Lili crouched low behind the makeshift barricade, heart racing as bullets whistled sharply past her head. Yet, even amid this chaos, her eyes widened in awe at the Sergeant.
Despite possessing the innocent features of a six-year-old girl, the Sergeant moved with the unflinching confidence and precision of a seasoned warrior. Her small voice carried clearly and sharply above the gunfire, issuing commands that the imposing, spiked-helmeted soldiers obeyed without hesitation.
Inspired by the Sergeant's unwavering bravery, Lili quickly rose and moved to stand beside her. Though small in stature, she found strength in the Sergeant's calm determination. Hand in hand, the two nearly identical girls encouraged the men forward with youthful yet resolute voices.
"Reload faster! Push those wagons into position! Fix that barricade! Take aim at those riflemen in the building—don't hesitate! Be strong, soldiers! We believe in you!"
Their clear, ringing voices spurred the men into action, compelling them to fight harder, to endure, to survive.
Responding with swift and practiced efficiency, the Prussians removed the bars from the barricade facing the blood-stained bridge. Three wagons—wooden frames soaked in oil and blazing fiercely—were pushed forward, rolling over the lifeless bodies of fallen French soldiers. Flames and thick black smoke rose high, masking their movements and providing crucial cover against the enemy riflemen on the opposite riverbank.
The French responded in panic, firing wildly into the smoke. Their shots were erratic, rushed, and imprecise. The Prussians seized this critical opportunity, darting quickly among the fallen, collecting the superior Chassepot rifles from the dead enemy soldiers. Each Frenchman carried over a hundred precious rounds of ammunition—a desperately needed bounty. Swiftly, methodically, the Prussians gathered their spoils and then retreated behind the barricades once more, readying themselves for the inevitable next assault.
On the Southern Hill, within the French Command Post
From atop a grassy hill overlooking the burning town, General Charles Frossard watched the unfolding chaos with narrowed, calculating eyes. Smoke billowed in thick plumes, blurring the shapes of buildings and barricades, while distant gunfire punctuated the constant rumble of battle. His brow creased deeply, observing yet another failed attempt by his soldiers to take the heavily defended southern bridge.
Still, Frossard did not panic—he was too experienced for that. His strategic mind had anticipated setbacks, already ordering defensive earthworks erected around his artillery positions. If the worst happened, he'd at least have a fortified fallback. With nearly thirty thousand well-armed French soldiers at his disposal, their numerical superiority would inevitably overwhelm the stubborn Prussian defenders—given enough time.
But time was precisely what he lacked.
The directive to seize Saarbrücken had come straight from Emperor Napoleon III himself, and even more troubling, the Emperor's fourteen-year-old son, Prince Louis-Napoléon, watched closely from atop his gleaming horse, impatient to earn glory. The press corps, hovering nearby like vultures, awaited every heroic gesture. Failure wasn't simply undesirable—it was unacceptable.
Compounding his frustration, the French cavalry, composed predominantly of arrogant nobles, refused outright to conduct reconnaissance missions. Scouting, in their opinion, was beneath their noble heritage. Instead, they lounged in lavish tents, awaiting the opportunity for a dramatic and prestigious cavalry charge reminiscent of their Napoleonic forebears.
"Useless," Frossard muttered bitterly under his breath, jaw clenched in irritation.
He exhaled sharply, dismissing his frustration, and fixed his gaze once again on the besieged town. The southern bridge was proving a costly distraction. It was time to pivot his strategy.
Turning swiftly to a waiting lieutenant, he barked, "Send orders immediately—if our forces can't breach the southern bridge, they'll storm the center. Assemble the men in full strength, tight formations shoulder-to-shoulder, and maintain disciplined volley fire as they advance. The river crossings must fall before sundown. We outnumber them thirty to one—victory should be ours. Go now!"
The lieutenant saluted sharply, wheeled his horse around, and galloped down the hillside toward the milling French troops preparing below.
Before Frossard could collect his thoughts, an impatient voice pierced his concentration.
"You're wasting valuable time, General! Let me fire the cannons already!"
Prince Louis-Napoléon sat imperiously atop his horse, flushed with youthful impatience. His polished boots gleamed, his posture rigid with entitlement. Though barely fourteen, his eager expression betrayed a naive hunger for battlefield glory.
Careful not to offend the future Emperor, Frossard forced a diplomatic smile. "Your Highness, I appreciate your enthusiasm. However, our cannons at this range lack precision. Firing now risks hitting our own men—as happened earlier."
