The new recruit made light of the situation. After all, it was as simple as finishing off an enemy that already stood on death’s doorstep.
The experienced recruit was vigilant. After all, a cornered enemy is all the more frightening, one can’t know what they might pull.
There is a big gap between those who know war, and those who don’t. Between hardened soldiers and those unexperienced. But there was one thing both sides recognized:
The enemy is beyond hopeless.
The new recruit’s carelessness, and the experienced recruit’s vigilance stemmed from the notion that the enemy’s downfall had already been set in stone. But they were gravely mistaken.
Awaiting them beyond were no gallant Third Reich soldiers, no resistance soldiers shouting their victory cries and no civilians rejoicing their liberation. The hundreds of thousands of soldiers would soon find out that they were neither soldiers nor men, but mere sacrifices.
Sainte-Mère-Église, a town in the French peninsula Normandy. It was here where private John Steele was left dangling on the remarkingly tall spire of its church. He belonged to the 82nd batallion that parachuted into the town in order to liberate it from the rule of Nazi Germany. However, John got swept by the wind and failed the drop, and as luck would have it, his parachute got stuck on the church’s spire. All on his own, defenseless, surrounded by enemy troops. All he could do was feign death, but instead his eyes widened.
The unreal sight before him would not grant him the luxury of playing dead. One by one his comrades fell, and not in the sense that the drop point had accidentally been miscalculated, no. One after the other, before the soldiers had a chance to touch the ground, they had their guts scattered, their heads smashed and their limbs devoured. What rushed about the dead soldiers could only be described as a white wind. It moved along the town, shooting the midair soldiers to death. It crossed the rooftops and used the hills as scaffolding to leap into the air. This wind could not be stopped. Over ten-thousand men had dropped into Sainte-Mère-Église, but likely none of them had ever been able to set foot on the ground.
The village below John’s vision had been dyed red. Not just made up of the blood and flesh of the late 82nd batallion, but also that of the townspeople. The wind had noticed John’s presence. Once he realized this, it had already made its way to the top of the spire with John right at its summit. Without thinking, John closed his eyes. Not to try and feign death, but because he wanted to look away from his death. Every time his body swayed in the wind, it hit the tower. The parachute’s wire wavered, and John was assailed with intense pain. But he was alive. For some reason the murderous wind had only approached him gently, and didn’t do anything. The wind’s shockwave had almost killed him, but he was alive.
You surprised me! Looks like you won’t die today.
John could hear a voice from above so refreshing it’d make one forget this is a battlefield.
I thought maybe the rope would break, but it didn’t! Then I thought maybe the rope would coil around your neck, but it didn’t! Amazing! With your predicament and fortune, they ought to erect a statue in your honour. Might even make for a good tourist attraction.
John rubbed his eyes, he couldn’t see the owner of the voice. He knew intuitively that he couldn’t play dead.
Ah, no need to be so scared! I’m told to leave one alive anyway. Let’s make you the lucky winner! So, hey...
Gently, the wind dropped down from the spire, and that gentleness had subconciously deceived him. He lost the strength in his arms.
Make sure to keep your eyes open.
His gaze met that of the voice’s owner, for a split second they passed each other. His arms hanging loosely, his view was cleared again. His will to resist and to live. That chance meeting that lasted not more than a handful of seconds ended up robbing him of all of his strength. Once more the paratroops were being dissolved in the air. The cause of it being that wind, no, that person. The true form of that wind was a person. Somebody with speed like the wind blasted through the town. No matter how many soldiers, all would be annihilated. How absurd. But absurd it may be, this was reality. And the comrades he had shared his meals with, died before him.
Ten thousand versus one.
Wearing an SS officer’s uniform, it was a one-eyed… Boy? Maybe a girl. Either way it was a beauty, and that ephemeral beauty was tearing through its path of carnage. If a paratrooper touches the ground it’s game-over. That’s the kind of game the person seemed to be playing. In that case, was he a mere bonus character? John began to despise his parachute that had become his lifeline. If only it’d break, it would all be over. He didn’t want to behold this scene any longer, much less tell the tale.
