The sun had not risen. In truth, it barely existed anymore. The sky above the Furnace Line was a churn of smoke, ash, and drifting snow that never settled. In the underworld between the forests and trenches, war no longer wore uniforms. It wore shapes — of armored hulls and grinding steel, of tracked monsters painted in mud and fear.
And now, two of those shapes moved to meet.
The French front was quiet. Not because of peace — because of something worse. Orders had come down to halt artillery along a three-kilometer corridor. Soldiers pulled back. Mines were defused. Spotters were withdrawn.
This was no longer a battlefield.
It was an arena.
At the edge of the Bois de Châlons, hidden behind frost-covered canvas, stood Carapace-2, completed in record time, hastily baptized with oil, mud, and chalk. Its hull glistened with fresh steel. Its main turret, mounted with twin 47mm guns, was ready. Inside sat Emil Laurant, calm and silent, like a man preparing not for glory — but for proof.
"Final check?" Fournier asked over the wire.
Emil responded through the copper handset. "Engine steady. Capacitor charged. Turret rotation optimal. Optics clean."
"Do you copy your orders?"
"I do."
Rousseau's voice came next. "And your unofficial orders?"
Emil smiled faintly. "Don't die. Learn everything. Win the future."
Across the field, in the shallow basin east of the Saint-Mihiel ridge, the Feuerhund emerged.
Rainer's creation no longer needed secrecy. Its bulk moved without apology, metal brushing stone and tearing earth. Even its camouflage seemed arrogant — red oxide paint streaked like blood, not to hide, but to mock.
Inside its turret, Wilhelm Rainer sat with a stopwatch in one hand and a map in the other.
"Let's see how French engineering holds up against precision."
The signal was given: a green flare arced over the kill zone and vanished into soot.
Both engines roared to life.
The Carapace moved first, pushing through soft earth and craters like a glacier fitted with claws. Emil kept the turret aligned at a 20-degree offset, anticipating flanking motion. His mind ran calculations faster than most men could load bullets.
Estimated muzzle velocity of enemy weapon: 650 m/s.
Estimated frontal armor resistance: 110mm sloped at 30°.
Margin of survival: 11%.
Too low.
He needed to move closer.
He needed to make it personal.
The Feuerhund fired first.
The shell screeched over the trench lines and slammed into a ridge behind Carapace.
A warning.
Rainer wasn't trying to hit — yet.
He was measuring.
Emil angled the treads sharply to the left, creating a false profile. Then he cut power to the starboard drive and allowed drift — a deceptive motion, irregular.
He waited.
Rainer took the bait.
The second shot came fast, precise, and slightly wide — anticipating speed, not the stall.
It hit a buried cart and vaporized it in fire and splinters.
Emil was already moving again.
He closed to within 300 meters.
Too close for comfort.
Perfect for disruption.
He keyed the secondary charge system.
"Deploying scrambler mist."
Canisters popped from the rear of Carapace, releasing a fog of condensed ether mixed with ferrous dust and laced with static. Not enough to block optics — but enough to distort rangefinders.
Rainer's third shot went wide.
Inside the Feuerhund, the spotter cursed.
Rainer grinned. "Smart. He's not just hiding. He's rewriting the geometry."
He adjusted.
"Time to change the game."
He pressed a button on the control panel.
The Feuerhund's hull shifted.
Panels dropped.
Secondary turret deployed.
It was smaller, sleeker — a coaxial repeater designed for infantry suppression but lethal at close range.
It barked a burst of fire.
The rounds pinged off Carapace's side, one slamming into the side grate and warping it inward. A rivet snapped. Emil winced as the interior lights flickered.
Then he pressed a second button.
The Carapace's twin 47mm guns dropped elevation by three degrees.
He fired.
Two shells. Straight at the Feuerhund's left tread.
One missed.
One struck.
It was not a killing blow — but it bit. The tread snarled, buckled, and caught on its own drive sprocket.
The Feuerhund staggered.
Emil took the opening.
"Forward!"
The Carapace surged ahead, its heavy treads ripping into soil and steel fragments. The distance closed to under 100 meters. Now, accuracy didn't matter. Now it was force.
Another shot.
This one from 47mm HE.
It struck the Feuerhund's gun shroud.
Sparks. Fire.
Rainer growled and slammed his fist against the console.
"Fire back!"
"Gun's jammed!" his operator shouted.
"Use the repeater!"
The coaxial burst flared again, peppering Carapace's turret ring. One round breached the outer plating.
Inside, Emil felt the shudder as a thin jet of fire passed just above his shoulder.
The Carapace bled.
But it didn't break.
At 57 meters, Emil called the final maneuver.
"Engage forward spike."
The Carapace's hull slammed open at the front, revealing a retractable ram — a solid steel wedge used in emergency breaching. It extended with a hiss of steam and torque.
He drove straight into the Feuerhund's flank.
The scream of metal on metal was deafening.
The Feuerhund reeled.
Its damaged tread tore free.
One side collapsed.
It fired blindly, one last desperate shell that veered off into the trees.
The fight was over.
Emil climbed from the Carapace amid steam and smoke.
He approached the crippled German machine, pistol drawn but lowered.
Rainer emerged slowly, his uniform torn, his face bloodied — but intact.
The two men locked eyes across the wreckage.
"You fight like a craftsman," Rainer said.
"You build like a tyrant," Emil replied.
Rainer smirked. "And yet here we both stand."
"Not for long," Emil said. "Your machine failed."
"It bought time," Rainer said. "You think this ends with us?"
Emil looked toward the east.
"No," he said. "But it begins here."
That evening, the Ministry received the report.
Duel complete. Victory: Carapace-2.
They began drafting blueprints.
And ordering ten more.