Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 632: A Peaceful Challenge in a World on the Brink of War

Chapter 632: A Peaceful Challenge in a World on the Brink of War

The sun rose over the spires of Berlin like a golden standard unfurled to announce the future.

From every corner of the earth they came, envoys, athletes, journalists, industrialists, monarchs, and presidents, descendants of old empires and heads of new republics alike, all drawn to the heart of the Reich not merely for sport, but to witness what the world had become in Bruno von Zehntner’s image.

The 1934 Summer Olympics had returned to Berlin with grandeur far surpassing that of 1918, which itself had been a miracle after the early conclusion of the Great War.

But now, sixteen years later, the city had grown into something else entirely: a metropolis not of soot and smog, but of crystal towers, luminous thoroughfares, and classical might resurrected.

From above, foreign pilots marveled as their planes descended toward Tempelhof Aerodrome, now expanded into a true continental air hub.

The Reich’s engineers had transformed the once-modest field into a marvel of aviation infrastructure, with reinforced runways, solar-glass hangars, and windbreak towers shaped like Ionic columns.

On the ground, electric trams and driverless carriages hummed along spotless streets.

Autobahns stretched like steel arteries across the countryside beyond, linking east and west with seamless precision.

Gone were the gas stations and coal carts, Berlin had long since outgrown petrol, and the Reich with it.

Public infrastructure was now almost entirely electric, powered by a decentralized grid fortified by German Tesla Towers, transmitting wireless current across thousands of kilometers with stunning efficiency.

At night, Berlin shimmered like a celestial dome inverted. No smog. No haze. Just light.

Monumental arches, stone-carved with gods and heroes of the German spirit, flanked the Olympic Stadium, a structure not merely rebuilt, but reborn.

Designed in the classical tradition of Historicism, with colossal colonnades and marble tribunes carved by living masters of a revived Renaissance tradition, it stood as a temple to both art and athleticism.

No modernist glass cubes or abstract grotesqueries had been allowed here.

Bruno had seen to that.

“Modern art,” he had once famously declared, “is the whimper of a civilization that no longer believes in itself. Germany does not whimper. It builds.”

And build they had.

Every wall was lined with reliefs of muscular athletes, sculpted not with surrealist mockery but in the pure proportions of ancient Greece.

The stadium’s central arena, surrounded by gardens of magnificent flora and glowing ceramic torches powered by thermoelectric systems, could seat over 200,000 guests.

The world gawked. They didn’t even try to hide it.

Delegations from Paris, London, New York, Cairo, and Tokyo were ushered through customs halls, where agents quietly cross-checked credentials without ever making a fuss.

American dignitaries marveled at how clean the air was. The British press begrudgingly praised the solar streetlamps that mimicked the soft light of oil torches. Even the French said little, though the envious twitch in their brows spoke volumes.

It was not merely a city.

It was a vision, the clearest yet shown to the world of a civilization unshackled from decadence and decay.

A civilization that had not compromised its spirit for efficiency, but had fused both into something terrifyingly elegant.

And over it all flew the black, white, and red standard of the German Reich, fluttering not as a threat, but as a promise: this was what a nation could be.

—

The drums began before the sun set.

Not ordinary drums, but great bronze instruments of such deep resonance that they seemed to awaken the ancient bones of the earth itself.

Their slow, thunderous rhythm echoed across the colossal Olympiastadion, now rebuilt in a form worthy of legends, each beat a heartbeat of the Reich.

The stands were packed with over two hundred thousand spectators, every last one dressed in their finest, from industrial tycoons to barefoot delegates of fledgling Pacific nations.

All eyes turned upward toward the Imperial Box, carved of white marble, framed by gold-laid eagle standards and flanked by fluttering banners of black, white, and gold.

And there, under a canopy of polished bronze and silk, stood Kaiser Wilhelm II, in full dress uniform, his medals glinting in the electric torchlight like constellations of glory.

Age had slowed the once-meteoric monarch, but not diminished his presence. He held himself with the same theatrical command he once bore on horseback decades prior, his gloved hand resting lightly upon the stone balustrade as if gripping the reins of civilization itself.

At his side, in a sharply tailored black officer’s cut, stood Bruno von Zehntner, smiling faintly.

He had seen this all once before, in his mind.

He had watched the Chinese conjure dragons from LEDs, watched fighters enter Japanese rings as if descending from Olympus, seen fireworks soar over billion-dollar spectacles.

