Reincarnated: Vive La France

The roar of tank engines rang through the foothills west of Barbastro before the scouts even confirmed the route.

Moreau's sudden new orders was simple.

Speed without fragmentation.

The tanks would break the crust, the infantry would seize the core, and engineers would lock it down before the smoke even cleared.

At 0700, the 8th Armored Division surged forward.

Captain Leclerc stood in his command hatch, goggles up, headset crackling with squad movements.

"Thirty seconds to ridge," his gunner said.

"Don't wait for their morale to break," Leclerc said. "Just drive through it."

When they reached the ridge, they found a Nationalist trench barely manned, guns unmanned, crews scattered across dirt and concrete.

The moment they saw the tanks, half dropped their weapons.

The other half tried to run.

Most didn't make it.

"Left line clear," the driver called out.

"Confirm and press," Leclerc replied.

Behind them, mechanized infantry trucks appeared like clockwork.

Within fifteen minutes, the trench was manned by the French.

Moreau watched the red markers appear on the map board one after another.

"Alquézar just fell," the signal officer reported.

He looked to the side panel. "Río Vero bridge intact. Engineers already laying track down the slope."

Moreau nodded. "I want communication relays set within three hours."

"They're prepping already."

Another officer entered the room, saluted. "Reports from the 5th Brigade town of Siétamo captured. Zero casualties."

"Enemy resistance?"

"Scattered. They weren't ready."

Moreau took that in without expression.

"Of course they weren't," he murmured.

At the frontline near Ayerbe, two tanks rolled through a narrow stone street.

A boy holding a piece of stale bread stared at one of the turrets.

The gunner didn't wave.

He didn't need to.

Behind them came medical transport, food supplies, and construction materials.

No one shouted orders.

The pace itself was the message.

In the hills east of Huesca, Franco's regional command attempted to rally retreating troops.

Colonel shouted over the map table. "Where did they come from? This was a quiet sector!"

His aide stammered. "They used the dry basin and looped south. They crossed the creek during the storm."

"Impossible! That was impassable terrain."

"Not for tanks," the aide said. "They didn't use the road."

Another officer added, "They're not waiting anymore. No pauses, no artillery prep, no broadcast demands. They hit, they take, they dig in."

Colonel gritted his teeth. "Then what the hell are we supposed to hit?"

There was no answer.

In the command HQ, Gamelin arrived unannounced.

He stepped in as Moreau was listening to a field engineer's report.

"East Casbas, three structures rebuilt for comms, food stocks up, sanitation deployed. Locals compliant."

Moreau nodded once. "Tag that town as stable."

The engineer saluted and stepped out.

Gamelin closed the door behind him.

"So this is the new pace."

Moreau didn't look over. "No, this is the actual one. We were crawling before."

Gamelin approached the map. "You've taken five sectors in three days."

"Four more by tonight."

"You're going to stretch our frontlines beyond sustainability."

"No," Moreau said. "I'm accelerating only where we already have arteries."

"And when the arteries close?"

"They won't. The skeleton is already under them."

Gamelin looked to the communication overlays. "And casualties?"

Moreau turned to him now.

"We've lost twenty-three since the push started."

Gamelin's eyes widened. "That's.."

"Because we don't give the enemy a target. By the time they recognize we're coming, we're past them."

"And their counterattacks?"

"They can't organize in time. No static targets. We deny them friction."

Gamelin stepped back slightly. "You've weaponized momentum."

"I've just stopped pretending terrain needs drama."

At the edge of Laluenga, French tanks sat idling under the cover of dusk.

A lieutenant spoke quietly through his headset. "Flank four engaged. Cleared outposts."

Behind him, the 3rd Engineer Company was already marking power pole installations.

A corporal handed the lieutenant a list. "We're told to repurpose the schoolhouse for triage."

"Done. Any sign of resistance?"

"None left."

Back at central HQ, a colonel stepped into Moreau's office tent.

"Sir, requests from field units can we slow the tempo? They're hitting resistance fatigue, not from combat but from the construction pace."

Moreau raised an eyebrow. "No."

"They're asking for thirty-six hour cycles instead of twenty-four."

"Tell them the war won't wait for their calendars."

The colonel hesitated. "Sir, the men are pushing past endurance."

"Then tell them to stop thinking like soldiers," Moreau said. "Tell them to start thinking like settlers."

In Barbastro, another rail segment was completed.

The new line linked to fuel caches that hadn't existed five days ago.

A local woman handed a loaf of bread to a passing engineer. "Do you build this fast in your own country?"

The engineer grinned. "Not when anyone's watching."

At an airfield command post, an intelligence officer radioed in from overhead recon.

"Sir, signs of Francoist movement near Belver."

Moreau leaned forward. "Tactical response?"

"Looks like scrambling. No heavy emplacements. Possible staging for retreat."

"Confirm and reroute the 6th."

He stood back.

"Hit them before they even finish the thought."

Later that night, Renaud arrived at the command post with dust on his boots and grease on his sleeves.

"I just came from Almudévar," he said. "It's not even cold yet, and your engineers already have concrete poured for their food depot."

"Good," Moreau said.

Renaud leaned in. "You're winning, Étienne. But they're not celebrating. The officers feel like they're managing a city grid, not commanding men."

"Then they're paying attention."

Renaud hesitated. "Are we still an army?"

"We're what comes after it."

Renaud studied him for a long moment. "And how far do you take it?"

Moreau didn't answer.

Renaud didn't push.

At midnight, updated maps showed red ink thousand kilometres of Spainish territory under control.

At that hour the Spanish Colonel made his last call from the east sector before his post was overrun.

"They don't fight like a republic," he said into the receiver.

The operator asked, "Then what are they?"

He didn't answer.

The line went dead.