The Battle of Saarbrücken
The acrid stench of gunpowder filled Captain Hans Von Schmitt's lungs as he pressed his back against the splintered wood of the barricade. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins as the deafening cacophony of battle raged around him. The sharp cracks of rifles, the screams of the wounded, the desperate cries of orders being shouted over the din—it all melded into a brutal symphony of war.
"Reload, damn it! Fire at will!" Hans bellowed over the barricade, his voice hoarse from shouting.
His men, battered and bloodied, obeyed without hesitation. Muskets and rifles fired in staggered succession, sending plumes of white smoke rolling across the cobblestone street. But the French, despite their mounting casualties, kept coming.
From behind his cover, Hans stole a quick glance over the barricade. The scene before him was one of utter devastation. The bridge spanning the Saar River was choked with French bodies—some motionless, others writhing in agony as they clutched shattered limbs and bloodied torsos. Beyond the bridge, the enemy was gathering again, their bayonets glinting under the overcast sky.
"Merde! En avant, en avant!" came the cries from across the river.
The French soldiers, clad in their dark blue coats and red trousers, surged forward with unwavering resolve, their Chassepot rifles cracking in quick succession. The bullets zipped through the air with a terrifying whip-crack, some embedding themselves into the wooden barricades, others finding flesh.
Hans flinched as a shot struck the crate beside his head, sending splinters flying. He could feel the heat of the projectile as it missed him by inches. His helmet, though sturdy, offered little reassurance against the onslaught.
Grinding his teeth, he ducked back down and pulled a fresh paper cartridge from his belt. With practiced hands, he tore it open with his teeth, poured the powder into the breech of his M1867/71 needle rifle, and slid the long, slender round into place. With a quick motion, he locked the bolt, priming the weapon.
Breathing deep, Hans pushed himself up from cover, raising his rifle to his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the chaos of battle, the sights of his rifle settling on a French soldier just beyond the bridge.
The man was reloading his Chassepot, oblivious to the Prussian captain's gaze.
Hans exhaled, steadying his aim. The trigger was cool beneath his finger as he squeezed it.
CRACK.
The rifle jerked against his shoulder. Downrange, the French soldier staggered, his body twisting as the small-caliber round punched into his chest. But he did not fall. Instead, he let out a ragged gasp, gripping at his wound, blood seeping through his uniform.
Hans cursed under his breath. The damn needle rifle, though reliable, lacked stopping power. The Frenchman, despite his wound, reached for his rifle, determined to fight on. In rage Hans then yelled.
"Shoot! Keep firing!"
Then a nearby Prussian soldier, seeing Hans' failed kill, took aim and fired. And to Hans's surprise, the second shot struck true, sending the Frenchman crumpling to the ground.
But there was no time to revel in the small victory.
More war cries erupted from across the river as another wave of French soldiers emerged from the buildings, their Chassepots unleashing a deadly barrage. A Prussian beside Hans let out a strangled cry as a round struck him in the throat, blood gurgling from his mouth as he collapsed against the barricade. Another soldier's arm was nearly torn off, the ragged wound exposing muscle and shattered bone.
The difference in firepower was undeniable. The Chassepot's range and rate of fire outmatched the Prussian needle rifle. While Hans and his men could only load and fire slowly, the French poured lead into them like a relentless storm.
Hans gritted his teeth, working the bolt of his rifle. Another cartridge, another shot. He had no choice but to keep fighting.
And then as he stepped out of cover to take aim again, he felt it—
A deafening THUMP against his chest.
For a moment, he felt nothing. Just a dull impact, like being struck by a hammer. Then came the burning.
Hans' breath hitched as his strength drained from him. His knees buckled, and the world seemed to tilt as he collapsed backward onto the cobblestones. His rifle slipped from his grasp, the polished wood and steel clattering beside him.
Above him, the sky stretched endlessly, a pale blue canvas smeared with drifting clouds. The battle sounds grew distant, as if submerged beneath water.
Through fading vision, he saw his men still fighting, still holding the line. Somewhere among them was his brother, First Lieutenant Hermann Von Schmitt.
At least the regiment was in good hands.
A weak smile tugged at Hans's lips as he lay motionless, the cries of war fading into silence, as his vision slowly began to fade.
Now Hans could barely register the sounds around him, the sound of boots rushing toward him over the din of battle. His world was fading, his breath shallow, his body numb. Only the warmth of his own blood pooling beneath him confirmed that he was still, for now, alive.
Then, through his dimming vision, a familiar face appeared—his brother, Hermann. The First Lieutenant knelt beside him, his eyes wide with sorrow, his hands pressing desperately against the wound in Hans' chest.
