Published at 2nd of June 2026 6:53 am

Chapter 965: Kaiser Wilhelm Hochland Autonomous Zone

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It was a common lie of the 21st century in Bruno’s past life, that the wealth of Europe, and all of its grandeur had been built off of colonialism and the "exploitation" of native civilizations that could have turned out just as great if given enough time.

But Europe’s greatest strength did not lie in its size, arable land, or massive natural resources. But in the scarcity that had forged men capable of enduring, conquering, innovating, and building a better world with limited resources.

By the time the European explorers arrived in the New World, they arrived with steel, shot, and command over sea and land. In sharp contrast, the natives who welcomed them were largely stuck in the Stone Age with few pockets of what could remotely be classified as civilization across two entire continents.

The end result was a natural conclusion: the men with guns, germs, and steel emerged victorious. Likewise, a few centuries later when they arrived south of the Sahara, Europe had advanced at a natural rate, while the locals had barely been introduced to iron by Arab merchants from the north.

Men with cowhide shields and crude iron short spears could never triumph against an enemy with breach-loaders, Gatling guns, and ironclads. It was simply impossible.

In fact, the cost of building civilization from scratch in these lands just so the resources could be harvested, refined, and shipped back to Europe for manufacture and sale was far greater than European empires ever received from it.

Hence, Bruno’s bid to weaponise power, wealth, and authority to end colonialism before it could truly bankrupt the German Reich was an early endeavor. Not out of a moral claim, but simple arithmetic.

After all, the colonies Germany possessed, even with the mass acquisition of Mittelafrika could never pose a threat.

They simply didn’t possess the means to do so. But they could be bought.... The reality was that whatever local form of governance emerged from transition to de-colonization would be utterly incapable of maintaining what the Germans meant behind.

Which meant that they would need financing and expertise to keep it in check, debts they couldn’t pay back.

Because of this, Bruno’s neo-colonial policy was simple: lump sums of cash at stark interest rates that were designed to be be anything but survivable.

And when the locals graciously accepted their independence, and the debt needed to survive. Bruno would demand anything he desired in return.

More often than not, this was natural resources. Oil, minerals, rare earth metals, timber, textiles. But sometimes, in rare circumstances like today, Bruno needed land. Land at the equator, to be exact.

Mount Kenya was from a physics and geographical position exactly what he needed for his current ambitions. There was just one problem... the current government was so utterly dimwitted they believed themselves free to negotiate.

This was why Werwolf and the New-Hanseatic League existed. A self-funding private armed force greater than any in the world other than the Reichsheer itself.

Normally it acted as a security force for former colonial territories to maintain power, as well as a shadow army to protect German material interests abroad.

But sometimes, like today, it acted as a private death squad.

Joachim Peiper had not received explicit orders, only words of assurance that he was understanding things correctly.

And then the orders were given. Old arms from past wars ,two generations obsolete and yet millennium ahead of domestic production capabilities were distributed to Kenyan rebels. Along munitions, old trucks, and the fuel to feed them.

Training wasn’t wholly necessary. In Peiper’s experience, no matter how much they tried to teach African rebels the basics of combat they would just run forward and hip fire for maximum shock effect.

This was better for Werwolf anyway, because should the day come where they needed to terminate former assets a handful of men could engage thousands and emerge victorious with limited to no casualties.

Peiper wasn’t exactly present for the actions of his underlings, he didn’t need to be. He was the Kommandant of the Werwolf Group after all, his position was far more strategic than it was tactical.

He didn’t see the men in camouflage coveralls, body armor, and ballistic helmets, hand out decades old rifles and machine guns by the crates.

One of them held an old Gewehr 05 in his hands. Germany’s standard rifle in the First Weltkrieg. Issued in the tens of millions and decommissioned after the war. These weapons had been slathered in Cosmoline and brought out of cold storage for decades, cleaned up and given to whatever group needed a fighting rifle that Germany had no official ties to.

From Balkan Rebels, to French Gendarmes, to former colonial armed forces. The Gewehr 05 was one of the most common firearms around the world, semi-automatic, reliable, and easy to maintain. It was a workhorse of a bygone era that refused to die.

Other similarly issued weapons were the MG 01/10, a water cooled machine gun based on the Maxim design, and the final iteration of such weapons in the German Armed forces even after they had been relegated to reserve status.

It’s light-weight tripod and fluted barrel jacket, combined with stamped sheet steel belt, made it a reliable and more agile counterpart to previous iterations.

These two weapons formed the bulk of the rebels’ weapons as they fired aimlessly at the targets. Achieving hits through a sheer volume of fire rather than precision.

One of the Werwolf officers bore a tattoo on his forearm. An Imperial Totenkopf, a legacy continued through elite German military units since the days of Bruno’s Iron Division during the Bolshevik Revolution of 1904-1906.

He sighed and shook his head, watching the rebels manhandle the weapons and fire from the hip, hooting and hollering while missing the majority of their targets.

His tongue was perfect Prussian, but without the dialect of the noble upper class, rather the crass, brutish tongue of a man who had been deployed from home far too long, and only cared to speak nothing but the truth, no matter how offensive it may be to more sensitive circles.

"So uncivilized...."

The man next to him patted him on the back and laughed as they both watched the "training session" go awry.

"Does it really matter? They’ll be dead before long, and another lot of savages will take their place. As long as we get enough of them, they’ll accomplish the job. And then whoever is left in power will behave themselves. That’s why we’re here, is it not?

The aging veteran with the distinctive tattoo sighed and nodded his head, silently lighting up a cigarette as he looked up towards the mountains in the distance.

"Kaiser-Wilhelm Hochland Autonomous Zone... I have no idea what Herr Reichsmarschall is planning with this godforsaken spit of land, but he’s never steered us wrong before, has he?"

The younger, more excited veteran leaned back with his rifle slung across his chest and his arms behind his head.

"He’s got to be close to sixty now, right? With a track record of reliability that long, it’s no longer a matter of speculation, but certainty...."

Though his statement may have been a bit profound, the older veteran by his side wasn’t in silence because of the weight of the words, but the falsity of them. He took a long drag of his cigarette, before exhaling a plume of smoke before finally speaking.

"Seventy...."

The younger veteran looked over at him, confused, almost as if he thought he had heard something that couldn’t possibly be true.

"I’m sorry?"

Yet the older veteran didn’t stutter or recant, he stomped the spent cigarette butt beneath his boots.

"Seventy... The Reichsmarschall will be seventy this December. Anyway, I’m off to go make sure those idiots in Bravo Company aren’t getting shitfaced and neglecting their post, make sure these savages understand their task."

The younger veteran stood there in shock for a long time. Seventy years... No wonder why he felt like Bruno was an almost mythical figure. Because he had lived in a world that was more history than reality.

It was almost unbearable to think about. Because the world had changed so much in less than a century, then what would it look like by the start of the new millennium?

He didn’t think about it any longer... Instead he turned his focus to one of the rebels shooting a firearm’s stock pressed against his cheekbone rather than his shoulder, and quickly snapped back to his professional role.

Snapping at the local translator, he pointed his finger at the target of his frustration.

"Come and swear for me in Swahili, these idiots won’t do what I tell them!"

There was nothing more to be discussed. Because such incompetency was simply intolerable. And he needed to correct it even if he didn’t expect this rabble to wholly survive the operation they were needed for.

The operation would not be remembered in the history books by any official designation. And no ledgers would exist to point to the regime change being the result of anything but local insurgency.

But in this New Order one could always assume the Werwolf were just around the corner of any geopolitical incidents that resulted in favorable outcomes for the German Reich.

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