"Adolf Kriegman. The new Chancellor—he was appointed yesterday," Arka said, eyes meeting Nadya's with that calm tone of his.
"Adolf Kriegman… I wonder what kind of man he is," Nadya muttered to herself, her gaze drifting in thought.
Arka heard her, but acted like he didn't. Instead, he flipped the page of the newspaper, eyes focused, as if nothing was said
Yesterday in,
Berlin, Germany – 19 June, 1833
The skies above Berlin hung low, gray clouds creeping over the rooftops like watchful spirits. A cold breeze carried the scent of stone, iron, and wet soil. In the heart of the capital stood the grand Volkskrone Halle, a newly built structure of power — wide steps, towering stone columns, and the proud banners of the Proud German Union swaying in the wind, their black lion-and-sword symbol striking against red cloth.
Thousands had gathered in the square outside. Men with thick coats buttoned to the chin, women in shawls and long skirts, children peeking between legs or sitting atop their fathers' shoulders. The air buzzed with quiet tension. Some stood in respectful silence, others whispered.
Large black-and-white plate cameras were set up along the front lines, covered with dark cloths and manned by still photographers. Journalists held small notepads and charcoal pencils. In front of the stage, a tall iron microphone stood — bulky and riveted — its mesh head angled to catch every word that would mark the turning of an era.
On the stage stood two men.
Adolf Kriegman.
The people knew him already — not just by name, but by presence. He stood with his hands behind his back, back straight like a drawn blade. His coat was long, deep brown nearing black, with silver lining at the cuffs and collar. A red armband with the Proud German Union's crest was wrapped tightly around his left arm. His boots were polished, his black gloves unstained. No medals, no flashy colors — only quiet precision.
His face was calm, cold. Just thirty-five, but the weight in his expression made him look like he'd already buried a century behind him. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, and a faint scar ran under his right eye — never explained, never hidden. His eyes were pale gray, the kind that didn't blink much, and didn't look away when stared at.
Beside him stood President Wilhelm von Eisenmark, draped in a dark navy ceremonial coat, buttons shining in the dim light. His voice, seasoned and deep, rang out clearly into the microphone.
"Bürger des Deutschen Reiches,
[Citizens of the German Reich,]
Heute begehen wir keinen Abschluss – sondern einen Anfang.
[Today we do not mark an ending – but a beginning.]
In diesem neuen Zeitalter blicken wir nicht auf Könige. Wir blicken auf Führer.
[In this new era we do not look to kings. We look to leaders.]
Männer, die aus dem Volk steigen. Männer, die mit Stärke stehen, nicht mit Blut.
[Men who rise from among the people. Men who stand with strength, not with blood.]
Ich erkläre hiermit: Adolf Kriegman, Anführer der Stolzen Deutschen Union,
[I hereby declare: Adolf Kriegman, leader of the Proud German Union,]
Wird fortan als Kanzler des Deutschen Reiches dienen.
[Shall from this day forward serve as Chancellor of the German Reich.]"
The crowd erupted — not in chaotic cheer, but a deep, organized wave of applause, loud enough to shake the flags. A few camera flashes lit the platform in sharp bursts of white. Reporters leaned forward, scribbling notes. Others shouted questions that were ignored.
Kriegman stepped forward. Slowly.
He said nothing at first. He simply raised one gloved hand — not as a wave, but as command.
Silence fell again.
---
Kriegman stepped forward.
No words yet. Only the soft clink of his boots against the wooden stage.
He stopped before the microphone, adjusting nothing. His hands stayed behind his back.
He looked out — not with pride, not with ambition.
With something colder. Something still.
Then he spoke.
---
„Volk von Deutschland…"
[People of Germany…]
The voice wasn't loud. But it carried — clear, shaped like steel.
A few in the front shifted. One man lowered his cap respectfully.
„Zu lange habt ihr geschwiegen."
[Too long have you been silent.]
„Zu lange habt ihr gelitten – im Schatten von Kronen, in der Kälte fremder Hände."
[Too long have you suffered – in the shadow of crowns, in the cold of foreign hands.]
„Aber kein König steht mehr über euch."
[But no king stands above you now.]
Stillness. A boy leaned against his mother's side. A journalist scribbled quickly, lips tight.
„Heute… erhebt sich das Reich nicht wegen Blut – sondern wegen Willen."
[Today… the Reich rises not from blood – but from will.]
„Euer Wille."
[Your will.]
Someone near the back exhaled sharply, folding his arms. Another nodded once.
„Ich bin kein Monarch."
[I am no monarch.]
„Ich bin euer Schwert. Euer Schild. Euer Diener."
[I am your sword. Your shield. Your servant.]
A few scattered hands tightened around scarves and coat buttons. Not clapping — just listening. Just holding something.
