The Battle of Saarbrücken
The acrid stench of gunpowder filled Captain Hans von Schmitt's lungs as he pressed his back hard against the splintered wooden barricade. His heart thundered relentlessly in his chest, each frantic beat echoing the deafening chaos of battle. Around him, rifles cracked sharply, men screamed in pain, and desperate orders were shouted, forming a brutal, merciless symphony.
"Reload, damn it! Fire at will!" Hans roared hoarsely over the barricade, his voice nearly drowned in the cacophony.
His battered and bloodied soldiers complied instantly, their rifles barking out volleys, thick smoke billowing across the cobblestone streets. But the French surged forward relentlessly, undeterred despite mounting casualties, their resolve terrifyingly unwavering.
Hans dared a glance over his barricade, witnessing utter devastation. Bodies piled grotesquely upon the stone bridge spanning the Saar River, French soldiers lying twisted and bloodied amidst shattered limbs. Yet still more charged forward, bayonets gleaming under a sky heavy with smoke and dread.
"En avant! Vive l'Empereur!" echoed fiercely from the enemy ranks.
French rifles cracked again, bullets snapping dangerously close. One projectile punched through the crate beside Hans's head, splinters spraying his face as he flinched away. Breath catching, he cursed bitterly and ducked back into cover, pulling another cartridge from his pouch with trembling fingers.
Sweat dripped down Hans's face, his hands moving mechanically as he loaded his needle rifle. He rose swiftly, took aim, and fired. His target, a French soldier reloading his Chassepot rifle, jerked violently but staggered upright again. Hans swore bitterly; his rifle lacked the killing power needed.
"Shoot! Keep firing!" he shouted in desperation.
A nearby Prussian fired, finishing the Frenchman, but the victory was fleeting. The enemy's superior firepower, faster rifles, and disciplined waves quickly overwhelmed Hans's men. Nearby, a soldier collapsed with a wet cry, blood gushing from his throat. Another screamed in agony as his arm dangled grotesquely, nearly severed.
Hans, teeth gritted fiercely, reloaded. But as he stood once more to fire, a brutal force struck his chest, knocking the wind from him. At first, he felt nothing but the dull shock, then searing, unbearable pain.
Strength drained from him rapidly; his legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed backward, sprawling helplessly upon blood-slicked cobblestones. His rifle clattered away uselessly, and the world around him blurred.
The sky stretched above, strangely serene, the sounds of combat fading. Through fading vision, he glimpsed his brother, First Lieutenant Hermann von Schmitt, running towards him, eyes wide with panic and sorrow.
"Stay with me, Hans!" Hermann cried desperately, pressing futilely against the gaping wound, blood streaming through trembling fingers.
Hans tried to speak, to comfort him, but could manage no words. Death crept near, its chill slowly replacing the fiery agony.
Suddenly, two small figures appeared amidst the chaos—children dressed absurdly in military uniforms, far too pristine and small for such carnage. Both were girls, no older than six, their angelic faces strikingly out of place in this violent landscape.
Hermann turned sharply, waving them off frantically. "Get away from here! This is no place for children!"
But one girl ignored him, determination flashing in eyes impossibly bright for a child. She pushed Hermann's bloodied hands aside forcefully, urgently arguing with a voice far too confident for her age. Her companion, more delicate and visibly fearful, knelt quietly beside Hans, gently placing small, soft hands upon his chest.
Hans barely registered the girl's touch, his consciousness slipping further into darkness. But then—unexpectedly—a radiant warmth flooded through him, gentle yet powerful, like sunlight on a summer day. The pain vanished instantly, replaced by profound tranquility.
A blinding yet soothing light filled Hans's vision, unfolding into an impossible scene—a land of pristine white shores and endless golden fields stretching far beyond the horizon. At its heart stood a majestic city of ivory and gold, crowned by a luminous spire, casting comforting rays across his soul.
Within that radiance, Hans saw himself transformed—not as the wounded, weary soldier he had become, but as a towering warrior of legend. His frame strong, unmarred, powerful. Golden hair and sharp, piercing blue eyes gazed proudly ahead—a hero he'd only dreamed of becoming.
Gasping in wonder, Hans jolted awake, reality snapping back sharply into place. Pain vanished, strength flooded him anew, and he sat bolt upright, startling Hermann and all nearby soldiers.
"Impossible…!" Hermann stammered, eyes wide with shock. Around them, soldiers stared open-mouthed at the miracle.
The girl beside Hans smiled shyly, withdrawing her small, glowing hands.
