Erich and his unit stayed in Belgium for quite a while longer.
They weren’t just there to conduct simulated battles, but to run live-fire exercises, and offer a few pointers to the Belgian Royal Army.
Belgium had lagged behind the Reich.
Despite being a major trading partner and a forr ally during the Great War, they had no desire to be involved in another.
And while the Reich had begun arming at a rate greater than ever before, Belgium had focused its wealth on rebuilding what France had destroyed in 1914.
Their governnt had grown cautious, perhaps even complacent.
Haunted by the mory of French troops marching through their borders with impunity, they focused their budgets on civilian rebuilding efforts and border fortifications.
What armored units they fielded were antiquated, many still operating with outdated communication systems.
Training cycles were inconsistent.
Morale, while not poor, lacked the hardened edge seen in Reich units.
They did not train to win a war, only to survive one.
Their air and naval forces were equally outdated, still flying old German He-51s as their main aircraft, and relying on small vessels for coastal defense and interdiction.
They weren’t a great power.
And they knew it.
Nor did they have any desire to be.
They wanted only to stay out of the coming war.
But France seed determined not to let that happen.
And so, King Albert I had requested joint military exercises with the German Reich, an offer Germany was more than happy to accept.
Many of its most promising young officers were sent to lead the charge.
Erich found himself among them, commander of the sole Airborne Armored Battalion dispatched for this purpose.
And perhaps because of that, he beca the officer who drew the most attention.
Not just from the Belgian military command, but from the King himself.
King Albert I of Belgium, better known across the continent as the Knight King, had served on the front lines during the Great War, in both tilines.
In Bruno’s past life, he had died tragically during a mountaineering expedition in 1934.
But thanks to a well-placed telegram that delayed his trip, he now stood very much alive.
And quite spry for a man in his twilight years.
He seed to be in good spirits while hosting the event.
Today, he had co to the field personally to observe how well his soldiers and the Germans worked together.
And he noticed Erich almost imdiately.
If not for the dals, then for the face.
Erich was the spitting image of his grandfather.
Albert had t Bruno only once, at the end of the Great War during the peace conference.
But it was a sight burned into mory.
That cold, unreadable gaze.
That quiet contempt for the old world as he carved it apart, without a shred of doubt or remorse.
That sa look now lived in Erich’s eyes.
It was the look of a man who had seen far more battle than one ought to.
And the decorations pinned to his chest proved it.
The grandson of the Lion of Tyrol stood there smoking a cigarette, scarred cheek glinting under the pouring rain.
His azure blue eyes searched the grey sky, as if looking for sothing that didn’t exist.
He thought of Spain. The acrid smoke, the screams, the firebombed cathedrals.
Of the n he had killed who barely knew why they fought.
He thought of the cheers he had received then too, and how hollow they had sounded.
Now they cheered again, but for whose glory? His grandfather’s? Or the man he was becoming?
He had shed blood in the na of honor, but sotis, in the quiet between gunfire, he wasn’t sure what honor ant anymore.
Albert couldn’t help but approach, sighing as he spoke.
"I thought death had finally co for , just now," the King said. "As if my mories were flashing before my eyes. Then I realized, you are not the Lion of Tyrol... but you are certainly of his blood. May I have your na, Oberstleutnant?"
Upon realizing the King of Belgium stood before him, Erich dropped his cigarette and imdiately snapped to attention.
"Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner, Your Majesty!"
Albert nodded, unsurprised.
As if he had already known.
He returned the salute and placed a firm hand on Erich’s shoulder.
"At ease. You look just like him. Or how he was then... perhaps a few years younger.
That miserable old bastard really does seem to age slower than the rest of us, doesn’t he? Tell , how old are you, really? You don’t look the proper age to wear that rank."
Erich didn’t skip a beat.
"Eighteen, Your Majesty. I volunteered for the Spanish Civil War when I was sixteen, just after graduating from the academy. My rank is the result of blood, sweat, and tears shed in service to the Fatherland. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Albert extended his hand.
An offer of friendship from an old lion to a young one, who would one day safeguard not just the Reich, but perhaps even Belgium, when the older generation finally stepped down from the pride.
Erich accepted it with pride, and the two shook hands in full view of the assembled soldiers, who erupted into cheers.
The mont was captured by military journalists. It would go down in history. And Albert’s words would beco legend.
"I can go to the grave with ease, knowing that there will always be a Lion in Tyrol to answer the call to arms should the trumpets blare."
Erich nodded, face stoic, voice flat, eyes cold.
But when he spoke, it was with absolute conviction.
Not arrogance, but certainty.
"There shall always be a Lion in Tyrol to protect civilization from those who would see it in ruin. And should the day co when there is not... then may God have rcy upon us all."
As the cheers echoed across the field, Erich looked down at his hand, still tingling from the strength in the old King’s grip.
He wasn’t sure if he felt pride or pressure.
The Lion of Tyrol, his grandfather, had carved history with steel.
But Erich wondered if he would be asked to hold the line... or draw new ones altogether.
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