June, 1944 marked the start of the Invasion of Normandy at the hands of the allied forces. These allied forces were made up of America, England, Canada and Australia. The strategy: attack by land, sea and air simultaneously. The enemy was already down to a single nation: Nazi Germany, as such, the idea of crushing them by means of overwhelming numbers was certainly not wrong.
If one were to point out a flaw in this plan, it would be that most of the forces’ generals did not believe certain intel coming from correspondents and soldiers at the front lines. Intel that was also leaked by the Soviet Union:
The Longinus Dreizehn Orden was founded by Heinrich Himmler as a social club of make-believe knights. But this club had been spearheaded by the Golden Beast, Reinhard Heydrich, and today it has become a corps of true superhumans and demons. Each member is said to possess tremendous power and to be able to match thousands of soldiers. Forget Himmler, not even the führer can control them anymore.
The generals of the allied forces spared only a laugh at these reports. Did a comic book writer wind up on the front lines? Paying any heed to these stories is preposterous. Unlike the Soviet Union, that had recently made itself an enemy of Nazi Germany as well, most of these generals had never fought the german nation before. As a result, their view on the situation had been most naive. Thus the curtain began to draw on a great tragedy.
Members of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden were located across key locations in the Normandian peninsula. All of them were on their own, but that did not stop them from decimating the flooding soldiers with ease. Cut. Stabbed. Minced. Smashed. Roasted. Whatever the cutting edge technology and weaponry, it had no meaning in their presence. Overwhelming numbers would only serve to make the undertaking more tedious for them at best.
Individually, the knights that had come to battle with the allied forces each had different motives. Where there are those that work to execute their missions rigorously, there are also those that take pleasure in bathing in the flesh and blood of their enemies. But the one who most deeply understands their mission and even lives for it would be her.
Rusalka Schwägelin, Number VIII of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's Obsidian Round Table. Neither a soldier nor a maniac, she is the Obsidian Round Table's only witch. Her lurking place during this operation is the coastline that connects the two communes Sainte-Honorine-des-Pertes and Vierville-sur-Mer: Omaha Beach. The place that would come to be called Bloody Omaha soon after.
The strong ocean wind rustled her red hair.
Ah! This is why I hate the ocean...
Rusalka fixed her hair in a listless mood, this day's ocean wind had a stormy feel to it. The beautiful girl in question has a small stature and seems like the type to get along with anyone. Most people would feel at ease when observing this scene of Rusalka having an innocent bout with the wind. The manner in which she readjusted her hair would almost resemble a kitten washing her own face. But kittens are simpleminded creatures that have no leash on them. Without a leash, simpleminded creatures will display cruelty to those that are weaker than them.
Rusalka sat on a trench created by the German army, the coastline ahead resembling nothing less than a living hell. That is because the beach and the sea were dyed in red. The type of paint that was used to dye the area red was the blood of the unfortunate soldiers that have come to disembark here. The members of the Obsidian Round Table that are participating in this defensive operation have received but one order from their leader, Reinhard Heydrich:
Make yourselves known.
They each interpreted this order in their own way, and moved to carry it out. The honest soldiers among them made their power known. The cruel mainacs among them made the stench of blood known. And the witch, Rusalka, made despair known. With their transport ships stopped by the coastline, the allied soldiers devotedly charged the beach with no tanks to shield them from harm. And they would come to die.
Buried in the sand up until their necks, trampled by their frenzied comrades. Swallowed live by shadows appearing at their feet. Strangled to death by chains. Crushed by walls covered with spikes appearing out of nowhere.
These weapons are all part of Rusalka's magic arsenal. Hundreds of years ago, she had attained the power to control magic familiars that consume their victims' souls. They are man-eating shadows: Nachtzehrer. She has also received another power from the the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's vice-commander, Mercurius. That power is Ewigkeit. The ongoing spectacle at the beach is a product of these two magic powers.
Mercurius can be said to be Reinhard Heydrich's only sworn friend. All members of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden have come to possess magic powers through the Ewigkeit that was bestowed upon them by Mercurius. The key parts that make up this power are faith and hatred, using a holy relic imbued with vast intrinsic notions as their vessel. These holy relics are called Ahnenerbe, and through a spiritual connection to them can one gain the power of magic.
