I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The thunder of hooves and cannons roared across the valley.

Armand Roux stood in the heart of the battlefield, bloodied but unyielding. His forces were splintering. The flanking units had been decimated by the hidden Elysean cavalry, and the center—his own position—was slowly being pushed back under the relentless pressure of Masséna's disciplined advance.

Still, he fought.

His saber was slick with blood, his coat torn, his breath ragged. Around him, the wounded screamed, the dead lay still, and the mud turned red beneath a sky that refused to rain.

He could feel it—the moment slipping away.

"Hold the line!" Roux shouted, slashing his blade downward. "Do not give them the town!"

Giraud was beside him, face cut and smeared with ash. "We're losing ground, Marshal!"

"I know!" Roux growled.

Another volley of musket fire tore into their left flank. Men collapsed. The rebels were faltering.

On the ridgeline, the Elysean cannons continued their deadly rhythm. Vasseur and the cavalry had managed to reach them, but the artillery crews had dug in deep, shielded by makeshift barricades and defended by a small detachment of musketeers.

Roux turned to see Vasseur locked in brutal close-quarters fighting, trying to silence the guns. Explosions lit the sky as one of the smaller cannons was destroyed.

But it wasn't enough.

Masséna's trap had been perfectly executed. He had waited, endured, and then struck when Roux committed.

Now, it was working.

And still—Roux refused to break.

He parried another blow, drove his saber into a young Elysean officer's chest, and turned to rally the remaining men.

"We fight here! If Saint-Michel falls, everything we've built dies with it!"

Their cheers were hoarse, tired.

But they fought harder.

Across the field, Masséna stood among his command officers, calm, composed, his cloak rippling in the wind.

Devereux stepped up, sweat streaking his brow. "Their cavalry's making progress on the guns, but the rebel line is starting to collapse. If we press now, we'll crush them."

Masséna nodded, eyes fixed on Roux in the distance.

The Marshal was still alive. Still leading.

Masséna hated how much he respected him for that.

"Order the final push," he said.

Devereux blinked. "Now?"

Masséna's voice was sharp. "Now. Break them."

Elysean drums rolled across the battlefield, followed by a rallying cry that shook the bones of every man still standing.

From the rear lines came Masséna's reserve infantry—fresh, disciplined, untouched by the chaos.

They surged forward.

Roux turned just in time to see them coming. His heart sank.

"Giraud—fall back to the church steps!" he barked. "We hold the last line there!"

He and his remaining men pulled back toward the heart of Saint-Michel, where the old stone chapel stood surrounded by scattered barricades and wounded defenders. It had become their final redoubt.

The townspeople had already fled into the hills or hidden underground. Only the fighters remained.

The rebels dug in.

Roux climbed the steps of the chapel, sword still in hand. His legs screamed from exhaustion, his lungs burned.

But he would not die with his back turned.

He turned to Giraud and the few dozen survivors still holding rifles.

"This is our stand," Roux said, voice steady. "They want to kill us and break what we built. But if we fall here… we fall fighting."

Giraud gave a bloody grin. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Then—Masséna's final wave struck.

The Elyseans came with ruthless precision. Musket volleys shredded the rebel barricades, and then bayonets followed. It was no longer a battle—it was an execution.

Giraud was struck in the shoulder and fell. Another man screamed as a bayonet plunged into his gut. Roux stood atop the steps, swinging his blade, blood flying with every strike.

He killed one.

Then two.

But there were too many.

A saber caught him across the ribs. He staggered.

Another blow struck his leg, and he fell to one knee.

All around him, his men were falling.

And then—it was quiet.

Elysean soldiers surrounded the chapel, muskets aimed.

Masséna stepped forward, his uniform stained with soot, his face lined with exhaustion.

He walked slowly up the chapel steps, stopping a few feet away from Roux, who now sat slumped against the stone wall, bleeding, breathing hard.

"You fought well," Masséna said quietly.

Roux coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. "Didn't come here to fight poorly."

Masséna looked around. Saint-Michel was his now. The town had fallen.

And Roux… Roux had nothing left to give.

But still, the man had not yielded.

"I should kill you," Masséna said.

Roux looked up, eyes burning. "Then do it."

Masséna raised his sword.

But it didn't move.

For a long, quiet moment, the two men stared at each other. Two soldiers who had given everything. Two men who had bled for what they believed in.

Then—Masséna lowered the blade.

"I came here to end a rebellion," he said. "And I have. You're finished, Roux. Whether you live or die changes nothing."

Roux didn't speak. His body trembled, his blood stained the stones.

But he smiled.

"A soldier… doesn't stop fighting… because he's beaten," Roux rasped. "He stops… when he's dead."

Masséna nodded once, slowly.

"I'll let history decide what you were, Marshal."

He turned away.

"Take him," Masséna ordered. "Alive."

Two soldiers approached, carefully lifting Roux's broken body.

Masséna stood at the center of Saint-Michel, now silent, save for the crackling of fires and the groans of the wounded.

It was over.

The rebellion was crushed.

The New World, once on the verge of freedom, was now under Elysean rule once more.

And yet—even as he looked out across his victory, Masséna could not shake the feeling in his chest.

He had won.

But something still felt like a loss.

Masséna looked up at the sky—clear now, the storm gone. Sunlight fell upon the broken chapel, casting long shadows over the bodies of the fallen. The scent of blood lingered in the air.

Behind him, Devereux approached. "We've secured the town. The last pockets of resistance have surrendered."

Masséna gave a slight nod, but didn't speak.

He had silenced the rebellion. The crown would praise him. The king would reward him.

And yet…

His heart felt heavy.

Because somewhere deep down, he knew:

He had not just conquered a people.

He had buried a dream.