Test day dawned cold, a field outside town cleared for the demo. Workers gathered, skeptical. A local regiment's captain watched, arms crossed. Emil held the new grenade—alloy casing, grooved for even shrapnel, fuse tweaked with a chemical delay he recalled from 2025 labs. Simple, but smarter than 1914's crude bombs.
He lit the fuse, heart pounding. "Stand back," he called.
Boom. Shrapnel flew in a tight arc, no wild sprays. The captain nodded. "Impressive. How many can you make?"
Jacques, lounging on a crate, clapped. "Dufort Divorce! Splits trenches clean. Patent that name, Emil."
Laughter broke the tension. Claire beamed, squeezing Emil's hand. "Proud of you."
Henriette grinned. "Told you he's not just a dreamer."
The regiment ordered twenty grenades at fifty francs each. Gross: one thousand. Materials and labor cost four hundred. Profit: six hundred francs. First real cash. Emil paid part of payroll, easing the strike threat. Debt: forty-one thousand four hundred.
But Roux struck again—a spy caught in the factory, copying blueprints. Henriette nabbed him, furious. "Out, or I'll break your nose!"
Emil confronted Roux at a Paris club, Jacques at his side. "You're stealing from France's war effort," Emil said. "Back off."
Roux laughed. "Business, boy."
Jacques leaned in, voice low. "Keep it up, Roux, and I'll tell Poincaré you're selling to the Germans. True or not."
Roux backed off, for now. Family dinner that night was warm—Louis toasted Emil's grit, Claire planned a wedding despite war, Henriette teased Jacques' ego. Emil felt them pulling him back from anger.
Money was tight, corruption rampant. Emil didn't want to run France, but if these crooks kept pushing, he'd have no choice. War news grew grim: Germans closing in. Time to scale up.