Rusalka's Ahnenerbe is the diary of the countess of blood: Die BlutgräfinElisabeth Báthory. The vile countess, Elisabeth Báthory, had tortured numerous young girls in an attempt to attain eternal beauty by bathing in their blood. By connecting to this diary, Rusalka can freely give form to countless torture tools, turning Omaha Beach into a den of torture devices.
Rusalka could hear the soldiers' cries, carried by the ocean wind. The shriek of the experienced recruit, being torn apart as he shields the new recruit from harm. The screams of soldiers that try to flee but are nonetheless taken by death. These wails of lament are sure to pierce the heart.
Two soldiers attempting to cover each other are hugged by a hollow metal puppet that is modeled after a holy woman. The inside is set up with numerous spikes, designed to squeeze out the victim's blood. Specializing in extracting blood and inflicting severe pain, this device can be said to be a representative of Elisabeth Báthory herself: the Iron Maiden. The blood spilling out of the device, after forcibly swallowing the two soldiers, stained the red beach with increased thickness.
That must be so cozy in there! Could there be a better soldier's death than being embraced by a woman together with your best pal? No way there is!
Rusalka actually believes this. Instead of bearing resentment for being killed, she feels they should be thanking her for granting them such a good death. Forgetting about the wives back at home, falling on the battlefield together with one's comrades is certainly an honourable death. If not, said wives would not get compensated for the loss of their husbands...
Yup, definitely! Now everyone gets a happy end, I'm such a philanthropist... Of course, the happiest one here is the one who did their very best, t h a t ' s m e ~
Rusalka spun around, striking a pose along with a smile. Quickly moving on from the gloomy train of thought from before. The idea that Rusalka got the happiest ending here is definitely not wrong. The souls of the late soldiers that just had their blood and guts scattered all over the beach quenched her body. This is not a metaphor for some sense of satisfaction or accomplishment, she genuinely absorbed their souls.
Ewigkeit feeds off of souls. Through killing, other people's souls become one's own. Kill a hundred and gain one hundred souls. Kill a thousand and gain one thousand souls. On a fundamental level, souls function as fuel for using Ewigkeit. Additionally, the more life force one absorbs from other people, the more powerful one's body, senses and life force become. But gathering souls serves a purpose far greater than something as trivial as strengthening one's body, a key to a grand miracle...
Even if all the soldiers that were present at Omaha Beach fired their weapons at Rusalka in unison, they would likely not be able to harm her. If one wants to defeat a member of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden, it would require some sort of magic intervention, or perhaps the cursed power of an Ahnenerbe. In other words, at this moment at Omaha Beach, Rusalka is using a cheat code that grants invincibility. No soldier on the beach meets the requirements necessary to defeat her.
Now I've got free time, huh... If only it were a little warmer I could go for a swim, with a sexy revealing kind of swimsuit- But I didn't bring one... Not that there's anyone to see it anyway...
Rusalka was in a pretty laid back mood because she had already ascertained her victory, but somebody who meets the requirements for her defeat suddenly appeared before her eyes, blowing away the trenches and walls the Germans had set up.
Hey Anna.
Most members of her corps call Rusalka by her alias, Malleus Maleficarum. Only one person calls her Anna...
Schreiber!?
Rusalka exclaimed the intruder's name. Even "Rusalka" is another alias of hers, he is the only one who calls her by her true name.
Wolfgang Schreiber, Number XII of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's Obsidian Round Table, the Ashen Knight, one of the three battalion commanders.
He stared at Rusalka's face from an uncomfortably short distance. His white skin and hair clear as day, his face resembling that of an angel, he was beautiful. But this beauty is absolutely untouchable. Underneath it lies great danger, like that of a gun barrel on the verge of firing.
Your juristiction is more inward, Sainte-Mère-Église, isn't it? Is it really okay for you to be here?
Rusalka, questioning Schreiber on why he had left his area of juristiction, had a much more tense expression now, befitting somebody on a battlefield.
Yeah, I know. But there's nobody left there anymore.
There's nobody left?
The ones who came falling from the sky, I turned them into mincemeat one after another, but then they noticed and suddenly stopped the party... I got lonely, so here I am.
This is not surprising. Nobody would decide to drop in anymore when they know what will happen to them down there. The operation would likely already stop after around three battalions. Schreiber has no sense of restraint when it comes to things like this. He is a lunatic.
