Shadow Lancelot

83 Avenue Foch. This was the residence of Arthur de Molay, a traitor to the Republic and now the Director of the Milice—the ruthless secret police serving the occupation. It was November 1940, two months after the Milice’s formation. Two months ago, De Molay took command and launched "Operation Nightfall," a brutal sweep designed to liquidate Allied agents operating in Paris. The SOE networks suffered devastating losses, and as a result, De Molay’s influence with the German High Command reached terrifying new heights. Inside the villa, in a dimly lit ground-floor bedroom, Julian Vance lay on the bed, his brow furrowed and slick with sweat. Voices echoed in his mind like ghosts: "From this day forward, you are an SOE operative. Your codename is Lancelot." "Lancelot, this is your chance. You will fulfill your engagement to Adelaide, the niece of the traitor De Molay. Infiltrate his inner circle, and do not fail us..." "Hello, Lancelot. I am your superior, Guinevere. Together, we will drive the occupiers out of France and restore the glory of the Republic!" "Lancelot, if the pressure becomes too much, prioritize your own safety. Best regards, Guinevere~" "Lancelot, Operation Nightfall is over! Why have we heard nothing? You have failed us miserably!" "Director, I'm so sorry!" "The entire Gare du Nord station is in ruins because of your silence! Who have you truly let down?" Waking from the nightmare, Julian Vance sat bolt upright, gasping for air. He was drenched in sweat and his skin crawled with discomfort. Memories flooded back with the sharpness of a needle prick. It took Julian three full minutes to orient himself. He looked around the unfamiliar room with a bewildered expression. "I've transmigrated," was his first coherent thought. He remembered dying—he was a modern-day detective who had driven a car rigged with a time bomb into a wasteland to save civilians. The explosion should have been the end. But here he was. After sorting through the memories of the "Julian" who inhabited this world, he began to calm down. "Sigh... the Julian here was a pitiful man," he muttered. "After marrying into this den of vipers, he couldn't extract a single piece of intel. A brilliant student in training, but a total failure in the field. He was just cannon fodder." Before the fall of Paris, the intelligence agencies had rigorous training. But after the occupation, they began churning out temporary agents to act as "expendables." Julian was one of them—a man who died from the sheer weight of his own guilt and anxiety without even having touched his wife's hand. "Don't worry," Julian whispered, offering a silent salute to the departed soul. "I'll take it from here. We have different origins, but our goal is the same. Farewell." The identity was perfect. As a "son-in-law," he had a natural shield. He was known as a quiet, bookish man; even De Molay and Adelaide hardly knew him. The risk of exposure was minimal. Julian got out of bed and wiped his face. He looked at the heavy glasses on the bedside table. "I'll need to replace these with plain glass later. I’m not nearsighted; I’ll trip over my own feet wearing these." Despite his remark, he put them on—in this house, the "studious" look was his uniform. As soon as the frames settled on his nose, his eyes widened. Green strings of code flickered across his vision. (Good afternoon, sir. I am your assistant, EDITH. I am currently communicating with you via brainwaves.) Julian froze. He recognized them—the glasses Tony Stark left for Peter Parker in the movies. They must have crossed over with him, undergoing a "system upgrade" to function without modern satellites. [Dialysis Mode: Activated. Analyzing psychological patterns and providing visual insight of targets within 10 meters.] Julian’s confidence surged. He was already a master of criminal investigation and combat from his previous life. Now, with this "cheat," he was no longer a lamb among wolves. "Today is the routine rendezvous," Julian noted, straightening his suit in the mirror. He looked every bit the refined gentleman, the glasses adding a layer of sophisticated charm. "I'll use the excuse of picking up Adelaide from the university to meet Guinevere. It’s time to show them what Lancelot is truly capable of."