"Stay with me, brother," Hermann murmured, voice trembling. His fingers, slick with blood, tried in vain to stanch the flow. But Hans could already feel it—his body no longer responding, the numbness creeping upward.
Hans wanted to speak, to reassure him, but the words wouldn't come.
Then, suddenly, two small figures appeared at his side. Two girls—both barely past the age of six, the time when such girls should be starting school. Their clothes were those of boys, military in nature just as he himself as a young boy liked to dress as, yet they were clearly girls and their entire presence felt so strangely out of place amidst all the carnage of war.
His kind brother, clearly worried for their safety tried to shoo them away, his voice sharp and serious as he did so. "Get back! This is no place for—"
But one of them, so serious looking for such a cute little thing, she didn't flinch. She knelt beside Hans, determined as she fiercely slapped Hermann's hand's away and seemingly began to argue. While the more girly and frightened looking of the two placed her tiny hands upon his bloodied chest.
But now Hans could barely even feel her touch. The world was slipping away from him, his senses dulling. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to fate.
And then, suddenly a warmth unlike anything he had ever before felt came upon him.
Not the scorching heat of fever, nor the painful burning of his wound, but a warmth so gentle, so comforting, it reminded him of childhood—of being cradled in his mother's arms.
A blinding light filled his vision, yet it did not sting his eyes. In that radiance, he saw something impossible—a great land of white shores, golden fields stretching beyond sight, and at its center, a brilliant city of ivory and gold. And there he saw it, a towering spire of light rose from the cities heart, its glow, like a lighthouses light, turning slowly, casting its radiance upon him.
But what was it? A vision? A dream? Heaven?
Then, he saw himself—not as he was, but as he could have been. A towering warrior, strong and unscarred, with short golden hair and piercing blue eyes. His body was powerful, unmarred by age or hardship. A Viking of legend, the warrior he had always longed to be.
The vision flickered. He gasped.
"Big brother, I did it!" a sweet, youthful voice rang out.
"Don't shout it out loud!" another voice, annoyed yet playful, scolded. "It's supposed to be a secret! And you didn't let me try again! Ugh, whatever—let's help that guy next."
Hans blinked. The sky returned above him—clouded, gray, pierced by the flashes of musket fire. He felt air rush into his lungs. A deep, full breath. His chest no longer burned. The pain was gone.
He turned his head, catching sight of the two girls running past him, heading toward another wounded soldier. Even in his daze, something felt strange—why were they dressed as boys?
A firm grip shook his shoulder. "Hans—are you…?"
Hermann's voice was unsteady, his eyes wide with shock.
Hans followed his brother's gaze, looking down at himself. His uniform was torn, his chest still stained with blood. There—right where the bullet had struck—his shirt bore a gaping hole, evidence of the wound that should have ended his life.
And yet… his skin was smooth. Unblemished. Not even a scar remained.
His hands trembled as he touched his chest. Beneath the cloth, his heartbeat was strong. Alive.
A pool of blood still lay beneath him—his blood. But he was whole.
"What… what is this?" Hermann whispered. "How is this possible?"
Hans had no answer. Was this death? A dream? Some divine intervention? However the battle raging around him was quick to remind him that, whatever this was, it wasn't over.
The crack of gunfire, the sharp whistle of bullets overhead, the cries of men—it all came rushing back.
His men were still fighting. Dying.
Whatever had happened to him, he could not afford to waste another second. Dream or not, his duty remained.
Hans grabbed his fallen rifle, pushing himself to one knee. The weight of the weapon in his hands was real. The smell of gunpowder was real. The screams of war were real.
He turned to Hermann and gave him a smirk. "Don't worry, Lieutenant," he said, his voice steady. "No single French bullet is going to stop me."
And with that, he rose, standing once more upon the bloodstained cobblestones, ready to fight again.
But as Hans stood up, something strange caught his eye. To his right, another soldier was staring blankly at his own unblemished chest, touching his stomach as if expecting to feel the wound that had surely been there. And to his left, near where the twin girls had just stood, yet another man sat up, looking around with dazed eyes.
Then a voice called out from behind him—confused, hesitant, full of disbelief.
"Captain… what's going on? Where are we? Is this the afterlife?"
Hans and his brother turned toward the voice, and both froze mid-motion.
The man standing there—he knew that face. Johann. One of their oldest comrades. The man had been in his late forties, with a balding crown, wiry gray strands curling around his temples, sun-damaged skin, and the weathered look of a man who had spent decades under hard labor and harder sun. Hans had seen Johann fall. He was certain he'd been dead.