But I left one behind, you know. He was dangling from the spire, so much fun! I'll let you see him later.
That was about the only form of restraint Schreiber exercised today. In order to show power, it is necessary to leave at least one witness. The only chains on Schreiber are Reinhard's words. If He orders it, even Schreiber will understand.
The untamable wolf made a very unreasonable request from Rusalka.
So Anna, let me have this place.
Now wouldn't that be awfully convenient for him? Rusalka had prepared countless contraptions on Omaha Beach, one could call it her makeshift hunting spot. Schreiber, on the other hand, ravaged his hunting spot without a second thought and lost track of his prey. And he has the nerve to ask her to surrender hers? His request is absolutely out of the question.
... Fine...
But Rusalka surrendered the fruits of her labour without sign of resistance. Much like ants surrendering the reserves they had worked at through the harsh winter to predatory crickets.
Ah, thanks Anna!
Schreiber smiled and grabbed Rusalka's hand. Rusalka could only return an awkward smile.
You know, you're really...
Really what? Schreiber didn't even finish that line, let alone give her time to respond. He already started dashing across Omaha Beach, the soldiers and Rusalka's traps all turned to pieces before his immense speed. Out of her destroyed iron maiden fell a single man, filled with holes.
Being a battalion commander, Schreiber is above Rusalka in both status and actual power. Rusalka may be the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's number six, and Schreiber number twelve, but this number is not based on power. The current number one is Reinhard, but the vice-commander Mercurius is number thirteen.
The reason Rusalka retreated was not because of the difference between their ranks. Schreiber is lacking on a fundamental level, his morals and common sense simply do not function properly. To the point fellow lunatics would laugh at schreiber's idiocy.
If Rusalka resisted him, she would surely become his lunch. What would that be like? Friend or foe, Schreiber is a beast that knows only how to hunger. If she were to someday face a crisis of some sort, the last person she would want to be saved by is Schreiber. She absolutely cannot rely on him, absolutely not, don't even think about it. Whatever, nothing like that would ever happen to her anyway...
Rusalka released all the contraptions she had set up. At this point she didn't want to engage with Omaha Beach or Schreiber anymore.
Right, I guess I should pay that survivor of his a visit.
Rusalka turned her back on the beach. Perhaps now that Schreiber left, the drop operation has begun again. Probably not, but she needed an excuse to get away from this place.
Wolfgang Schreiber would end up scoring a kill count of 185,731 people by the fall of Berlin. This number is the highest not only among the Longinus Dreizehn Orden, but it is also the highest individual kill count in history. Even the thousands of soldiers Rusalka had commendably gathered in Omaha Beach were but a trivial amount of people for him.
Thus, the Invasion of Normandy and the victorious D-Day by the hands of the allied forces bore a gloomy result.
Members of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden managed to make a full retreat in a matter of days, but the allied forces would only disembark on Europe over a month later. Overcome by the fear of the unknown, they could not make their move for quite some time. This delay had its repercussions, and the Soviet Union had reached Berlin first. They would come to witness the power of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden and the anomaly that was Berlin's citizens' mass suicide.
But the Longinus Dreizehn Orden disappeared along with Nazi Germany. They were not defeated, they simply vanished. With that, the world's major powers had become the disgraced victors. The Longinus Dreizehn Orden was treated as if it did not exist, and it did not appear in the history books. Only their individual members' names were recorded, and they were designated as war criminals.
The reason for this was certainly to cover up the disgrace, but a much bigger reason was the fear that was buried deep within the countries of the world. What if they come back after disappearing? As a result, their name was never mentioned anymore.
But over the years it got easier, every year the disgrace lightened, the world would come to forget that fear. Some tens of years later, the two great powers of the world, America and the Soviet Union, considered themselves the great victors without a sliver of doubt. The other countries of the world likely felt the same way. Even Germany, that had been split in two at the time, had almost forgotten about them.
But one man's testimony, the legend of invincible soldiers dwelling the battlefield, blew that overly naive presumption to smithereens.
The Longinus Dreizehn Orden exists.
With their memories of the war fresh as ever, a new conflict moves ever closer. It is now the sixties. The world shall know of them once more.
