Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 62: "God doesn’t judge France. I do.”

The Élysée Palace felt colder than usual that morning.

General Delon stood in the Presidential Office, back straight, cap under one arm, his uniform impeccable.

Across from him, President Albert Lebrun sat slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples with the kind of weariness only leaders wore in times of near-collapse.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the president exhaled deeply, pushing aside the folder on his desk inside were photos, documents, reports stained with blood and silence.

"You've made your point, General," Lebrun said quietly.

Delon didn't respond.

"You've killed enough to shift the balance," the president continued, looking up now, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue. "And I won't pretend some of them didn't deserve it."

"I don't regret any of them," Delon replied simply.

Lebrun sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not here to ask for regret. I'm here to ask for control."

Delon raised a brow. "You're asking me to stop?"

"No," Lebrun leaned forward, resting both elbows on the desk. "I'm asking you to adapt. This isn't about mercy, it's about stability."

"The sudden outbreak of violence," the president continued, "has stunned the capital. Fear has bled through every floor of government. For the first time in years, there's silence among the rats."

He tapped the folder slowly. "That's peace, Delon. A twisted one, but peace nonetheless. And I want you to use it."

Delon said nothing, watching the president with those iron eyes.

"Root them out," Lebrun said. "Quietly. Efficiently. Arrest them, blackmail them, exile them if you must. But stop the blood. The Republic's reserves are thin. Our nerves are thinner."

"And the officials?" Delon asked. "The high ones."

The president hesitated.

"Don't touch too many," he said finally. "We need their networks. But make them feel the wind at their necks. Let them know they're not untouchable."

Delon nodded once.

Then he did something he hadn't done in twenty years.

He raised his hand and saluted.

Not out of formality, but out of something deeper respect.

The president stood and returned it slowly. "God help us all, Delon. The clock is ticking."

Outside, the rain had stopped.

Delon walked through the hallway of the Élysée.

Waiting by the courtyard stood Major Varenne.

Delon approached him with calm precision.

"The president?" Varenne asked.

Delon gave a rare smile. "He blinked. But he's still breathing."

"What now?"

"Start the second phase," Delon said.

Varenne tilted his head slightly, curious. "You expected this?"

Delon let out a dry chuckle. "Always. They're predictable. Always follow the same pattern."

"And the orders?" Varenne asked.

"Arrest the rats. Public ones first. Quiet ones later."

"And the wolves?"

Delon's smile turned into a sharp line. "I'll deal with the wolves myself."

By nightfall, Paris was a city under silent siege.

In a townhouse in the 5th arrondissement, loud banging shattered the calm.

The door burst open.

Three gendarmes poured in, rifles raised.

Inside, a colonel tried to burn documents, but they tackled him before he could toss them into the fireplace.

"Colonel Huguet," the officer in charge said, reading from a leather folder. "You are under arrest for gross dereliction of duty, financial fraud, and conspiracy against the Republic."

Huguet spat on the floor. "You don't have the authority!"

The officer smiled thinly. "I'm not the one you need to worry about. General Delon sends his regards."

They dragged him out in chains.

On the other side of the city, in a shadowed library lined with dust and books, General Delon himself entered unannounced.

The guards at the entrance didn't stop him.

Inside, General Marchand stood, reading a report by lamplight.

He looked up, startled.

"Delon."

"Marchand."

A long silence.

"Here to kill me?" Marchand asked bitterly.

"No," Delon replied. "You're too valuable."

Marchand blinked.

Delon stepped closer, slowly.

"But you'll watch your step. You'll stop whispering in ears, stop building your private fund, and most of all, you'll remember the blood in the street came from men who thought themselves untouchable."

Marchand licked his lips nervously. "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm promising you clarity."

Marchand stood frozen as Delon stepped past him and out the door.

Behind him, the air felt suddenly colder.

In a military court, two judges were escorted out of their homes under cover of night.

Files had been doctored under their supervision.

Payments traced to German accounts.

By morning, their names were scrubbed from all documents.

At the Sorbonne, a philosophy professor known for laundering influence for army officers was found tied to a chair in his office.

No wounds.

