I. Castle in the Alps

  Snow was falling slowly over the peaks of the Alps. Gray clouds hung above the glaciers like heavy curtains, concealing from the world something that should never have existed.

  Castle Gelshtein stood on a cliff like the forgotten citadel of an ancient order. It had been purchased under the pretext of housing a veterans' sanatorium — but no veteran had ever crossed its threshold. Behind massive gates began another reality: secretive, cold, and obsessed.

  In the underground halls beneath the castle, gas lamps burned with a dim glow. Men in white coats walked down stone corridors, wearing brass goggles and unsmiling faces. Deep within, behind twin bronze doors, lay the chamber where the Homunculus was being born.

  On a stone pedestal rested a heavy container, wrapped in tubes, cables, and glass ducts filled with greenish fluid. Inside — mass. Pulsating. What was once organic tissue had become something else: a biocomputer, designed for one purpose — to control what human hands could not.

  “He’s learning,” said the scientist in white. “Faster than expected. He’s already begun interpreting commands.”

  “And refusing to follow them,” Baron von Blumenkranz cut in sharply.

  The baron stood behind the observation glass. He wore a grey uniform with no insignia. Hair neatly slicked back. Eyes focused — like a surgeon before the first incision.

  “He’s too complex,” the scientist continued. “We expected simple obedience. But now he’s… improvising.”

  “Simplify it. Immediately. Restrict its reactions. It’s not supposed to think. It’s supposed to obey.”

  The baron turned.

  “This thing is not a mind. It’s a nervous system. It’s the helm — not the captain.”

  He left. Behind him, the bronze doors closed with a clang.

  On the stairs, an adjutant awaited with a dispatch.

  “The first prototype is ready. Integrated into the GBZ-1 chassis.”

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  Von Blumenkranz didn’t answer. He simply nodded.

  He already knew what needed to be done.

  II. Steel and Sand

  The desert trembled beneath their feet. Hot wind blew from the dunes, bringing dust and the sharp scent of ozone.

  On the rocky plateau loomed a colossal shape — the Gewandter Bodenzerst?rer, an experimental ground destroyer on six legs, resembling a mechanical scarab.

  It was the size of a small warship — about 24 meters long and two stories high. Mounted on board: twin turrets with autocannons, side-mounted flamethrowers, a mine-dispersal unit, and a retractable mast for mid-air cargo transfers from airships. Inside the armored hull — a troop compartment for up to a full platoon. The machine could lower itself onto its legs and anchor to the ground, transforming into a fortified outpost — a walking fortress built for desert warfare.

  Steam poured from its pressure valves. Signal flags fluttered atop its comms masts.

  On a rise beneath a canvas canopy, stood Friedrich von Blumenkranz. Binoculars in hand. Face expressionless, but taut with focus.

  “Stabilizers failed,” he said quietly. “Mobility — line three. Adjust clearance to 0.4.”

  The adjutant behind him scribbled notes quickly.

  A courier approached up the stony path and snapped to attention.

  “Baron, urgent message. Codeword: ‘Pilot.’”

  Von Blumenkranz took the envelope, broke the seal, read in silence. Only once did his brow twitch.

  Chelago.

  He folded the message and handed it to his aide.

  “Cease testing. Return the machine to the hangar. Ready the airship. I’m flying to Tunis.”

  “Immediately, sir?”

  “Immediately.”

  He slipped on his gloves and descended the stone stairs. Dust swirled behind him. Above, the Wachtmeister awaited — a massive airship bearing the black Teutonic cross.

  III. In Flight

  The captain’s salon aboard the Wachtmeister was clad in leather and dark wood. Through the reinforced portholes, clouds slid slowly past — streaks of desert dust trailing below the gondola.

  Friedrich von Blumenkranz sat at a fold-out desk. In front of him lay a map — dotted lines between Tunis, Benghazi, Adrar. At the center: a hand-written word in faded pencil: Babel? Crossed out, erased, circled again.

  At the edge of the desk lay a scroll — scorched at the edges, bound in blackened twine. He hadn’t touched it. He only watched it.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, eyes still fixed.

  “No, Herr Baron,” the adjutant replied.

  “These aren’t just coordinates. It’s a trail. And if it’s resurfaced — then Chelago has remembered. Or he was forced to. Which means someone’s pushing him.”

  He stood, walked to the small bar cabinet. Poured himself mineral water from a bottle marked in German script. Took a sip.

  “Send a dispatch to Berlin. Use code ‘Walpurgis.’ I’m assuming command of Sector Ash. And…” — he looked at the scroll — “…activate Schattenkompanie. Send them south.”

  “Yes, Herr Baron.”

  He returned to the window.

  A sandstorm was rising on the horizon.

  “Everything repeats,” he said.

  And to himself:

  But this time, I will not retreat.

  He lingered by the window a moment longer, then said quietly:

  “I once made the Chancellor a promise — that I would see this project through. And I will. No matter what it costs me.”