Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 283 Metamorphosis

Lieutenant Auster von Landz was unsure whether this meeting was among the routine ones.

There was no official announcement or list.

He was only brought in by his superior's instruction, "You're coming with me."

That command was as simple as drinking water, yet it lingered in my mind all night.

Lanz assumed it was just a routine internal announcement, personnel change, or summary.

Now, he sits in the corner closest to the fireplace.

The pile of firewood was not lit; the ash moved along the cracks in the bricks like crawling insects.

Twelve people sat around a long, dark brown table on either side.

Military uniform, leather boots, metal badges.

Lanz had only heard of almost everyone present from television.

Except for his direct subordinate brigadier general, who was currently red-faced and loudly cursing.

There was no host.

There was no order of speaking.

Everyone was shouting, like a pack of wild dogs fighting in a gray brick arena.

"This wasn't done by the Ukrainian underground."

"It's not Polish technique either."

"They wrote 'Bon Appétit.' It's the French! A French conspiracy!"

"That despicable scoundrel, Laval!"

"I told you, we've been infiltrated! We've been infiltrated for a long time!"

Lands remained silent.

He stared at the people's mouths as they opened and closed, their tongues flicking, and saliva flying everywhere.

“Every single one of you here has betrayed the Empire!”

"Who approved his transfer from guard duty?"

"Who allowed communications to be interrupted for four hours?"

"Who? Who handed the keys to the newly appointed reserve platoon leader?"

Lanz's eyelids twitched slightly, like a dying insect.

The smell in the meeting room gradually became sticky.

Leather, mold, alcohol, perfume, gunpowder, and a strange rusty smell.

Again.

They were shifting the blame onto each other.

Stacks of documents were slammed onto the table, knuckles tapping the wood, creating a rapid, urgent sound.

The general's neck was taut, his eyes wide with rage, and he gritted his teeth.

They no longer used civilized terms, but instead called out the enemy's name directly.

"Hartzmann!"

"Dorell!"

"Bartke! That bastard!"

They shouted as they wrote. As they wrote, they crossed out one more thing and then wrote another.

This will be a very long list.

Lanz blinked, finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

He didn't want to participate at all, but he was still tied to a chair and made to participate in this rehearsal for the massacre.

The lights were blinding, distorting every face.

His mouth was twisted like a jackal's, and his nose was sunken, making him look like a mole.

Perhaps, Lanz couldn't tell whether they had really changed, or if there was something wrong with his own head.

“We are the fire, and we must burn away the shadows in the forest,” someone whispered.

Soon, someone else chimed in: "Only by burning one's own kind can fire be truly purified."

He felt a chill down his back, as if something was climbing up his spine.

One second, two seconds later, the snake twisted and coiled around her shoulder blade.

Can't move.

Can't make any sound.

It can only be recorded.

"Write it down!" someone said.

"The new system of allegiance must be extended immediately to all levels of government, including families and spouses."

“We must eliminate vacillation and neutrality at their root.”

"Disobedience of thought is treason, and unreliable blood ties are potential dangers."

“Monthly oaths, quarterly reviews.”

"Clean it every year."

"Until...until we're all alone!"

Lanz tried to stand up and leave, but his feet sank completely into the floor tiles.

He looked down and noticed water stains on the soles of his shoes, spreading out in concentric circles.

He slowly realized that it was sweat. He was sweating profusely, drenched in sweat.

Double images appeared in my field of vision, and there was no longer any distance between faces.

Lanz reached up and touched his neck, his fingertips trembling, the instant they touched his collar—

Someone was muttering something in a very low voice.

"Those that are burned but not destroyed. Those that are burned but not destroyed."

Lanz didn't know where the sound came from, or if it was the whispers of the people present.

For a moment, he even wondered if it was his own lips that were moving.

Then, the wall with the head of state's portrait began to twist and deform.

And the voice kept asking:

"Who is willing to kill their own brothers for me? Who dares to send a sword through the city gates?"

Lanz's heart nearly stopped beating.

Time stands still.

The portrait split open, and light shone through.

It's not lamplight, it's not sunlight.

It was a blazing white flame that was too bright to look at directly.

He tried to close his eyes, but his eyelids wouldn't close.

He tried to turn his head, but his neck was immobile.

So much so that one is trapped in that gaze—scorching, majestic, absolute.

Everything around us stripped of its ornamentation, transforming into a burning palace.

The walls crumbled, the tables and chairs shattered, and the stone bricks turned to charcoal.

People are no longer people.

The generals and officials of those leaders all raised their hands high, with wings spread behind them.

They spoke different languages, accused, judged, and sacrificed one another.

“This is a trial,” someone said, supporting his shoulder from above.

"You are the son of fire."

Lantz saw himself slowly stand up, his wings were black, and he held a sword in his right hand.

There were words engraved on the sword that he didn't recognize, but he could read:
—Son of man, prophesy to them.

Lanz's chest was filled with flames, and he was breathing heavily.

My skin was burning hot, my body was numb, and every nerve was on fire.

He felt something inside his body thumping against his blood vessels.

An indescribable impulse surfaced.

A rain of metal fell from the sky, splitting the crowd in two.

In the distance, the faint sounds of horns and horses' hooves could be heard, birds flapped their wings, and the sky seemed to crack and the earth to crumble.

Lanz realized something.

He heard something screaming and wailing inside his body.

He was ordered to act now, immediately, and instantly.

Lands didn't "want" to stand up; he couldn't help but stand up.

Then, he jumped to his feet, clenched his fists, and shouted resolutely:
"I will unleash my blade from within, burn their dwellings, and sever their bloodline!"

"So that their names are crossed out and not recorded!"

The next second, the world suddenly returned to normal.

Everyone stopped.

The previously noisy room fell into dead silence.

Lanz remained standing there, fists clenched, chest heaving, forehead covered in sweat.

Around the conference table, faces turned to look at him.

They are no longer rats, beasts, or armored angels.

Just people.

Pale, astonished people.

Someone put down their pen first, moving very quietly, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Then, one by one, they turned their heads to look at them.

One of the staff officers swallowed hard, dragging his chair and making a slight noise.