"So what?" the prince scoffed, waving dismissively. "Even the noise of cannon fire will break the Prussians' spirits! Pound them relentlessly, and they'll scatter like rats!"
Frossard's smile grew strained, his patience thinning. "Your Highness, civilians still occupy parts of the town. Reckless bombardment risks international outrage, jeopardizing potential alliances. We must tread carefully—there are political consequences to consider."
Prince Louis-Napoléon scowled deeply, eyes blazing. "I don't care about civilians or politics! My father promised I'd command artillery fire. The French people demand courage from their Prince. The newspapers will celebrate my bravery—I must not disappoint them!"
Realizing further argument was futile, Frossard quickly changed tactics. He reached inside his coat, producing a collapsible steel telescope, offering it smoothly to the prince.
"Here, Your Highness," he said calmly, "observe closely. Our soldiers will soon storm the town. Watch how the Prussians crumble beneath our assault—it will be a spectacle worthy of history. Afterward, you shall personally unleash our cannons upon their fleeing ranks."
Louis-Napoléon hesitated briefly, his youthful face twisted in contemplation. Then, with an impatient sigh, he snatched the telescope and pressed it eagerly to his eye, falling silent for the first time in many minutes.
Frossard turned away discreetly, hiding a faint sigh of relief. His gaze returned grimly to the battle below, his thoughts already racing ahead.
This time, failure was not an option.
Frossard turned away, masking his relief with a stern, composed expression. His eyes narrowed intently as he observed his troops assembling near the central bridge, their disciplined ranks reforming for another determined charge.
This time, he vowed silently, they would not fail.
Yet, as General Frossard raised his collapsible field telescope again, something peculiar caught his eye amidst the haze of smoke and heat shimmering over the battlefield.
At first, he thought fatigue was playing tricks on him, conjuring phantoms in the chaos—but no. He distinctly saw two small figures darting swiftly along the Prussian line. Wherever these mysterious little figures appeared, soldiers who had previously lain wounded or lifeless suddenly stirred and rose with renewed vigor, rejoining the fight with uncanny determination.
He watched one soldier with a vivid crimson stain marking his chest, another with a bullet hole plainly visible in his helmet—yet both stood again, fighting fiercely as if untouched by injury.
"Impossible," Frossard muttered under his breath, disbelief evident in his voice.
Beside him, Prince Louis-Napoléon let out a derisive laugh, clearly amused by what he saw. He too had noticed the small figures—particularly one who issued commands with startling authority.
"Haha! Look at that, General!" the young prince exclaimed mockingly. "The Prussians have lost their minds completely—they're letting little girls command their army! Perhaps you're right after all; these fools will be easy to crush if they're desperate enough to let children dictate their tactics."
Frossard lowered the telescope sharply, his jaw tense as he regarded the prince seriously. "Your Highness," he muttered, a hard edge creeping into his tone, "that is no ordinary child."
Returning his attention swiftly to the battlefield, Frossard observed the older girl shouting precise orders to the soldiers clustered anxiously behind the barricade. To his growing unease, the hardened soldiers responded instantly—reloading quickly, shifting positions, and moving with heightened urgency at her commands.
"What in God's name is going on here?" Frossard whispered fiercely, his knuckles whitening around the telescope. "Is this some twisted mockery? Some cruel trick the Prussians are playing?"
Yet, he could afford no more time to dwell upon the absurdity unfolding before him. Below, the French columns had already begun their advance toward the central bridge, marching resolutely toward the waiting enemy lines.
Columns of infantry advanced relentlessly, ten men wide and twenty deep. At the head of each formation marched a captain, his sword raised high and gleaming, leading with crisp and unyielding authority. The cobbled streets shook beneath the synchronized thunder of thousands of disciplined boots. Heads held high, bayonets fixed and gleaming fiercely under the afternoon sun, their polished brass buttons flashed proudly, echoing the disciplined grandeur of armies long past.
Smoke curled lazily upward from Prussian needle rifles as sporadic gunfire cracked sharply from across the river. French skirmishers positioned along the southern bank returned fire, desperately trying to clear a path through the chaos.
The French marched onward, dragging fallen comrades out of the way or stepping unflinchingly over their still bodies. The advance was relentless, the formation unbroken.
As they reached the stone bridge, however, the true fury of battle erupted.
