The Lord Of War

The Bavarian night was a blade, cold and sharp. Moonlight carved through the barracks window, glinting off the twin barrels of **Friedrich Weber**'s flintlock pistol. Its Egyptian engravings—a serpent coiling around a sun—felt like a taunt. *A weapon for revolution or regicide*. Across the room, **Klaus Richter** spat into a grimy handkerchief, his gold tooth flashing as he smirked. "Still praying to your imaginary fatherland, *patriot*? Or just afraid to dirty your pretty face?" 

Friedrich ignored him. Outside, the village of Kitzingen slept beneath the shadow of **King Hellsing von Krapf**'s castle, its towers clawing at the sky. Seven prime ministers dead. Twelve commanders hanged. The king's paranoia had turned Bavaria into a graveyard, and tonight, the gravediggers had come to bury the undertaker. 

Commander **Otto von Kleist**'s orders hissed in Friedrich's mind: *Infiltrate. Silence. Hold the king hostage*. But Otto's unspoken creed was clearer—*blood writes history*. This coup wasn't for justice. It was for a legacy. 

Klaus tossed aside his rag. "Throats first. Flintlocks only if they scream." 

Friedrich adjusted the black silk mask over his face. It reeked of another man's fear. 

---

They moved like shadows through the village, boots crunching gravel still slick from rain. The castle walls loomed ahead, ivy slithering over stone. A guard paced the ramparts, halberd glinting. Friedrich gestured—*up*. 

Klaus scaled the wall first, fingers finding cracks worn smooth by time. The guard turned—too late. Klaus's garrote bit into his throat, silencing him mid-breath. Friedrich caught the halberd before it clattered, its weight familiar. *Father's hands once held a weapon like this*. 

"Sentimental fool," Klaus sneered, wiping his hands on the corpse's tunic. 

---

The courtyard stank of wet hay and dread. Two guards huddled by a brazier, passing a flask. Friedrich's dagger took the first through the eye; the man crumpled, his final thought a fleeting regret for the wife who'd begged him to desert. Klaus slit the second's throat mid-gurgle, the guard's eyes widening with recognition—*Richter, the Butcher of Dresden*—before his body hit the cobblestones. Blood pooled black in the moonlight. 

At the main gate stood **Günther**—seven feet of muscle and malice, his breastplate engraved with the von Krapf crest: a raven devouring a wolf's heart. He turned, nostrils flaring. "Rats in the walls," he growled, hefting a spiked mace. 

Friedrich lunged. Günther moved faster, his fist closing around Friedrich's collar. The world spun—sky, ground, Klaus's snarl—before Friedrich slammed into the dirt, ribs screaming. 

"You'll hang for this," Günther laughed, raising his mace. 

Klaus fired. The flintlock's roar split the night, the bullet shattering Günther's kneecap. The giant bellowed, swinging blindly. The mace grazed Klaus's arm, tearing cloth and flesh. Blood sheeted down his elbow. 

"*Scheiße!*" Klaus staggered, clutching the wound. 

Friedrich struck—dagger plunging into Günther's thigh. The giant roared, backhanding Friedrich into a wall. Stone cracked. Pain exploded in Friedrich's shoulder, but he lunged again, driving the dagger upward into Günther's lower chest. 

"For Bavaria," Friedrich hissed, twisting the blade. 

Günther collapsed, gurgling, his hand scrabbling toward the bell cord. *One pull*, he thought, *and the garrison wakes*. But Klaus's dagger pinned his palm to the ground. "No songs for you," Klaus spat. Günther's last breath hissed out—a curse for the son he'd never see again. 

---

Inside, the castle was a tomb. Guards died at their posts, throats slit over stale bread. A sentry by the stairs dropped his sword, piss darkening his breeches. "P-please—" 

Klaus pistol-whipped him. "Run. Pray we lose." 

The man stumbled back, mind racing: *Weber and Richter—the Ghost and the Butcher*. He'd heard the stories—entire battalions vanished under their blades. He fled, boots echoing his cowardice. 

---

The upper corridor reeked of brandy and bravado. Four veterans charged, axes raised. 

The first, a grizzled sergeant, swung at Friedrich. *This pup thinks he's Bonaparte?* His axe missed, and Friedrich shattered his knee with a kick. The sergeant howled, his pride dissolving with the crunch of bone. 

The second lunged at Klaus, dagger glinting. Klaus sidestepped, driving his blade into the man's heart. "Should've retired, old man," he sneered. The guard died clutching a locket—his daughter's face inside. 

The third and fourth came together, twin axes humming. Friedrich disarmed one, the man's wrist snapping like dry kindling. He fell, screaming for mercy, but Klaus silenced him with a boot to the throat. 

The last guard raised his scythe—a reaper's grin splitting his face. "Come, little rats. Let's dance." They noticed him, he was one of the soldiers they served with before he applied to be a kings guard, he wasn't built for battle field bravado, he was however built for close combat, he knew his way to a man's heart through his chest, and he would make it gruesome. The look on his eyes showed that he wasn't going to let them near the King's door.

Friedrich circled, shoulder throbbing. The scythe hissed, slicing air inches from his neck. Klaus fired, but the guard twisted, the bullet shredding his cloak. He lunged, blade arcing toward Friedrich's throat—