In every game of evolution, there comes a response.
The Sanglier had broken the line.
Now the enemy was responding.
The First Encounter
It began with a whisper.
Reports from Verdun spoke of strange, hulking machines moving in the fog—low, square-shaped vehicles bristling with guns. Survivors described steel hulls crushing trenches, German soldiers walking behind them like ghosts.
At first, French command dismissed it as rumor.
Then the 3rd Infantry Regiment sent an urgent cable.
"Unknown armored vehicle encountered. Destroyed two bunkers. Suffered heavy casualties. Conventional artillery ineffective."
Colonel Varin summoned Emil to the front lines that same night.
Return to Fire
Emil arrived in Verdun under a steel-colored sky, the air vibrating with distant shelling. The smell of blood, powder, and scorched pine filled the trenches.
He was older now—not in age, but in wear. His coat was darker. His eyes sharper.
Waiting for him at the command tent was Varin, red-eyed and smoking.
"They've built a monster."
"A7V?" Emil asked.
"They call it the Sturmpanzerwagen. It looks like a warehouse on treads. But it kills."
Varin pushed a torn photograph across the table. Grainy. But unmistakable.
A squat, angular beast. Multiple gun ports. Heavy armor.
"You were first, Dufort. But the Germans don't play fair. They mass-produce nightmares."
The Battle Plan
Varin unrolled a map.
"They're pushing toward the Meuse. We believe three A7Vs are in support. Infantry can't stop them. Artillery can't move fast enough."
He looked at Emil.
"We need the Sanglier to stop the wolves."
"How many do we have?"
"Two in the sector. The Mk II 'Jugement,' and the Mk III—just finished repairs."
"Crew?"
"Your old team. Volunteered before I even asked."
Preparing the Boars
Back in the makeshift motor bay near Fort Souville, Emil reunited with his old crew.
Antoine, Pascal, Louis, Camille—older, harder, but still smiling.
"Thought you forgot about us," Pascal said, hands covered in grease.
"They tried to give us rifles again," Louis added. "We said we prefer pistons."
They gathered around the Mk II and Mk III—gleaming with new plating, retrofitted treads, and reinforced armor skirts.
Bruno, now head of engineering, gave Emil the update.
"The Mk III's cannon is stabilized now. Less recoil. Better sighting. And we mounted one of Vera's flare mortars—fires phosphorous bursts at 60 meters."
"And the Mk II?" Emil asked.
"She's meaner than ever. But slow. Be smart about where you aim her."
Night Before the Hunt
That night, Emil walked alone through the forward camp.
Soldiers whispered as he passed. Not in scorn, but reverence.
"That's him. The engineer. The one who made the metal pig."
He stopped by the fuel tents, where Vera sat atop a crate, watching the moon.
"They'll copy everything," she said softly. "Our treads. Our rivets. Our crew structure."
"Let them."
"Then how do we stay ahead?"
Emil sat beside her.
"We don't just build tanks. We build doctrine. Speed. Flexibility. Surprise. We think."
She handed him a folded note.
"Camille wrote this. He says if they die tomorrow, it was worth it."
Emil didn't open it.
He didn't need to.
The Clash
Dawn broke red.
The Sangliers rolled forward through the shattered tree line, treads grinding through churned earth and frozen puddles. Infantry followed behind, weapons ready.
Then, they saw it.
Three dark shapes on the opposite ridge.
The A7Vs.
They didn't roar. They rumbled—low, steady, and relentless. Smoke trailed from their vents. Gunports glared like hollow eyes.
"Targets locked," Antoine muttered from the turret. "Permission?"
"Fire," Emil whispered.
BOOM.
The Mk III's shot hit the lead A7V—and bounced.
Armor held.
The German vehicle returned fire—CLANG!—a shell smashed into the Mk III's side. Sparks. Dents. No breach.
But it was clear: the A7V was stronger.
Boar vs. Wolf
Camille dropped a flare. Pascal swerved the Sanglier into a flanking run. Antoine adjusted the aim, switched to phosphorous.
BOOF!
A white burst exploded against the second A7V, lighting its right flank on fire. It slowed, confused.
Meanwhile, the Mk II advanced toward the lead wolf, cannons blazing.
Emil barked orders.
"Centerline! Aim for the viewing slits!"
The Sanglier shifted—slammed forward.
Bruno, inside the Mk II's engine hull, screamed as heat poured from the vents.
"We've got ten minutes of power before we cook!"
The A7V fired again—missed.
Antoine didn't.
BOOM.
Shell through the viewport.
The lead A7V shuddered—stopped.
Dead.
No Glory Without Grit
But victory had teeth.
The third A7V crashed into a French trench line, crushing men and sandbags alike.
Emil shouted into comms.
"Divert! Save the line!"
Pascal pulled the Mk III around—but too late. The trench was overrun.
Camille fired blindly.
RATATATATAT.
Tracer fire. Smoke.
Then, a loud WHUMP—an anti-tank grenade. The Mk III rocked violently.
"We're hit!" Louis yelled. "Left suspension gone!"
They skidded—but didn't stop.
Antoine, bleeding from his forehead, still aimed.
"Let's kill a wolf."
He fired once.
The A7V's tread shattered.
The German machine rolled—then tilted—and collapsed into a crater.
Aftermath
By noon, the field was theirs.
Three German tanks lay smoking.
The Sanglier Mk II was intact, but blistered. The Mk III limped back with help from infantry engineers.
Emil stepped out of the hatch, coated in oil and smoke.
Soldiers cheered.
One even saluted.
Colonel Varin approached, hands on his hips.
"They just saw steel kill steel."
"And they'll never forget it," Emil replied.
A War in the Papers
Two days later, French papers exploded with headlines:
"Tank Duel at Verdun: Sanglier Triumphs"
"Steel Versus Steel: France Has Its Champion"
"Who Will Build the Future of War?"
In Berlin, the news prompted immediate orders from the Kaiser: 100 A7Vs to be produced, at any cost.
But in Paris, the Ministry faced a question it could no longer delay:
"Do we trust Dufort with the future? Or do we control it ourselves?"