Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: A Miraculous Dawn

The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of the Dubois estate, bathing Julien's bedroom in a golden haze that felt too vivid, too real. His heart thundered as he stood before the mirror, staring at the reflection of a nineteen-year-old boy—lean, unscarred, with dark curls falling into hazel eyes that burned with a fire he hadn't felt in decades. Both legs, whole and strong, grounded him to the polished oak floor. The air carried the scent of fresh linen and the faint sweetness of his mother's lavender sachets, tucked into every drawer. It was 1911. He was alive. And somehow, impossibly, he was back. Julien pressed his palms to his face, feeling smooth skin where wrinkles once carved trenches. His mind churned, a chaotic whirl of memories—his own, and those of Patrick Arnaud, a name that echoed like a ghost from 2025. Schematics for weapons, formulas for alloys, economic theories, and business strategies flooded his thoughts, alien yet precise, as if etched into his brain by a divine hand. A semi-automatic rifle, an improved Chauchat light machine gun—ideas decades ahead of this era—danced in his mind's eye. He could see every gear, every spring, every innovation. "Mon Dieu," he whispered, half-laughing, half-trembling. "What have you done to me, Arnaud?" He paced the room, bare feet silent on the cool floor, testing his reality. The heavy oak bed, carved with the Dubois family crest, stood as it had in his youth. His desk, cluttered with half­finished sketches from his university days, bore the faint scratches of his restless quill. He ran a finger over a faded ink blot, a memory of late nights solving equations that had once earned him the title of France's brightest mind. Before Antoine's blood stained his hands. Before the war stole his leg and his soul. A sharp knock at the door snapped him from his reverie. "Julien, you lazy oaf!" came a voice, bright and teasing. "The sun's up, and you're still dreaming of equations or women?" Élise, his sister, burst in without waiting for an answer. At fifteen, she was a whirlwind of mischief— petite, with the same dark curls as Julien but eyes that sparkled with a cunning he'd always envied. She wore a simple blue dress, her hair barely tamed by a ribbon, and carried a tray of fresh bread and coffee that filled the room with warmth. "You're awake early," Julien said, his voice catching as he drank in the sight of her. Alive. Whole. Not the grieving sister he'd left behind in 1970, her spirit dulled by his failures. He fought the urge to pull her into a hug, knowing it would alarm her. Élise raised an eyebrow, setting the tray on his desk. "Early? You're the one who looks like he's seen a ghost. What's got you so pale? Too much wine last night?" She smirked, but her gaze lingered, sharp and searching. "Or did you finally solve that impossible gear ratio you've been muttering about?" Julien forced a grin, leaning into the banter to steady himself. "Maybe I solved the secret to eternal youth instead. Want to try it?" He flexed his arms, feeling the strength of his younger body, and winked. "I could outrun you to the stables now, you know." "Ha! I'd trip you before you reached the door," Élise shot back, tossing a bread roll at him. He caught it mid-air, the motion effortless, and took a bite, savoring the crusty warmth. The taste grounded him, pulling him deeper into this second chance. But the weight of Patrick Arnaud's knowledge pressed against his skull. He saw it clearly now: a semi-automatic rifle, lighter and faster than the Lebel rifles France clung to, and an upgraded Chauchat, stripped of its jamming flaws, inspired by a 1930s design called the Bren Gun. These weapons could shift the tide of the war he knew was coming. Three years. He had three years to prepare France, to save Antoine, to rebuild the Dubois name. "Élise," he said, his tone shifting to something serious, "what if I told you I had an idea to save the family? To make us great again?" She paused, coffee pot in hand, her smirk fading. "Great again? You mean like when Papa brags about our ancestors at every dinner? Or when you were the talk of Paris?" Her voice softened, but her eyes gleamed with curiosity. "What's cooking in that big brain of yours, Julien?" He hesitated. How could he explain a life not yet lived, a war not yet fought? Instead, he gestured to his desk, grabbing a quill and paper. "The factory," he said, sketching a rough outline of a rifle barrel. "Tractors are fine, but they won't save us. Weapons will. Better ones. Ones that could make France untouchable." Élise leaned over his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear as she studied the sketch. "You're mad," she said, but there was no mockery in it. "Papa will have a fit. He thinks tractors are our legacy." "Papa's wrong," Julien said, his voice firm. "And I'll prove it. But I need you to keep this quiet for now. Can you do that, little fox?" It was his old nickname for her, one he hadn't used since before Antoine's death. Her eyes widened, then softened. "You haven't called me that in years," she said quietly. "What's changed, Julien? You're… different." He swallowed, the weight of her words heavy. "Maybe I'm just waking up," he said, forcing a smile. "Now, go distract Maman and Papa while I work. I've got a war to win." Élise grinned, mischief returning. "A war, huh? Better not be against me, or you'll lose." She darted out, leaving the scent of lavender and the echo of her laughter. Julien turned back to his sketch, his hand steady as he refined the rifle's design. But a shadow lingered in his mind—Antoine, laughing in that bar, unaware of the knife waiting in the dark. This time, Julien vowed, he'd be ready. For the thieves. For the war. For everything. A creak from the hallway snapped his head up. Someone was listening. Friend or foe, he couldn't tell—but in this new life, he'd trust no one until he was sure.