The Paris wind howled outside the Ministry of War as Emil Dufort stepped out of the armored staff car and adjusted his overcoat. The city was tense. News of the Nivelles victory had reached the capital two days prior, and while public morale had surged, the mood inside the halls of power had grown colder, more calculating.
Victories came with scrutiny—and ambition bred enemies.
Colonel Varin met him at the entrance. "You've made quite a mess, Dufort."
Emil arched an eyebrow. "Nivelles is liberated. The enemy artillery was silenced. What part of that is the mess?"
Varin's expression didn't change. "Every part. Parliament wants to know how a private citizen built a war machine without oversight. The General Staff wants to know how your designs are two decades ahead of anything we possess. And most damning of all—why a blacksmith's son is now being discussed in cabinet meetings."
Emil shrugged. "Maybe they should've built something better."
In the Belly of Politics
Inside the Ministry, Emil was led through polished corridors to a wood-paneled chamber where the Defense Procurement Committee had convened. Seated behind a semicircular desk were generals, ministers, and bureaucrats—most of them older, most of them eyeing him with the suspicion of men watching a lion enter a tailor's shop.
Emil's blueprints were already laid out before them. Photos of the Sanglier's performance at Nivelles were clipped to large folders. One showed the tank plowing through wire, flames spitting from its side turret. Another depicted the concrete ridge collapsing under bombardment.
"Messieurs," Emil began calmly, "you asked for proof. I delivered it. I ask now not for praise, but for capacity."
One of the ministers, a gray-mustached man named Duret, spoke first. "And what precisely do you expect us to give you?"
"Five thousand tons of steel per month. Rail priority on the Amiens-Le Havre line. Recruitment waivers for specialized workers, including those deemed 'unfit for service' under current standards. And direct authorization to oversee armored division deployment in coordination with field generals."
The room fell into stunned silence.
General Belloy leaned forward. "You want to command military units?"
"I want to integrate them," Emil replied. "Tanks without coordination are just metal coffins. I need authority to train infantry alongside Sanglier crews."
Minister Duret shook his head. "This is unprecedented."
"So is this war," Emil said coolly. "You've seen the casualty figures. Our men are dying in trenches built for Napoleon's army. I'm offering the 20th century's answer."
The Bargain
After nearly an hour of deliberation—during which Emil stood silently as the ministers debated like squabbling crows—a resolution was proposed.
"You will be granted the steel and rail quotas," Belloy announced. "You will be allowed to draft industrial workers under national protection status."
"But," Duret added sharply, "you will not be granted military command. Instead, you will report to a new Armored Oversight Bureau. Your designs and output will be monitored. Your factory will be subject to inspections. And any further private weaponization will be considered treason."
Emil folded his arms. "I accept—on one condition."
Duret bristled. "You're in no position to—"
"I am," Emil interrupted. "Because if you deny me, I walk out that door, and this war stays exactly as bloody as it's always been. You get your inspections. But my factory runs under its own protocols. No delays. No political bottlenecks."
Varin, standing near the door, gave a subtle nod. "It's fair."
Belloy hesitated. "Fine. But understand this, Monsieur Dufort—if you overstep, there will be consequences."
Emil smiled. "Then we understand each other perfectly."
Return to Leclerc
Back in Rouen, the factory was a different beast.
The forges burned hotter, the echo of hammer on steel rang out night and day, and new workers streamed in by the dozen. Henriette, flanked by two new accountants, managed quotas and contracts like a field marshal. Bruno oversaw six parallel production lines, barking orders like a general.
But it was Emil who drew the most attention. Word had spread of his duel with the Ministry, and the nickname "Le Forgeron Fantôme"—the Ghost Blacksmith—had begun to circulate in papers and among soldiers.
"Sir," Henriette called from her office one afternoon, "we've received a request from the American embassy. They want a demonstration."
Emil didn't even look up from his schematic. "Tell them they're welcome to observe—under guard. No notes. No samples. No replicas."
"They're offering cash. A lot of it."
He paused.
"Still no."
The Next Generation
While the Sanglier Mk III had proven itself, Emil wasn't satisfied.
In his design bureau—a vaulted space lit with gas lamps and crammed with sketches, prototypes, and dismantled turrets—he drafted the blueprint that had haunted his imagination since Verdun.
The Sanglier Mk IV.
Faster. Lower profile. Dual-turret rotation. Tread dampening to reduce breakdown in soft terrain. Sloped armor designed from his memory of late-WWII German panzer designs. Even a rudimentary onboard communications system—a precursor to the intercom systems that wouldn't exist for another twenty years.
As Bruno studied the design, he grumbled, "You sure this won't take five years to build?"
"No," Emil said. "It'll take six weeks."
Henriette entered moments later, her face pale.
"There's something else. We intercepted a coded message in a shipment crate from Lorraine."
Emil looked up sharply.
"German?"
She nodded. "They're watching the Sanglier convoys. They know the design's evolving."
For the first time that day, Emil's jaw tightened.
Then we'll evolve faster.
The Enemy Within
That night, in a shadowed warehouse along the rail yard, two men met quietly.
One was a Belgian clerk recently hired to log Sanglier parts shipments. The other wore a long coat and a hat too elegant for a dockworker.
"They're building something new," the clerk whispered. "Shorter, faster. I saw the chassis drawings."
The stranger nodded. "You will deliver them."
"I don't have access."
"You will. Or your family in Arlon will disappear."
As they parted, neither noticed the figure watching from the catwalk above—coat drawn tight, a .32 pistol holstered discreetly at his side.
"So," the spy muttered, "the game begins again."