But now…
Johann's face was younger. His skin was tighter, no longer lined by deep wrinkles. His once dull brown hair, though still thin and balding in the center, now looked healthy and full of color. The sag beneath his eyes had vanished, and instead of looking broken by time, he looked tough—maybe even sharp. Like a man just brushing into his late thirties.
Hans stared, speechless.
But the surreal calm shattered in a heartbeat.
"They're coming down the center! Don't let them cross no matter what! Give them hell!"
A shout rang out from down the line—one of Hans' lieutenants, pointing toward the bridge. Hans whipped his head around.
The French.
Charging again.
They looked like the very same enemies from before—using the same formations again as they charged, same desperation. And yet, the bodies still littered the bridge. No these weren't the same enemies but just another wave of them, they were coming again. For Han's it was even more proof that this was the same battle still, the same war that he had thought he was about to die in, he was indeed still alive and breathing.
Crouching down, He grabbed the rifle lying beside Johann and pressed it into the man's hands.
"I don't know what's going on here," he said, eyes burning with fire, "but it seems that God is with us. Now get back to the fight, soldier."
Johann blinked, nodded, and without another word, fell back into step like a man reborn.
Hans turned and sprinted back toward the barricade.
The noise of gunfire and shouts rang in his ears, and without waiting for another cue, he raised his rifle. His voice thundered above the chaos, carried by defiance and faith.
"Men, send these Catholic French dogs to hell! God's with us Protestants! Fire! Fire!"
The line roared in response, and the guns sang once more.
Lili felt a twinge of sadness as she moved from one injured man to the next. Not for the wounded—those, she could help—but for the Sargent.
She had hoped he would share in the joy she felt from helping people, from mending broken bodies and easing pain. But instead, his face was creased with worry. His eyes constantly darted around, as if expecting someone to shout, to accuse, to discover them.
Originally, the Sargent had planned to blend in, to use a little magic here and there while pretending to be just another field medic. But for some reason, these "spiky helmet" men—strange soldiers with their nonexistent armour and funny-looking helmets—had almost nothing to work with. No morphine, no proper gauze, barely even decent bandages. Some had scraps of cloth or small bottles of herbal tonics, but nothing that could mask what their magic was truly doing—restoring limbs, regrowing tissue, stitching together shredded bodies with light and willpower.
So the Sargent had given up on hiding it. She healed them out in the open, straight-faced and calm, as though what she was doing was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe, if they acted like it wasn't strange, no one would question it.
But that illusion was quickly shattered once the spiky helmet men began shouting praises to God and throwing themselves into battle with a renewed, almost fanatical vigor. Lili could see it on her Sargent's face: they'd been noticed.
Still, they pressed on, weaving through broken streets and into shell-torn buildings. Wherever wounded soldiers groaned or cried out, they came. It was on the second floor of one such building that they were halted.
At the top of the staircase stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, his mustache twitching with confusion as he glared down at them.
"What in Christ's holy name are you girls doing here?" he barked. "Go home. This is no place for children—especially not girls."
The Sargent stepped forward without hesitation, squaring up to the much larger man with an air of practiced authority.
"Step aside, soldier," she said firmly, "we're on a highly classified mission from fleet command, testing the Imperium's new healing ordnances. And I'm a boy, alright? This time I'll forgive the mistake, but don't let it happen again."
The man blinked, clearly even more confused. "Huh? What the hell are you talkin' about?"
But before he could finish the thought, Lili, who had been peeking over the Sargent's shoulder, spotted two men slumped in the corner near a blown-out doorway. They looked so small and helpless to her—grown men, yes, but broken and afraid, the way little birds looked when their wings were bent.
Without a second thought, Lili darted forward. She slipped beneath the Sargent's arm and between the legs of the towering man with a roll and a jump.
"What the—hey!" the man shouted, whirling around.
The floor was chaos. Bullets snapped through shattered windows, and soldiers hugged the walls, ducked behind broken furniture, peeking out only to return fire. Eyes locked on Lili as she dashed through.
"Who the hell is that?!"
One soldier yelled, but Lili didn't stop. Her breath was fast and light, her heart full. She dropped to her knees before the two groaning men, laid her small hands on them, and let the healing flow.
Behind her, the big man tried to move forward, but the Sargent had tackled his leg, gripping it like a determined little monkey. The man struggled to shake her off, but with a rifle in one hand and confusion in the other, he barely managed a few stomps.
"Damn brats! What are you doing?!"