The other girl, stern-faced, shook her head, sighing loudly in resignation. "Well," she murmured wryly, glancing around at the stunned, primitive soldiers clutching crude rifles and wearing outdated armor, "so much for subtlety."
Hans, feeling his chest intact and breathing easily, stared at the two extraordinary children in disbelief. Whatever these small angels were, he knew one thing clearly:
The battle—and perhaps the very world—had just changed forever.
"Big brother, I did it!" came a youthful, joyful voice, piercing clearly through the haze of battle.
"Don't shout it out loud!" replied a second voice, sharp yet affectionate. "It's supposed to be a secret! And you didn't even let me try again! Ugh, never mind—let's help that one next."
Hans blinked, awareness returning in a rush. The sky above was still gray, clouded with smoke and gunpowder, punctuated by flashes of musket fire. Air rushed deep into his lungs, clean and painless. The fiery agony that had consumed his chest moments ago was gone—utterly vanished.
Slowly turning his head, he glimpsed two small figures running past, weaving deftly among the wounded. Two girls dressed curiously in boyish military uniforms, their bright blonde hair catching the faint light. Hans stared in disbelief, wondering briefly if he was hallucinating.
A firm, urgent grip on his shoulder shook him fully alert.
"Hans—are you alive? How…?"
His brother Hermann knelt beside him, eyes wide with astonishment and disbelief. Following Hermann's gaze, Hans looked down at himself. His uniform was torn open, stained with blood—a dark hole marking precisely where the bullet had pierced him. Yet beneath the ruined fabric, his skin was smooth, perfectly intact. Not even the faintest scar remained.
With trembling fingers, Hans touched his chest, heart pounding strong beneath his fingertips.
"My God," Hermann whispered, his voice trembling. "How is this possible?"
Hans had no answer. He pushed himself upright, the heavy scent of battle and gunpowder filling his senses once more. The screams of wounded soldiers, the crack of gunfire, the distant booming of cannons—it was all undeniably real.
Yet, scattered along the street nearby, other soldiers were experiencing similar miracles. Hans saw one man staring dumbly at his own stomach, searching for the mortal wound he knew must have been there. Another soldier sat upright, bewildered eyes scanning his surroundings.
A voice called out from behind Hans, uncertain and fearful:
"Captain…what is this? Is this the afterlife?"
Hans and Hermann turned together, both freezing in stunned recognition.
It was Johann—a grizzled veteran Hans had known for years. He had seen Johann fall, undoubtedly dead, his face aged and weathered by decades of hard labor and warfare. But now, Johann stood upright, transformed. His face was younger, skin tight and fresh, wrinkles erased as if by divine grace. His thinning, graying hair was now darker, healthier, his eyes bright with confusion and renewed vigor.
"Impossible," Hermann murmured, awe-stricken.
The strange, surreal silence was abruptly shattered.
"They're coming down the center again! Hold the line! Give them hell!"
The urgent shout of a lieutenant snapped Hans back to action. He spun toward the bridge, his heart hammering with renewed purpose.
The French were advancing again, ranks tightly packed, bayonets glinting, charging over the bodies of their fallen comrades. The same desperate wave, the same reckless determination. Hans's mind sharpened—this was the same battle, the same brutal fight he had believed would end him. Yet, he stood breathing, strong, and whole.
Crouching swiftly, Hans seized the rifle lying beside Johann and pressed it firmly into the stunned man's hands.
"I don't know what's happened here," Hans declared, voice steady and powerful, eyes blazing with resolve, "but God is clearly with us today. Now fight!"
Johann hesitated for only a heartbeat, then nodded sharply, gripping his rifle with renewed strength. Hans rushed forward to the barricade, rejoining his embattled men.
The noise of battle intensified around him, gunfire crackling sharply through the smoke-filled air. Without hesitation, Hans raised his rifle high, his voice booming above the chaos with absolute conviction:
"Men, send these Catholic French dogs straight to hell! God is on the side of us Protestants! Fire! Fire!"
An answering roar erupted from his men, their spirits ignited by his miraculous recovery. The rifles thundered once more, fierce and defiant, united by faith and inexplicable hope.
Lili felt a pang of sadness as she moved swiftly from one wounded soldier to another. Not sadness for the injured—those she could mend—but for the Sergeant.
She had hoped that he would share her joy in healing, in seeing pain vanish and broken bodies made whole again. Instead, the Sergeant's expression was etched deeply with concern. His eyes darted nervously around, scanning their surroundings, wary of discovery or accusation.
