Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 159: "But this line... belongs to them."

The morning fog was thick over Teruel.

The mountains eastward were veiled in smoke.

Major Moreau stood at the front of a hollowed-out chapel converted into a war room.

His cane tapped against cracked stone as he moved to the table.

A map of eastern Spain was spread before them, covered in grease-pencil marks, blood-stained corners, and worn folds.

Soldiers from every faction stood present.

Anarchists, POUM, socialists, communists, even the Free Militia.

Moreau looked across them, his voice steady though his side still ached with every breath.

"Let me tell you again my plan which I discussed yesterday," he said.

"We draw a line from Teruel to Valencia. Every inch beyond it... we fight only if it bleeds with us."

Murmurs passed through the room.

Ortega crossed his arms, glaring.

Clara Valera sat, arm in a sling, jaw clenched.

Moreau continued.

"This line isn’t what we were supposed to do. It isn’t theory. It’s survival. It’s the grave we choose to die in together."

Ortega scoffed. "You think lines stop bullets?"

"They do when men stand on them," Moreau said. "I’m not asking you to share ideologies. I’m asking you to share breath."

Clara leaned forward. "And command?"

"Shared. Rotational. Each front has two officers from different factions. I will not be your general. I will be your witness."

One of Ortega’s men laughed. "This is madness."

Renaud stepped in. "So is dying alone in trenches while Guderian rolls over our corpses. This is the last chance you’ll get to bleed together instead of separately."

There was silence.

Then Clara spoke. "Fine. But I won’t salute a communist."

"Then don’t," Moreau replied. "Salute the dead. They didn’t care whose flag they died under."

Far away in Valencia

The room was dimly lit.

Petrov lit a cigarette, his gloved hand trembling slightly as he reread the latest intelligence.

Moreau’s speech was spreading.

Even anarchist stations were quoting his line.

He looked at the young NKVD agent seated before him.

"Phase One failed," he said.

"The bribes didn’t work. They believe in him now. So we go further."

"Target local?"

"No," Petrov said slowly.

"Wider. Activate Agent Rousse in Paris."

"The journalist?"

Petrov nodded. "Begin discrediting Moreau in French media. Leak casualty figures. Make the duel with Guderian look like egomania. Paint him as a butcher of young French blood."

"And official pressure?"

"Already in motion. The embassy will quietly suggest to the French government that continued Soviet support hinges on removing him."

He stubbed the cigarette. "They’ll think it’s their idea. That’s the beauty of a knife in the back."

In Guderian’s Forward Command

The maps were clear

German efficiency displayed in blue ink and compass-true angles.

Guderian tapped the Teruel–Valencia line with a metal pointer.

"He’s drawn his last line," Guderian said.

"So we erase it."

His aide frowned.

"Do we engage with full strength?"

"No. We pick it apart. Fast armor strikes on communication nodes. Let him hold the line while we remove the legs beneath it."

In a restructured war council tent, Moreau presided over the first official joint command briefing.

Maps were rearranged.

Different faction banners removed.

Clara Valera sat beside Ortega, visibly uncomfortable.

Renaud stood by Moreau, exchanging nods with socialist officers.

"Reports from the north?" Moreau asked.

A POUM lieutenant replied, "Guderian’s units struck La Puebla de Valverde. We lost the outpost, but a joint POUM-CNT team blew the bridge behind them."

Ortega grunted. "So the line held."

"Temporarily," Renaud added. "But it proves something we can hold."

Clara stood, addressing the room. "Then I propose we name this line. Not Teruel. Not Valencia. Something else."

"Verdette," Moreau said softly.

Ortega raised an eyebrow. "What’s that?"

"A forward scout. A lone soldier sent ahead to die so others can prepare. It’s what we are now."

The room fell quiet.

"We are Verdette," Clara said finally. "Let’s make it worth something."

Later Moreau limped through freshly dug lines.

Civilians carried ammunition.

Anarchist girls were sewing armbands.

Communist guards helped repair radio towers with POUM engineers.

A boy offered him water.

"Thank you," Moreau said, sipping. "What’s your name?"

"Emilio, sir."

"What are you fighting for, Emilio?"

The boy looked down. "My sister died in Madrid. They shot her because she was handing out bread."

Moreau rested a hand on his shoulder. "Then you’re fighting for memory. Hold the line. For her."

In another area Petrov arrived under flag of diplomacy.

He approached Ortega with a metal case of rifles.

"You need more weapons. I can offer them. But you must convince Moreau to step aside."

Ortega didn’t even open the case.

"You think I fight for guns?"

"Don’t be naïve. Moreau’s made you a target. Sooner or later, France or Moscow will remove him. Better if it’s you."

Ortega stepped closer. "You mistake my beard for ignorance, Russian. But I’ve buried more traitors than I’ve shot fascists."

He turned to his men. "Arrest him."

As Petrov was dragged away, Ortega sent a note to Moreau.

Tell Moscow we’re not for sale. Not anymore.

In a field hospital Clara sat with Moreau, her leg elevated, arm bandaged.

"You know Petrov won’t stop."

"I know."

"France is cracking. You’re being painted as a dictator."

"I’m not a dictator."

She smiled faintly. "No. Just a man stupid enough to believe in dignity."

He looked at her. "Would you follow me again?"

"I already am. The question is how many more will?"

In frontline Guderian’s tanks moved like blades.

Night raids, scorched villages, precision bombardment.

But each breach was met by resistance roadblocks, sabotaged bridges, mixed units fighting side by side.

"Sir," His aide reported. "They’re holding longer than expected."

Guderian narrowed his eyes. "Because they finally believe in something."

Moreau stood in a trench under grey dawn.

Beside him were anarchists, communists, Free Militia all armed, watching the horizon.

A young girl painted a silhouette of a lion on a makeshift banner.

Renaud approached. "Petrov’s gone silent. But I expect they’ll try something bigger soon."

Moreau looked at the girl.

"Let them come," he said. "Because they still think this line is mine."

He turned to the trench full of fighters.

"But this line... belongs to them."