No bruises.

Just a note pinned to his chest:

"Stop speaking for men you do not serve."

In Delon's war room, the map of Paris was marked with pins and red strings.

Varenne read through the latest reports. "We've apprehended seventy-two across six ministries. Thirty-three more fled. Four suicides."

Varenne paused then continued. "General we need to push more, because whatever we have done till now is alerting the enemies of our action. Now I fear retaliation."

"I am expecting that but the arrow has been released and will not stop until it reaches it destination."

Replied Delon with a deep sigh.

Next day early in the morning.

The narrow corridor leading to the offices of Claude, a former Ministry of Transportation procurement clerk rang with boots as six men in plain clothes approached the apartment door.

Inside, Claude was drinking coffee, unaware.

The door shattered inward.

A voice bellowed, "Hands where I can see them!"

But Claude had been prepared.

A revolver flashed from under the newspaper.

Bang.

One soldier dropped, blood soaking his jacket.

A burst of gunfire followed.

Claude screamed and fell, hit in the leg, groaning as his revolver clattered to the floor.

Sergeant Givret kicked it away. "He's alive. Barely."

"Good," the officer snarled. "Delon wants his teeth, not his corpse."

They carried him out screaming.

For next location Delon had personally signed the order: Gilbert Sauval, former logistics auditor and suspected smuggler.

No escape.

A four-vehicle convoy blocked both ends of the street.

Delon's men stacked at the door, breaching at exactly 07:05.

They found the flat… empty.

Too empty.

Furniture untouched.

Coffee warm on the table.

Door unlocked.

Then the radio crackled.

"We've got movement rear alley, three men with rifles!"

Gunfire erupted.

From the rooftop, an unseen shooter picked off two soldiers before disappearing into a crawlspace above the bakery next door.

Delon arrived ten minutes later, stepping through the blood-spattered hallway.

"Where is he?" he asked Varenne.

"Gone, sir. Someone tipped him. Our men died for a ghost."

Delon's jaw clenched.

He knelt beside a corpse. "I want every friend he's ever had tracked. If he farted in 1918, I want to know who smelled it."

Not every arrest ended in silence.

In a shadowed chapel basement, Delon himself confronted Archbishop Foucher an old war chaplain turned clerical influence broker.

The priest stood calmly beneath the rusting crucifix, eyes calm as Delon approached.

"You've hidden men," Delon said flatly. "Traitors."

"They confessed. I offered them penance."

"Bullshit," Delon snapped. "You offered them cover."

The old man didn't blink. "And if I did, General? Shall you shoot me? Here, before God?"

Delon stepped forward, lowering his voice. "God doesn't judge France. I do."

The priest's smile faded.

Delon turned to his officers. "Take him. Strip the place clean. And if he resists, I want him preaching from a cell."

That night, in a townhouse overlooking the river, Delon's most delicate target slipped from his grasp.

André Malbrun, former intelligence scribe, was dragged out kicking and screaming.

As they loaded him into a transport truck, the streetlights suddenly went out.

Then a blast.

A Molotov cocktail exploded against the side of the truck.

Gunshots followed.

Screams.

Chaos.

One of Delon's men was dragged into a doorway, throat slit before he could even cry out.

By the time they regained control, Malbrun was gone.

Vanished into the alleys of Paris.

Delon punched a wall when he heard.

"Someone inside is feeding them," he hissed to Varenne. "We're hunting rats while eating poison."

Later in the command room the general stared at the board names pinned, crossed, circled.

Some bled red, others bled ink.

Varenne entered, bruised and limping. "We lost twelve men today."

Delon nodded slowly.

"And another six of our targets escaped."

Delon didn't speak.

Instead, he picked up the black telephone and dialed.

"Activate Ghost List," he said quietly.

A pause.

"Use the traitors to catch traitors."

Varenne blinked. "You're bringing in the informants?"

Delon nodded. "If the army can't purge itself, let the filth devour the deeper filth."

He paused, then added coldly: "But I want every one of them arrested the second they're useful. No medals. No mercy."

He turned to the window.

"Paris thinks it's done bleeding," he murmured. "They're wrong."