Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 180: They had built a weapon before history needed it.

It was another day at the foundry where they worked hard.

It was still cold outside but inside sweating hot.

But no one complained because they didn’t need to.

Everyone has gotten use to this.

Chevalier was the first to unwrap the breech lock assembly, its polished steel shining in the fire.

He ran his fingers over the grooved seams, muttering measurements aloud.

Delorme, beside him, set down the venturi cone with care, his breath short after working so hard and focusing so deep they he forgot to take them.

The metal as he examined the ridges of the gas dispersion flares.

"This one feels right," he said quietly.

Moreau stood watching them, arms crossed, leaning against a column beside the long table they had cleared for assembly.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Each part had passed inspection.

Every tolerance, every seal, every contour machined and re-machined, rechecked with calipers and patience.

It had taken weeks.

But now, all the pieces lay in front of them.

A final puzzle waiting to become something more.

Something they can be proud of.

Something that will save lives.

"We begin," Chevalier said.

And so they did.

The assembly started with the barrel a cold-forged steel tube lined with spiral rifling, tempered over three nights and stress-tested under 400 MPa.

Chevalier mounted it into the locking collar while Delorme fitted the rear nozzle.

The conical venturi slid into place like the tail of a rocket, locking against the dual-channel exhaust ring.

Moreau stepped forward with the breech assembly.

The chamber closed with a satisfying clunk.

He checked it twice.

Trigger housing next simple mechanical striker, spring-loaded.

Reliability was a virtue.

One that they will need everytime it fired.

It clicked into place with only a few turns of the tension bolts.

The sight bracket followed iron and adjustable, screwed into a predrilled mount point at the top rail.

Primitive, but effective.

The last component was the backblast shield.

Delorme unfolded the alloy plate two thin layers of treated steel joined with rivets.

It locked open behind the firing chamber, flaring like a fan.

"That’ll keep the shooter’s boots," he said.

Chevalier chuckled. "Or his ass."

Even Moreau smiled.

Together, they lifted the finished weapon onto a tripod, its bipod legs folded beneath.

It looked crude and powerful, elegant and dangerous like something drawn by war itself.

A recoilless rifle.

Not from the future, not from theory.

But real.

Now.

The testing field was set fifty meters behind the main machine hall.

A long trench had been dug years earlier for artillery proofs.

Today, it would serve a different purpose.

The engineers laid out the tools first.

Spare cartridges, wrench kits, grease, welding torches for emergency patching.

They raised a canvas shield behind the firing platform just in case.

The target was simple a half-inch steel plate mounted on a concrete block sixty meters away.

Chevalier slotted the first round into the chamber.

The 20x180mm cartridge gleamed under the cloudy sky.

Moreau stood beside him, watching as the breech block was closed, locked, and sealed.

Delorme gave a soft whistle. "Well, gentlemen. No more paper."

They stepped back.

The air grew tense with anticipation.

Moreau placed his hand on the grip, his finger near the trigger, but not yet touching.

His breath slowed.

This was it.

All the nights.

All the theory.

Now it would speak.

He pulled the trigger.

The blast erupted like thunder from a cave.

A long blaze of fire shot rearward from the venturi, sending gravel skittering down the trench wall.

The weapon lurched forward but did not kick.

Recoil, as planned, was nearly nonexistent.

The shell hissed through the air in a silver arc, its tail wobbling slightly then struck the steel target with a metallic noise.

No penetration.

But no explosion, either.

A pause.

The men looked at one another.

No rupture.

No smoke from the weapon.

No scream of failure.

Then Chevalier exhaled.

"Fins drifted," he said.

"Three degrees off-center," Delorme added, already scribbling notes.

Moreau stepped back, blinking.

"It fired," he said.

They stood around the weapon in stunned quiet.

The weapon had fired.

Not on a page.

Not in a drawing.

In reality.

"Again," Moreau said.

They reset the platform, fitted a second round this one with adjusted stabilizers.

Chevalier had recalibrated the tail to correct the torque imbalance, lengthened the fins by 3mm and twisted them half a degree inward.

The second round chambered with a satisfying click.

Moreau pulled the trigger again.

This time, the blast came sharper.

The recoil absorption functioned perfectly.

The flame shot backward, the shell blasted ahead and the target rang like a bell.

Smoke rose from the steel plate.

A long black mark seared across the surface.

No hole, not yet.

But impact.

Real, heavy impact.

The men stood frozen.

Delorme took off his glasses. "That... is what I call proof."

Chevalier began to laugh small at first, then freely, shoulders shaking.

Moreau just stared at the weapon, dumbstruck.

He walked toward the barrel, touched the venturi nozzle gently with his gloved hand.

It was warm.

Alive.

"We did it," he whispered.

Delorme clapped him on the back, grinning wide. "No. You did it."

Chevalier added, "You drew it from smoke and turned it to steel."

They laughed together then, louder than they had in weeks.

Laughed in the cold, in the dirt, in the dark, their faces lit up in the dark.

They laughed until they were breathless.

Then they hugged awkwardly, roughly.

Engineers and a soldier.

Men who’d built something impossible.

After the celebration came analysis.

They returned to the bench.

Notes were taken.

Damage assessments.

Pressure logs.

Blast radius reconfirmed.

Minor flaws remained.

A slight weld misalignment at the venturi base.

The backblast shield vibrated under ignition needs reinforcement.

The trigger pull was heavy.

Weight distribution needed tweaking.

But the rest?

The chamber held.

The venturi survived.

The round flew straight.

And for the first time in their lives, they had built a weapon before history needed it.