I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

April 30, 1697 – Fort San Rafael, Pan-America.

The Iberian retaliation was inevitable. Marshal Armand Roux knew that the capture of Fort San Rafael had sent shockwaves through the region, and the enemy would not sit idly while one of their strongest bastions fell into Elysean hands. The fort was a crucial foothold, giving Elysea control over trade routes and the interior of Pan-America, but holding it would be another battle entirely.

Inside the walls, the fort buzzed with activity. Soldiers repaired damages, artillery crews positioned cannons on the ramparts, and laborers dug trenches beyond the outer perimeter. Supplies continued to arrive from Fort Saint-Louis, but Roux knew they were limited. The Iberians had superior naval strength in the region, and if they moved to blockade the coastline, resupply would become a nightmare.

From the highest tower, Roux observed the horizon through his spyglass. The sun had barely risen, casting a golden glow over the surrounding hills. He scanned the eastern coastline, searching for any sign of approaching ships. Nothing yet. But that would change soon.

Vasseur climbed up the stairs behind him, his uniform still stained with the blood from the previous battle. "Marshal, the scouts have returned. We have confirmation—an Iberian force is on the move."

Roux lowered his spyglass. "How many?"

"Rough estimates place them at around 2,000 men, marching from the south. They're bringing artillery and supply wagons, likely preparing for a siege."

Roux exhaled, considering their options. "And the coastline?"

"No sightings of enemy ships yet," Vasseur said. "But the sailors say it's only a matter of time."

Roux nodded. The Iberians were being methodical. They would strike from land first, hoping to weaken the fort's defenses before blockading them from the sea. It was a sound strategy, but one Roux had no intention of allowing to succeed.

"Send word to Fort Saint-Louis," Roux ordered. "Tell them we need every available soldier. The Iberians think they can starve us out, but they'll find themselves trapped instead."

Vasseur saluted. "Understood, sir."

May 2, 1697.

The Iberian army was less than five miles from Fort San Rafael when the first scouts spotted them. Dust clouds rose from the distant hills, marking the movement of their troops.

Roux stood atop the main gate, watching as enemy banners appeared along the ridgeline. The Iberians had arrived.

A single rider, bearing a white flag, emerged from their ranks and approached the fort at a steady pace. The Elysean sentries tensed, gripping their muskets, but Roux raised a hand, signaling them to stand down.

"Open the gate," he ordered.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and the Iberian emissary rode through. He dismounted just outside the inner courtyard, removing his helmet to reveal a weathered face marked by years of service.

"Marshal Roux," the man greeted, his accent thick with Iberian tones. "I am Colonel Alejandro de Vargas, commander of the forces before you. I have come to offer terms."

Roux stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. "Iberia is in no position to offer terms."

De Vargas smirked. "On the contrary. You are outnumbered. You hold a captured fort with no direct supply lines. If you surrender now, we will spare your men."

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Roux chuckled. "And if I refuse?"

"Then we will take this fort back by force."

Roux's expression turned cold. "Try it."

De Vargas sighed, shaking his head. "Very well. You will regret this decision, Marshal."

Without another word, the Iberian commander turned and rode back toward his army.

Roux turned to his officers. "Prepare the men. They'll attack soon."

May 3, 1697.

At dawn, the Iberians fired the first cannon volley.

The thunderous roar echoed across the valley as iron shot slammed into the fort's walls, sending debris flying. Elysean artillery responded immediately, returning fire from the ramparts. Explosions rippled across the battlefield as both sides exchanged heavy bombardments.

From his command post, Roux assessed the situation. The Iberians were advancing in three formations—one column pressing the southern wall, another moving to flank from the west, and a third hanging back with their cannons, pounding the fort's defenses.

"Hold your fire until they're in range!" Roux ordered.

The Iberians closed the distance quickly, musketeers forming ranks as they advanced. Drummers beat a steady rhythm, driving their soldiers forward.

Then, the Elyseans fired.

The first volley tore through the enemy lines, cutting down the front ranks. Smoke filled the air as musket fire erupted from the ramparts. The Iberians faltered but pressed on, returning fire.

At the southern wall, ladders were raised as enemy soldiers scrambled to climb.

"Push them back!" Vasseur shouted.

Elysean grenadiers hurled explosives over the walls, sending fire and shrapnel raining down. Muskets cracked, cutting down those who tried to scale the ladders. The Iberians fought viciously, but the defenders held firm.

On the western flank, Giraud led a cavalry detachment through the sally port, launching a sudden counterattack. His riders smashed into the enemy ranks, sabers flashing. The Iberians reeled, struggling to maintain formation against the surprise assault.

For hours, the battle raged. The air was thick with gunpowder and the screams of the dying. The Iberians threw everything they had at the fort, but the Elyseans refused to break.

By midday, the enemy's assault began to waver. Their ranks thinned, their officers shouted desperate orders, but it was clear—they were losing.

Then, Roux saw his opportunity.

"Prepare to counterattack!" he roared.

The gates swung open, and Elysean infantry poured out, bayonets fixed. They crashed into the exhausted Iberians, driving them back with ruthless efficiency. The battlefield became a slaughter as the enemy's formations collapsed.

By nightfall, the Iberians were in full retreat. Their dead littered the field, their wounded left behind. The survivors fled toward the hills, their banners abandoned in the dirt.

Fort San Rafael had held.

The victory was decisive. The Iberian threat had been repelled, and their forces shattered. But Roux knew this was only the beginning.

As he stood atop the bloodstained walls, staring into the distance, he knew one thing for certain.

Elysea was here to stay.