In November of 1918, the sky over Germany was tightly pressed by iron-gray clouds, letting no light through. The cold wind blew from the Baltic Sea, carrying a biting chill that swept across the streets and alleys of Berlin, as if it had pierced through all hope and warmth, leaving only dry, cracked air and a scent of despair. Once-bustling Imperial Avenue was now littered with shattered windows, abandoned carts, and the hurried figures of people fleeing.
It was the seventh day after the end of the First World War. The aftershocks of the war had not yet faded, but the news of the armistice had already spread across the entire nation. Some said this was the end, but for many, it marked the beginning of an entirely new disaster. The shadow of defeat hung over every German, their homeland lost its former order, and hunger and anger spread like vines, rapidly reaching every corner.
Berlin's central train station was bustling, crowded with soldiers returning from the front and families waiting for loved ones to come home. Asad Litter stood at the edge of the platform, slowly stepping off the train that had carried too much despair. His military boots were stained black with dirt, worn and frayed at the edges. The insignia on his shoulders had long faded, but his back remained straight, his steps steady, with a calm and determined rhythm in his walk.
His face was gaunt, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Yet those eyes were particularly cold, as sharp as the blades on the battlefield. There was no slack in his gaze, as if it had absorbed all the anger and obsession born from the war's fire, seemingly searching for the next course of action.
Inside the train station, returning soldiers filled the space. Their expressions were numb, like the discarded remnants of a war machine. A young soldier sat on a bench, an old helmet on his lap, staring blankly at the ground. He muttered softly, "They say the war is over, but we've lost so much more. Our homeland, our brothers, our future…"
Asad did not join their conversation. He simply stood silently to the side, his cold eyes scanning the crowd. Veterans huddled together, smoking cheap tobacco, expressing their anger and frustration. Occasionally, a forced laugh rang out, hollow and powerless.
"Those politicians deserve to die!" an elderly veteran suddenly shouted, slamming his fist down on the armrest of the bench. "We fought and bled on the battlefield for the Empire, but what did they do? They squandered our blood and sweat in the rear, and what did they get in return? A complete and utter defeat!"
The others nodded in agreement, but Asad still said nothing. His gaze turned distant, and he silently thought, "This anger is not enough. It's like a rushing flood that needs a direction to break through, to change everything before me."
Outside the train station, the streets of Berlin were like a swarm of headless flies, teeming with people. Unemployed workers gathered outside factories, waving signs with protest slogans, shouting, "We want work! We want fairness!" Long lines formed outside relief stations, where emaciated women stood with children, begging for bread. Meanwhile, wealthy capitalists sat in their carriages, coldly observing it all.
Asad walked through the chaotic streets, his heart filled with mixed emotions as he took in the scene. He saw a child standing in front of a bakery window, his thin coat barely protecting him from the cold, his nose pressed against the glass, fixated on the hard bread inside. His mother gently tugged at his hand and whispered, "We can't afford it, let's go." The child didn't move, just stood there, staring with eyes full of despair.
"Is this our country?" Asad silently asked himself. "After bleeding and sacrificing, we are left to drown in such a pit?"
Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the end of the street. Several black carriages stopped by the roadside, and out stepped a few politicians and businessmen dressed in expensive coats. They chatted and laughed, as if they didn't care about the angry glares of the workers around them. Someone shouted angrily, "They're the ones who profited from the war! They are the real traitors!"
A stone was thrown, shattering the window of one of the carriages. The chaos quickly escalated, and the angry crowd surged forward. Police officers, wielding clubs, charged into the crowd, trying to control the situation, but the workers' fury had already been ignited. Some waved their fists, others tried to overturn the carriages. Amid the turmoil, someone shouted, "Germany doesn't need these politicians! What we want is a real country!"
Asad stood at the edge of the crowd, coldly watching everything unfold. He didn't participate, nor did he leave. A complex mix of emotions flickered in his eyes—anger, but also a subtle sense of expectation. He whispered, "This anger is not enough. It needs to converge into a stronger force to shake those truly guilty."
In the distance, the Imperial Reichstag appeared desolate under the setting sun, its broken walls scarred by bullet holes. Asad slowly walked toward the ruins and stopped to gaze at them. This had once been the heart of Germany, but now, it symbolized defeat and shame.
He stood in the cold wind, his eyes cold and determined. In his heart, he silently vowed, "The Empire will not remain in ruin forever. The guilty will pay for their betrayal, and a true Germany will rise from these ruins."