The new recruit made light of the situation. After all, it was as simple as finishing off an enemy that already stood on death’s doorstep.
The experienced recruit was vigilant. After all, a cornered enemy is all the more frightening, one can’t know what they might pull.
There is a big gap between those who know war, and those who don’t. Between hardened soldiers and those unexperienced. But there was one thing both sides recognized:
The enemy is beyond hopeless.
The new recruit’s carelessness, and the experienced recruit’s vigilance stemmed from the notion that the enemy’s downfall had already been set in stone. But they were gravely mistaken.
Awaiting them beyond were no gallant Third Reich soldiers, no resistance soldiers shouting their victory cries and no civilians rejoicing their liberation. The hundreds of thousands of soldiers would soon find out that they were neither soldiers nor men, but mere sacrifices.
Sainte-Mère-Église, a town in the French peninsula Normandy. It was here where private John Steele was left dangling on the remarkingly tall spire of its church. He belonged to the 82nd batallion that parachuted into the town in order to liberate it from the rule of Nazi Germany. However, John got swept by the wind and failed the drop, and as luck would have it, his parachute got stuck on the church’s spire. All on his own, defenseless, surrounded by enemy troops. All he could do was feign death, but instead his eyes widened.
The unreal sight before him would not grant him the luxury of playing dead. One by one his comrades fell, and not in the sense that the drop point had accidentally been miscalculated, no. One after the other, before the soldiers had a chance to touch the ground, they had their guts scattered, their heads smashed and their limbs devoured. What rushed about the dead soldiers could only be described as a white wind. It moved along the town, shooting the midair soldiers to death. It crossed the rooftops and used the hills as scaffolding to leap into the air. This wind could not be stopped. Over ten-thousand men had dropped into Sainte-Mère-Église, but likely none of them had ever been able to set foot on the ground.
The village below John’s vision had been dyed red. Not just made up of the blood and flesh of the late 82nd batallion, but also that of the townspeople. The wind had noticed John’s presence. Once he realized this, it had already made its way to the top of the spire with John right at its summit. Without thinking, John closed his eyes. Not to try and feign death, but because he wanted to look away from his death. Every time his body swayed in the wind, it hit the tower. The parachute’s wire wavered, and John was assailed with intense pain. But he was alive. For some reason the murderous wind had only approached him gently, and didn’t do anything. The wind’s shockwave had almost killed him, but he was alive.
You surprised me! Looks like you won’t die today.
John could hear a voice from above so refreshing it’d make one forget this is a battlefield.
I thought maybe the rope would break, but it didn’t! Then I thought maybe the rope would coil around your neck, but it didn’t! Amazing! With your predicament and fortune, they ought to erect a statue in your honour. Might even make for a good tourist attraction.
John rubbed his eyes, he couldn’t see the owner of the voice. He knew intuitively that he couldn’t play dead.
Ah, no need to be so scared! I’m told to leave one alive anyway. Let’s make you the lucky winner! So, hey...
Gently, the wind dropped down from the spire, and that gentleness had subconciously deceived him. He lost the strength in his arms.
Make sure to keep your eyes open.
His gaze met that of the voice’s owner, for a split second they passed each other. His arms hanging loosely, his view was cleared again. His will to resist and to live. That chance meeting that lasted not more than a handful of seconds ended up robbing him of all of his strength. Once more the paratroops were being dissolved in the air. The cause of it being that wind, no, that person. The true form of that wind was a person. Somebody with speed like the wind blasted through the town. No matter how many soldiers, all would be annihilated. How absurd. But absurd it may be, this was reality. And the comrades he had shared his meals with, died before him.
Ten thousand versus one.
Wearing an SS officer’s uniform, it was a one-eyed… Boy? Maybe a girl. Either way it was a beauty, and that ephemeral beauty was tearing through its path of carnage. If a paratrooper touches the ground it’s game-over. That’s the kind of game the person seemed to be playing. In that case, was he a mere bonus character? John began to despise his parachute that had become his lifeline. If only it’d break, it would all be over. He didn’t want to behold this scene any longer, much less tell the tale.
June, 1944 marked the start of the Invasion of Normandy at the hands of the allied forces. These allied forces were made up of America, England, Canada and Australia. The strategy: attack by land, sea and air simultaneously. The enemy was already down to a single nation: Nazi Germany, as such, the idea of crushing them by means of overwhelming numbers was certainly not wrong.
