Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 183: When a tool is forged in darkness, those in daylight fear what it might build.

Chapter 183: When a tool is forged in darkness, those in daylight fear what it might build.

The ink had barely dried on the signatures when the storm began.

Word of Delon’s quiet campaign spread beyond the walls of the Defense Ministry.

It reached the halls of armament companies, continued in the salons of the nobility, and burned like gunpowder through the corridors of political power.

Twelve committee members had been convinced or cornered into supporting a weapon they hadn’t yet seen, built by a young officer they never want to acknowledge.

To the old order, it was not innovation.

It was insurrection once again.

Last time with PAP given the situation they allowed it but they cannot let this Moreau ride over their head everytime.

Saint-Chamond factory owners were the first to react.

They met in high-ceilinged rooms.

"Who authorized this?" one voice snapped.

Another spoke.

"Do you understand what happens if this weapon becomes the Army’s darling?"

A portly shareholder banged his cane against the marble floor.

"We funded five platforms! And this boy hands them a pipe bomb with state funds?"

There were no conclusions, only calls made, names whispered, and questions delivered like threats to trembling assistants.

Naval procurement lobbies long jealous of Army funding called it a land-grab.

"If they fast-track this, we lose next year’s artillery expansion," one admiral’s aide muttered.

Another nodded. "Cut them off now. Or we all drown."

Old-line aristocratic families invested in steel gathered in salons and drawing rooms.

"He’s not one of us," said the Comtesse du Villiers, sipping tea.

"And yet he dares move like a prince," replied the Marquis.

Their concern wasn’t the weapon it was the precedent.

Finance subcommittees tied to pre-Maginot interests reacted with cold precision.

Spreadsheets were opened.

Dossiers drafted.

Lobbyists dispatched.

If money was the lever, they’d pull it until the whole structure cracked.

Across the city, officials and lobbyists began tracing the web backward.

How had Delon moved so freely?

Who had opened the doors?

What leverage had been used?

It wasn’t just about the gun anymore.

It was about control.

The old guard had ruled through slowness through committees, delays, commissions.

Delon had lit a fire beneath that foundation.

And now, in their eyes, it had to be extinguished.

By morning, each of the twelve committee members had received new visitors.

Some were confronted in their homes, others summoned quietly to neutral cafés, anonymous rooms.

Barbier sat in silence as a banker reminded him of his family’s debt position.

Lafont was told his daughter’s scholarship at École Normale might suffer if he remained "uncooperative."

Maurin was offered a chairmanship of a colonial logistics fund conditional on withdrawal.

Jolivet wept when asked to undo what fear had forced him into.

But not all bent.

Courbet refused, whispering.

"Delon saved my son in ’34. I owe him. Even though I don’t want to."

And Leclerc, shaking, said. "I’d rather die useful than live comfortable."

In the drawing room of his estate, Barbier paced for nearly an hour.

His wife sat nearby, silent.

"They’ll ruin me," he whispered.

"And what of Delon?" she asked.

"He holds nothing but honor," Barbier replied. "And that makes him far more dangerous."

Lafont received a letter without signature.

It simply read.

Don’t forget who paid for the campaign posters.

He burned it immediately, but the damage was done.

"I can’t go against Delon," he murmured to a friend in a corridor.

"But I can’t afford to stand by him either."

In evening Prime Minister slammed his phone down after the twelfth call of the hour.

"They’re saying we’ve let government run military procurement without permission" one aide said.

"They’re saying Delon bypassed protocol," added another.

The Prime Minister rubbed his eyes. "They’re saying too much. And none of it helps."

He stared out the window. "Prepare the paperwork. The committee will be dissolved by dusk."

Twelve men slept poorly that night.

Each one alone with his thoughts, staring at ceilings or half-filled glasses.

They had acted under pressure, some with fear, some with reluctant admiration.

But none had expected their resolve to be tested so quickly.

For some, guilt settled in like dust.

For others, rage.

They weren’t just being overruled they were being erased.

Leclerc walked the gardens of his estate until sunrise.

Courbet drank until he passed out.

Maurin wrote a letter of resignation he never sent.

When morning came, none of them spoke to one another.

They knew silence would be safer than loyalty.

When Beauchamp received the news, he sat in silence for a full five minutes.

The message came via courier a line from the Prime Minister’s office.

Effective immediately, the Special Armaments Committee was dissolved.

All pending approvals void.

A new commission will be formed within the month.

"They’ve reset the table," Beauchamp muttered.

Delon, standing near the fireplace, said nothing.

Only his jaw tightened.

"All that work," Beauchamp added, "and for what?"

Delon picked up his coat. "For the next round. We’ll fight this one too."

In a private dining room above a Left Bank brasserie, several lobbyists and advisors toasted.

"He pushed too hard," one said.

"He forgot how this game works," added another.

A senator clinked his glass. "Gentlemen, Paris still belongs to the patient."

They laughed, but it was nervous laughter.

Because deep down, they knew Delon had not lost.

The table had been reset.

But those who’d once sat quiet now knew what could be done when someone chose to knock.

And next time, the door would not close so easily.

Beauchamp lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair.

He looked at the now-voided list of twelve names and sighed.

"They didn’t even last a week," he muttered.

But as he stared at the corner of the document, he noticed one thing.

The indentation left by Delon’s initials, pressed so hard they left a mark through the folder.

He smiled bitterly. "Next time, they’ll need more than ink to stop us."

In a side alley near Gare de Lyon, Delon handed a sealed note to a courier.

"Deliver this to Moreau. Tell them the demonstration is not canceled. Only delayed."

The courier nodded.

Delon watched the shadows gather over the city and whispered, "They wanted a quiet game. Let’s give them noise."

The next morning, newspapers told a different story.

Committee Rebalanced for Strategic Clarity, declared one.

Delon’s Improper Influence Questioned by Civilian Oversight, claimed another.

None mentioned Moreau.

None mentioned the weapon.

But between the lines, the story was clear.

One editorial, unsigned, simply read.

When a tool is forged in darkness, those in daylight fear what it might build.

"You heard?" Delorme asked, wiping oil from his hands.

Chevalier nodded grimly. "Reset. The whole damn committee."

"Months of work. Just gone."

"No," Chevalier said. "The weapon still works. And now, so do we."

They looked at the prototype on the table

solid, silent, waiting.

Later Moreau received a letter by courier.

He opened it quietly.

The road is closed for now. So we build a new one. Do not stop.

– D.

Moreau folded the letter, set it beside the blueprints, and picked up his pen. freeweɓnøvel.com

In the Ministry cafeteria, two aides whispered over black coffee.

"I heard Delon stormed the Prime Minister’s office."

"I heard he didn’t say a word just stared."

"And the PM blinked first."

They didn’t laugh.

They just drank in silence.

Outside, the bells of Paris rang on schedule.

But everyone knew something had changed.

The old table may have been reset but the players weren’t leaving.

And some had better cards than ever before.

And this time, they were no longer afraid to play them.