Chapter 1

"Where am I?"

Darkness engulfed everything. Nathanael blinked several times, trying to focus his vision on the environment around him. The air smelled of smoke and gunpowder—an aroma that didn't match his most recent memories. Was it nighttime? He couldn't be sure. The only thing he could make out clearly was a three-story building in front of him, with curved windows on the first floor and dim, flickering orange lights, as if they were on the verge of going out.

From inside the building, murmurs echoed, accompanied by a powerful, magnetic voice that seemed to be addressing a crowd. Nathanael rubbed his eyes, confused. How had he ended up here?

His last memories took him back to Munich, to that night he had gone out with his university classmates. An extroverted student with a passion for history, he had decided to visit the city's most famous beer hall—the very place where Adolf Hitler had orchestrated the failed coup known as the "Beer Hall Putsch." Nathanael, always eloquent and well-versed in historical details, couldn't resist making a loud remark about the Führer's tactical mistakes during the early European campaigns.

"If Germany had had a larger population base back then, maybe the world would be different today!" he had exclaimed with a laugh, raising his beer mug. His German classmates exchanged uneasy glances. Talking about Hitler in Germany wasn't something taken lightly, but Nathanael, drunk as he was, didn't seem to care.

Hours passed, filled with toasts and heated debates about military strategies and historical decisions. Growing increasingly intoxicated, Nathanael openly criticized the Third Reich's failed tactics. "Hitler underestimated his enemies! If he had 200 million Germans instead of 80, he would have conquered the world!" he declared, unaware that his words carried more weight than he intended.

A German classmate suddenly pointed at the sky, his voice filled with excitement: "Look, a meteor! Make a wish, my friend!"

A blinding light streaked toward Nathanael.

Despite the drunken haze clouding his senses, he felt a sharp impact against his chest. It was the Blood Order Medal—the Blutorden of 1933—an artifact he had found earlier that day in a second-hand market. But now, the medal was vibrating with an unsettling energy, as if it were alive.

When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the streets of modern Munich.

The towering, contemporary buildings were gone. Everything around him looked as if it had been transported several decades back in time.

Now he stood here, in this unknown place, with that magnetic voice echoing in his ears. A shiver ran down his spine. Something was terribly wrong. This wasn't the Munich he knew. The building before him, the flickering lights, the scent of war hanging in the air . . . everything seemed ripped from another era.

The Bürgerbräukeller beer hall was there, yes—the same one where he had been drinking with his friends. But now, the atmosphere was different. Harsher. More austere.

He cautiously approached the building, straining to listen more closely. The voice inside spoke with unwavering conviction, almost fanatical, and the words he managed to make out sent a chill down his spine:

"Germany's future depends on us! We cannot allow them to stop us!"

Nathanael held his breath. Was it possible? Had he somehow been transported into the past? Was he witnessing the very events he had studied so thoroughly? His mind raced, searching for a rational explanation, but the reality surrounding him was too vivid to dismiss.

"Alex, what's wrong with you? We should go in already!" a voice snapped beside him, laced with impatience.

Alex? Who's Alex? Nathanael turned his head to observe the people around him.

A tall, sharp-featured man with short hair looked at him with familiarity. Something about his face seemed oddly recognizable, but Nathanael couldn't pinpoint why.

Then, his gaze landed on another man standing nearby. His face was narrow, with a peculiar hairstyle and twenty-eight distinct points that made him unmistakable.

Beneath his nose, a small, dark mustache marked his most defining feature.

But what truly captured Nathanael's attention were the man's eyes. Under the dim light, they radiated an unsettling depth—a mix of melancholy and fanaticism. That gaze exuded an overwhelming confidence, as if silently declaring: "Believe me, I am the hero who will save this world."

[...]

But Nathanael was no longer Nathanael. Now, he was Alex. The medal, struck by the meteor's light, had transported him into this alternate reality, merging his mind with Alex's.

Suddenly, a voice echoed coldly in his head, mechanical and emotionless:

[Host detected. War Summoning System activated. Integration in progress . . . ]

[Integration complete. War Summoning System operational.]

Alex glanced down at the medal hanging from his chest. It wasn't a replica—it was the authentic Blood Order. And now, it was his key to mastering this world. The system's voice confirmed that his reincarnation had not been in vain.

There was a purpose. A destiny awaiting him in the darkness.