Berlin - July 17, 1936
I got up from the desk, the map still burned into my mind. Poland in the middle. The Soviet Union breathing down my neck. France and Britain glaring like they know the younger brother is about to cause trouble. Spain tearing itself in half. And above all… Germany stuck in the center.
Deep breath.
Time to stop acting like a tourist in a war-themed isekai and start pretending I'm… him.
Mission impossible, sure. But getting poisoned by some angry Nazi because I forgot to pose for a propaganda photo wasn't exactly the endgame I had in mind. Honestly, I didn't remember his voice being so deep either. Maybe that's just his speech voice? Who knows.
Otto had gone off to summon available generals. The old man moved like he was made of wax and caffeine - painfully slow, but terrifyingly precise. A butler for the apocalypse.
While waiting, I skimmed through more reports. The German economy looked strong, but it was basically a house of cards built on military spending and blind faith that no one would slam the brakes.
Spoiler alert: they absolutely would.
Knock knock.
Otto appeared - silent as death - followed by two generals. Impeccable uniforms, shiny medals, expressions like they breakfast on nails.
"Mein Führer," Otto nodded slightly. "Generals Fromm and Blomberg, as requested."
Blomberg, I remembered. Minister of War. Conservative, sycophant, not the brightest. Fromm, more technical, looked like the kind of guy who trusted rulers over ideology. Good. My obsessive hours of studying Germany's timeline were finally paying off.
"Generals," I greeted, standing up. "We need to talk."
They sat. Blomberg inhaled like he was about to deliver a grand speech. I cut him off.
"Straight to the point. I want the current status of our divisions in the Rhineland, Luftwaffe readiness, and how fast we can mobilize real war production. No parades. No propaganda. Just numbers."
Silence.
Fromm blinked. Blomberg stared like I just announced plans to invade Mars.
"Mein Führer… there are no concrete plans for conflict at this moment. The Rhineland's remilitarization already positioned us as a deterrent. You want… offensive planning?"
"No. I want preparation. Germany has to be ready. It's us against the world."
Fromm nodded cautiously. Blomberg squirmed in his seat.
"There's a proposal to reorganize the Panzer divisions, but funding is still shifting. If you wish, I can prepare a full report in 48 hours."
"Make it 24. I want clarity. I want to know who can fight, who can march, and who trips over their own boots."
God, I have way too much power. One order, and these two thank me for humiliating them with efficiency.
Blomberg swallowed a compliment to the old Hitler that never made it past his throat. Fromm simply confirmed:
"Yes, mein Führer."
Otto reappeared with a silver tray - coffee. I watched him pour it with surgical precision. This man was the Swiss clock of the Third Reich.
"Thank you, Otto."
"Anything else, mein Führer?"
"Yes. Tell Goebbels I want the radio broadcasts from the last week. Call Schacht. I want to see where every single Reichsmark is invested. Also… bring me my schedule for this week."
Otto bowed, vanishing like a ghost. Something about him unnerved me. Maybe the perfectionism. Something wasn't right…
Well, I better get used to the fact that I'm Hitler now. What does he even do all day? Just sign papers nonstop?
Apparently, yes.
I dozed off, hoping I'd wake up back in my normal life. Or not. Maybe this is better. No dreams - or maybe I dreamed and forgot. Or worse… maybe I kept Hitler's body, and he's trapped in my dreams.
Some time passed. I partially recovered. Cosmic reincarnation drains more energy than you'd think.
Knock knock.
Otto again. Composure, Caio.
"Mein Führer, I've spoken to Goebbels. Schacht is in Cologne, arriving tomorrow. I also have your schedule and some documents to sign."
Papers. Just like I feared. I really need a trustworthy assistant. Someone who won't accidentally sign off on massacres.
"Danke. You may leave."
Otto left, practically marching. Marching… Marchand? Why does that name give me weird vibes?
I looked at the papers.
First one - Gestapo report. "French spy captured."
That's it? One line? And I'm supposed to decide if this guy lives, dies, or rots in a cell until his teeth fall out? God, this isn't a game. Or maybe it is. Just… nightmare mode.
Well, if I do nothing, it might backfire directly on me. Better to act.
I scribbled: Solitary confinement. At least for now. Small mercy.
Second paper? Screw that, my brain was running at the speed of a Soviet train with the flu. I collapsed onto the dictator's perfectly square bed. Everything screamed luxury. Never thought I'd enjoy these perks - albeit cursed ones.
4:00 AM
More cursed knocking.
I woke with a splitting headache and the taste of moldy paper in my mouth.
How the hell does someone govern with this much nausea?
"Mein Führer, are you awake?"
With you knocking like a woodpecker on steroids? Obviously.
"Yes, Otto. Come in."
Otto entered, gloved hands adjusting with three precise tugs - like prepping a corpse for autopsy.
"Everything is ready for your trip to meet Goebbels and Schacht."
Trip? Finally leaving SS headquarters? No more Himmler breathing down my neck? Small blessings.
"Understood, Otto. Wait outside."
I stood. Robotic. Moving with the enthusiasm of a DMV worker on a rainy Monday.
The bed - firm, military. The pillow - hard, the sheets - flawless. Of course, the dictator sleeps as if always ready for war.
I dressed in the classic Hitler uniform - plain suit. Took a shower. Hesitated brushing the teeth. I mean… Hitler's teeth. Disgusting. But now… technically mine. Gross.
Ready, I stepped into the hallway.
Otto stood there, frozen like a deactivated android. He led me outside. Finally, breathing fresh air again. Technically, I could leave anytime - but imagine Hitler showing up unannounced at Starbucks. Yeah, no.
We reached the car - probably armored. Airport bound, maybe?
But fate hates me.
Himmler was waiting.
"Heil Hitler," he greeted, with that creepy executioner's smile, dressed in SS black, eyes drilling into me. Suspicious? Probably.
Things were going well… until I realized I was stuck in a car with Himmler.
I climbed in. Four seats. Otto driving. Another butler - Heinz Linge - next to him. In the back: me, and… Himmler.
Berlin drifted past the windows. I kept quiet, but of course, Himmler spoke first.
"You seem… more restrained lately, mein Führer. Something from your morning meditation?"
Meditation? Is that code for "you're acting weird"?
"Restraint is a virtue when thinking long-term."
The car sped up. The window reflected our faces. For a second, swear to God, I saw the mall security guard from my old job. Same sweaty forehead, same scowl. Blinked. Gone.
Otto glanced at me through the rearview mirror.
"Change of plans, mein Führer. Himmler requested a stop before your meeting with Goebbels."
Of course, he did. Of course, no one told me. Of course, it's not for tea and cookies.
Himmler smiled again. This time - teeth. That horror-movie smile right before the lights flicker.
The game had officially begun. And I wasn't sure if I was a player, a pawn… or the entire damn board.
To be continued…