Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 61: "They call it the Bleeding Order. Either you’re loyal to the Republic, or you’re erased.”

Paris burned, not with fire, but with whispers.

Beneath its marble floors and wide ceilings, the heart of the Republic rang in terror, paranoia, and betrayal.

There were no headlines screaming panic, no decrees from the president just eerie silence.

It began quietly, like a silent poison, the morning after Moreau received his medal.

Minister of Procurement Dion adjusted his coat as he left his Montmartre townhouse.

The sky was gray, droplets of rain falling in the cobblestone.

His driver waited impatiently down the alley.

Dion was halfway across when two strangers approached one held a folded newspaper under his arm, the other carried a bouquet of lilies.

Dion halted, annoyed. "Excuse me, gentlemen, what is this about?"

The man with the flowers smiled politely, eyes cold. "Just a gift, Minister."

Dion frowned, unsettled. "From whom?"

"General Delon sends his regards."

Before Dion could react, the man withdrew a long knife hidden inside the lilies and plunged it deeply into the minister’s chest.

Dion gasped, clutching at his attacker’s sleeve.

"Please... don’t... I have children..."

A second thrust silenced him, his mouth open but soundless.

Blood spread warmly across his white shirt, pooling down into his polished shoes.

The killers caught him as he sagged, swiftly dragging him into his own waiting car.

The driver, returning from a nearby café moments later, discovered only an empty street and dried blood.

Dion had vanished like smoke.

Across the city, at the Ministry of War’s central archives, Jean Roussel patrolled lethargically.

It had been years since anyone troubled these dusty halls, stacked high with secrets too dangerous to burn yet too risky to reveal.

He lit another cigarette, inhaling sharply.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Roussel stiffened.

"Who’s there?"

Two shadows emerged from darkness. Military uniforms.

Faces unreadable.

"This is a restricted...."

Two gunshots tore through his chest, sending him sprawling backward.

Pain and surprise froze his features as the intruders moved past him methodically.

Files were doused with gasoline, set ablaze.

Roussel lay dying, helplessly watching decades of corruption vanish into flame.

In the Élysée Palace, President Lebrun paced nervously, dossier pages trembling in his hand.

He glanced at Minister Lavelle, whose face was drained of color.

"They’ve begun tearing each other apart," Lebrun muttered.

Lavelle sipped coffee, hands shaking. "Beauchamp opened Pandora’s box. Now everyone is scrambling to shut it with bullets."

"What of Delon?" Lebrun demanded.

Lavelle lowered his gaze. "Delon isn’t patching the wound. He’s burning the infected flesh."

General Delon was miles away from the chaos, safely stationed in a guarded villa near Versailles.

His commands, whispered through telephone wires, struck with ruthless precision.

In Paris, General Marcieux shaved carefully in his quarters, razor scraping softly. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until cold metal pressed firmly against his skull.

"Who—?" he whispered.

"From General Delon," a voice whispered coldly.

A deafening bang.

Blood splattered the porcelain sink, mingling with shaving foam.

Marcieux collapsed forward, dead before he struck the ground.

-----

Colonel Henri Cazeneuve slept restlessly, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.

He woke sharply, heart hammering.

Before he could move, strong hands dragged him from the bed, binding his wrists painfully behind him.

"What is this madness? Unhand me!" he shouted, voice thick with panic.

"You’ve stolen enough from France," growled a soldier. "Now you pay."

"Please...have mercy! I’ll repay every cent!"

But pleas were futile.

His struggling ceased only after a rope tightened mercilessly around his neck.

Dawn broke over Reims to find Cazeneuve’s corpse dangling grotesquely beneath a streetlamp, a placard pinned to his chest reading: "For the Republic, not for profit."

Far away in a dimly lit interrogation room, Major Emilien trembled violently, stripped to his undershirt and trousers.

A torturer calmly lit his cigarette, smoke curling lazily.

"Why resist, Emilien? They all talk eventually."

Emilien spat blood, eyes wild with desperation. "I swear to you...I know nothing more!"