If one were to point out a flaw in this plan, it would be that most of the forces’ generals did not believe certain intel coming from correspondents and soldiers at the front lines. Intel that was also leaked by the Soviet Union:
The Longinus Dreizehn Orden was founded by Heinrich Himmler as a social club of make-believe knights. But this club had been spearheaded by the Golden Beast, Reinhard Heydrich, and today it has become a corps of true superhumans and demons. Each member is said to possess tremendous power and to be able to match thousands of soldiers. Forget Himmler, not even the führer can control them anymore.
The generals of the allied forces spared only a laugh at these reports. Did a comic book writer wind up on the front lines? Paying any heed to these stories is preposterous. Unlike the Soviet Union, that had recently made itself an enemy of Nazi Germany as well, most of these generals had never fought the german nation before. As a result, their view on the situation had been most naive. Thus the curtain began to draw on a great tragedy.
Members of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden were located across key locations in the Normandian peninsula. All of them were on their own, but that did not stop them from decimating the flooding soldiers with ease. Cut. Stabbed. Minced. Smashed. Roasted. Whatever the cutting edge technology and weaponry, it had no meaning in their presence. Overwhelming numbers would only serve to make the undertaking more tedious for them at best.
Individually, the knights that had come to battle with the allied forces each had different motives. Where there are those that work to execute their missions rigorously, there are also those that take pleasure in bathing in the flesh and blood of their enemies. But the one who most deeply understands their mission and even lives for it would be her.
Rusalka Schwägelin, Number VIII of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's Obsidian Round Table. Neither a soldier nor a maniac, she is the Obsidian Round Table's only witch. Her lurking place during this operation is the coastline that connects the two communes Sainte-Honorine-des-Pertes and Vierville-sur-Mer: Omaha Beach. The place that would come to be called Bloody Omaha soon after.
The strong ocean wind rustled her red hair.
Ah! This is why I hate the ocean...
Rusalka fixed her hair in a listless mood, this day's ocean wind had a stormy feel to it. The beautiful girl in question has a small stature and seems like the type to get along with anyone. Most people would feel at ease when observing this scene of Rusalka having an innocent bout with the wind. The manner in which she readjusted her hair would almost resemble a kitten washing her own face. But kittens are simpleminded creatures that have no leash on them. Without a leash, simpleminded creatures will display cruelty to those that are weaker than them.
Rusalka sat on a trench created by the German army, the coastline ahead resembling nothing less than a living hell. That is because the beach and the sea were dyed in red. The type of paint that was used to dye the area red was the blood of the unfortunate soldiers that have come to disembark here. The members of the Obsidian Round Table that are participating in this defensive operation have received but one order from their leader, Reinhard Heydrich:
Make yourselves known.
They each interpreted this order in their own way, and moved to carry it out. The honest soldiers among them made their power known. The cruel mainacs among them made the stench of blood known. And the witch, Rusalka, made despair known. With their transport ships stopped by the coastline, the allied soldiers devotedly charged the beach with no tanks to shield them from harm. And they would come to die.
Buried in the sand up until their necks, trampled by their frenzied comrades. Swallowed live by shadows appearing at their feet. Strangled to death by chains. Crushed by walls covered with spikes appearing out of nowhere.
These weapons are all part of Rusalka's magic arsenal. Hundreds of years ago, she had attained the power to control magic familiars that consume their victims' souls. They are man-eating shadows: Nachtzehrer. She has also received another power from the the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's vice-commander, Mercurius. That power is Ewigkeit. The ongoing spectacle at the beach is a product of these two magic powers.
Mercurius can be said to be Reinhard Heydrich's only sworn friend. All members of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden have come to possess magic powers through the Ewigkeit that was bestowed upon them by Mercurius. The key parts that make up this power are faith and hatred, using a holy relic imbued with vast intrinsic notions as their vessel. These holy relics are called Ahnenerbe, and through a spiritual connection to them can one gain the power of magic.
