Great. Here's the fully expanded The Sanglier Mk V didn't return to Leclerc Works on its own treads.
It was hauled back on a flatbed rail car, dented and scorched, missing part of its left tread. But that didn't matter.
Because it had survived.
Because it had won.
By the time the train reached the outskirts of Paris, news of the battle had already spread.
A single French tank had crippled three of Germany's most advanced armored machines—and destroyed a fourth. The German push through Champagne had stalled. Reinforcements had arrived. The Champagne rail junction held.
The tide had not turned, but it had been stayed.
And suddenly, every general in France wanted to know who built that machine.
The Birth of a Legend
By dawn, Le Matin ran a bold headline:
"THE WILD BOAR OF VITRY—FRANCE STRIKES BACK!"
The accompanying illustration, exaggerated for drama, showed the Sanglier Mk V riding over a Feuerschreit like a beast of myth.
In cafés, citizens raised glasses to "Dufort's Dragon." In army camps, young officers whispered about the "new iron age" of warfare. Telegrams flew from Geneva to Washington.
And in Berlin, the General Staff circled Emil's name on a dossier marked "Kriegsverzerrer – War Distorter."
Summoned to Paris
The invitation—no, the summons—arrived the next day.
Henriette read it aloud while pacing their office at Leclerc Works.
"Requested to appear before the Joint Military-Industrial Planning Commission. Paris. Immediate effect."
She frowned. "They're not asking, Emil. They're pulling you into the lion's den."
"Then I'll wear armor," he said, folding the letter.
Roland leaned in from the doorframe. "You want company? I clean up well."
"No. They'll see me as dangerous enough. I don't need you charming anyone into a duel."
Henriette raised an eyebrow. "And you don't plan to charm them?"
"No," Emil said, standing. "I plan to remind them that the future's already here—and they can either ride with me or be flattened under it."
Iron in the Marble Halls
The Ministry building in Paris was a fortress of bureaucracy—tall white columns, echoing halls, uniforms pressed sharper than bayonets. Emil entered under escort, coat slung over one arm, eyes unblinking.
At the head of a long mahogany table sat General Marchand, commander of France's armored forces. Beside him sat industrialists, politicians, and a man Emil recognized from intelligence briefs—Philippe Giraud, a senior procurement advisor with rumored ties to foreign arms dealers.
"Monsieur Dufort," Marchand began. "Your machine has saved the Champagne line. We're... impressed."
"You sound surprised."
"We expected a prototype. Not a revolution."
Emil placed a folder on the table. Inside: schematics for an upgraded Mk VI, featuring a coaxial mount and modular armor panels.
"This is what comes next."
The men leaned in.
"You want funding?" Giraud asked. "We can offer a line of credit. Facilities in Metz. Perhaps even a stake in Renault if you'll relocate."
"I don't want a buyout," Emil said coldly. "I want production lines. On French soil. Under French command. With my oversight."
Marchand looked amused. "You make demands like a general."
"Because generals follow doctrine. I follow results."
The room went silent.
An Offer from the Shadows
After the meeting, Emil stepped into the corridor—only to find a well-dressed stranger waiting.
"Monsieur Dufort," he said with a thick American accent, "my employer is interested in your designs."
He handed over a card: Carnegie-Ford Armaments Ltd.
"You build for France today," the man said. "But tomorrow... why not the world?"
Emil didn't take the card.
"Tell your employer the world isn't ready for what I'm building."
The man smiled. "Oh, we disagree."
Home Front Reckonings
Back at Leclerc Works, Henriette paced Emil's office like a caged animal.
"You went to Paris. You wowed them. And now everyone wants to put their hooks in us."
"Us?" Emil said. "You're still here. You've been here since day one."
She stopped. "I meant 'us' as in this factory. This mission."
"It's more than a mission now," Emil replied. "It's the spine of France's future military."
"Or the skeleton of its soul."
Emil looked up sharply.
"You think I'm losing sight?"
Henriette exhaled. "I think you're turning this place into a temple for a god called progress. And gods always ask for sacrifice."
Emil said nothing.
Because he couldn't deny it.
The Prophecy of Iron
That night, Emil sat alone in the Sanglier Mk V's open hatch. A thunderstorm rolled in across the plains. He let the rain strike his face.
In his hand was the first bullet casing fired from the battle of Vitry. Spent. Flattened. Burned.
"We built this to stop the war," he whispered. "But they'll use it to win it."
He didn't know if that was victory or tragedy.
But he knew this:
Tomorrow, they would begin work on the Sanglier Mk VI.
And the arms race he had hoped to prevent was already sprinting ahead of him.