C51 The Iron Howl

The panzer commanders sitting In their tanks, the first Infantry legion following after and the pilots flying overhead at the end of the marching column.

They didn't need an order. They simply raised their voices. A tide of sound swept through the capital.

"No Spartan man, no Spartan woman shall break, no foe shall stand,

We take the heavens, we rule the land!

Through storm and strife, through war untold,

Imperium's Iron Fenrir awakens, the legions hold!"

And then, as the final verse neared, I lifted my head, my voice rising above all others.

"Hail the blood, hail the fight!

Hail the dawn of Spartan might!

Rise as one, march as steel!

Imperium stands! Imperium kneels to none!"

The last lines. The voices of hundreds, maybe even thousands, roared together.

"One Imperium! One rule!

One people, strong and true!

Through fire, through steel, through blood we rise!

Imperium eternal, Imperium d*vine!"

The banner reached its peak. A gust of wind unfurled it fully, the crimson and gold shining like fire against the sky. The final drumbeat hit. And for a moment, all of Teutonica stood still.

The cheers still echoed across the streets, but my eyes had already shifted from the banner to the true reason we were here.

I turned sharply on my heels, facing them. The First Paratrooper Cohort.

They did not stand in pristine parade uniforms. They were not freshly shaved, polished, or perfumed like the parade troops of other nations.

No. They stood there in their true state.

Covered in grime, sweat soaked, uniforms ripped and mended on the field. Dried blood, both theirs and their enemies, still stained their fatigues.

Bandages wrapped around arms, across foreheads, around legs. across eyes their wounds still healing. But their eyes, their eyes burned with fire.

They had walked through hell, through fire, through gunfire, through death itself, and they had come out the other side standing tall.

They had taken the capital, they had crushed the enemy, and they had done it without hesitation.

I grabbed the michrophone once again with my left hand, raised my right hand to salute again and roared.

"I SALUTE YOU, HEROES OF THE IMPERIUM!"

My voice tore through the air like a thunderclap. The crowd went silent. My warriors, already marching straight as javelins, marched even straighter.

"LOOK AT THEM!"

I roared, my voice echoing down the grand boulevard, carrying across the city square through the citys air raid sirens.

I pointed to the paratroopers, to their bloodied uniforms, to their hardened faces, to the men who had faced death and laughed in its face.

"THESE ARE TRUE WARRIORS!"

My voice shook the very walls of the former Grand Duke's palace.

"BLOODIED AND COVERED IN GRIME, NOT SOME TOY SOLDIERS! NOT PARADE PAWNS! BUT TRUE! SONS OF ARES!"

A growl rippled through the formation. A primal energy spread through them, as if they were barely holding themselves back from breaking formation and slamming their fists into their chests.

I could feel their pride burning. Their chests swelled. Their jaws clenched. Their hands tightened into fists. And then I roared again.

"IRON FENRIRS!"

The moment my words left my lips, the answer came. A deafening, bone chilling, blood boiling roar.

"AWWWWWWOOOOOO!"

Every single paratrooper every single bloodied warrior standing before me, threw their heads back and howled.

The sound shook the bones of the Teutonica citizens watching. It was not human. It was not rehearsed. It was primal. It was war itself given voice.

As they howled, the cohort commander and their commanders, leading each century and contubernium, turned their heads sharply to the side, their eyes locked on me and raised their hands In salute.

With the warriors doing the same only that they didnt raise their hands because they were In their units formations.

But their eyes burned with the will to kill, the will to fight, the will to march at my command. And then, I roared again.

"IRON FENRIRS!"

Again they howled.

"AWWWWWWOOOOOO!"

It was no longer just a battle cry. It was a declaration. A vow. And then, for the final time, I clenched my left hand Into a fist, my muscles tensed, and I let out the last, final command.

"IRON FENRIRS!"

The air split apart as they answered.

"AWWWWWWOOOOOOOOO!"

And this time, Lupa stood up. The great war beast, the Iron Fenrir herself, raised her head, her alloy plates shifting, her massive frame towering over the gathered troops.

