I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

April 12th, 1701.

The rain fell in heavy sheets over the jungle, washing away the bloodstains left behind from the last skirmish. The scent of damp earth mixed with the lingering stench of smoke and gunpowder, a constant reminder that war had consumed the New World.

Armand Roux sat beneath the tattered canopy of his war tent, watching the flames flicker against the soaked fabric. His body ached from the battle at Port-Liberté, but he had no time to rest.

Masséna would not take this loss lightly.

Across from him, Étienne Giraud tightened the bandages around his arm, grimacing. "Port-Liberté was a success, but it won't stop him. That bastard is relentless."

Roux exhaled, his fingers drumming against the wooden crate beside him. "No, it won't stop him. But it will force him to act."

Vasseur, still weak from his injuries, shifted where he sat. "How do you know?"

Roux leaned forward, his sharp eyes flickering with certainty. "Because Masséna is too smart to let this war stretch on. He knows time favors us, not him. The longer we drag this out, the more we adapt—while he struggles to maintain supplies, control, and morale."

He gestured toward the map spread before them, a crude outline of the New World, with markings indicating the last known positions of Elysean forces. "He's going to try to force a decisive battle."

Giraud scoffed. "And what? He expects us to just walk into it?"

Roux smirked. "No. He knows I won't fall for something obvious. Which means he's going to make sure I have no choice but to fight."

A beat of silence.

Vasseur frowned. "How?"

Roux didn't answer immediately. He already knew.

Masséna was done playing games.

If he couldn't get to Roux, he would make Roux come to him—by taking something Roux could not afford to lose.

And that something... was the people.

April 13th, 1701.

Miles away, General André Masséna sat atop his horse, watching as his army advanced toward the town of Saint-Michel.

The heavy rain had turned the roads to mud, but his men pressed forward without hesitation. They moved like a tidal wave, unstoppable, unrelenting.

Devereux rode beside him, his expression cautious. "Are we certain this will work?"

Masséna didn't look at him. "It will."

Devereux exhaled. "Saint-Michel is no military stronghold. It has no defenses. No real army."

Masséna's cold gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Exactly."

This was not about capturing a fortress.

This was about capturing Roux's heart.

Saint-Michel was one of the largest settlements in the New World—a refuge for civilians, former rebels, and those who had chosen to follow Roux rather than live under Elysean rule.

It was the heart of the resistance.

And once it was in Masséna's hands, Roux would have no choice but to come to him.

Devereux hesitated. "And if they resist?"

Masséna's answer was simple. "Then we burn it."

No more chasing. No more waiting.

This war would end here.

April 14th, 1701.

The sound of marching boots shook the earth.

Women clutched their children, men gathered whatever weapons they could, and the elders watched in silent horror as the Elysean army arrived at the gates of Saint-Michel.

The people had heard of Masséna.

They knew what had happened to the villages that had defied him.

And now, they were next.

The Elysean forces halted just outside the town. The banners of Elysea fluttered in the wind, a reminder that the empire would not be defied.

Masséna rode to the front, his posture composed, his voice carrying through the rain.

"People of Saint-Michel," he called out, "I will give you one chance."

Silence.

A single villager stepped forward—a man well into his fifties, his hands calloused from years of labor. His eyes were sharp, unafraid.

"We have nothing to give you, Elysean," he said. "We are farmers. Traders. You have already taken enough from us."

Masséna studied him. Then, his voice dropped to something almost dangerous.

"I don't need your things."

The man frowned. "Then what do you want?"

Masséna's expression remained unreadable.

"Roux."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The old man's face darkened. "And if we don't give him to you?"

Masséna smiled. "Then I take this town instead."

April 14th, 1701.

The scout rode into camp at full speed, his horse nearly collapsing from exhaustion.

"Marshal!" he gasped, stumbling off the saddle. "Saint-Michel—Masséna's there!"

Roux's stomach twisted.

Saint-Michel.

His fingers curled into a fist. Masséna had forced his hand.

There was no avoiding it now.

If he did not go, the town would burn.

If he did, he would be walking into Masséna's trap.

Giraud placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's a setup, Roux. You know that."

Roux exhaled sharply. "Of course it is."

Vasseur clenched his jaw. "Then what do we do?"

Roux looked at his men—his people.

They were tired. Wounded. Many had lost everything.

And yet, they still followed him.

Because he was not fighting for power.

He was fighting for them.

His voice was steady when he spoke.

"We fight."

April 15th, 1701.

The rain had stopped by morning.

The sun rose over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the dense forests and rolling hills leading to Saint-Michel.

Roux and his army marched forward.

They had no artillery.

No grand fleet.

But they had heart.

And sometimes, that was enough.

April 15th, 1701.

Masséna stood atop the gates of Saint-Michel, watching the dust rise in the distance.

He smiled.

"They came."

Devereux adjusted his grip on his rifle. "They always would."

Masséna's eyes burned with determination. "Then let's finish this."

With a single motion, he raised his sword.

And the Elysean army prepared to meet its final war.

April 15th, 1701.

The battlefield was set.

Saint-Michel stood in the valley below, its buildings lined with simple thatched roofs, its people hiding in their homes, their fate hanging in the balance.

On one side, Masséna's army stood in perfect formation—Elysean muskets gleaming under the morning sun, bayonets fixed, cannons positioned on the higher ridges, ready to rain fire on the town below.

On the other, Roux's forces approached through the tree line, a patchwork army of veteran soldiers, native warriors, and those who had refused to kneel.

Masséna took a deep breath and lowered his sword.

The first cannon fired.