Chapter 729 - 729: Consider This a Reward

Clear skies always seemed to lift the spirits—as if the air itself was filled with sweetness and hope.

A young woman in a gray trench coat, wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat, pedaled leisurely down the road into the quiet town of Davaus. She looked completely at peace, taking deep breaths of the breeze, smiling in quiet delight.

At the corner ahead, a red taxi sat idling. The driver had the hood up, tinkering with something under the engine.

Suddenly, a black car zoomed past the girl and blasted its horn aggressively.

Startled, she swerved and clipped the corner of the taxi—then went down hard with a startled cry.

The driver, alarmed, peeked from under the hood and rushed to her aid. "Miss! Are you alright?"

"My ankle!" she cried, clutching it in apparent pain.

"Damn it," the driver muttered, glancing in the direction the reckless car had gone. "People like that should be thrown on the front lines. Maybe then they'd show some respect…"

He didn't get to finish.

The moment he stepped closer, he froze.

In the girl's hand was a pistol—a silenced pistol.

(Image above: A WWI-era silencer, patented in 1909 in the U.S.)

(Image above: Hiram Percy Maxim, inventor of the suppressor, son of Sir Hiram Maxim who invented the Maxim machine gun.)

The pain was gone from her face. It was now calm, cold, and composed. Her eyes held the icy clarity of a killer.

"Get in the car," she said quietly as she stood, weapon steady. "And do exactly as I say."

The driver realized instantly: he was dealing with a professional. When she had stood up, her aim hadn't wavered—centered squarely on his heart, with pressure already on the trigger.

Any sudden move and she'd shoot without hesitation.

He did as ordered—closed the hood and climbed behind the wheel.

She slipped into the back, her coat concealing the gun as she held it pressed firmly to his back, all while speaking softly and smiling—like a couple enjoying a quiet moment in the car.

Moments later, a black Ford passed them.

Behind the wheel: Charles's father, Dejouka.

Once the car was out of sight, the girl leaned forward and said coldly, "Turn right, up ahead."

The driver's heart sank. Two kilometers ahead was a wooded area. He didn't need to be told—he knew he might be digging his own grave.

…

At around two in the afternoon, Charles returned to Davaus after wrapping up business in Paris.

He'd disguised himself. The peaked general's cap had been swapped for a common worker's flat cap, his uniform hidden beneath a long cloak.

News from the front had just arrived: Foch's forces had successfully linked up with the 1st Mechanized Division at Buzancy.

Paris was in a frenzy—yet again.

People were racing through the streets shouting:

"We've retaken Buzancy! Only about 60 kilometers left to Mézières!"

"Half the distance remains?"

"Yes, but the encirclement might close tonight—with Charles's mechanized division!"

"Victory is within reach!"

…

People waved newspapers in rhythm, chanting Charles's name again and again.

If they knew he was nearby, he wouldn't make it to his house at all.

Even Davaus wasn't quiet anymore. The neighbors had finally realized what Charles's recent victory meant. Clutching newspapers, they gathered outside Dejouka's cottage:

"They say this offensive might reclaim all territory west of the Meuse. Is it true?"

"Even Verdun? My sister lives there—I don't know if she's still alive."

"It only took a few days—could Charles really have liberated so much land?"

…

Camille tried to keep up, answering everyone as best she could.

When Charles's car finally pulled up out front, the crowd gasped—then erupted:

"It's Charles! He's back!"

"I thought he was still at the front!"

"Welcome home, General! Does this mean we've won?"

…

Smiling, Charles greeted his neighbors, shaking hands as he pushed his way through to the house.

Camille rushed out and hugged him, then stepped aside, her eyes shining. "Guess who came to visit?"

Charles blinked.

Standing in the doorway was Lucia, wearing a gray trench coat, sunhat in hand, smiling softly.

"What are you doing here?" Charles asked.

"I was just passing through," Lucia said with a shrug. "Not welcome?"

"I found her outside town," Camille added. "I was coming back from the factory—she was about to leave."

Then Camille slipped her arm around Lucia's and pulled her inside. "Unbelievable! You came all this way and weren't even planning to visit me? Just because Charles wasn't home?"

Lucia looked a little embarrassed. "I wasn't prepared, Madame Bernard. I'm very sorry."

But as they stepped inside, Charles's eyes narrowed.

The smell of blood.

And not just any blood—human blood.

Fresh. Subtle. But unmistakable to a man fresh from the battlefield.

He glanced around the room, then locked eyes on Lucia, scanning her from head to toe.

She seemed to notice. Her hand tightened slightly on her coat.

…

After some light refreshments, Charles led Lucia upstairs.

She carried a cup of coffee, glancing curiously around the room. "So this is your room? Hard to believe—it doesn't look like a general's quarters."

Charles stood at the window, biting into an apple. "You don't look like a killer either."

"What? A killer?" Lucia laughed. "You mean me?"

"Don't bother," Charles said, not even turning around. "Coffee might mask the smell, but it doesn't hide the blood on your collar."

Lucia glanced down—then smiled faintly.

"Smart man."

There was no blood on her collar. She'd taken off her coat before making the kill.

Now Charles turned, eyes locked on hers. "So I was right. You're a killer?"

Lucia sighed and nodded. "Not what you expected?"

"What did you do?" Charles asked flatly.

"Nothing serious," Lucia replied, picking up a snow globe from the desk and inspecting it like it was the most fascinating thing in the room.

"You think those guards can protect your family?"

"Especially Monsieur Dejouka. He's now the most important man in the Bernard Group after you."

"The capitalists believe that if something happens to him, you'll spiral out of control—at least lose focus on your operations in the rear."

Then she turned and held up the snow globe like a trophy.

"No need to thank me, General. Let's just call this… a reward."

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