, leaving Friedrich's heart pounding against his ribs—a near miss too close for comfort.
---
At midnight, Friedrich unlocked the armory, the iron key cold in his hand, the hinges groaning as the door swung open. His 300 stood motionless, rifles gleaming in their fists, the air thick with the scent of oil and leather. "Tomorrow, we hunt Hellsing's remnants," he said, his voice a low growl that carried steel. "But tonight... we vanish."
They melted into the forest, black tunics blending with the shadows, their boots silent on the pine-strewn floor. A wolf howled in the distance, its mournful cry a dirge for the old king's reign, the night swallowing them whole as Friedrich led them into the abyss of his ambition.