Needle rifle rounds hissed viciously through the air, striking men in the front ranks who jerked violently and toppled—some groaning with shallow wounds, others collapsing silently, their eyes wide and empty. Yet still, the French pressed forward, the rigid discipline of their formation holding firm. Even wounded men were carried forward, refusing to falter or disrupt the column's brutal efficiency.
At the midpoint of the bridge, a captain was struck directly in the skull. He collapsed instantly, his sword clattering loudly upon the stone. Without hesitation, a lieutenant stepped forward to fill his place, calmly ordering the ranks to halt despite bullets whistling dangerously close to his head.
"Present!"
The first line of soldiers raised their rifles as one.
"Fire!"
A deafening volley exploded, rippling from left to right with lethal precision. Immediately, the front rank knelt, allowing the second rank to step into place.
"Fire!"
Another thunderous roar filled the air, accompanied by thick clouds of choking smoke. Men screamed and fell, but those behind them, trembling slightly yet resolute, remained utterly still and silent. They would not move until commanded—or until death itself cleared the way.
This was the iron discipline of the French army—blind obedience, unthinking courage, no hesitation, no fear. Only duty.
Then, at last, the lieutenant issued the order they had been anticipating:
"Charge!"
With a sudden, primal roar, the French ranks surged forward in a wave of bayonets and determination, their blood-slick boots pounding relentlessly across the stone.
But awaiting them, the Prussians stood ready.
Just before the French reached the barricades, the girls' cunning preparations revealed themselves again. Small, improvised bombs—crafted hastily from cutlery, scraps of metal, and gunpowder under the Sergeant's expert guidance—were thrown into the advancing ranks. The explosions were deceptively modest, but their effect was devastating. Shrapnel sliced viciously through limbs, sending men sprawling onto the blood-slick cobblestones, their cries of agony piercing the air.
Then came the flames.
From rooftops, alleys, and side streets, Prussian defenders hurled blazing furniture, burning torches, and oil-soaked barrels into the French advance. Fire erupted across the bridge, flames dancing and smoke swirling chaotically, blinding the charging soldiers. The French momentum shuddered and stalled.
Men stumbled blindly, tripping over fallen comrades or slipping on bloodied stones. Panic ignited in their ranks, spreading rapidly like wildfire through dry grass. Discipline fractured. Order threatened to collapse entirely.
Yet, amidst the chaos, the two girls moved effortlessly, spectral and serene among the Prussians. One moved silently, eyes wide with innocence; the other commanded fiercely, authority far beyond her diminutive form. Wherever they passed, their gentle touches mended the broken. Fallen soldiers gasped, wounds closing impossibly fast, bodies restored, rising again to fight anew.
And so, the tide turned.
The French, stubbornly disciplined and driven by sheer numbers, pushed on regardless. But their confidence waned, their resolve cracking. This was not warfare as they knew it. Against such unnatural resistance, their disciplined ranks and overwhelming numbers counted for less and less.
Still, more French soldiers surged forward, driven blindly by patriotic fervor, bayonets pointed fiercely ahead, screaming their battle cries:
"En avant! Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!"
Major Brebis, watching in grim frustration from behind the lines, clenched his jaw. His men's bravery was commendable, but this was not bravery—it was madness. Recognizing disaster, he wheeled his horse sharply, galloping off urgently toward General Frossard. They desperately needed artillery support, not endless waves of courageous but doomed men.
Yet few other officers seemed to share Brebis's desperation. Only those at the barricades themselves began to sense something deeply, terribly wrong.
At the center, the fight had devolved into an unholy nightmare.
The Prussians—blood-soaked, uniforms hanging in tatters, flesh stained crimson—fought on relentlessly, smiling cruelly through gore-covered faces. They stood like revenants risen from the dead, immune to bullets and indifferent to steel, pressing forward without hesitation or fear.
To the advancing French, it seemed that no blade or bullet could halt them—these soldiers who simply refused to die.
Private Canard, a humble French farmer drafted into the chaos of war, pushed onward. His broad shoulders and sturdy arms, once accustomed to hauling heavy sacks of grain, now carried a rifle tipped with a deadly bayonet. He had never considered himself a coward, but as the barricade loomed closer, dread crept deep into his bones, chilling him to the core.
Ahead, a fellow French soldier plunged his bayonet directly through the neck of a Prussian defender—a strike that should have ended the man's life instantly.
