Chapter IX: Order from Chaos

It was on the tenth morning since the Crown Prince of France had assumed command of the Saint Antoine District that the results of his bold reforms began to shine through the dust and din of the city.

In the training grounds before the modest police station—once a derelict corner of Paris now awakening to purpose—stood a corps of over two hundred officers, clad in brilliant navy-blue uniforms, with wide-brimmed hats trimmed in white. Under the clear sky, their formation gleamed like a fresh dawn.

The uniforms, purchased at great expense from surplus stores of suburban regiments, were a marvel in themselves. Across France—and indeed all of Europe—no police force yet possessed such standardized attire. In dress alone, Joseph's men were decades ahead of their time.

Yet it was not merely clothing that set them apart.

These were not musketeers, for Joseph, understanding the limitations of such arms, had foregone the age-old weapons of pomp and show. Instead, he armed them with tools of practicality: two-meter-long Y-shaped wooden forks, crafted by local carpenters under his own specifications. Shields, shared between every two men, offered protection in tight quarters. Simple. Inexpensive. Revolutionary.

This was the riot control arsenal of the future—refined not in royal academies but in train stations and airports of a world yet to come. Now, in 1787, it found its first field.

And what the men lacked in noble blood, they made up for in heart. Recruited from the gutters and alleys of Paris, they trained ten hours a day without a single complaint, clutching this rare opportunity for dignity, honor, and livelihood with both hands.

From the balcony of the station, Joseph surveyed the scene with quiet pride. The moment had come. The new police force would now take up official duties in the district.

Criminal investigations remained in the hands of the 60 veteran officers. As for those who had purchased their posts, Joseph had gently, yet firmly, demoted them to logistics—transport, cleaning, and filing—with salaries to match.

The force now stood as such: 50 detectives, 236 patrol officers, and 125 support staff. In numbers, discipline, and spirit, it was without rival in Paris.

Unlike their counterparts in other districts—infamous for thuggery and extortion—Joseph's men stood tall, proud of their calling, committed to justice. This, at last, was a police force worthy of the title.

At the midday hour, beneath the brilliant sun, nearly 300 men marched out in organized ranks, each column led by a commanding voice and an unwavering purpose.

The people watched, but only with half-curious glances.

Paris had long grown numb to the presence of lawmen. What use were they, these uniformed beggars and brutes? Most expected little from this spectacle.

Until, that is, the cries came from Oray Street.

The East Side of Saint Antoine.

In a fetid alleyway, tucked behind rows of crumbling homes, a man's screams echoed like gunfire.

"You dare owe the Viper Gang?! Are you seeking death?" roared a red-haired brute, his voice thick with menace.

Around him, four thugs brandished clubs and iron axes, pinning a terrified shopkeeper against a wall.

"Gentlemen," the man pleaded, trembling, "I—I'll pay next week, I swear it…"

"You've already missed three payments this year," the redhead sneered, then turned to his men. "You know the rule. Make an example of him."

With a sickening crunch, a club landed on the man's forearm. His scream could have cracked windows.

As the redhead pressed a boot onto the man's chest, preparing to issue another warning, the sharp blast of a whistle cut through the air.

At the mouth of the alley stood four officers in pristine uniforms, wide-brimmed hats gleaming. Two of them—the redhead recognized with a start.

"Baptiste? Quirian?" he scoffed. "So you're wearing uniforms now? You boys used to run away from us!"

Quirian stepped forward. In another life, he had been a humble tanner. At night, he had patrolled to protect his family, always avoiding confrontation. But now? He was no longer just a father. He was an officer of the Crown, with thirty-five livres monthly, bread on the table, meat on Sundays, and respect in his home.

And he had a duty.

"You're under arrest for assault," he declared, "in the name of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince!"

The redhead's laughter was scornful. "You idiots want to die? Move aside!"

He motioned for his men to strike.

But this time, there was no retreat.

With practiced grace, the officers unslung their wooden riot forks and moved in formation. Two gang members were immediately pinned by the forked ends—clumsy weapons perhaps, but effective in their simplicity.

A third officer thrust a spear at a gang member's foot—not lethal, but disabling. The man howled in pain, collapsing to the ground.

Another thug swung wildly with a short sword, but the broad wooden fork caught the blade with ease, holding him at bay.

Enraged, the redhead charged—but found himself unable to get past the coordinated wall of forks and shields. Two more of his men fell to sweeping strikes at their legs.

This was no brawl. This was formation combat, designed not to kill, but to control.

And it worked.

The redhead's fury turned to fear. His strength, his violence, his dominance—they meant nothing against this methodical restraint. Gasping, he shouted, "Retreat! Retreat!"

But fate was not with him.

From a nearby security post, a backup squad had heard the whistle and dispatched reinforcements. Four more officers now blocked the alley's mouth. Forks lowered. Orders barked.

"In the name of the Crown Prince—surrender immediately!"

The Viper Gang, now surrounded, faltered. One tried to dash past—only to be pinned against a wall.

Another drew a hidden blade—only to be disarmed by a shield slam.

Within moments, the gang was subdued.

It was not blood that had won the day—but discipline.

By nightfall, word of the incident had swept through the Saint Antoine District.

For the first time in living memory, the police had not only appeared, but acted swiftly, decisively, and without hesitation. The uniforms were real. The force was organized. And they had not come to demand bribes or turn a blind eye.

They had come to protect.

In taverns and market stalls, whispers spread:

"The Viper Gang was beaten."

"They arrested Red Alain!"

"No bribes. No threats. Just law."

And alongside those whispers rose something else—quiet, tentative, yet unmistakable.

Hope.