Hitler stirred, his face pressed against the darkened soil. Cold, muddy earth clung to his charcoal-gray trench coat—once crisp with authority, now soaked in heavy dew. His medals, which once displayed his achievements, were now tainted with filth. His black leather gloves were smeared with grime. His symbol of order, power, and discipline was knee-deep in the soft ground. His once-polished boots lay buried. The high collar of his coat, once flashy, now basked in dirt. His body—not just his clothing—humbled by the earth, as he lay in a bed of thick, dewy grass. The noise around him was foreign—too peaceful to be called home. No gunfire, no rumbling tanks. Only the wind blowing through his dark brown hair.
He slowly lifted his head, eyes scanning his surroundings. His icy blue gaze widened in disbelief. This was no longer the dim, crumbling bunker he had perished in. There were no concrete walls, no stale air, no echoes of war. Instead, he was met with towering trees, swaying grass, and a vast blue sky where once bomber planes had roared. Now, only soft white clouds drifted overhead. He pushed himself to stand on his feet with a low grunt. A dull pain pulsed in the back of his head. His body felt more agile than ever, as if years of cracks and wear had been stripped away in an instant.
His gaze pierced his surroundings, his lips parting as if he was trying to speak. Then came a whisper, uncertain but sharp: "This... this isn't the Reich." Though unsure, some part of him knew the truth. He lifted his hand to touch his skull, looking for a bullet wound he was certain should be there—but found nothing. His fingers slowly traced his face, expecting the swollen, weary flesh of his final days. Instead, they met a firm, youthful jaw, untouched by time and stress. His mind felt sharper than it had in years, his body no longer bound by the tremors and weakness of Parkinson's.
A miracle? No—miracles are for fools and God-worshippers. This is something else... a purpose? A second chance? But where am I? If this is enemy ground, then caution is not a luxury—it is survival. I must observe and gather information. Power comes to those who strike first. His mind raced with questions and incomplete answers. But daylight waits for no man. Night approached like a silent thief.
I must establish shelter. But I lack the essentials: food, water, warmth. My first need is warmth—water and food are not options in this moment. But warmth requires fire, and fire brings smoke. Smoke brings eyes. If I am being watched, a single flame may betray me. Yet to freeze is a fool's death. Survival demands risk. If I am to light a fire, it will be small, concealed, hidden. I've endured harsher conditions.
As night deepened, the man searched urgently for wood. Dead wood, to be precise, for most of the forest was still damp from recent rainfall. Fate, it seemed, had not abandoned him—at least not completely. The forest floor was littered with fallen branches and twigs, scattered as if offered to his need.
Above him, the sky revealed its alien nature. Two moons had risen, one larger than the other, both casting a faint white glow. Their cratered surfaces bore testimony to a past he could not grasp.
Using nearby stones, he began to prepare wood shavings from the surrounding dead wood to kindle his fire. Precise and controlled. Every movement was calculated. When the pile was sufficient, he pulled a single .32 ACP round from his coat and carefully split it open, spilling the black powder onto the shavings.
"Thunk... Thunk... Thunk..."
The stone struck with steady precision. On the third hit, a spark caught. A flicker. A glow. The fire was given life. Although small and fragile, he leaned in—lips parted—and blew gently, feeding it. The flame grew but remained hungry—too cold, too frail to let loose just yet. He blanketed it with more shavings, then added slightly larger branches, one by one, until it grew strong enough to sustain its own warmth.
Not big enough to be seen. But big enough to keep death away.
He stacked the remaining wood to the side, rationing it to keep the fire well fed. Then, without announcement, he lay before the flame. Eyes half-closed—watching, calculating. Sleep would come, but never fully. Not in enemy territory.
Day rose and stole the night. But one man was already awake, searching for water, ears tuned to the lush green land. Listening for the whisper of a river.
"Hsssshhhhh."
He hears it—a faint but unmistakable sound. A river. Not loud, yet not too quiet to miss. He follows it. The sound becomes clearer and more profound as he draws near.
Trees and thickets block his view, but he continues to trust his ears. He pushes through the bushes, branches clawing at his coat, twigs scratching at his sleeves—but he pays no mind.
Then at last, he sees it.
Water. Cold. Flowing. Alive.
He bows over the crystal-clear stream, cupping his hands. The first sip hits his tongue like heaven. He does not care if it's tainted with bacteria. He cares only for his hydration. Survival.
He splashes the water onto his face. It stings—but it wakes him.
Looking down, a reflection stares back. A youthful Hitler. He pays it no mind. He does not falter nor flinch. He had already assumed as much—his body's newfound strength told him all he needed to know. This was no surprise.
"I must follow the river," he thought. "It will lead to civilization. I'll blend in with the crowd." This isn't my world. The moons and stars have made that clear. Caution is of the utmost importance.
He scans the shallow water, searching for movement—fish, shells, anything edible.
Then he saw it.
A dead fish floated near the bank of grayish rocks. Unlike any species of fish he had seen, but a fish nonetheless. Its scales shimmered with hues of pink and pale blue, its white eyes lifeless yet unmarked. There were no wounds, no sign of struggle.
"Must've died of old age," he muttered aloud.
He picked it up by the tail, inspecting it one last time before gripping it tightly. Food was food—and this would be saved for later.
The river became his compass, a silent yet gentle companion on a journey marked only by survival. One day passed. Then two. Three. Four. Five. He twisted through dense forest and open plains, wind blowing through ancient trees and across sun-drenched fields.
Although it troubled him not, he could not help but find it strange: in all this distance, he had seen no mammals. No deer. No rabbits. Not even a single track. Only birds overhead and insects below. The land was alive—but quiet.
On the sixth day, as he crested a lush green hill, he saw it.
A village. Small, distant—but undeniably real. Shelter. People. Civilization. Threats.