The alarm clock rang.
Ryden pushed his goggles up.
Without realizing it, midnight had come again.
He felt like he could keep going, but even he couldn't live like an immortal day after day.
If only he had the Super Serum like Steve Rogers, he could stay up as long as he wanted.
Or a mutation like Dr. Banner's.
The kind where you just don't die.
Every time he left the lab at this hour, Aunt Sarah would appear with a glass of red wine.
Every time.
This wasn't subtle anymore.
This was a blatant hint.
His body was very honest.
Ryden took a shower, checked to make sure his brother-obsessed sister hadn't noticed anything, then quietly slipped into Aunt Sarah's room.
A night of spring breeze.
Like thousands of pear trees in bloom.
The next morning, after the familiar deep hug, Ryden didn't go to school.
He went straight to Stark Industries instead.
The equipment there was far more complete, making everything much easier.
For a moment, he wondered if Aunt Sarah might get pregnant.
Then he shook his head and cleared the thought away.
On the way, he passed through Spades Gang territory.
It had already turned into a small hub for street vendors.
Following Ryden's instructions, whenever police passed by, a few gang members would step forward.
Without saying a word, they'd press cigarettes and snacks into the officers' hands, smiling like honest businessmen.
The Tewa Gang, Rens Gang, and Dasco Gang all looked down on the Spades Gang for "losing the dignity of the Mafia."
But since the Spades didn't deal drugs or run strip clubs-only bars and snack carts-there was no real conflict of interest.
So no one bothered them.
On the European battlefield, the Third Reich had already advanced to Košice in Czechoslovakia.
Only a few hundred kilometers from Prague.
The vanguard of the Nazi Third Army was setting up firepower, preparing to take Košice in one push and eat lunch in city hall.
Soldiers equipped with StG 44 assault rifles checked their gear again.
Tank fuel.
Shell counts.
They waited under the scorching sun for the order to attack.
Dark steel helmets.
Iron discipline.
Both forged long ago.
"Report! Orders from headquarters. Launch the attack at 11:00 sharp. All enemy forces must be cleared within two hours. Colonel Schmidt."
The messenger delivered the telegram.
A middle-aged man with a severe expression and a trace of gloom took it, glanced once, then casually burned it with a lighter.
Under his open coat, an octopus-shaped insignia caught the light.
"Understood," he said calmly. "Reply that the 73rd Division will complete the mission on time."
In standard WWII sieges, the procedure was clear.
Large-caliber artillery destroyed fortifications.
Bombers struck key bunkers.
Then infantry advanced under tank cover.
Bombardments often lasted hours.
After each round, observers signaled adjustments while barrels cooled.
But the Third Reich favored Blitzkrieg.
After only one or two artillery volleys, tanks and troop trucks charged forward.
Before the enemy could even react.
The trucks were packed with soldiers and snipers.
They punched through lines, severed communications, and shattered command.
Soldiers couldn't find their officers.
Officers couldn't find their units.
Using this method, they had crushed countless enemies.
Austria had fallen in just two days.
This time in Czechoslovakia, if not for the Italian allies dragging them down, Košice would have fallen long ago.
Without that dead weight, it was unclear who could stop the Reich at all.
Today, the Czech army barely resisted.
After the bombardment, only scattered gunfire answered.
There was no real defense.
Poorly equipped and tactically weak, the Czech soldiers stood their ground only because execution squads behind them held submachine guns.
Nazi engineers charged at the front, clearing mines along main roads.
Then they moved aside.
Tanks crushed trenches and bunkers.
Machine gunners laid down suppression fire.
Snipers took positions, targeting low-level officers and heavy gunners to paralyze command.
In moments, the enemy fell into chaos.
No wonder the Anglo-French forces had been driven to Dunkirk.
The Nazi army's combat power was simply overwhelming.
Such discipline and coordination could only come from the meticulous people of the Reich.
Compared to the Reich's steel helmets, light armor, grenades, and modified 98K Mausers-bolt-action rifles famed for range and power-the Czech forces were laughable.
Like a filthy outhouse compared to a five-star, air-conditioned bathroom.
Czech soldiers still carried old Model 95 Mausers.
They jammed constantly.
Barrels could even explode.
Grenades?
You couldn't find ten heavy machine guns in an entire division.
Once the artillery cover began, the inexperienced Czech army was torn apart.
Soldiers hiding in ravines trembled uncontrollably.
Even with their ears covered inside trenches, the thunder of explosions was constant.
Dirt rained down.
Sometimes, the remains of comrades fell from the sky.
Recruits screamed in terror.
The intensity of WWII far surpassed WWI.
Weapons had evolved.
They fired farther.
Hit harder.
A single shot or shell often wiped out entire groups.
Schmidt stood atop a tank at the front, binoculars raised.
He watched calmly.
Organization operatives embedded within the Reich's forces had already broken through the Czech lines.
They were pushing deeper, slicing the battlefield into isolated pockets to be consumed one by one.
Unless something unexpected happened, he would soon gain another massive amount of merit.
Another step up.
The position of Hydra's leader was within reach.
All he needed was more merit.
Enough power to search for the ancient ruins left behind by the gods.
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