Re: Blood and Iron

The attack in the Philippines had largely gone unnoticed by the world at large. But those who played their hands at geo-politics, and grand strategy had noticed it was a major diverging point in world affairs.

Generally speaking, there were two ways the public would respond to the kind of violence that the United States garrison in Manila had enacted upon the rural village outside the city center.

And it depended entirely on whether the violence was committed as a reaction, in the heat of the moment, against agitators, terrorists, revolutionaries, or rioters, or whether it was done afterward, as an act of brutal retaliation.

If, for example, a group of armed officers opened fire on rioters throwing bricks, Molotov cocktails, improvised explosives, and even engaging in gunfire themselves. Then most of the country wouldn’t care.

Some might even find it comedic in a cosmic sort of way. Only the most radical of citizens would take the agitators’ side; and those were already the types likely to join the revolution in the first place.

In such a case, whatever civil strife was caused could usually be contained; provided the government forces were willing to commit fully to the violence from that point on and were halfway competent at their jobs.

The opposite scenario, however, occurred when violence was committed as retaliation, indiscriminate and brutal, against innocent people, either wholly unassociated with or only loosely connected to the agitators.

Even if there were real ties discovered later, the media could always conceal the truth and frame the victims as martyrs—turning the hammer of the state into the villain of the narrative.

The media was seldom on the side of the people; or the state, for that matter. It was always on the side of itself, and its own interests.

If they weren’t exactly pleased with the powers that be, and had the freedom to publish as they pleased, they would twist, distort, and mutilate the story into whatever form best suited their agenda.

Bruno knew this. And he knew that the situation in the Philippines had now crossed that line. There was little doubt that the local media would frame the event as government-sponsored slaughter of civilians.

That narrative would fester like a rot; and now the United States, or more specifically its forces in the South Pacific, would have to suffer the wrath of their own stupidity.

Sitting across from Bruno were two of his family members. Both had traveled to the General Staff headquarters to continue their political education. Eva, now the Princess of Tyrol and the Princess Consort to the Prince of Prussia, sat across from her father.

She acted like a senior student; here to observe and evaluate the lesson being taught to her nephew, Erich, who was still too young to fight wars of his own but was already learning how to win them.

Bruno had not voiced his opinion on the situation. Instead, he had tasked his students with preparing an analysis of the fallout.

Erich was to speak first. He stared at the dossier in front of him, eyes moving between troop reports and a map of the South Pacific, while his aunt and grandfather drank beer in silence, watching his every movement.

When he finally spoke, both were surprised.

“I think the fallout will be most severe when the American public learns what their government has done. For a country that espouses liberty, freedom, and the pursuit of happiness—murdering innocent people in a land they occupy because those people are doing the same thing their own founding fathers once did… that’s hypocrisy, isn’t it?”

Bruno cast a glance toward his daughter that silently asked, Do you want to tell him, or should I?

Eva merely raised an eyebrow, clearly volunteering her father for the task.

Bruno set down his beer stein with a faint thud, sat upright, and gestured to the map; specifically, toward the continental United States.

“The American people don’t give a damn about the Philippines.”

Erich opened his mouth to protest, but Bruno raised a hand to silence him.

“The American people believe whatever the media tells them to believe. Let me ask you something; do you really think that a population enduring an economic collapse gives a single thought to people they’ve never met, in a country they can’t pronounce, and will never visit?”

Erich paused, unsure of how to answer.

Bruno didn’t wait for one.

“No one truly cares. Not in any meaningful way. And if someone says they do, they’re lying. They’re using that false empathy either as a mask to hide their true motives; or worse, as a cudgel of shame, a weapon to make you submit.”

A heavy pause. Then Bruno’s tone hardened.

“People will say anything to get what they want. If you want to know what someone actually believes, ignore what they say. Focus only on how they behave. Understand why they act the way they do… and you’ll know how to control them.”

Erich let those words settle. He stared down at the map again. After a long silence, he finally nodded; understanding dawning on his young face.

“You’re saying that… without understanding the Americans’ behavior—or what drives it—it was foolish of me to try to predict their next move.”

Bruno didn’t reply. He simply moved a carved figurine, a submarine, closer to the American coastline. His voice, now calm, invoked the past, present, and future in a single breath.

“Know your enemy, and know yourself, and you need not fear a hundred battles.”

Then he smiled faintly and twisted the old proverb into something far more dangerous:

“But when you understand mankind itself, its nature, its fears, and its appetites, you no longer fight for supreme victory. You rise above it. You play for something far greater: supreme authority.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze resting firmly on his grandson.

“And that, Erich, is the game we play in this family.”

Erich sat in silence, the weight of realization settling over him for the first time in his young life. This was his family—the shadows behind the throne, the unseen hand that guided emperors and shaped the course of nations. They were not merely rulers, but the playwrights of mankind’s fable. And his grandfather… had built it all in a single generation.

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