The smell of coal smoke hit him first. Acrid, sharp, and unmistakably out of place.
Emil Dufort opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the haze of dust and the blinding shafts of morning light slicing through wooden blinds. He sat up abruptly, the stiff linen sheets rasping against his skin, and nearly fell out of bed from the shock. The room wasn't white and sterile like the hospital he remembered. There were no beeping machines, no IV stands, no antiseptic scent.
Instead, it looked like something from a forgotten century—thick wooden beams overhead, a cast iron stove in the corner, and a writing desk cluttered with parchment, measuring tools, and ink pots.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet touched cold wooden floorboards, and a wave of dizziness struck him like a hammer. He braced himself on the bedpost, trying to remember.
"What the hell…" he whispered in French. His voice cracked, unfamiliar.
The last thing he could recall clearly was lying in a hospital bed in Paris—modern Paris. He had been 31, a mechanical engineer with military-grade projects under his belt and a rare heart condition that gave him only months to live. Then darkness. Then… this.
Emil stumbled to the desk. He rifled through the scattered papers, skimming them in disbelief. Receipts dated 1914. Factory orders for steam plows and threshers. A leather-bound ledger with the name Émile Dufort embossed in gold.
No. Not a coincidence. This is me.
He caught his reflection in the fogged mirror behind the stove. Same build, same sharp cheekbones. But the hair was longer, the face younger by several years. His mind reeled.
This is real. And it's 1914.
Outside the window, the world churned. A plume of smoke rose from a distant chimney stack. Steam whistles echoed faintly. Below, in the factory yard, men shouted in French, loading coal, wheeling carts of steel. A factory. His factory.
His pulse quickened.
He pulled on the closest pair of trousers and a faded vest that hung on a hook. Everything felt slightly off—heavier fabrics, scratchy collars, the scent of sweat and machine oil embedded into the wool. He stepped out into the corridor, and the sound of shouting grew louder.
Downstairs, he found the source: the factory floor.
It was vast, almost cathedral-like in its construction. Rows of furnaces glowed with dull red light. Iron bars cooled in quenching vats. Steam pistons hissed as belts turned massive wheels. Workers—men in soot-covered aprons—hauled crates, hammered rivets, and barked curses.
"Get the damn boiler shut down, or it'll blow again!" someone yelled.
"Boiler?" Emil echoed, his feet carrying him forward instinctively.
He passed through the crowd unnoticed, heart pounding. Despite the surreal fog clouding his thoughts, the layout made sense. This was a manufacturing plant, and it was on the verge of falling apart.
In the corner stood an older man with thick arms and a bushy mustache—clearly someone in charge. He was shouting at a younger worker while holding a bent spanner.
"We can't run at full pressure with that leak. Either fix it or tell the gendarmes who to bury!"
Emil approached. "Excuse me."
The man turned. "What is it now, Emil?" he snapped.
He froze. "You… know me?"
The man stared, puzzled. "You hit your head or something? Been gone for two days and now you look like you've seen a ghost. You're the boss, or have you forgotten that too?"
Emil blinked. "I… need to see the books. Where's Henriette?"
The man grunted. "Probably up in the accounts office. And tell her we're two days behind on the rail delivery."
Henriette Dufort was nothing like Emil remembered her—because in his original life, she hadn't existed. But here she was: mid-twenties, sharp-eyed, and seated at a large desk surrounded by ledgers and correspondence.
When he entered, she raised an eyebrow.
"Finally awake, brother? I was about to send for a doctor. You've been out nearly three days."
"Three?" Emil sat down slowly.
She pushed a stack of papers toward him. "You missed three supplier visits. We're over budget. Half the harvest contracts have been canceled, and now the war's eaten into the rail lines. No coal deliveries. No steel. We're two weeks from total shutdown."
Emil scanned the numbers. Even in 1914 standards, the margins were brutal. The factory was bleeding money.
"Have we received any government contracts?"
Henriette laughed. "For threshers? In wartime? Emil, this isn't a fairy tale."
But Emil wasn't listening. His mind was already racing.
Over the next two hours, Emil roamed the factory. He ran his fingers across gear teeth. He studied the old lathes, the stamping press, and the twin-burner furnaces. It was all ancient compared to the machines he once worked with, but it could work.
In fact, it had to.
Because if France had just entered the war, the next few months would be chaos. Trench warfare. Mass casualties. Cavalry charges against machine guns. A nightmare he remembered only from documentaries.
But if he could build tanks—primitive maybe, but mobile armored machines—he could alter the battlefield. Give France time. Give himself purpose.
"The Sanglier," he whispered. "The Wild Boar."
It was the name he'd always dreamed of giving his first armored vehicle design. Now, he'd make it real.
He returned to the office, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began sketching—armor plating, angled hulls, rotating turret designs. Henriette entered an hour later and paused.
"You're not really designing… a war machine, are you?"
"I'm not designing it," Emil said. "I'm remembering it."
War, Opportunity, and a Clock Ticking
That evening, the town crier passed through the streets on horseback, bell ringing.
"The Germans have crossed the Meuse! Verdun holds, but Paris prepares for siege!"
Emil stood on the factory balcony and looked out at the smoke-stained horizon. The world was about to drown in blood.
But he wouldn't let it take him with it.
He would build. He would fight. He would rise.
"The Iron Strategist of 1914," he murmured. "That's who I'll become."