Rusalka's Ahnenerbe is the diary of the countess of blood: Die BlutgräfinElisabeth Báthory. The vile countess, Elisabeth Báthory, had tortured numerous young girls in an attempt to attain eternal beauty by bathing in their blood. By connecting to this diary, Rusalka can freely give form to countless torture tools, turning Omaha Beach into a den of torture devices.
Rusalka could hear the soldiers' cries, carried by the ocean wind. The shriek of the experienced recruit, being torn apart as he shields the new recruit from harm. The screams of soldiers that try to flee but are nonetheless taken by death. These wails of lament are sure to pierce the heart.
Two soldiers attempting to cover each other are hugged by a hollow metal puppet that is modeled after a holy woman. The inside is set up with numerous spikes, designed to squeeze out the victim's blood. Specializing in extracting blood and inflicting severe pain, this device can be said to be a representative of Elisabeth Báthory herself: the Iron Maiden. The blood spilling out of the device, after forcibly swallowing the two soldiers, stained the red beach with increased thickness.
That must be so cozy in there! Could there be a better soldier's death than being embraced by a woman together with your best pal? No way there is!
Rusalka actually believes this. Instead of bearing resentment for being killed, she feels they should be thanking her for granting them such a good death. Forgetting about the wives back at home, falling on the battlefield together with one's comrades is certainly an honourable death. If not, said wives would not get compensated for the loss of their husbands...
Yup, definitely! Now everyone gets a happy end, I'm such a philanthropist... Of course, the happiest one here is the one who did their very best, t h a t ' s m e ~
Rusalka spun around, striking a pose along with a smile. Quickly moving on from the gloomy train of thought from before. The idea that Rusalka got the happiest ending here is definitely not wrong. The souls of the late soldiers that just had their blood and guts scattered all over the beach quenched her body. This is not a metaphor for some sense of satisfaction or accomplishment, she genuinely absorbed their souls.
Ewigkeit feeds off of souls. Through killing, other people's souls become one's own. Kill a hundred and gain one hundred souls. Kill a thousand and gain one thousand souls. On a fundamental level, souls function as fuel for using Ewigkeit. Additionally, the more life force one absorbs from other people, the more powerful one's body, senses and life force become. But gathering souls serves a purpose far greater than something as trivial as strengthening one's body, a key to a grand miracle...
Even if all the soldiers that were present at Omaha Beach fired their weapons at Rusalka in unison, they would likely not be able to harm her. If one wants to defeat a member of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden, it would require some sort of magic intervention, or perhaps the cursed power of an Ahnenerbe. In other words, at this moment at Omaha Beach, Rusalka is using a cheat code that grants invincibility. No soldier on the beach meets the requirements necessary to defeat her.
Now I've got free time, huh... If only it were a little warmer I could go for a swim, with a sexy revealing kind of swimsuit- But I didn't bring one... Not that there's anyone to see it anyway...
Rusalka was in a pretty laid back mood because she had already ascertained her victory, but somebody who meets the requirements for her defeat suddenly appeared before her eyes, blowing away the trenches and walls the Germans had set up.
Hey Anna.
Most members of her corps call Rusalka by her alias, Malleus Maleficarum. Only one person calls her Anna...
Schreiber!?
Rusalka exclaimed the intruder's name. Even "Rusalka" is another alias of hers, he is the only one who calls her by her true name.
Wolfgang Schreiber, Number XII of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's Obsidian Round Table, the Ashen Knight, one of the three battalion commanders.
He stared at Rusalka's face from an uncomfortably short distance. His white skin and hair clear as day, his face resembling that of an angel, he was beautiful. But this beauty is absolutely untouchable. Underneath it lies great danger, like that of a gun barrel on the verge of firing.
Your juristiction is more inward, Sainte-Mère-Église, isn't it? Is it really okay for you to be here?
Rusalka, questioning Schreiber on why he had left his area of juristiction, had a much more tense expression now, befitting somebody on a battlefield.
Yeah, I know. But there's nobody left there anymore.
There's nobody left?
The ones who came falling from the sky, I turned them into mincemeat one after another, but then they noticed and suddenly stopped the party... I got lonely, so here I am.
This is not surprising. Nobody would decide to drop in anymore when they know what will happen to them down there. The operation would likely already stop after around three battalions. Schreiber has no sense of restraint when it comes to things like this. He is a lunatic.
