The foundry's heartbeat never stopped. Day or night, flame licked the blackened brick, hammers rang against steel, and the scent of molten metal mixed with sweat, coal dust, and oil. Above it all, in the elevated planning mezzanine that overlooked the cathedral of machines, Emil Laurant stood with chalk in hand, drawing faster than the others could follow.
"The armor must flex without deforming. We can't rely on cast plating alone. It has to bend — like ribs, not walls."
"Composite layering?" Fournier offered, trying to catch up with the design etched across the slate wall.
"Yes," Emil said. "A skeletal subframe with overlapping tiles. Curved, slanted. Angled to reflect impact and reduce penetrative force."
"Like a tortoise shell."
"Like a boxer's stance," Emil corrected. "Minimal surface, maximum redirection."
Rousseau watched from the side, frowning. "And how do you plan to move all this armor?"
"With torque."
Emil flipped another sheet of blue drafting paper onto the table. "Diesel-electric hybrid drive. A rotary axle. Gear-linked dual motors that feed from a capacitor system. No ignition needed. No combustion to flood the crew compartment."
Fournier blinked. "We've barely tested the capacitor design."
"Then test it faster."
"What is this vehicle's name?" Rousseau asked.
Emil paused.
Then, carefully, wrote one word across the top of the schematic:
Carapace.
The Carapace was to be no scout. No raider. It would not dash or sting.
It would endure.
Where the Libellule danced, and the Chimère stalked, the Carapace would hold ground. A bastion with treads. A machine built not to destroy, but to outlast whatever was thrown at it.
The Germans were building heavier armor. Emil knew it — the salvaged crates from the Marne ambush, the reports of reinforced rail shipments toward Metz, and the sudden secrecy around German engineer deployments all pointed to one thing: the enemy was preparing their own beasts.
The war was evolving, and it would no longer be decided by infantry lines or cavalry charges. It would be decided by steel, engines, and the men who could tame both.
Emil intended to be the first.
The first prototype was assembled in secret beneath the old blast chamber, a deep section of the foundry sealed off during the earliest phases of the war due to a collapsed ceiling and a fuel spill. Emil had it reinforced, cleaned, and retooled into a test vault.
It took thirty-seven days.
The hull was hand-riveted by six welders working twelve-hour shifts. The drive system cannibalized from locomotive engines. The capacitor banks scavenged from factory turbines. The turret—an elliptical dome housing a twin-linked 47mm naval gun—was modified to allow for elevation and 360-degree rotation.
When the Carapace rolled forward under its own weight, the earth trembled.
It wasn't fast.
It wasn't elegant.
But it was invincible.
Emil watched from the catwalk as the vehicle climbed a debris mound designed to simulate cratered terrain. The treads bit through rock and rusted metal, dragging the tank up the slope like an iron beetle. At the summit, the gun turret swiveled.
He spoke into the command microphone.
"Firing test one. Live shell. Reinforced concrete target. Two hundred meters."
The gunner—a broad-shouldered sergeant named Gallois—acknowledged.
The gun cracked like thunder.
The slab of concrete exploded into gravel.
Rousseau flinched. Fournier just stared.
"It works," Emil said.
"No," Fournier murmured. "It roars."
News traveled fast.
Within a week, the Ministry dispatched a delegation. Three generals, two engineers, and one civilian director with a monocle and a smile too wide to be sincere. They inspected the Carapace with the curiosity of priests observing a pagan idol.
"What's its operational range?" one asked.
"Eighty kilometers," Fournier answered. "On a full diesel load with capacitor reserve. Sixty in combat rotation."
"Crew?"
"Four."
"Armor?"
"Front: 100mm curved. Flanks and rear: 60mm. Undercarriage plated."
"And weight?"
"Forty-six tonnes."
The generals exchanged looks.
"You've built a bunker on treads," the civilian murmured.
"No," Emil said. "I've built a decision. Either we field it, or the Germans field something worse and win with it."
That night, after the delegation left, Emil walked the perimeter of the test vault alone. He couldn't sleep. Not because of the machine—but because of what it meant.
Each step forward in his designs made the future clearer. And colder.
He was building monsters.
No longer tools, but terrors.
And he wasn't sure if the battlefield would end when one side fell—or when there were no men left to command the machines.
He stopped beside the Carapace, its bulk glinting under lantern light.
The painted insignia — a stylized shell surrounding a pair of eyes — stared back at him.
He reached up and drew a line through it.
No eyes.
Not anymore.
This one was not to see.
This one was to survive.
Meanwhile, across the front, German High Command prepared their own revelation.
In the early light of dawn, a train arrived at the Metz proving grounds. It carried one massive cargo: a behemoth of steel and menace, its frame hunched like a predator.
Projekt Höllenwagen.
The Hell-Wagon.
Its sides were sloped. Its gun was massive. Its treads had no gaps.
And inside it sat a man with a name stitched in black: Rainer.
He touched the cold wall of the crew cabin and whispered:
"Laurant will see you soon."