But Lili had already finished. With a shimmer of pure white light and a gasp from the men, their wounds closed, pain vanished, and strength returned. That made nine. Nine soldiers she and the Sargent had saved. It was exhausting work—but it filled her with a deep, radiant joy. She couldn't help but smile.
Bouncing back to her feet, she turned and giggled as she skipped past the Sargent and the sputtering man, yelling over her shoulder.
"Come on, big brother Jen! Let's go see the other buildings, hihihi!"
The Sargent, seeing her chance, let go of the man's leg and darted after Lili, leaving the soldier behind sputtering.
"Damn crazy kids!"
But even as their footsteps vanished down the stairs, the man's attention was caught again—this time by the wide-eyed expressions of two of his recently wounded comrades, now standing, bewildered, and very much alive.
One of them stared at his hands, then at the blood-soaked floor beneath where he'd been. He looked up and asked softly, "What happened, Sarge? I thought I died… Is this the afterlife?"
The man, a sergeant himself stood there silently for a moment, trying to piece together something that made sense. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing quite fit.
****
Lili and the Sargent paid little mind to the growing confusion—or the religious fervor—that now simmered like wildfire among the Prussian soldiers. There was no time to worry about that. They had a mission, and the wounded kept coming.
From house to house they moved, nimble and relentless. Along narrow alleyways and behind makeshift barricades, past shattered glass and bodies covered with coats as crude burial shrouds. They ducked beneath low doorways and climbed over rubble, occasionally slipping through smaller fortifications that blocked off side streets near the river. Everywhere they went, they found more soldiers in pain, some barely clinging to life.
And as always, the Sargent would step in when needed—whether it was to cause a distraction, speak authoritatively to confused men, or flat-out lie with the casual confidence of someone who'd made it a habit. Meanwhile, Lili remained focused on the real task: the healing.
It wasn't until they made a full loop—circling back to the main barricade that faced the bridge—that they saw again the familiar, grim sight of more wounded lying prone on the street stained with blood. Two of them this time. One groaning quietly with his hand clutched over his stomach, the other unconscious with a leg bent the wrong way.
"For God's sake, can't they not get themselves shot for a while?" the Sargent muttered in irritation as they rushed to help.
But this time, the scene was different.
There was no one shouting at them, no arms raised in alarm at their coming, no questions asked. The soldiers who watched them work did so silently, their expressions slack with awe. They looked like children at a zoo, watching something beautiful and alien beyond understanding.
The Sargent, naturally, took issue with that too.
"What sort of soldiers are you?" she snapped, her voice carrying like a whip crack over the barricade. "Gawking at us like we're circus animals while your enemies are trying to crush you underfoot? Do you want to lose your land? Your homes? Your women? Your lives? What happened to your love for the Imperium, huh?"
There was a beat of silence.
Lili noticed a few of the men shift, frowning in confusion at that last part—the Imperium?—but none spoke up. It was almost as if they didn't know what it was that the Sargent spoke of, what the Imperium was. Or maybe they were just too relieved by the healing to hear the words clearly, after all everyone surely knew what the Imperium was. Right?
Then one man raised his rifle and shouted, "Yeah! God's with us, men! God is with us!"
A dozen voices followed.
"Long live the Kaiser!"
"Death to the French!"
"We fight with God at our side!"
The cheering swelled, but Sargent wasn't smiling. Her sharp eyes had noticed something troubling as the men around them reloaded.
Their fingers dipped into their ammo pouches—and came up nearly empty. Two of the soldiers shared a single pouch between them. Another dumped his pouch upside down and cursed at the single bullet that rolled out.
Lili noticed it too. And this time, even her youthful optimism faltered.
There was no mistaking it now: these men were running out of ammunition. And the enemy still had numbers. It was no wonder the spiky helmet soldiers looked so ragged and desperate. They were running on fumes, held together by sheer will, devotion, and now—maybe—some kind of miracle.
But as Lili glanced around the battlefield again, she felt something else nagging at her, something wrong.
It wasn't just the ammo. It was everything.
There were no grenades. No mortars. No artillery shells. No rapid fire heavy guns. Not even magazines. Every rifle was single-shot. Some men had odd-looking sidearms strapped to their belts, bulky and heavy like something from a museum. But that was it.
No mechs. No drones. No powered armor. No Imperial marks of identification, no familiar banners, no support gear. It was all too… primitive.
She turned to the Sargent and whispered, "Big brother Jen… where are we?"
The Sargent looked at her for a moment, then back at the soldiers still yelling and praising around them. Her face didn't answer. But her silence spoke volumes.
Wherever this was, it wasn't part of the Imperium.
And whatever battle they'd walked into… it wasn't one they were supposed to be in.