She roared. It wasn't a growl. It wasn't a bark. It was a roar that shook the heavens. The very ground trembled beneath her voice. The city itself felt it.

I held my salute. My crimson eyes never wavered from my warriors, my sons of Ares, as they stood before me, unbowed, unbroken, unstoppable.

The echoes of "AWWWWWWOOOOOO!" still rattled across the city, bouncing off the buildings, sinking into the bones of every man, woman, and child in Teutonica.

Behind me, the former Grand Duke of Teutonica shuddered. I turned my head slightly, just enough to look at him from the corner of my eye.

"You were saying?"

My voice was smooth, almost casual, as I kept my salute. The Grand Duke's lips quivered. His eyes darted toward the once hostile crowd, toward the streets that had moments ago been filled with people on the verge of resistance.

But now? Now, only the diehards remained. The rest had fallen silent. Some stood in a daze, others with wide eyes, their breath stolen from them.

Some of them? Some of them felt it. Felt the pull. The ancient blood of warriors in their veins stirring after decades, centuries of slumber.

The Grand Duke's fingers gripped the armrest of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white. He wasn't an idiot. Well he kinda was because I wrote him to be one.

But even he knew what this meant. His people were slipping from his grasp. The anthem. The discipline. The Iron Fenrir.

The warriors standing before him not clean, not polished, but bloodied, victorious, and utterly devoted to their leader.

To me. He opened his mouth, desperate to say something, anything. But nothing came out. I smirked, letting the silence hang before turning back toward my warriors.

...

Gunderian and Poliarian Ambassadors' POV

From a shaded viewing stand, separated from the Spartanum officials, two men stood in silence, their hands gripping the edge of the railing as they watched the display of raw power before them.

The Gunderian Ambassador the same one who had sold the 360 Panzer II tanks, narrowed his eyes.

The Poliarian Ambassador, a tbear of a man with sharp features, crossed his burly arms, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his thoughts.

The Gunderian spoke first, his voice a low mutter.

"This… is not what we expected."

The Poliarian scoffed, eyes still locked on the spartanum ducatums legioneers below.

"Expected?"

His lips curled.

"Look at them."

The Gunderian Ambassador's fingers twitched slightly, but he didn't respond. The Poliarian continued, voice laced with cold disdain.

"You thought you were selling weapons to a minor warlord, a petty dictator playing soldier in a sandbox. You thought your precious Panzers would be rusting in some second rate barracks within months."

He turned, finally meeting the Gunderian's gaze.

"Tell me, Herr Ambassador… does that man look like a minor warlord to you?"

The Gunderian said nothing. Because the truth was standing before them. A leader who did not hide behind his army. A ruler who did not sit back while his men fought for him.

A man who led from the front, whose warriors would march into hell for him without hesitation. The Poliarian sneered.

"You fed a wolf, and now it has tasted blood."

The Gunderian Ambassador finally spoke, his voice tense.

"I don't like this."

"Neither do I,"

The Poliarian admitted. He exhaled slowly, glancing toward the Teutonica Grand Duke, who looked like a man moments away from collapsing under the weight of his own irrelevance. The Poliarian's eyes darkened.

"This Is extremely counterproductive to our plans."

The Gunderian Ambassador didn't respond, because he didnt need to, he was already thinking how to explain this unpleasant development to his emperor, not to mention the fairy tales that his spies and Informants are spewing to him out of his mouth about the Imperator and his so called death squad.

...

A few hours later the grand dukes palaces conferrence room.

The room was packed.

Journalists from both Teutonica, Spartanum and a few other foregein nations sat hunched over their notepads, their pens scratching furiously.

Camera flashes erupted every few seconds, casting brief, blinding bursts of white light across the room.

The air smelled of ink, sweat, and tension.

At the head of the long, ornate conference table, the Grand Duke of Teutonica stood, his trembling hands clutching the official surrender agreement.

His once golden robes were replaced with a simple, dignified governor's uniform, a stark contrast to the towering figure standing beside him, me.

My half cloak draped over my shoulder, my service uniform Ironed and pristine.