I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

April 15th, 1701.

The boom of the first cannon shattered the morning stillness.

A split second later, a section of Saint-Michel's wooden palisade exploded into splinters. Smoke and dust filled the air, and the cries of civilians echoed through the town as debris rained down upon them.

The battle had begun.

Armand Roux barely flinched at the sound. His focus remained on the battlefield ahead, his hands gripping the reins of his horse as he rode at the head of his army.

"Hold your lines!" he barked, his voice carrying over the rustling leaves and shifting armor of his troops.

His forces were a ragtag coalition—veteran soldiers, former Elysean deserters, native warriors, and civilians who had taken up arms in the name of freedom. They had no cannons, no disciplined formations, and no professional cavalry.

But they had will.

They had rage.

They had something to fight for.

"We keep moving," Roux said to Giraud, who rode beside him, his rifle slung over his back. "We need to get inside the town before Masséna's artillery does too much damage."

"And if he marches forward to meet us?" Giraud asked.

Roux smirked grimly. "Then we hit them harder."

Vasseur, still pale from his wounds, pulled his horse closer. "If we take too long, the town will be gone before we even reach it."

Roux didn't respond. He knew that better than anyone. But charging blindly would mean slaughter. Masséna was waiting for him to be reckless.

Not today.

"Flanking units, move into position!" he ordered.

Scattered groups of native warriors and light cavalry peeled away into the forests, disappearing into the dense undergrowth.

Their job was simple: hit and run. Keep the Elyseans guessing. Make Masséna feel like the jungle itself was his enemy.

The rest of them would push straight ahead.

Masséna watched from the high ground, his eyes narrowing as Roux's forces continued forward.

He had expected hesitation. Maybe even a delayed approach. But no—Roux was moving fast.

The Marshal of the New World was wasting no time.

"Interesting," Masséna murmured.

Devereux stood beside him, spyglass in hand. "He's not stopping."

"Of course not," Masséna replied. "He knows if he hesitates, Saint-Michel burns."

Devereux lowered the spyglass, his expression grim. "The flanking forces have already moved into the jungle. If we advance too far, we'll get picked apart."

Masséna smirked. "And that is exactly why we will not move too far."

Devereux frowned. "Sir?"

Masséna turned toward his officers. "Adjust artillery fire. Aim for his reinforcements. Scatter them. Make them feel like there is no safe approach."

"And the main force?" Devereux asked.

Masséna looked back toward Roux's approaching army.

"Let them come."

Devereux hesitated, but nodded.

Masséna's forces held the high ground. Their lines were unbroken. Their cannons thundered down onto Roux's men, blasting craters into the earth and sending bodies flying.

But the rebels kept moving.

And Masséna knew what that meant.

Roux was willing to sacrifice men to reach him.

And if Masséna wanted to crush them, he would have to do it before they reached the town.

The moment they entered firing range, Roux shouted, "FIRE!"

Muskets cracked, and the first line of Elysean soldiers staggered as rebel bullets tore through their ranks.

Masséna's men responded immediately, their own muskets unleashing a disciplined volley.

Smoke filled the battlefield.

Men fell, screaming.

But Roux did not stop.

He led from the front, his saber drawn as he carved a path toward the Elysean lines. His officers fought beside him, rallying their men as the gap between the two armies closed.

And then—the melee began.

Bayonets clashed with sabers.

Rifles became clubs.

Men screamed, steel met flesh, and the world descended into chaos.

Roux parried an Elysean soldier's thrust and drove his saber into the man's throat. Another came from the side, swinging a musket like a club—Roux dodged, grabbed the man's wrist, and drove a knee into his stomach before slashing across his chest.

Blood sprayed onto the mud.

Giraud was beside him, his rifle empty, now using the bayonet as a spear, stabbing into anyone who got too close.

"Vasseur! Keep the line moving!" Roux roared.

Vasseur, still weakened but relentless, led the next charge.

And then—the flanking units struck.

Native warriors erupted from the jungle, their arrows and muskets striking Masséna's rear lines.

For the first time, the Elyseans wavered.

Masséna's forces were pinned—pressed from the front, harassed from the back.

Devereux cursed. "Sir! We need to fall back!"

Masséna's expression was unreadable.

Then—he smiled.

Masséna raised his sword and shouted, "Cavalry! Now!"

A horn blasted through the battlefield.

And suddenly—from behind the town, a hidden Elysean cavalry regiment surged forward.

Roux's eyes widened.

Masséna had held a reserve force.

The cavalry smashed into Roux's flanking units, cutting them down before they could retreat. The jungle fighters, caught between the town and Masséna's forces, were trapped.

And then—the Elysean lines pushed forward.

It was like a hammer and anvil.

Masséna had absorbed the first attack.

Now, he was crushing them from both sides.

Roux gritted his teeth.

"We're being encircled!" Giraud shouted.

Roux looked to the battlefield.

His forces were fighting tooth and nail—but now, the momentum was shifting.

They were no longer the attackers.

They were the ones being overwhelmed.

Masséna had turned the battle against them.

"Orders, Marshal?!" Vasseur yelled.

Roux knew they had to break free—or they would all die here.

He scanned the battlefield, looking for one weak point.

Then, he saw it.

Masséna's artillery positions were still largely unprotected.

A plan formed instantly.

"Vasseur! Take the cavalry—hit their cannons!" Roux ordered. "If we can take them out, we can push through their right flank!"

Vasseur's eyes widened, then hardened.

"Understood!"

He and the remaining cavalry charged toward the ridgeline, where the Elysean artillery continued to fire.

Roux turned back toward Giraud.

"We hold here. No matter what."

Giraud nodded grimly.

The battle was not over.

But now—it was a race against time.

From his vantage point, Masséna watched everything unfold.

Roux was not retreating.

He was counterattacking.

A slow, impressed smirk crept onto Masséna's lips.

"Let's see if you can pull it off, Marshal," he murmured.

He raised his sword again.

"All units—hold the line."

The Battle of Saint-Michel was far from over.

And only one man would walk away victorious.