"Kill them all!" Hermann shouted, raising his submachine gun toward his comrades.
Bullets tore through the air, ripping into the advancing French soldiers. Bodies collapsed onto the wet grass, uniforms darkening almost instantly.
A scream erupted beside him.
"Ah!"
Hermann ducked instinctively behind the military truck they had arrived in.
Michael.
A stray bullet had struck him square in the chest. His torso rose and fell erratically, each breath shorter than the last. With it came horrifying screams.
"AHHH!"
"Come on, Michael." Hermann pressed his lips together. "First the Führer, and now you? These bastards won't kill you too!"
Rage flooded him. Without thinking, Hermann grabbed Michael's body and hoisted him onto his shoulder. The screaming continued, but it no longer reached him. His mind was somewhere else entirely. Adrenaline surged through his body, drowning out pain, fear, everything.
Then he ran.
Unbelievably fast, despite carrying nearly twice his own weight. Shots cracked behind him, bullets snapping through the air, but none found their mark. He reached the hill at last, sliding down its slope and vanishing from enemy fire.
"Follow them!" a French officer shouted.
Dozens of soldiers moved toward the hill, their advance hesitant, almost unwilling.
Then the ground began to vibrate beneath their feet.
At first it was subtle. Barely noticeable. Then it grew stronger. Strong enough that they stopped, exchanging terrified glances. From afar, the officer shouted again, furious and confused. The soldiers shook their heads frantically.
They knew that feeling.
Suddenly, they turned and ran.
Behind them, emerging from the hill, long gun barrels revealed themselves. Steel hulls followed, relentless and fast.
Now the officer understood.
"Fuck," he muttered. "Did they not stop their offensive?"
He turned to flee as well. He took one step.
Then the ground vanished beneath him.
Not the ground.
His legs.
Below his knees there was nothing left but shredded cloth. The rest lay scattered in a smoking crater beneath him.
The officer did not even have time to scream.
Dozens of Panzer IV thundered across the grassland, their machine guns and tracks erasing any remaining resistance. Bodies were crushed into the mud, gunfire ripping through those still moving.
Yet somehow, one man managed to evade the tanks.
Limping, stumbling, he fled toward a nearby patch of forest.
With a loud metallic clack, a Panzer's turret hatch burst open. An officer rose from within, calm amid the chaos. He closed his left eye and raised his pistol.
"Mhm," he murmured.
The shot rang out.
The fleeing soldier collapsed lifelessly into the grass.
"Good shot, Generalmajor!" a voice shouted from inside the tank.
"I learned from the best," the German general replied, still looking down at the fallen body.
"Yourself?" the driver joked.
"The Führer," the man answered quietly. "The new one."
Hasso exhaled slowly. It had not been long since he and Paul had last parted, yet it felt like a lifetime ago.
He climbed out of the tank and walked toward the hill, where Hermann stood, still breathing heavily.
"What you did was brave, soldier," Hasso said, nodding as he extended his hand.
Hermann straightened instantly and snapped into a salute before eagerly grasping it.
"Thank you, sir. But it was my duty."
"Duty only goes so far," Hasso replied. "What you showed today was courage. In about five minutes, a convoy of trucks will pass through here. They'll treat you and your friend."
"Thank you, sir," Hermann said.
"Oh, and if you're interested," Hasso added, pulling a small card from his coat and handing it to him.
Hermann studied the card with evident curiosity, his fingers tightening slightly around it. Before he could say anything more, Hasso had already turned away, retreating toward the armored column.
Hermann watched him disappear, then looked down at Michael lying beside him.
"Come on now," he said softly, shaking him gently.
French Temporary Military Headquarters
"Have you lost your mind?!" President Lebrun shouted, panting heavily. "You want to surrender?!"
"It is the only option," General Weygand murmured, barely audible.
Lebrun covered his face with his hands, then sat down, shaking his head.
"You heard what he said," Lebrun whispered.
"Sorry?" Weygand asked, not having heard the words properly, or perhaps not wanting to understand them.
"YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID!" Lebrun screamed, his voice cracking with fear, his eyes trembling with terror. "He hunts me. He will kill me, he will kill you, everyone we know. That devil."
Weygand swallowed hard, his gaze drifting to the military map spread across the table.
"Is France truly lost?" he whispered, his eyes fixed on a precise point.
"The gold," Lebrun suddenly said, rising from his chair and looking at the same location Weygand was staring at.
"We will have to ship it across the Mediterranean. There is no other way. Access to the Atlantic is fleeting. The convoy is already on its way to Marseille," Weygand answered.
"Marseille," Lebrun repeated quietly. "Fine, General. We will surrender, if that is your conclusion." His eyes were distant, unable to bear the weight of his decision. "The Germans may halt their advance because of it, giving us enough time to move the gold and… ourselves out of the country."
Weygand studied Lebrun for a moment before sighing.
"I will remain."
"You will… what?" Lebrun asked, completely dumbfounded. "Do you not value your life?"
"I value my honor more," Weygand shot back, giving Lebrun a dismissive look. "Besides, if everyone flees, there must be someone left to sign the agreement."
Lebrun shook his head.
"Fool," he muttered, before leaving through the metal double doors.
With that brief exchange between two ordinary men, the fate of an entire nation was effectively sealed. France had lost the war against Germany, blatantly and shamefully. Its defeat would reshape the balance of power in Europe and the world. Once a hegemon, home to mighty warriors and warlords like Napoleon, France now stood undoubtedly at the lowest point of its history.
France kneels, while Germany continues its march. The same was true for Generalmajor Hasso von Manteuffel, who had taken command of the 8th Panzer Division and now stood over a military map. The terrain felt strangely familiar...
"The French gold must be transported somewhere through this area. It cannot be past this point," Hasso explained to Oberst Leichthofer, who had also been promoted only recently.
Leichthofer nodded, glancing at his watch.
"How much longer?" he asked.
"Ten minutes," Hasso replied. "Let the engines cool down a bit, but do not let them get cold. Let the men rest, but do not let them get sleepy."
Leichthofer nodded again as Hasso turned and walked toward the exit of the tent.
"Still, we must remain vigilant," Hasso said, turning slightly. "We are deep behind enemy lines. Even if the enemy is scattered and their morale shattered, we must never let our guard down."
A faint smile crossed his face as he remembered a conversation he once had with Paul back in Spain. One sentence in particular had stayed with him ever since...
Berlin, Conference Room
"Do not let your guard down, Generals," Paul said coldly, rising slowly from his seat.
"Predators do not relax just because the prey is wounded. That is when the prey is most dangerous, because it has nothing left to lose."
Paul's gaze moved across the circle of officers.
"No. A predator bites down even harder, taking away every last shred of hope."
-------------------------------------
Thank you all for the support! I appreciate every Power Stone, comment, and review.