It was hard to believe that barely a year and a half had passed since the Great War ca to an end. So much had happened in such a short ti that Bruno often felt as though he were being swept along by the changing seasons—too consud by action to fully grasp the pace of history as it unfolded around him.
And yet, here they were—the first Olympic Gas of the postwar era, truly about to begin.
Originally scheduled for 1916, the Sumr Olympics had been postponed due to the war, and then again during the chaos of the succession crisis. It was finally agreed they would be held in 1918, with the next gas delayed until 1922. But even before the date was confird, Bruno had already begun laying the foundations for what was to co. The stage was global. And Germany would be its center.
Whether militarily, economically, or—now—athletically, Bruno had worked tirelessly to position the Reich as the pre-eminent power of the modern world.
The Olympics were still in their infancy, not yet the worldwide spectacle they would beco in the century to follow. Few nations participated with true seriousness, and fewer still understood the potential of what these gas represented. But Bruno did.
He rembered a different ti—a different world—and he knew full well what the Gas could beco.
Not just a contest of strength and speed, but a display of soft power, a crucible where nations revealed their discipline, their vision, and their will to triumph through human excellence. It was a proving ground of prestige—where the champions of tomorrow were not forged in blood, but in fire and sweat and quiet sacrifice.
Of course, it was always the wealthiest and most powerful who produced the greatest athletes. Training, equipnt, nutrition, facilities—these mattered. Perhaps more than anyone liked to admit.
Bruno understood this, and unlike those who sought shortcuts through drugs or unethical science, he opted for sothing more difficult—but infinitely more effective. He had built a system. A nationwide engine for athletic perfection. Sothing akin to what the Soviets would later create in another life, but cleaner, sharper, and far more dangerous in its efficiency.
Germany's champions were n sculpted from marble—natural demigods molded through a doctrine of ruthless discipline, cutting-edge nutrition, and access to the most advanced training techniques ever devised.
They did not need drugs.They had order.
And now, with the Gas to be held in Berlin of all places, Bruno and the Kaiser had quietly spent years orchestrating sothing far beyond an athletic competition.
This would not be a celebration of international sport.This would be a revelation.
A ssage carved into the sky itself: the old world is dead.
In its place—an age of empire and steel.
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Over the past two years, ticulous preparations had been made for this convergence of nations. Though the Great War had ended, much of the world still smoldered in its aftermath—regions cracked open by revolution, famine, and ideological firestorms.
In such uncertain tis, the security of the German Reich—and of the many dignitaries now gathered in Berlin—was of paramount importance.
For the duration of the Gas, every branch of state authority had been mobilized: the Polizei, the federal agents, the Feldgendarrie, border patrols, even privately contracted rcenaries. All of them working in seamless coordination to ensure that nothing—expected or otherwise—would disrupt the spectacle.
It was a dangerous age.
France was already burning, devoured by the flas of its own radicalism, and the Reich could not afford to let such fire leap the borders. The world was watching. The Olympic Gas were not rely a celebration—they were a statent. And no blood could be allowed to stain it.
As a result, security across Berlin was suffocating. Not in the letter of the law, perhaps—but certainly in spirit. Many visitors found their rights and liberties strained well beyond what was considered tolerable. They grumbled, protested, made appeals.
But such asures were necessary. German intelligence had already uncovered several plots to destroy the centerpiece of the Gas—a coordinated effort to shatter the Reich's image on the global stage.
They were intercepted. Brutally interrogated. And quietly executed. Their comrades soon followed. The target? The Arena of Triumph. The colosseum of a new age. The temple to German steel and civilization. And under no circumstances would it be allowed to fall.
The new Colosseum had risen from the rubble of the old Berlin Stadttheater: the Arena of Triumph.
A fusion of historicist architecture and cutting-edge infrastructure. The structure was enclosed from the elents yet alive with modern power—electric lighting, air conditioning, central heating, and a ventilation system so refined it could rival anything on earth. It was not just a stadium. It was a testant—a physical embodint of Germany's wealth, discipline, and industrial superiority.