Initially, the Sergeant had intended to blend in, discreetly applying small bursts of healing magic while pretending to be a typical field medic. Yet, the soldiers around them—these strange "spiky helmet" men with their ineffective uniforms and oddly primitive equipment—lacked even the most basic medical supplies. No morphine, no proper gauze, only scraps of torn fabric and crude herbal remedies, nothing capable of hiding the astonishing effects of their magic—wounds rapidly sealing, torn flesh reknitting, shattered limbs regrowing visibly before astonished eyes.
Finally surrendering to reality, the Sergeant abandoned subtlety altogether. She healed openly, calmly, and confidently, as if miraculous restoration was as routine as tying a bandage. Perhaps, she reasoned, if they acted normally, no one would question them.
That illusion shattered quickly. Once the healed soldiers rose with astonished gasps, shouting praises to God and charging back into battle with renewed, almost fanatical zeal, it was clear they'd drawn attention. Anxiety clouded the Sergeant's face, yet there was no stopping now.
Still, they pressed onward, weaving through debris-strewn streets and into battered buildings, moving tirelessly toward the cries and groans of injured soldiers. On the second floor of one crumbling building, their progress halted abruptly.
At the top of the stairs stood a towering, broad-shouldered soldier, his thick mustache quivering with disbelief and irritation.
"What in God's name are you girls doing here?" he bellowed, glaring down at them. "Get out! This is no place for children—especially little girls!"
Unfazed, the Sergeant stepped forward, chin raised with practiced confidence, staring up at the imposing man.
"Stand aside, soldier," she declared firmly. "We're on a classified mission from Fleet Command, field-testing the Imperium's latest medical technology. And I'm a boy, thank you very much. I'll overlook your mistake once—but don't let it happen again."
The man blinked, utterly confused. "What are you babbling about?"
But before he could react further, Lili spotted two wounded men slumped helplessly near a shattered doorway. Their frightened, pale faces and trembling bodies reminded her of injured birds, weak and helpless. Without hesitation, she darted forward, slipping nimbly under the Sergeant's outstretched arm and swiftly rolling between the towering man's legs.
"Hey—wait!" he shouted, spinning around, startled.
The room erupted into chaos. Bullets snapped through broken windows, shattering plaster. Soldiers huddled behind overturned furniture, shouting in confusion as Lili raced past.
"Who is that kid?!"
Ignoring their cries, Lili dropped to her knees beside the wounded men, her tiny hands gently touching their broken bodies. Immediately, warm white light surged through her palms, flooding into their injuries.
Behind her, the towering soldier moved to intercept, but the Sergeant tackled his leg fiercely, clinging tightly like an obstinate child. The man struggled to shake her off, rifle waving uselessly in one hand as confusion overtook his face.
"Get off me, you crazy brat!"
But it was already done. With a shimmering pulse, the wounded men's injuries vanished, their eyes opening in shock, breaths coming deep and easy once more. Lili smiled brightly, bouncing up from the floor with joy.
"Come on, big brother Jen! Let's go help in the other buildings!" she called happily, giggling as she skipped past the Sergeant and the bewildered soldier.
Seeing her chance, the Sergeant released her grip and bolted after Lili, leaving the giant man sputtering angrily.
"Damned insane children!"
Yet, as their footsteps faded down the stairs, he turned slowly, gaze fixed on his previously injured comrades, now standing upright, staring at their healed bodies in stunned disbelief.
One soldier examined his hands, touching his abdomen where moments before he'd been bleeding profusely. He whispered softly, eyes wide with awe, "Sergeant… am I alive? Is this Heaven?"
The towering soldier opened his mouth, then closed it again, utterly speechless. He tried desperately to grasp an explanation, but nothing came.
For a long moment, only silence filled the air, broken occasionally by distant gunfire. Finally, he muttered quietly, almost reverently, "God help me, I haven't the faintest idea."
Lili and the Sergeant paid little attention to the growing confusion—or the religious fervor—that was spreading like wildfire among the Prussian ranks. There simply wasn't time for that. Their mission was clear, urgent, and relentless, with an unending stream of wounded soldiers awaiting their miraculous intervention.
They moved swiftly from house to house, weaving through narrow alleyways littered with shattered glass and debris. They climbed over crumbling rubble, ducked through low doorways, and slipped past makeshift fortifications hastily erected by frightened men. Along the way, they encountered bodies gently covered with coats serving as makeshift burial shrouds—a silent testament to the day's brutal toll.