But I left one behind, you know. He was dangling from the spire, so much fun! I'll let you see him later.
That was about the only form of restraint Schreiber exercised today. In order to show power, it is necessary to leave at least one witness. The only chains on Schreiber are Reinhard's words. If He orders it, even Schreiber will understand.
The untamable wolf made a very unreasonable request from Rusalka.
So Anna, let me have this place.
Now wouldn't that be awfully convenient for him? Rusalka had prepared countless contraptions on Omaha Beach, one could call it her makeshift hunting spot. Schreiber, on the other hand, ravaged his hunting spot without a second thought and lost track of his prey. And he has the nerve to ask her to surrender hers? His request is absolutely out of the question.
... Fine...
But Rusalka surrendered the fruits of her labour without sign of resistance. Much like ants surrendering the reserves they had worked at through the harsh winter to predatory crickets.
Ah, thanks Anna!
Schreiber smiled and grabbed Rusalka's hand. Rusalka could only return an awkward smile.
You know, you're really...
Really what? Schreiber didn't even finish that line, let alone give her time to respond. He already started dashing across Omaha Beach, the soldiers and Rusalka's traps all turned to pieces before his immense speed. Out of her destroyed iron maiden fell a single man, filled with holes.
Being a battalion commander, Schreiber is above Rusalka in both status and actual power. Rusalka may be the Longinus Dreizehn Orden's number six, and Schreiber number twelve, but this number is not based on power. The current number one is Reinhard, but the vice-commander Mercurius is number thirteen.
The reason Rusalka retreated was not because of the difference between their ranks. Schreiber is lacking on a fundamental level, his morals and common sense simply do not function properly. To the point fellow lunatics would laugh at schreiber's idiocy.
If Rusalka resisted him, she would surely become his lunch. What would that be like? Friend or foe, Schreiber is a beast that knows only how to hunger. If she were to someday face a crisis of some sort, the last person she would want to be saved by is Schreiber. She absolutely cannot rely on him, absolutely not, don't even think about it. Whatever, nothing like that would ever happen to her anyway...
Rusalka released all the contraptions she had set up. At this point she didn't want to engage with Omaha Beach or Schreiber anymore.
Right, I guess I should pay that survivor of his a visit.
Rusalka turned her back on the beach. Perhaps now that Schreiber left, the drop operation has begun again. Probably not, but she needed an excuse to get away from this place.
Wolfgang Schreiber would end up scoring a kill count of 185,731 people by the fall of Berlin. This number is the highest not only among the Longinus Dreizehn Orden, but it is also the highest individual kill count in history. Even the thousands of soldiers Rusalka had commendably gathered in Omaha Beach were but a trivial amount of people for him.
Thus, the Invasion of Normandy and the victorious D-Day by the hands of the allied forces bore a gloomy result.
Members of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden managed to make a full retreat in a matter of days, but the allied forces would only disembark on Europe over a month later. Overcome by the fear of the unknown, they could not make their move for quite some time. This delay had its repercussions, and the Soviet Union had reached Berlin first. They would come to witness the power of the Longinus Dreizehn Orden and the anomaly that was Berlin's citizens' mass suicide.
But the Longinus Dreizehn Orden disappeared along with Nazi Germany. They were not defeated, they simply vanished. With that, the world's major powers had become the disgraced victors. The Longinus Dreizehn Orden was treated as if it did not exist, and it did not appear in the history books. Only their individual members' names were recorded, and they were designated as war criminals.
The reason for this was certainly to cover up the disgrace, but a much bigger reason was the fear that was buried deep within the countries of the world. What if they come back after disappearing? As a result, their name was never mentioned anymore.
But over the years it got easier, every year the disgrace lightened, the world would come to forget that fear. Some tens of years later, the two great powers of the world, America and the Soviet Union, considered themselves the great victors without a sliver of doubt. The other countries of the world likely felt the same way. Even Germany, that had been split in two at the time, had almost forgotten about them.
But one man's testimony, the legend of invincible soldiers dwelling the battlefield, blew that overly naive presumption to smithereens.
The Longinus Dreizehn Orden exists.
With their memories of the war fresh as ever, a new conflict moves ever closer. It is now the sixties. The world shall know of them once more.