„Die Stolze Deutsche Union wird nicht herrschen. Sie wird beschützen."
[The Proud German Union will not rule. It will protect.]
„Wir bauen ein Deutschland, das uns nicht mehr schämt…"
[We are building a Germany that no longer feels shame…]
„…sondern das mit Haltung steht – vor jedem."
[…but one that stands with dignity – before anyone.]
A low hum of agreement passed through a section of the square. Nothing loud. Just quiet breath shared by many.
„Unsere Sprache wird nicht mehr geflüstert."
[Our language will no longer be whispered.]
„Unsere Flagge nicht mehr versteckt."
[Our flag, no longer hidden.]
„Und unser Volk… wird nie wieder auf Knien leben."
[And our people… will never again live on their knees.]
The pause that followed was long.
Not broken by applause, not by chants. Just silence — thick, settled — as if no one dared speak yet.
Then, somewhere near the front, someone said it. Not shouted. Just said it, like a truth finally remembered:
„Lang lebe Deutschland."
[Long live Germany.]
A few others joined. Muted voices, one after another, threading through the wind.
The cameras clicked softly. Nothing flashy.
Kriegman stepped back from the microphone. He didn't wait for cheers. He didn't need them.
He had said what needed to be said.
And the people — they heard it.
---
Back in Petrogard, Arka leaned back into the chair, his thoughts drifting. His curiosity lingered on Adolf Kriegman. What kind of man is he, really? he wondered.
His gaze shifted to his hand, and he slowly pulled up his left sleeve, exposing a silver watch. The intricate patterns inside the watch were unlike anything he'd seen before, though he bought it.
It wasn't the kind of timepiece an ordinary salesman could afford, yet there it was—glinting with mystery. Nadya noticed the watch too. She knew it wasn't something a man like Arka would typically possess. But as a mere servant, she chose not to ask. It was clear to her that Arka wasn't just a salesman. There was something more to him, something he was either hiding or didn't wish to reveal.
"It's time for me to leave for work," Arka said, his voice calm as he picked up his hat and placed it back on his head. Standing, he grabbed his suitcase from beside the sofa and made his way toward the door.
Before stepping out, he paused for a moment. "I'm leaving," he said, not looking back, and then walked out.
"Have a good day, young master," Nadya said softly, bowing as he left.
---
I can't tell her how I got this rich outfit. It definitely wasn't the factory's doing. The manager is a decent man, but the owner... that royal noble family? They're nothing but corrupt scum.
The clothes and watch I wear—those were bought with the money I made. Money earned by killing my customers. Stealing all their wealth after blasting off their heads. But it wasn't for any grand purpose. I just developed a deep hatred for the nobles. The ones who hired assassins to murder my family. I know it wasn't a poor family—no, it was a rich, powerful noble family that had my family slaughtered.
I swear, I will find them. And when I do, I'll make sure their heads meet the same fate.
As Arka moved through the streets of Petrogard, the usual buzz of daily life surrounded him—hawkers shouting out their deals, pedestrians chatting, birds chirping overhead, and the steady clatter of horses' hooves on the cobbled roads.
He tilted his hat forward to shield his eyes from the harsh sunlight, casting a shadow over his face. The crowd was thick today; people bumped into him from all directions. But Arka didn't bother to argue. He simply kept moving, weaving through the masses with indifference.
Suddenly, a man running from the opposite side collided with him. The stranger's face was pale, eyes wide with panic.
Arka gave his usual, disarming smile. "Sir, what do you nee—"
BOOM!
Before the explosion could touch him, time froze. Arka leapt backward, positioning himself behind a wooden stall before time resumed.
And then—
The stranger's head exploded in a spray of blood and bone, collapsing mid-run. The sound echoed through the street.
Screams erupted. Panic spread like wildfire. All the laughter, all the conversations, vanished in an instant. Hawkers abandoned their stalls. Mothers pulled their children close. The street turned to chaos.
And before Arka could regain full composure—
BOOM!
A second explosion detonated roughly a hundred meters to his left. This one wasn't targeted. It was a bomb.
"Fuck! Terrorists," Arka muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
Everyone was running in every direction, screams and shouts rising like a storm. Panic swallowed the entire street.
Then another—
BOOM!
The explosion roared from Arka's right side.
"They aren't stopping," he muttered, scanning the chaos.
Then another—
BOOM!
A blast erupted directly ahead, barely a hundred meters away. Smoke and debris filled the air.
They're targeting all directions… this isn't random.
Then it hit him.
Three blasts—right, left, front, and now the left's the only one remaining…
His eyes widened.
That's where the apartment is.
Where Nadya is.
He spun around.
BOOM!
The fourth explosion shattered the sky behind him—in the direction of his home.
"NADYA!!" Arka screamed, his voice tearing through the chaos as smoke and dust swallowed the skyline.