Wherever they went, soldiers lay wounded, groaning in agony, some clinging desperately to life. The Sergeant stepped in as needed—creating distractions, issuing authoritative commands, or confidently fabricating stories with a practiced ease that left soldiers blinking in confusion. Meanwhile, Lili remained wholly focused on their true task: healing.
Eventually, their frantic loop around the town led them back to the central barricade facing the bridge, where the fighting had grown fiercest. There, the grim sight was familiar: two more wounded men sprawled helplessly on the bloodstained cobblestones. One clutched his stomach, moaning weakly, while the other lay unconscious, his leg twisted at a grotesque angle.
"For God's sake, can these idiots stop getting themselves shot for just five minutes?" the Sergeant grumbled irritably, rushing forward.
But something had changed since their earlier rounds.
This time, no soldiers shouted warnings, no one raised arms in alarm or questioned their presence. Instead, the Prussians watched in awed silence, their expressions slack with astonishment. They stared like children witnessing something beyond comprehension—beautiful, miraculous, and entirely alien.
The Sergeant quickly grew impatient with their stunned inaction.
"What sort of soldiers are you?" she snapped, voice ringing sharply above the distant gunfire. "Standing there gawking at us like we're some sort of traveling carnival? Your enemies are trying to overrun you! Do you want to lose your land? Your homes? Your women? Your lives? Where is your pride for the Imperium, damn it?"
A heavy silence settled briefly, broken only by murmured confusion among the soldiers. The Imperium? None seemed familiar with the term, their brows knitting together in puzzled thought. Lili noticed their bewilderment but assumed it was merely shock—after all, everyone knew about the Imperium. Right?
Then, unexpectedly, one soldier thrust his rifle skyward, roaring passionately, "Yeah! God is with us, men! God fights alongside us!"
His fervor spread instantly, igniting the ranks.
"Long live the Kaiser!" another shouted fiercely.
"Death to the French invaders!" cried a third.
"We fight under God's protection!" came yet another voice, louder and more determined.
The Sergeant sighed heavily, shaking her head. She exchanged a glance with Lili, who simply shrugged and smiled warmly, untroubled by the misunderstanding.
"Close enough," the Sergeant muttered resignedly. "Let's just keep moving."
The cheering swelled, but the Sergeant's expression remained grim. Her sharp eyes caught something unsettling as the men around them fumbled to reload.
Their fingers reached urgently into their ammunition pouches—and emerged nearly empty. Two soldiers shared a single pouch between them, frustration clear on their faces. Another man overturned his pouch in disbelief, cursing quietly as only a solitary bullet rolled out onto his palm.
Lili saw it too, her youthful optimism faltering for the first time since their arrival.
It was unmistakable: these men were rapidly running out of ammunition, and the enemy across the bridge still possessed superior numbers. The desperation etched deeply into the faces of the soldiers with spiked helmets made perfect sense now. They were surviving on little more than stubborn resolve, blind devotion, and perhaps—due to recent events—a fragile belief in miracles.
But as Lili surveyed the battlefield again, a deeper, more troubling realization began to sink in.
It wasn't just the shortage of bullets. Everything was off.
There were no grenades. No mortars. No artillery shells. Not even magazine-fed rifles. Every weapon she saw was painfully slow to reload, single-shot relics from some ancient past. The sidearms strapped to their hips appeared cumbersome and outdated—something she might have expected to see in a history museum.
No mechs. No drones. No powered armor. Not even a hint of the familiar emblems of the Imperium or the reassuring presence of standardized Imperial equipment. The battlefield itself felt like an artifact from another era.
A chill went down her spine. She turned slowly to the Sergeant, whispering hesitantly, "Big brother Jen… where exactly are we?"
The Sergeant's gaze flicked back toward her briefly, her face unreadable but her silence deeply telling.
Wherever they'd landed, it clearly wasn't part of the Imperium.
Whatever battle they were witnessing, it wasn't one they were ever meant to see.
The ground trembled beneath the thunder of charging boots.
From across the bridge, a dark tide surged forward. Hundreds of French soldiers rushed ahead, their battle cries merging into a savage, deafening roar that echoed throughout the shattered town. Bayonets, gleaming wickedly in the morning sunlight, thrust aggressively forward atop long rifles aimed with lethal intent.
Some soldiers halted mid-bridge, quickly kneeling to fire precise volleys at the Prussian defenders. Others pressed onward recklessly, eyes wild with battle fervor, screaming with primal fury as they closed the distance to the barricade. Smoke from their rifles billowed upwards, drifting ominously above the stone bridge like storm clouds.
