Chapter 42 - 42:

Words : 1112 Updated : Sep 10th, 2025

After Moreau left, Delon was in deep thinking. The war hadn't started yet. But the pieces were already moving. A sharp knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Enter." The door swung open, revealing Major Lucien Varenne, his adjutant and one of the few men Delon actually trusted. A noble by birth, Varenne was as sharp as a saber and just as ruthless. Unlike many of the aristocrats in the army, he didn't hide behind etiquette or outdated ideals. He was capable, efficient, and dangerously intelligent. The perfect man to handle dirty work. Varenne stepped inside, closing the door behind him before standing at attention. "Sir, I see you're deep in thought." Delon sighed, rubbing his temple. "It's not often I meet men like Moreau." Varenne smirked slightly. "Have you started believing what those analysts in Paris are saying about Spain? That we must change our army to survive the next war? That you're willing to entertain people like De Gaulle… and Moreau?" Delon exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "It's not about belief. It's about reality. The world is unpredictable, Major. You never know what will happen." Varenne raised an eyebrow. Delon's gaze hardened. "We are old men, Varenne. Bound by the thinking of World War I. We still believe trenches and artillery will win the next war. But the world has already moved forward without us." He tapped the desk lightly. "Maybe the only way to move ahead is to support these new thinkers. Maybe dragging this stagnant water called the French Army forward is the only way to prevent history from repeating itself." Varenne studied him for a moment before nodding. "And what of the men, sir? The ones who fought yesterday?" Delon stood up, stretching his stiff shoulders before facing Varenne. "All preparations done?" "Yes, sir." Varenne handed him a small folder. "We've gathered the necessary reports. We will begin interviewing the soldiers today and assess their mental state." Delon nodded. "Many of them have lost friends. They might be harboring a deep grudge." Varenne's expression was unreadable. "Undoubtedly. We will calm them and, if necessary, transfer them to more stable environments. Soldiers blinded by vengeance make poor strategists." Delon let out a small, bitter chuckle. "No matter how justified their anger is." He turned to the window, watching as troops moved about the base, their expressions grim. "Fucking hell, Varenne, I have more anger in me than all of them combined." Varenne said nothing. Delon sighed. "But sometimes, we have to look beyond our emotions. This war hasn't even started yet. If we don't move carefully, we'll be dead before the first German bullet even reaches our border." "And the prisoners, sir?" Varenne's smirk turned cold. "It's ongoing. We already have names. Many have collapsed under interrogation." Delon's voice turned to ice. "Doesn't matter even if they die. These traitors deserve something far worse." Varenne straightened. "Your orders, sir?" Delon's gaze darkened. "Let the interrogators finish their work. If they talk, they live. If they don't..." His eyes flashed. "Then they will beg for death." -------- Across the office in a building that is now technically a fortress. The sound of bones cracking, muffled screams, and strained breathing rang through the underground cells. One prisoner a former sergeant who had been caught orchestrating supply movements for the enemy was strapped to a chair, his face already swollen beyond recognition. His nose was broken, blood dripping from his chin. His hands were crushed, his fingers bent at unnatural angles. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling. A man in a black uniform stood in front of him, rolling up his sleeves. seaʀᴄh thё NôvelFire.nёt website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "You still haven't given me a name." The prisoner spat blood onto the floor. "Fuck… you…" The interrogator sighed, shaking his head. "I thought you'd say that." He turned to another officer. "Get the pliers." The prisoner's breath hitched. The officer returned with a pair of iron pliers, their sharp edges gleaming under the dim light. The interrogator crouched, gripping the prisoner's chin with one hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. "I want you to understand something. I'm not doing this because I enjoy it. I'm doing this because you gave me no other choice." His tone was calm, even. Then he grabbed the prisoner's hand and, without hesitation, placed the pliers around his fingernail. The prisoner's eyes widened. "Wait...." The interrogator ripped. The scream was raw. Animalistic. It rang through the chambers, bouncing off the cold stone walls. The prisoner jerked violently, his body twisting against the restraints. The interrogator leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know the thing about torture? It's not about pain. It's about breaking the mind. A man can endure pain, but he cannot endure hopelessness." He lifted the pliers again. "So I will ask one last time. Give me a name." The prisoner's breath was ragged, sweat dripping down his face. But still, he didn't speak. The interrogator sighed. "Very well." He grabbed another finger. More screams. More blood. The chamber doors swung open, another officer stepping in. "Sir, we got another one talking in Cell 3. Names, locations, everything." The interrogator sighed in satisfaction, then turned back to the broken man in front of him. "See? That's how easy it is." The prisoner, now barely conscious, muttered something. The interrogator leaned in. "What was that?" The prisoner lifted his head weakly, his voice hoarse. "You… you're all fucking dead… you don't even know it yet…" The interrogator's smile faded. Then, slowly, he stood up and cracked his knuckles. "Then let's see how long you last before that happens." Major Varenne walked through the halls of the underground cells, listening to the mix of screams, whispers, and confessions. These men these traitors had been feeding off the army, selling their own people for money, for power. And now, the same army they betrayed would be their executioner. Delon had been right. This wasn't about punishment. This was about removing filth from France before the real war even began. He sighed, adjusting his gloves as he turned toward one of the guards. "Continue the interrogations. Those who break, let them live long enough to regret it. Those who resist…" He let the words hang. The guard nodded. Varenne turned away, stepping back into the light of the morning sun.

Chapter 42 - 42:

Comments (0)