The Gate's heartbeat now echoed over all of Central Europe. Each pulse sent waves of atmospheric distortion, and the skies over Prague had turned permanently red. From within the Gate, shadows were no longer just whispers—they had begun hunting. Czechia, already fractured, had fully imploded.
In the capital, masked soldiers marched beneath a new banner: a black iron crown on a crimson field. Their leader, known only as Vladan, broadcasted a declaration to all remaining radio frequencies:
"The Age of Weak Nations is over. The Iron Crown rises. And with it, a new empire of blood and discipline. Austria and Germany will kneel—or burn."
Reports came flooding in: Czech loyalists hunted down. War beasts emerging from Gate fragments. And, worst of all, awakened officers from the Iron Crown wielding strange, Gate-altered abilities—monstrous mutations fed by sacrifice and hate.
Command Town Oberfeld – Strategic Chamber
Hans stood before the strategy table, eyes locked on the frontline markers. His 10,000 soldiers were organized and disciplined. But unrest was growing even here. Officers had begun choosing sides.
Viktor, the storm-born tactician, wanted to strike first. "Let me lead the 3rd and 5th divisions to the border. We raze their scouts and burn their standards."
Franz, sharp-minded and ruthless, opposed direct conflict. "We use this moment to assassinate Iron Crown leaders. Let the rot take them from within."
Gertrude, ever-watching, whispered coldly: "Our problem isn't just Prague. The others are watching us. Otto is forming his own loyalist clique."
Otto, the idealist, called for peace and civilian support. "If we fall into brutality, we become like them. Oberfeld must be a beacon, not a sword."
And Hans? He stood silent. Until the choice was made.
Northern Forests – Iron Crown Advance
The enemy moved faster than expected. Czechian traitor units surged into old Austrian ruins, slaughtering anyone resisting. In the misted forests, entire villages went silent overnight.
Hans rode out with the Vanguard.
Not Viktor. Not Franz. Himself.
He donned a darkened greatcoat, scarlet-trimmed. A black officer's sword at his hip. And a sidearm carved with the crest of his ancestors. The mission was to repel the Iron Crown's vanguard near the Moravian border.
The first battle was chaos. Gate-warped soldiers fought like demons. Their blood was black. Their screams inhuman. Yet Hans didn't falter.
In the thick of melee, he took a wound—a curved blade slicing from cheekbone to jaw.
His blood painted the snow. But his sword did not stop.
When the sun rose, the vanguard had broken. And Hans stood, scarred and reborn.
The men who saw him no longer called him just an Officer. They called him Commander Hans of Oberfeld.
The scar made it real.
Later that Night – Within the Throne Crypt
Deep beneath the Command Hall, two phantoms waited.
Colonel Engelhardt stood tall in his old armor, voice like thunder: "Now you wear the mark. Now they will follow."
Director Albrecht, ever sly, flicked ash from his ghostlight cigarette. "But beware, boy. A scar commands respect. But it also paints a target."
Hans stepped forward. "What now?"
Engelhardt grinned. "Now, you show the world what kind of empire you intend to build."
Albrecht's eyes flashed. "And whether it's ruled by steel… or by ghosts."
Outside, the winds carried the banners of new warlords. From the north, the Iron Crown marched again. And in the distance, rumors stirred:
A fascist uprising in southern Czechia—the Black Regiment, worshippers of the Gate.
A new force in Turkey led by a mysterious awakened named Mehmed, resisting both monsters and human tyrants.
American, Dutch, Russian, and Swedish agents arriving in Geneva, desperate for alliances.
The world was fracturing. And Hans had drawn his first true line in the snow.