But this, this, was something greater. This was a civilization on full display, not merely a state-sponsored pageant.

And he had orchestrated every note.

The procession began with silence.

And then came the silence.

Not a technical glitch, nor a mistake, a deliberate hush, heavy and tense as if the world itself held its breath.

The lights dimmed to amber dusk.

The great mechanical stage split open once more, and from the glowing mist, they emerged, not like runners, but like judges stepping forth from the court of heaven.

The German delegation.

They did not jog. They did not smile or wave.

They marched.

Their uniforms were not tracksuits or numbered jerseys, but garments cut from imperial cloth: black tunics with silver trim, white sashes across the chest, and deep crimson capes for the flagbearers.

Each one bore the Iron Cross over the heart, and at their side flew the banners of the Empire, black, white, and crimson, fluttering solemnly as if caught in the winds of Ragnarok.

Overhead, as if summoned from beyond the veil, the first haunting notes of “My Brother” began to echo across the Olympiastadion.

A recreation of the song Bruno had heard during his past life. Composed to perfection by the Reich’s greatest talent and sung by a chorus of a thousand men and women of all ages.

Low strings

A single haunting melody

Then, slowly, the thunder.

It was not just a song. It was a challenge.

A wordless defiance aimed squarely at every watching nation.

The camera lenses froze.

The reporters quieted.

Even the Americans stood wide-eyed, as if watching an army descend from Valhalla.

From their perfectly synchronized steps rose the pounding of boots, not unlike a war parade, and yet more than that.

This was not merely intimidation. This was the assertion of a worldview, the return of beauty, discipline, and spirit as weapons.

The Reichs athletes did not march as individuals, but as a singular organism, their posture perfect, their gazes fixed not on the crowd, but on eternity.

Not one broke formation. Not one smiled. Not one even blinked as they passed the Imperial Box, offering a thunderous, unified salute with the precision of a military clock.

The music built to a furious crescendo, horns crashing down like collapsing heavens.

And still they marched.

Like avatars of Germania herself.

When they exited the arena floor, the silence remained.

Not because it had failed to impress.

But because no one dared to clap.

Foreign dignitaries were stunned into silence.

The Americans, accustomed to bravado, leaned forward with glassy eyes.

The French whispered among themselves, muttering phrases like “Quelle puissance… c’est impossible.”

The British sat stiffly, their expressions wooden, but their fingers clenched white over their chairs.

The Japanese bowed slightly from the neck, admiring the exacting discipline. While remembering how it had crushed their empire three years prior.

Only the Italians dared to smile, jealous, but inspired.

Kaiser Wilhelm raised a hand, and silence followed like the tide obeying the moon.

Then, in his clear, war-weathered voice, he declared:

“Let it be known that the games of peace are open. May the world witness what becomes of a nation when it dares to believe in itself.”

Thunderous applause.

And beside him, Bruno whispered quietly under his breath:

“Let them remember this moment, not with envy, but with awe.”

The stadium lights dimmed. Fireworks erupted across the night sky, forming classical shapes, laurels, lions, hammers, eagles, doves.

The world watched.

And the Reich burned its image into history.

—

From high above the arena, the Imperial Box gleamed like the prow of a warship, its occupants not merely spectators, but symbols of the world that was coming.

At its center stood Kaiser Wilhelm II, resplendent in full regalia, one gloved hand resting on the ceremonial balustrade.

At his right stood Bruno von Zehntner, dressed in the Feldgrau dress uniform of the Reichsmarschall, his iron-grey hair tied neatly behind his neck, his posture that of a man not merely honored, but exalted.

His family flanked him. Heidi, regal in silver and imperial purple, leaned slightly toward him, her eyes never leaving the arena.

Behind them, the younger von Zehntners, heirs of empire, watched in quiet pride.

Bruno’s smirk was subtle, but unmistakable.

He could see it, the silent despair in the eyes of the diplomats from France, Britain, America. He didn’t need to hear their thoughts. He knew them:

“He’s done it again.”“How the hell do we compete with this?”“They’re not just putting on a show… they’re declaring supremacy.”

He folded his hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted.

“This is what terrifies them,” he murmured to Heidi. “Not the military. Not the factories. But the idea that our spirit… is awake.”

She glanced at him, eyes gleaming. “And they know,” she whispered, “they cannot wake their own.”

Bruno said nothing more. He simply stood, as if carved from marble, watching the nations beneath him squirm beneath the weight of his legacy.