Chapter 9 - Chapter 9: A Rival Emerges

The Dubois factory's workshop glowed under flickering gas lamps, the evening air thick with the acrid bite of molten steel and the low hum of cooling metal. Julien hunched over the workbench, his hands steady as he filed the edges of the rifle's prototype receiver, its sleek form starting to mirror the blueprint pinned beside it. The semi-automatic design—gasoperated, ten­round magazine, light as a dream compared to the Lebel—was taking shape, but every rasp of the file felt like a race against time. Victor Moreau's mocking visit earlier that day, his sharp eyes and sharper words, lingered like a bad taste. Julien's past life had taught him men like Moreau didn't just compete—they destroyed. Jacques, Léon, and Marcel worked nearby, their tools clinking in rhythm. Jacques, ever the skeptic, glanced up, wiping sweat from his brow. "This thing better be worth it, Monsieur Julien. Your father's guest didn't look impressed." Julien forced a grin, masking the unease from the tobacco-scented cigarette butts and the threatening note still burning a hole in his pocket. "Moreau's just jealous, Jacques. He's peddling outdated rifles while we're building the future." His voice carried confidence, but his eyes scanned the workshop's shadows, half-expecting the mysterious watcher to step into the light. The door creaked open, and Élise slipped in, her practical skirt dusted with flour from helping in the kitchen. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but her quick glance at the corners of the room told Julien she was on edge too. "Thought you'd be done by now, brother," she said, tossing him a rag to wipe his hands. "Maman's asking why you're missing dinner again. And who was that pompous mustache with Papa?" "Victor Moreau," Julien said, his tone clipped as he set the file down. "Arms dealer. Thinks he owns the Ministry of War. He's here to size us up." Élise's nose wrinkled. "He smells like bad cologne and worse intentions. I heard him talking to Papa outside—called your rifle a 'boy's toy.' Said he'd have it crushed before it reached Paris." Julien's jaw tightened, his soldier's instincts flaring. In his past life, men like Moreau had profited off France's blood, selling overpriced, shoddy weapons while soldiers died. "Let him try," he said, his voice low. "He'll choke on his own words when we're done." Marcel, the young apprentice, looked up, wide-eyed. "He's that powerful? Could he stop us?" "Not if we're faster," Julien said, tapping the blueprint. "We finish the prototype, show it to Antoine's contacts, and Moreau's out of moves. But we need to be careful. Someone's watching us—someone close." Léon grunted, his massive hands pausing on a gear. "That stranger again? Saw a man loitering by the coal bins this morning. Didn't recognize him. Smelled like cheap tobacco." Julien's pulse quickened, the pieces clicking together. The note, the cigarette butts, now Moreau's sudden interest. "Keep it quiet, Léon," he said. "But watch him. If he shows again, tell me." Élise leaned closer, her voice a whisper. "I'll snoop around the servants' quarters. If someone's spying, they're eating our food. I'll find them." Julien nodded, grateful for her sharpness. "Be subtle, little fox. No pranks this time." She smirked but didn't argue, slipping out as quietly as she'd come. Julien turned back to the receiver, his mind racing. Moreau wasn't just a rival—he was a predator, and Julien's prototype was the prize. He needed to outmaneuver him, and fast. The next morning, Julien gathered his team at dawn, the factory floor cold and quiet before the day's work began. He'd barely slept, haunted by visions of Antoine's death and the war's devastation. The rifle had to be perfect. "We're ahead of schedule," he told Jacques, Léon, and Marcel, pointing to the half-assembled prototype. "Barrel's done, receiver's close. Today, we fit the gas system. If we nail this, we're ready for a test fire in two weeks." Jacques raised an eyebrow. "Two weeks? You're pushing us hard, Monsieur." "France is pushing harder," Julien said, his voice firm. "We don't have time to waste." As the men set to work, Antoine arrived, his tailored coat out of place among the greasestained aprons. "You look like you're plotting a coup," he said, grinning as he leaned against the workbench. "Papa's set a meeting with General Leclerc next week. He's curious about your 'mad invention.' But word's spreading—Moreau's been sniffing around Paris, saying you're a fraud." Julien's blood boiled, but he kept his tone light, channeling Arnaud's strategic calm. "Let him talk. He'll look the fool when we fire this rifle. You trust Leclerc?" Antoine nodded. "He's straight. Hates politics, loves results. Show him something real, and he'll back you. But Moreau's got friends in high places. Watch your back." Julien clapped Antoine's shoulder, his gratitude tinged with the weight of his past life's guilt. "I'm watching. And you—stick close. No late-night bar trips, yeah?" Antoine laughed, oblivious to the memory behind Julien's words. "You're paranoid, mon ami. But fine, I'll be your shadow. Now, show me this rifle." Julien walked him through the design, explaining the gas system with a clarity that surprised even himself—Arnaud's knowledge flowing like a second language. Antoine's eyes lit up, his poet's flair catching the vision. "This could be poetry in steel, Julien. Name it yet?" "Dubois Mark I," Julien said, smirking. "Catchy, no?" "Egoist," Antoine teased, but his grin was genuine. As they worked, a commotion at the factory's entrance drew Julien's attention. A worker rushed in, face pale. "Monsieur Julien! Someone's at the gate—says he's from the Ministry. Wants to see your plans. And… he's with Moreau." Julien's heart sank. Moreau was moving faster than he'd expected, and with Ministry backing, he could shut them down before the prototype was ready. He glanced at Antoine, whose face hardened, and then at the rifle parts gleaming on the workbench. This was his moment—his first chance to slap back at a rival who thought he could crush a boy's dream. "Tell them I'm coming," Julien said, his voice steel. "And hide the blueprint." He wasn't ready to show his hand, but he'd be damned if he let Moreau win without a fight.