But impossibly, the Prussian only grinned, his head jerking unnaturally, like a marionette whose strings had snapped. In a grotesque display, the enemy soldier drove his bayonet viciously into the Frenchman's eye. As the French soldier collapsed lifelessly, the Prussian's horrific neck wound closed seamlessly, leaving nothing but blood-stained skin behind.
Canard froze, heart hammering in disbelief and horror. Yet curiosity—a desperate need to understand this impossible nightmare—overcame his fear. He scrambled atop the corpses of fallen comrades, clawing upward for a vantage point amid the thickening smoke.
The haze parted just long enough for his eyes to meet those of another blood-drenched Prussian soldier. Both raised their weapons simultaneously, and both struck.
Cold steel punched deep into flesh. Canard gasped, pain blooming hot and sharp in his chest. Blood flooded his mouth, metallic and choking. He was dying—he knew it instinctively—but refused to fall alone.
With a feral growl, he twisted the blade deeper into the Prussian's gut. The Prussian responded with equal fury. They grappled like beasts, carving into each other as if determined to sculpt death from living flesh.
Then both halted, locked in agony, gasping for air.
Death hovered close. Yet inexplicably, the Prussian smiled—a chilling, confident expression.
From behind the enemy, through swirling smoke and chaos, came the rapid, light footsteps of someone small. And then she emerged.
A little blonde girl.
Her deep blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, her porcelain cheeks flushed from exertion and sorrow. Fragile and ethereal, she seemed untouched by the violence surrounding her, glowing with an unnatural serenity. She stood there, radiant amidst the inferno, golden hair cascading like silk around a face delicate enough to belong to an angel. Her lips, pink and gentle, trembled softly. Every motion she made exuded grace and innocence, untouched by the horrors of battle.
In that moment, as Canard locked eyes with her, everything faded—the pain, the fear, the battlefield itself.
She wasn't real.
She was something else entirely. A vision, perhaps, or an angel descended onto a battlefield steeped in blood. Her beauty was unnatural, her presence powerful yet disturbingly calm.
And Private Canard understood with aching clarity:
She had not come for him.
Instead, the girl's luminous presence seemed to empower the Prussian soldier. With a final burst of strength, the enemy shoved Canard backward, sending him tumbling helplessly from the barricade onto a heap of broken, bloodied bodies.
Breath came in short, ragged gasps. His vision blurred, darkness closing in swiftly.
But still, the image of the girl lingered above him.
There was something wrong, something unnatural in her serene beauty. Too perfect. Too calm. Too otherworldly amid the relentless chaos.
She was indeed an angel—but not sent to save them.
In those final fading moments, tears welled in Canard's eyes, not from the agony of his wounds, but from the bitter, devastating realization:
God was not on their side.
As darkness claimed him, the angel's ethereal image gently faded from view.
Despite the French army's fierce resolve and overwhelming numbers, the unrelenting tide of casualties, flames, and terror soon overwhelmed them. The blistering heat of spreading fires, the agonized screams of wounded comrades, and the piercing, unnatural blasts from improvised explosives gradually chipped away at their courage.
Whispers of uncertainty became frantic shouts. Shouts grew rapidly into desperate, panicked screams.
"They're demons!" a terrified voice shrieked above the chaos. "The Prussians—they're demons!"
Panic surged uncontrollably through the ranks.
French discipline shattered as soldiers began to falter. Some stood frozen, paralyzed by fear. Others, their eyes wide with primal terror, dropped their rifles, spun around, and fled. Order disintegrated completely as the line broke apart into chaos.
Men stumbled blindly over fallen bodies, trampling the wounded and slipping in pools of blood. Weapons and equipment clattered uselessly to the ground. Desperate soldiers scrambled over the bridge's railing, leaping recklessly into the swift current of the river below, preferring drowning to the merciless enemy at their backs. Others crowded desperately at the bridge's midpoint, jostling, shoving, and clawing at each other in their frantic retreat.
But behind them surged the Prussians.
Blood-soaked and relentless, their eyes ablaze with a frightening intensity, they vaulted over their own barricades in savage pursuit. Their boots pounded like drums upon the cobblestone bridge, bayonets gleaming ominously, slick with blood. Some didn't even slow down—simply thrusting their blades mercilessly into fleeing backs, swift and ruthless.
"Bitte, bitte! Mercy!" cried one French soldier, collapsing onto his knees, arms raised in futile surrender.
But there was no mercy to be found.
Not after declaring war, not after invading Prussian soil.
And certainly not while that small, angelic girl's fierce voice echoed chillingly through the air.
