"There is nary a reason for you to die today!"

Surrounded by a violent inferno engulfing the once unassuming French village, a man whose visage was obscured by helmet and gas mask hollered over the hellish, roaring flames.

"The Reich requires the service of us both! There is still time to claim victory for the Fatherland! Should you be intent on forcing my hand, you leave the future in question, friend!"

A dozen or so meters away, the masked man's former comrade faced him down. This man, quite tall in stature and adorned with the silver-emblazoned dress of a lieutenant, stood silent as his dark cape thrashed in the turbulence of the scorching updraft.

"Still nothing?!" the masked soldier aggressively inquired as cinders clung to his greatcoat.

The officer's right hand shifted across his person to the grip of the greatsword sheathed at his left hip. Behind heat-fogged lenses, the masked menace's eyes widened with anticipation.

"I've known your true nature from the day I first spied your wretched being," the lieutenant spoke with restrained fury, "Your actions here serve not as evidence to a revelation, but justification for your long overdue destruction, Fiesel."

With that, the giant of a man unsheathed his sword with blinding speed, the steel reflecting the flames' ominous glow in a streaking orange flash. Fixing the blade toward Fiesel, his grip tightened with resolve.

"There is nothing I can do for the poor souls whom you have slaughtered here. They've gone to God and only he can bring them salvation. However, there is much I can do to ensure that such a tragedy is never repeated..." the lieutenant continued.

Fiesel chuckled, the fur on his coat's collar swaying between the hot, chaotic wind and the excited bouncing of his shoulders.

"That's rich coming from you, Orkaan! At least these people were dealt a swift end as opposed to being driven into the desert to waste away with nothing to drink! Oh yes, you're quite the hero, Sturm!"

Sturm's eyes narrowed beneath his furrowed brow, uncomfortably recalling a dreadful deed lost to the past.

"Touch a nerve, did I? Well, fret not. It's all history now, and I don't blame you in the slightest. The weak exist to be culled by the powerful. The only difference between us..."

As he spoke, Fiesel raised his blood-soaked right hand and, with his thumb, painted a ghastly red ring on the thick front plate of his helmet before swiftly scrawling an inverted star in the center. He then tilted his head slightly back while the sanguine liquid ran down from the symbol and dripped onto the lenses of his gas mask, which themselves shone like ghoulish eyes in the firelight.

"... is that I don't waste the blood that I spill."

Suddenly, the surrounding blaze erupted vigorously, towering above the two men in all directions. The charred corpses at the hot white root of the inferno seemed to contort and convulse as the flames turned inward toward Fiesel like the sun-starved stems of a wicked plant desperately reaching for the light. The scorching orange tendrils swirled and wrapped around their vile conjurer all while the tortured howls of the damned emanated from the hellish conflagration.

"Their bodies will fuel the fire that burns your funeral pyre!" Fiesel cried out, voice cracking with frantic excitement before degrading into twisted, maniacal laughter.

Sturm's lips contorted beneath his mustache into a disgusted sneer. Even in death, Fiesel's victims were unable to escape his vile torment. Lurching forward, the swordsman readied himself for the inevitable clash, the gleam emanating from his blade growing brighter with the increasing intensity of the surrounding cascade of flame.

"It's not too late, Leopold! Now that you feel my true strength, surely you understand that the Reich's victory will be guaranteed! The smoldering corpses of our enemies will only make my flames burn hotter than ever! Our final triumph is at hand, do not throw your life away against the inevitable!" Fiesel screamed gutturally, attempting to dominate the overwhelming auditory overload of rumbling flame and tortured scream alike.

Sturm closed his eyes in a brief moment of disappointed acceptance. When they reopened, their piercing glare burned hotter than even the infernal vortex that hungrily licked at his cape.

"Yes Fiesel, I understand... I understand that any victory that brings about a triumph for you is a defeat for not just the Fatherland, but the entire world. Your very existence is a blight on all of God's creation. I only hope that he can forgive my previous inaction when I finally send you back to whatever wretched pit of Hell you gouged your way out of!" he bellowed, sword unwaveringly trained on his unholy adversary.

Shifting his head forward, the glare was temporarily cleared from Fiesel's lenses, revealing searing orange irises that possessed an intense incandescence all their own. Through his lenses, the upward arch of the villain's bottom eyelids betrayed the presence of a wicked grin beneath his mask.

"And here I thought you wished to return alive and meet your child. I suppose it can't be helped. I'll be certain to let your spawn know that its father died a hero... in his own mind, anyway." Fiesel cackled as he fantasized about such a prospect.

"Now..." he continued.

"Are you ready to burn?"