Re: Blood and Iron-Chapter 429: Picking Your Battles at the Right Time

The opening ceremony had concluded, leaving the crowd in complete and utter awe. On the morrow, the Games would begin. But tonight, Germany celebrated.

A grand reception was held in Berlin for the world's leaders and international delegates—those who had come to witness the dawning of a new era. An era of steel and order, of civilization reshaped by discipline—not decay.

For the Germans, the air was thick not with arrogance, but with assurance. A miasma of quiet confidence permeated the grand halls. They had trained harder, longer, and under better conditions than any other nation. And now, they were ready—not merely to compete, but to dominate.

As the athletes prepared for the coming contests—of strength, agility, perception, and sheer force of will—Bruno and his family stood among the powerful.

Most of the men present were representatives of governments that had been enemies a mere two years prior. The blood had dried, at least on the surface. Now was the time to rebuild—and to reckon.

Delegates from Britain were present. King George himself was in attendance—the weary sovereign who had narrowly avoided watching the flower of the British Army crushed in the final Central Powers push toward Paris. He had turned his attention instead to the empire, rallying what strength remained to quell rebellion in the colonies with ruthless fervor.

Ireland had been subdued in brutal fashion over the past two years, with tactics reminiscent of the suppression of the Easter Rising in Bruno's former life. The heartland of the United Kingdom had returned to order—but its empire was bleeding.

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From India to Africa, the colonial dominions were alight with revolt. Rivers ran red in places the British maps called civilized. And yet here stood King George and his ministers, faces lined and drawn—not just by war, but by the agony of the aftermath.

If the Great War had tested their resolve, the last two years had scourged their souls.

The British King did not look fondly upon Bruno. Wilhelm, he could tolerate—there was shared blood, old ties, the illusion of noble camaraderie. But Bruno? Bruno was the knife behind the crown. The man who had turned the strategy into humiliation. A general who had rewritten warfare itself.

He feared him. He resented him. And perhaps, in the quietest moments, he even admired him. But he did not forgive him.

Bruno, for his part, returned the sentiment—though his disdain was aimed elsewhere. His gaze fell coldly upon the so-called representatives of the French Republic. You might ask—how could they be here, when France itself was burning? When the Republic was dead in all but name?

Because these were the cowards who had fled Paris before it was made to kneel. They had left their people behind. Abandoned their soldiers, their cities, their streets. And now they reappeared, clean-shaven and dressed in finery, sipping wine in Berlin as though they still had a country to speak for.

Bruno's eyes narrowed. The sons of Ludwig—the father of the Reich—had come to reclaim what was theirs. And these men, these ghosts of a fallen republic, had no place in the new age.

Though Bruno found these insolent curs—who dared to claim legitimacy—nothing short of an eyesore, he remained a man of civilization. He would not initiate conflict in a hall of peace. But should the air grow sharp with challenge—he would end it.Without hesitation, and without remorse.

Eva however had been holding in her fury for well over an hour. And rightfully so, The French delegation—what little remained of it—clustered near one of the gilded columns, sipping tall glasses of wine and sneering behind thin smiles. Their words, while hushed, were careless enough for anyone fluent in French to understand.

She wasn't just fluent—she spoke French with the grace of a native Parisian.So precise, so natural, that these jesters would feel the sting of their own nationalism if they heard a German princess speak their mother tongue more eloquently than they ever could. And yet, their vulgar words prompted nothing more than an eye-roll from her—a quiet gesture of annoyance, not outrage.

"Look at them—pretending to be emperors. No culture, no soul. Just iron and uniforms."

Her fingers tightened slightly on her glass—not out of frustration, but at the sheer audacity of the remark, given the context behind it. Even so, her expression remained composed. Not in a room like this. Not under the watchful eyes of diplomats, generals, and kings—and certainly not with her fiancé, the Kaiser's grandson, standing beside her, utterly captivated by her poise.

Though she had been born the daughter of a man who was once the ninth son of a Prussian Junker Lord, Bruno's exploits had long since elevated their family. The main line now held the status of counts, and more recently, Bruno had been granted hereditary princely rule over Tirol—making him a monarch in his own right.

And she? She was now a genuine princess. She knew better than to make a scene. The temptation flared, of course. But she had been raised well. And more than that—she had been raised by him.

Her gaze drifted toward her father. Bruno hadn't moved. He stood at ease, a glass of dark wine in one hand, the weight of the room behind him. He looked neither amused nor offended. Just aware.

Then, in perfect French, spoken just loud enough for the Frenchmen to hear—and no one else—he murmured:

"Let these little men, exiled from their homeland, make their scornful remarks."

His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

"Had I wanted to, I could have burned their capital to the ground. The artillery was loaded. The path was open. But I chose otherwise—not out of mercy, but out of discipline."

A pause, then a slow breath, as if recalling the decision itself.

"But to compel the French to surrender without the need to fight… and preserve the inherent beauty of Paris—that is supreme victory."

He let the words settle like dust on marble, then added with a trace of contempt,

"Or it would have been… if the damned fools hadn't burned it down themselves the moment I left."

Bruno had grown weary of the insults cast at Germany during what was meant to be a celebration of peace—a celebration these so-called "diplomats" had no rightful place in. They were not emissaries. They were relics—drunken, exiled, and without a flag.

And now, they had wandered too far into the lion's den.

He had let them dig their own grave, inch by inch, with every sip of stolen wine.

Now it was time to bury them.

He laced his words with venom, delivered them with surgical precision, and watched the bait take.

The Frenchmen snapped.

Their pride—sodden with wine and crippled by shame—could not resist the provocation. They turned, shouting obscenities in their native tongue. Loud. Obvious.

Eva's eyes widened as her father—unbothered—reached to hand her a fresh glass and gave her a subtle wink and a smile.

Then, softly:

"Now it is time to defend our home from these unwanted intruders."

With calm deliberation, Bruno adjusted his tie and stepped forward.

The entire room shifted.

All eyes turned. Conversations froze mid-sentence. The wolf was moving—and three fattened pigs had laid their bellies bare before his fangs.