The torturer chuckled softly. "At this point, it hardly matters."

He plunged a knife casually into Emilien’s thigh.

Emilien howled, agony raw in his voice.

"I… please… mercy!"

"Mercy?" the torturer whispered with bitter amusement. "Ask the Republic for mercy."

He twisted the knife slowly.

Emilien’s screams rang down empty hallways.

------

Colonel Valois, hidden away in his office at the Ministry of Interior, clutched the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles whitened.

The once-bustling halls were deathly silent.

A voice sliced through the shadows. "Valois."

Startled, Valois turned swiftly. "Who’s there?"

From behind a towering bookcase emerged Colonel Duvall, sad-faced and weary.

"Drouet’s dead," Duvall announced gravely.

Valois swallowed painfully. "How?"

"They delivered his head in a wine crate. His name carved across his forehead."

Valois steadied himself against the desk, trying to appear calm. "Is this Beauchamp’s doing?"

"No," Valois he said to himself "Delon."

Duvall frowned in disbelief. "That relic?"

Valois shook his head slowly. "Not a relic, a cleansing fire."

Duvall hesitated, visibly disturbed. "Then God save us all."

------

Rain pattered harshly against the windows of Beauchamp’s office.

Major Florent stood rigidly before him, expression severe.

"How many are confirmed?" Beauchamp asked quietly.

"Eighteen dead. Six missing. Three fled. Swiss intelligence believes one crossed into Germany."

Beauchamp exhaled smoke thoughtfully. "And Colonel Valois?"

"Terrified. He’s armed everyone loyal to him."

A smirk tugged Beauchamp’s lips. "Cowards always reach for weapons first."

In a smoky café tucked away in the 6th arrondissement, two military lawyers whispered urgently beneath soft jazz rhythms.

Candlelight flickered against glasses of brandy.

"I hear Delon’s men are running blacklists now," murmured Jacques nervously.

His companion, Léon Bonnaire, leaned closer. "They call it the Bleeding Order. Either you’re loyal to the Republic, or you’re erased."

Jacques shuddered. "They took Laurent."

"Laurent talked too much," Léon hissed bitterly.

A sudden sharp crack shattered the tranquility.

Jacques’ head snapped forward violently, face planting into his brandy glass.

Blood darkened the amber liquid without a sound.

Léon froze, staring wide-eyed at his dead companion.

Outside, across the street, a sniper calmly lowered his rifle.

A second shot wasn’t necessary the living witness was enough to deliver the message.

---

Within the Élysée Palace, President Lebrun addressed a small circle of his closest advisors.

Tension at peak crashing on them like it is the end.

France is just one step away from Civil War.

"Each of you played your hand, each conspired to remove Moreau. Now look around at what you’ve unleashed."

Silence smothered the room.

Lavelle broke it hesitantly. "Perhaps…we should let Delon finish what he started."

Lebrun’s stare was ice-cold. "This isn’t about Delon. This is about France. If this madness continues, we’ll lose more than generals and politicians, we’ll lose the nation itself."

An advisor stood abruptly, his voice raw with bitterness. "France was lost the day we allowed rats to command soldiers."

Lebrun and other became silent because he spoke the truth.

Taking a deep sigh he looked around and spoke. "I want this to end now, I don’t care what interest you have or lost, if this continues we will descend into Civil War"

He paused then continued. "From today onwards this nation will start cleansing and gentlemen I sincerely hope that I don’t find you on the other side of it."

No one spoke in disagreement.

Alone in his quarters, Beauchamp opened his leather-bound journal.

"I did not choose war," he wrote carefully, "I chose to expose corruption. Now they flail in the light. Bleeding, shrieking rats caught in flames."

He paused, breathing slowly, then continued.

"Delon does what must be done. I do what terrifies them. Few days ago I said them this Republic can survive one Capitaine, Today I can express what I really mean. The Republic survived kings, empires, tyrants it will survive traitors."

He closed the journal firmly.

"Let them come."