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"The great questions of the day are not decided by speeches and majority votes ... but by blood and iron"
-Otto von Bismark


May 7th, 1866, Berlin
It is one of those strange coincidences of history that those same words rang though the young man's head as he cocked the pistol he concealed beneath his cloak as he idled along the Unter den Liden, eyes locked on the figure emerging from the Russian embassy. The young law student's gaze smoldered with a burning hatred towards that man he considered the ultimate traitor towards the Deutscherbund; a mad reactionary who's delusions of grander seemed on the cusp of bringing about a war between north and south, brother and brother, just like the catastrophy that had only just burned itself out on the other side of the Atlantic. The Prussian Minister-President, Otto Von Bismark, dressed in a light buff jacket as befitted the warmth of the late spring day, walking as if unaware of the suffering his efforts would soon unleash upon that continent... that is, if Ferdinand Cohen-Blind diden't have anything to say about it.

Carefully, he drew up upon the larger than life figure from behind; hand trembling only slightly as he took great care not to be conspicuous. Slowly, ever so slowly, he took aim with the barrel of his pistol still hidden beneath his lapel, taking an extra moment to focus in and steady his breathing.
It it your will to be done... he assured himself silently, whispering a short prayer in Hebrew to himself before squeezing the trigger, his foreign tongue drowned out by the explosive clap of three bullets flying in quick succession...

Each finding its mark square between the great man's shoulder blades. At that moment, time seemed to slow down as the giant a man wobbled, gripping his chest over his heart as a thick crimson stained the back of his suit, Ferdinand finding himself starting to laugh uncontrollably as he swayed, almost as if a man drunk, before tumbling head first into the cobblestone. It almost diden't register the screams of the women, the sound of whistles, the tramp of boots as patroling soldiers in their dark blue uniforms rushed towards him, pointing their bayonet's threateningly before roughly grabbing him, shoving the man to the ground as he shouted the words in religious ecstasy.

"Goliath has fallen, oh Lord. Let none of his kind ever threaten the peace of your land ever again!"
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