Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 633: Legacy

Chapter 633: Legacy

The Olympic Village that night shimmered like a second Berlin beneath the stars, a marvel of imperial engineering, where every avenue was lit not by flame nor coal, but by towers of pure light.

Music drifted from polished brass bands, orchestras played between pavilions, and fountains danced to the rhythm of triumph.

Athletes mingled with royalty, generals, and dignitaries in a grand celebration of human will made flesh.

Bruno stood at the edge of the central plaza, glass in hand, quietly watching the revelry unfold.

He saw the delegations of far-flung nations gawk at the clean, vibrant air, free of the smog that still choked London and New York.

He saw solar panels woven into rooftops, bronze statues of athletes that glowed from within, and people of every tongue whispering the same word:

“Impossible.”

He smiled.

“Enjoying yourself, Father?” came a familiar voice.

He turned. There she was, Eva, radiant in an evening gown of white silk with gold embroidery, her noble bearing unmistakable.

The Princess of the German Reich, wife to Prince Wilhelm, the Kaiser’s beloved grandson. Her ice-blue eyes sparkled with the same sharp wit and cunning grace he’d seen since she was a child.

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t,” he said, offering his arm. “But truth be told, I prefer this moment far more than the ones filled with speeches and pageantry.”

Eva chuckled and took his arm. “And yet… you always make sure to outdo yourself every time. Berlin is positively breathless.”

They walked slowly through the plaza, nodding politely to passing athletes and guests.

“Do you remember,” she said, glancing up at him, “the first Olympics we hosted? The one in 1918?”

“How could I forget?” Bruno said. “You and I… on stage. Fencing.”

“In skirts!” she laughed. “I was not even eighteen. They said it was unseemly. That a young lady had no place in sport.”

“And yet,” Bruno grinned, “you parried my thrust so fast I nearly cried on stage. After that, the world changed.”

She smiled with warmth and pride. “You told me afterward, ’Elegance is not weakness. Grace is a weapon all its own.’ I’ve carried that all my life.”

They paused beside a massive reflecting pool, the golden eagle of the Reich mirrored on its surface.

“This generation of girls… they have fencing, gymnastics, archery, equestrian dressage… because of you,” Bruno said. “Because you proved them all wrong.”

Eva’s eyes softened, misted with memory and pride. “Because we did, Father.”

—

As they lingered near the reflecting pool, basking in the golden glow of the lights and memories, a small group of international delegates approached.

Diplomatic badges on tailored lapels, cameras hanging from leather straps, their smiles somewhere between awe and reverence.

One, a tall man with an American accent and the flushed cheeks of recent wine, bowed his head politely.

“Forgive the interruption, Prince von Zehntner… Your Highness,” he nodded to Eva with sincere deference. “But would you permit us the honor of a photograph?”

Bruno tilted his head, brow raised in good humor. “Of course. And may I ask what occasion inspires such boldness?”

Another of the men, a French delegate with silver hair and a thoughtful expression, stepped forward.

“It isn’t often one meets the first woman to ever fence in the Olympic Games,” he said.

“Even if unofficially.”

Eva blinked, caught off guard for just a moment. “You flatter me. I’ve never officially competed, only stood beside my father, years ago.”

The American chuckled. “And yet you lit the torch, Princess. What you did sparked generations. My daughter fences now because of that performance. Hell, half the world’s women’s programs were started by girls who saw that exhibition.”

Bruno looked over at her, a proud, amused glint in his eyes. “You see? Legacy has a way of marching whether the paperwork catches up or not.”

Eva offered a graceful, humble smile. “Then I suppose I’ve no excuse to refuse a photo.”

The photographers eagerly set up, lining the pair up against the marble backdrop of the great central arch, where statues of winged victory stood watch.

Bruno stood tall, hands calmly behind his back. Eva rested one hand gently on his forearm, her poise radiant, the embodiment of German elegance and strength.

As the shutters clicked, and flashes burst, it wasn’t just a photo.

It was a portrait of legacy itself, the architect of a new age, and the daughter who helped carve its soul.

—

The Pavilion of Nations, a marble-clad annex built adjacent to the newly renovated Olympiastadion, bustled with conversation and clinking glasses.

Here, beneath soaring columns and gilded light fixtures, business delegations and economic ministers mingled, each keenly aware that this was more than an Olympic event.

This was an economic summit cloaked in pageantry, and at its center stood Erwin von Zehntner.

Tall, clean-shaven, and composed with an effortless confidence, Erwin bore the unmistakable bearing of his father, though without the haunted, iron-willed edge that Bruno carried from war.

His tailored dark suit bore the family crest in subtle embroidery. A man of peace, of industry.

With champagne in hand and charm to spare, he leaned across a low marble table, speaking in fluent Portuguese to a small group of Brazilian ministers.

“We’re prepared to extend assistance in electrifying your southern railways by 1936. The Reich will supply the transformers, turbines, and grid components at reduced cost, in exchange for a ten-year exclusive on rare earth exports. It’s a partnership… not colonialism. We don’t want your land, gentlemen. We want your success.”

The Brazilians exchanged intrigued glances. One of them, a younger minister with a vision for modernization, grasped Erwin’s hand.

“You sound more like an empire-builder than a merchant.”

Erwin laughed, with polite humility. “Empires rise and fall. Infrastructure endures.”

Just beyond the conversation, blueprints of the Olympic Village were displayed on glass-topped tables, annotated with Erwin’s signature.

The roads, power distribution, athlete dormitories, and even the culinary supply chains had his fingerprints on them.

Every aspect had been optimized using the logistical framework he’d built at the helm of the Zehntner Group, a titan of steel, electrics, and transport.

From the corner of the room, a British envoy whispered to his American counterpart:

“He’s no mere son of a hero. The boy’s a magnate. Between him and Siemens, they’ve turned Berlin into the heart of the world.”

“And if they lay a single rail through South America,” the American muttered, “Washington will have to start paying attention.”

Erwin turned away from the Brazilians just long enough to spot his father in the distance, surrounded by admirers and foreign athletes.

He smiled faintly.

Bruno commanded empires of men.

Erwin commanded empires of machines.

And together, they had built a Reich that could not simply be defeated with guns or diplomacy.

It had to be out built.