"Where am I?"

  Darkness engulfed everything. Nathanael blinked several times, trying to focus his vision on the enviro around him. The air smelled of smoke and gunpowder—an aroma that didn’t match his most ret memories. Was it nighttime? He couldn't be sure. The only thing he could make out clearly was a three-story building in front of him, with curved windows on the first floor and dim, flickering e lights, as if they were on the verge of going out.

  From ihe building, murmurs echoed, apanied by a powerful, magic voice that seemed to be addressing a crowd. Nathanael rubbed his eyes, fused. How had he ended up here?

  His st memories took him baunich, to that night he had go with his uy cssmates. Aroverted student with a passion for history, he had decided to visit the city's most famous beer hall—the very pce where Adolf Hitler had orchestrated the failed coup known as the "Beer Hall Putsch." Nathanael, always eloquent and well-versed in historical details, couldn’t resist making a loud remark about the Führer's tactical mistakes during the early European campaigns.

  "If Germany had had a rger popution base back then, maybe the world would be different today!" he had excimed with a ugh, raising his beer mug. His German cssmates exged uneasy galking about Hitler in Germany wasn’t something taken lightly, but Nathanael, drunk as he was, didn’t seem to care.

  Hours passed, filled with toasts aed debates about military strategies and historical decisions. Growing increasingly intoxicated, Nathanael openly criticized the Third Reich’s failed tactics. "Hitler uimated his enemies! If he had 200 million Germans instead of 80, he would have quered the world!" he decred, unaware that his words carried more weight thaended.

  A German cssmate suddenly poi the sky, his voice filled with excitement: "Look, a meteor! Make a wish, my friend!"

  A blinding light streaked toward Nathanael.

  Despite the drunken haze clouding his senses, he felt a sharp impact against his chest. It was the Blood Order Medal—the Blutorden of 1933—an artifact he had found earlier that day in a sed-hand market. But now, the medal was vibrating with an uling energy, as if it were alive.

  When his vision cleared, he was no longer ireets of modern Munich.

  The t, porary buildings were gone. Everything around him looked as if it had been transported several decades ba time.

  Now he stood here, in this unknown pce, with that magic voice eg in his ears. A shiver ran down his spine. Something was terribly wrong. This wasn’t the Munich he khe building before him, the flickering lights, the st of war hanging in the air . . . everything seemed ripped from another era.

  The Bürgerbr?ukeller beer hall was there, yes—the same one where he had been drinking with his friends. But now, the atmosphere was different. Harsher. More austere.

  He cautiously approached the building, straining to listen more closely. The voiside spoke with unwavering vi, almost fanatical, and the words he mao make out sent a chill down his spine:

  "Germany's future depends on us! We ot allow them to stop us!"

  Nathanael held his breath. Was it possible? Had he somehow been transported into the past? Was he witnessing the very events he had studied so thhly? His mind raced, searg for a rational expnation, but the reality surrounding him was too vivid to dismiss.

  "Alex, what's wrong with you? We should go in already!" a voiapped beside him, ced with impatience.

  Alex? Who's Alex? Nathaurned his head to observe the people around him.

  A tall, sharp-featured man with short hair looked at him with familiarity. Something about his face seemed oddly reizable, but Nathanael couldn't pinpoint why.

  Then, his gaze nded on another man standing nearby. His face was narrow, with a peculiar hairstyle and twe distinct points that made him unmistakable.

  Beh his nose, a small, dark mustache marked his most definiure.

  But what truly captured Nathanael’s attentiohe man’s eyes. Uhe dim light, they radiated an ulih—a mix of mencholy and fanaticism. That gaze exuded an overwhelming fidence, as if silently deg: "Believe me, I am the hero who will save this world."

  [...]

  But Nathanael was no longer Nathanael. Now, he was Alex. The medal, struck by the meteor’s light, had transported him into this alternate reality, merging his mind with Alex’s.

  Suddenly, a voice echoed coldly in his head, meical aionless:

  [Host detected. War Summoning System activated. Iion in progress . . . ]

  [Iion plete. War Summoning System operational.]

  Alex gnced down at the medal hanging from his chest. It wasn’t a replica—it was the authentic Blood Order. And now, it was his key to mastering this world. The system's voice firmed that his reination had not been in vain.

  There urpose. A destiny awaiting him in the darkness.