Capable of seating nearly one hundred thousand spectators, the Arena was a monunt to will. Every polished marble pillar, every bronze statue, every echo of the vaulted ceilings whispered not indulgence—but intent.
Its design was purposeful. Tiered seating split the masses into three castes: The People sat closest to the arena floor. While the Foreigners were centered at the midpoint—offered a place of respect, but not deference. As for the Empire and its ruling class? They were naturally seated highest of all, directly beneath golden eagles, where the Kaiser and his commanders overlooked the field like gods atop Olympus.
This was no re sport. From the mont the torch was lit, the ssage would be undeniable: this was Bruno's Germany. An empire reborn through fire. Honed in blood. Driven not by ideology… but by order.
Bruno stood at the Kaiser's side, front and center, as the torchbearer began the ceremonial run—an ancient tradition from a world so distant it felt more like myth than mory.
His family was nearby, seated in the imperial box. As the thunderous applause began to fade, the lights across the arena began to extinguish one by one—swallowed by a creeping darkness that enveloped the vast structure like a curtain falling before a grand performance.
Only the torch remained lit. A flickering point of fla in an ocean of night. Whispers filled the air. Unease settled like fog. Eva, seated beside her fiancé—the Kaiser's grandson—leaned forward, voice sharp with concern.
"What's going on?!"
Bruno calmly placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. Though his face betrayed no emotion, the excitent in his voice was unmistakable.
"Shhh... Just watch. You're about to witness history in the making."
Then it began.
The drums hit first—deep, thunderous strikes that echoed through the arena like cannon fire. The orchestra roared to life, amplified by the chamber's flawless acoustics—greater even than the fabled Vienna concert hall.
But this was no polite symphony.
The sound was modern, violent, electric—Mortal Kombat ets Pride FC, a battlefield anthem wrapped in symphonic brutality. It was music that made the soul want to rise, to fight, to conquer. Raw, primal, relentless.
With the first pounding step of the runner, the arena ignited. Floodlights erupted along the central runway—blinding white, piercing the dark like divine pillars. Then ca the colored lights—red, white, and the black of shadow—coalescing in the air above the torchbearer into a radiant, blazing banner of the German Reich, emblazoned across the do.
The torchbearer ran.
The music swelled.
The crowd held its breath.
As he ascended the ziggurat and reached the pyre, the orchestra surged into its crescendo. With one motion, the fla was passed—and the fire roared to life.
A wall of pyrotechnics detonated around the arena—brilliant, deafening, overwhelming. But that was not the end. As the flas subsided and the smoke cleared, a new revelation awaited.
Rows upon rows of the Imperial Guard stood below, perfectly still, perfectly aligned. Their decorations glead beneath the lights—combat dals from wars won, honor earned in steel and fire.
Then they moved. A synchronized display of military pageantry unfolded—flawless, fearso, impossible to ignore. With every movent, the orchestra shifted tempo again—now furious, martial, triumphant.
It was not rely a celebration of the Gas. It was a declaration: Germany would win them. And they would do so in dominant fashion. The display was staggering. Foreign dignitaries sat in stunned silence, eyes wide, mouths half-open.
This was more than choreography. It was an engineering marvel. Coordinated to the second. Orchestrated to perfection. And unknown technologies—developed by Bruno's companies in secret—had brought it all to life.
Even as the crowd roared, the world's delegations sat bitter and quiet. No one could match this. Not now. Not for decades. Bruno turned to his daughter. She was looking up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. The awe in her gaze said everything.
"Father… don't tell … this—all of this—was your creation?"
He smiled faintly and brushed his hand through her golden hair, ever the gentle father despite the battlefield he had just staged.
"? Oh no, sweet child. I played only a small part. This is the combined effort of our people, of our nation. And now the world must bear witness to a grandeur they won't co close to matching for another two or three decades… Magnificent, isn't it?"
Eva said nothing.
She could only stare as the ceremony faded. The athletes began their march beneath the stadium's radiant light, and the rest of the world looked on—shaken, uncertain, and utterly outclassed.
Only the Germans walked with heads held high. And the ssage had been sent.
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