****
The thunder of boots shook the air.
From across the bridge, like a black tide crashing upon the river's edge, they came. A mass of French soldiers—some hundred, maybe two—roared forward as one, their cries mixing into a monstrous war shout that echoed through the ruined town. Bayonets gleamed like fangs in the morning sun, fixed atop long rifles that jutted forward with intent to kill.
Some stopped mid-bridge, dropped to a knee, and fired their rifles at the Prussian positions. Others charged past them in reckless fury, screaming like madmen as they sought the barricade directly. The smoke of black powder drifted in the air like a stormcloud, casting shadows on the broken stone below.
But they were not unopposed.
Gunfire cracked from every direction. From windows of half-collapsed homes, from second-story ruins, from behind overturned carts and sandbags. The Prussians had dug themselves into the northern end of the town like ticks in stone, and now they opened fire with ruthless precision.
Dozens of Frenchmen dropped before they even reached the barricade—limbs flailing, torsos twisting in unnatural angles, heads snapping back in a spray of red mist. The momentum of the charge carried others over their fallen comrades, trampling the dead beneath boots soaked in blood. Still they came.
And then they hit the barricade.
A tangled wall of chairs, furniture, barrels, and beams stood between them and the enemy, but it may as well have been a wall of fire and steel. French rifles cracked, and bayonets thrust, but the Prussians atop the barricade answered with equal violence—if not more.
There was no room for honor here.
Men screamed as bayonets plunged into soft flesh. One French soldier reached the top only for a Prussian blade to stab him clean through the stomach. He gargled out a breath, blood bubbling from his lips, and then was thrown down into the mud like trash.
Another climbed halfway only for his throat to be opened by a bayonet slash, his eyes wide with disbelief as he tumbled back, clutching the hole that poured red between his fingers.
It was chaos. Pure, screaming, bone-crunching chaos.
The air was filled with the sounds of agony—groans, gasps, and the wet slap of steel hitting meat. Blood pooled in rivulets beneath the barricade. Flesh was torn open. Bones were shattered. Men cursed and prayed and wept in equal measure, their cries swallowed by the roar of war.
But then… the French began to notice something strange.
One soldier lunged forward, skewering a Prussian clean through the shoulder. The man collapsed with a scream, writhing as blood poured from his wound.
But he didn't stay down.
A moment later, he was rising again—gritting his teeth, grabbing his rifle, and shoving the Frenchman back with the stock before firing point blank into his chest.
Another Prussian was shot through the thigh and went limp behind the barricade. But just seconds later, he stood once more and returned to the line, limping only slightly, his eyes full of fire.
Again and again, the same thing. Prussians who should have died… didn't. They bled, they fell—but then they got back up, stronger than before.
The French faltered. Fear flickered in their eyes.
And that's when they saw them.
Behind the barricade—just barely visible between the legs of soldiers and the cracks in the wooden wall—were two figures. Small. Childlike. Twin girls.
Their hair was long and impossibly blonde, flowing like golden silk down their backs. Their eyes, wide and deep blue like the sea, glowed faintly with unnatural calm. Their petite hands glimmered with soft light as they touched fallen men, each touch weaving torn flesh back together, knitting bone and sinew like thread through fabric.
They looked like angels. Or devils.
The girls made no effort to hide what they were doing. One crouched calmly by a soldier's side, her fingers glowing as she closed a gunshot wound in his chest. The other stood defiant, staring directly at the Frenchmen who tried to climb the barricade.
As if daring them to try.
A French soldier locked eyes with her. For just a heartbeat, he hesitated—his rifle raised, his bayonet trembling. But that heartbeat was all the Prussians needed. A shot rang out. His hat flew off his head, and his body dropped limply to the ground.
The girls didn't flinch.
For each Prussian who fell, they were there. Always just in time. Always waiting.
And to the French—already exhausted, already dying—it was a nightmare.
"They don't die!" one of them screamed.
"God have mercy, they don't fucking die!"
Panic rippled through the French ranks like poison in the bloodstream. What had started as a charge of glory had become a slaughterhouse. They clawed at the barricade, desperate to break through, only to be met by cold steel and unwavering eyes—both from the soldiers and the little girls behind them.
And now, with nowhere to retreat and no more courage to spend, the charge began to break.
One by one, the French turned and ran—some limping, some screaming, some dragging the dead. The bridge became slick with blood and bodies. The Prussians roared in triumph, standing atop the barricade like wolves on a hill of corpses.
And behind them, the two girls—tired, stained in blood, and still so strangely serene—watched in silence, ready to begin healing again.
Because this battle wasn't over yet.
Not even close.