"Cut them down!" she cried, her childlike voice ringing impossibly clear, filled with a terrifying authority. "Show these heretics no mercy! For the glory of the Imperium—slaughter them all! We have no time, no men to waste on prisoners!"
Without hesitation, the Prussians obeyed.
Their major, sword held high, bellowed in fervent agreement, "You heard our little lady, men! For the Fatherland—cut every last one of them down!"
A few courageous French soldiers turned and stood their ground, whether driven by honor, stubborn defiance, or pure shock. Some attempted to drag wounded comrades to safety, others spun around to face the charging enemy with bayonets poised. But bravery bought them nothing but swift death.
Finally, the Prussian advance slowed, then halted entirely. Satisfied they'd pressed their enemy far enough, they began to scavenge—bullets, rifles, boots—stripping the dead of anything useful before silently slipping back behind their barricades, vanishing like specters into the smoke.
The entire brutal exchange had lasted less than half an hour.
Over six hundred French soldiers lay dead, countless others wounded. Corpses choked the river, and blood slickened the bridge.
From the safety of the distant hillside, General Frossard stared in disbelief, mouth agape, horror etched deeply into his features.
He had sent three thousand disciplined, battle-ready men into that town.
Barely two thousand returned, stumbling out of the inferno bloodied, broken, and utterly defeated.
The General dragged his nails roughly through his hair, frustration boiling beneath his composed exterior. Teeth clenched tight, he hissed under his breath, repeating bitterly:
"Fuck… fuck… fuck! Why now? Why me? Why?"
Beside him, Prince Louis-Napoléon stood calmly, arms folded neatly across his chest, a smug smile pulling at the corners of his youthful lips.
"So," he drawled casually, a mocking glint in his eyes, "can we finally use the cannons now?"
General Frossard didn't respond immediately. His gaze swept across the hilltop, absorbing the worried glances of his officers, the frantic scribbling of the press, and the haunted expressions etched onto the faces of the survivors below.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to speak, pride choking in his throat.
"…Fine. We'll fire the cannons," he conceded grimly. "But not yet."
Prince Louis's smug expression twisted into a frown, disappointment evident. Beside him, Major Brebis arrived on horseback, his coat spattered with blood, exhaustion and desperation etched deeply into his face. He had ridden up urgently, hoping—praying—the General had finally seen reason.
Instead, Frossard's cold eyes found him instantly, pointing a stern finger in his direction.
"You're next, Major Brebis," he barked sharply. "Take your men—or whatever remains of them—and prepare another charge. This time, we will strike simultaneously across all bridges. Our superior numbers will crush them. Vive la France!"
Major Brebis paled visibly, color draining rapidly from his face.
The grim reality was undeniable now. This was not the quick victory they'd anticipated. The glorious march into Prussian territory had turned sour, becoming a horrifying spectacle of blood and desperation.
What had begun as a confident declaration of war was rapidly deteriorating into a full-blown nightmare.
The Franco-Prussian War had truly begun—and already, the French were bleeding.
From the Eyes of Glory: A Dispatch by Étienne Lafleur, Correspondent for Le Journal de l'Empire
High above the smoking rooftops of the Prussian town, I sit upon the grassy hillside, my fingers stained with ink and my heart burning with awe as I witness history unfold before my eyes. Below, the river shines like tempered steel beneath the chaos of war. Across its wide, stony bridges, French courage clashes fiercely against German stubbornness. The roar of musket fire and the rolling thunder of artillery stir a man's blood—it is war, yes, but also poetry. Terrible, magnificent poetry.
Our soldiers—brave sons of France—march unflinchingly into fire, their courage as steadfast as lions. Though the Prussians resist with savage tenacity, our ranks remain strong and resolute. The events unfolding today will echo through the gilded halls of Versailles, whispered reverently in the cafés and salons of Paris. This is not merely a battle; it is the rebirth of a nation's pride, the reclaiming of a storied legacy.
Presiding over it all, like a figure sculpted from marble, stands Prince Louis—the boy poised to become the man France desperately seeks. Tall and proud upon his snow-white steed, uniform immaculate, his youthful face untouched by fear, the Prince gazes forward. His eyes ignore the chaos of retreat, the smoke billowing from burning barricades—instead, he fixes his gaze firmly upon the prize of victory. Calm, composed, he symbolizes everything France was and everything she can become again. This morning, we watched him, bold and unwavering, as he fired the first cannon salvo that shook the enemy town to its core. And now he sits, a portrait of imperial dignity, readying himself to assume the mantle of his illustrious ancestor, the Emperor himself.