But their advance did not go unanswered.
A sharp, disciplined hail of Prussian fire erupted from every conceivable vantage point—from shattered windows, ruined second floors, behind piles of sandbags and hastily constructed barriers. The northern half of the town had become a fortress of desperation, each building transformed into a firing position.
Dozens of French soldiers crumpled to the cobblestones, limbs twisted grotesquely, torsos jerking violently backward from the brutal impact of bullets. Blood sprayed, mixing with smoke and dust. Yet momentum carried those behind forward, their boots crushing fallen comrades beneath them. Relentlessly, they advanced.
Finally, the wave of attackers reached the barricade.
What stood between them was nothing more than a crude jumble of chairs, tables, barrels, and wooden beams hastily nailed together. But here, at close range, the fighting was merciless and savage. French bayonets thrust forward desperately; Prussian rifles replied with equal brutality, blades and gunfire clashing in a grim symphony of violence.
There was no room for honor or mercy here—only survival.
Men screamed as bayonets plunged mercilessly into flesh. A French soldier reached the top of the barricade, only to be run through by a Prussian blade. Blood bubbled from his lips as he fell, discarded into the mud below.
Another climbed halfway before a swift slash opened his throat. Eyes wide in shock, he tumbled backward, clutching desperately at the crimson flood between his fingers.
It was chaos—raw, brutal, deafening chaos.
The air filled with anguished cries, the sickening crunch of bone, and the wet, rhythmic thud of steel meeting flesh. Blood pooled into dark rivulets beneath the barricade, soaking the ground red. Soldiers cursed, sobbed, and screamed prayers that were lost amidst the unending violence.
But then, slowly, the French began to notice something strange.
One Frenchman lunged forward, plunging his bayonet clean through a Prussian soldier's shoulder. The wounded man collapsed with a cry, blood spraying from the gaping injury.
But he didn't stay down.
Moments later, with teeth clenched and fury in his eyes, the Prussian staggered upright again. He grabbed his rifle, smashed the Frenchman backward with the stock, and fired point-blank into his chest.
Another Prussian dropped with a bullet through the thigh, seemingly incapacitated. Yet seconds later, he rose, limping but resolute, returning immediately to the fray with renewed vigor.
Time and again, Prussians who should have died simply stood up again, their wounds vanishing, their strength restored.
Fear flashed through French ranks.
Then they saw them.
Behind the barricade, barely visible through the chaos, stood two small figures. Childlike, angelic, and utterly out of place, they were twin girls.
Long, impossibly golden hair cascaded down their backs, shimmering as if spun from sunlight. Their delicate features and wide, tranquil blue eyes seemed otherworldly amid the savagery around them. Soft, glowing hands touched fallen soldiers gently, knitting torn flesh and shattered bones back together with impossible ease.
They were angels—or perhaps something else entirely.
One girl knelt calmly beside a soldier, her hands radiating a gentle light as a bullet wound closed seamlessly beneath her touch. Her twin stood defiantly beside her, unflinching, gazing directly at the stunned Frenchmen atop the barricade—as if daring them to come forward.
A French soldier froze, his rifle trembling, his eyes locked with the serene gaze of the little girl. That single moment of hesitation cost him everything. A shot rang out, blowing his hat off, and he crumpled lifelessly to the earth.
The girls remained composed, unfazed.
For every Prussian who fell, they appeared instantly, their presence unwavering and unstoppable. To the exhausted, desperate French, it was a nightmare come to life.
"They don't die!" a French soldier shrieked hysterically. "God have mercy—they don't fucking die!"
Panic spread rapidly through their ranks. Courage shattered like glass, replaced by frantic desperation. The glory of their charge had turned into a bloodbath; their bravery was now hopeless terror. Clawing wildly at the barricade, they were met with relentless bayonets, rifle fire, and the calm, unearthly gaze of two small girls who seemed to command life itself.
And then, inevitably, the French broke.
One by one, they turned and fled—some stumbling, some crying out in terror, others dragging wounded comrades in retreat. The bridge was left slick with blood and piled with corpses. Prussian soldiers stood atop their barricade, roaring in triumph, victorious wolves upon a hill of the fallen.
Behind them, silent and serene despite their fatigue and bloodstained uniforms, stood the twin girls. They watched patiently, ready to heal again.
Because this battle wasn't over yet.
Not even close.