Around me, fellow journalists murmur words of awe and admiration. Sketch artists frantically capture the Prince's figure set heroically against the fiery backdrop of war, scribbling notes about his bearing, his poise, his youthful resolve. One whispers a comparison to Alexander, another invokes the name Caesar. But for me, there is only one fitting comparison:
Napoleon reborn.
True, the battle has not unfolded without difficulties. Setbacks have occurred—such is the unforgiving nature of warfare. Blood has indeed been spilled. Yet what significance do a few hundred lives hold when compared to the soul and destiny of our beloved nation? What is a stumble on the road to eternal greatness?
We, the chroniclers of this sacred endeavor, perceive beyond mere smoke and bloodshed. We write not simply for this fleeting moment, but for the annals of history itself. And today, dear France, history begins once more to tilt decisively in our favor.
Thus, I address you directly, citizens of Paris. To the anxious mothers and proud fathers, to wives and children eagerly waiting news in cafés and salons across our beautiful capital—take heart.
Your armies stand firmly upon foreign soil. Your prince rides among them, fearless and proud. The ancient songs of glory awaken once again, faint at first but steadily rising like a clarion call piercing the fog of uncertainty.
This battle is merely the opening chapter. Ahead lies a path both arduous and glorious, leading inevitably towards vengeance, towards justice, towards Empire.
Vive la France!
****
Dispatch from the Front: "A Fire Long in the Making"
by Jules Armand, War Correspondent for La Voix du Peuple
They say war is madness—but I say this madness was long overdue.
As I stand beneath a sky darkened by smoke and watch French blood seep deep into foreign soil, my heart feels no sorrow—only fierce clarity. The hour has finally arrived to settle old debts. Prussia, a nation of rigid automatons and heartless kings, has strutted arrogantly upon the stage of Europe far too long, pretending itself equal—perhaps even superior—to the grandeur that is France. Such pretensions must end now.
Let diplomats fret and wring their hands, muttering of treaties and provocations. The plain truth is this: Prussia forced our hand. Through cunning schemes and subtle threats, they sought to encircle France, to suffocate Europe's heart. Their audacity in attempting to place a German prince upon the throne of Spain was not diplomacy—it was mockery, an insult hurled in the face of our honor.
Yes, we started this war, but only as a righteous response to the provocations of these German Protestant dogs.
And today, under this somber sky amid the acrid stench of gunpowder and death, we do as our courageous ancestors did—we strike down those who threaten our glory.
Today's battle has been brutal. Brave Frenchmen have fallen; some wept, others fled—that is war. Yet, the wooden-headed generals in Berlin fail to grasp one critical truth: we are France. We are not defined by cold calculation or mechanical precision, nor by mere numbers on paper. We are forged in fire, passion, destiny. Though our empire has slumbered, it now awakens once again, rising fiercely from flames ignited by conflict.
At the blazing heart of this rebirth stands our prince—Louis—young yet unshaken, eyes gleaming as he gazes into the storm, a hawk poised to strike. Let the Prussians sneer behind their grotesque mustaches and polished boots. Let them underestimate us. Soon they shall realize, as so many others have before, that France may stumble—but when we rise, we rise as gods.
I saw into the prince's eyes today. I saw no fear. I saw vengeance. Ambition. The glorious resurgence of France.
Around me, fellow journalists chatter nervously, scribbling notes, sketches fluttering anxiously in their trembling hands. Many are new to the brutality of true warfare—fresh from Parisian cafés and drawing rooms. Some grow fearful. Others grow wise. I only grow hungry. Hungry for victory, a triumph that will not merely restore old borders but cleanse them with fire and steel. I wish to see Berlin humbled, the Rhine once more in our grasp, and every citizen of France believing anew that we were born not simply to exist among other nations—but to reign over Europe.
No mercy for the Prussians, not after today. Not after their mockery, betrayal, and endless arrogance. They showed us no mercy when they plotted against us, laughed at our Emperor's fall, and presumed we would never rise again.
Yet, behold now.
Let all of Paris understand this truth: the blood spilled here today is sacred. It nourishes the roots of something immense and eternal. This fight is not mere politics or territory—it is a battle for the very soul, pride, and legacy of France.
And if we must march through hell itself to reclaim her glory—then by God, we shall.