I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

January 10th, 1693 – Port of Loretto, Corse.

Bruno stood atop the fortified balcony of the Governor's Mansion, his hands resting on the stone railing as his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. The air was crisp, the salty breeze from the sea carrying the distant sound of rolling waves. Behind him, Antoine and several high-ranking government officials, military officers, and industrial magnates gathered.

The Elysean fleet—over twenty ships of the line—was approaching the harbor of Loretto. It was an imposing sight, their towering masts cutting through the morning haze, their hulls gleaming under the sun. Bruno had waited nearly three years for word from the mainland, and now, at last, it had come.

Yet, something was wrong.

The fleet had not entered the port in a staggered approach. Instead, the warships formed a line, sailing broadside to the city—a classic battle formation. The maneuver sent a cold chill down Bruno's spine. His brows furrowed as he studied the alignment of the ships.

"What are they doing?" he muttered.

Antoine, standing beside him, frowned. "That's not a ceremonial approach. That's—"

Captain Duval, one of Corse's senior naval officers, stiffened as he observed the fleet through his spyglass. His face drained of color as realization dawned on him.

"That's a broadside formation," Duval said, lowering the spyglass. "They only do that when they're about to open fire."

Bruno snapped his gaze to Duval. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," Duval said gravely. "And if I'm not mistaken—"

Boom.

A deafening roar shattered the uneasy silence.

The Elysean fleet had fired.

A volley of cannon fire tore through the air, their projectiles streaking toward the harbor like black meteors. Seconds later, impact—the first shots slammed into the two ships of the line stationed in the port, both flying the Elysean flag.

The Pride was struck amidships, its hull splitting apart as a series of explosions erupted from within. The shockwave sent sailors and dockworkers hurtling into the water. The second ship, Lionheart, took a full broadside to its stern, its masts snapping like twigs, debris raining down onto the deck.

Panic erupted.

The port descended into chaos as the cannonballs struck the warehouses, merchant ships, and supply depots along the docks. Civilians screamed and ran for their lives.

Smoke billowed into the sky as fires broke out across the harbor.

Bruno's eyes widened in disbelief.

"They're firing on us?" Antoine choked out, his voice laced with shock.

Bruno whipped around, his gaze snapping to Captain Duval.

"This isn't a misunderstanding," he said coldly. "This is an attack."

Duval nodded grimly. "They are treating us as enemies."

"General Berthold, ready your men for defense! Man the coastal artillery!"

Berthold, who had been standing near the back, immediately snapped to action.

Moments later, the soldiers of Elysea stationed in Loretto stood before him professionally despite cannonballs landing near them.

"All soldiers, to your posts! Coastal batteries, prepare to fire! Form defensive lines!"

They sprang into motion. Officers barked orders, soldiers rushed toward pre-positioned cannons along the harbor, and lookout posts signaled the alarm. Church bells began to toll, warning the rest of the city that an attack was underway.

Meanwhile, another thunderous volley crashed into the port. Cannonballs splintered wooden piers, obliterated merchant vessels, and sent flaming debris soaring through the air. The warehouses that stored food, munitions, and coal for the industrial facilities erupted into fireballs, their rooftops collapsing under the sheer force of the bombardment.

Bruno turned back to the horizon, his heart pounding as the Elysean fleet reloaded for another barrage.

"This wasn't a diplomatic envoy," he muttered under his breath. "This was an execution."

Antoine grabbed his shoulder, his face stricken with urgency.

"Your Highness, we need to get you out of here! The city is not defensible against this kind of firepower!"

Bruno clenched his fists. He wanted to fight, to rally his forces and make a stand—but against an entire battle fleet? They won't have a fighting chance within the firing range of those ships of the line.

General Berthold returned to the balcony and reported.

"Your Highness…all our fighting forces in Loretto are mobilized and are taking up defensive positions as we speak."

"Very well, they'll hold their position and buy us time," Bruno replied, his eyes fixed to General Berthold.

"What are you planning, Your Highness?"

"I plan a retreat to the next city. Loretto won't be able to stop the fleet, they are going to just fire upon us relentlessly."

"You are giving up the city?" Antoine chimed in.

"I am not talking to you Antoine, refrain from doing such a reaction, I am talking to a military officer here," Bruno chided him with a cursory glance.

"Nevertheless," Bruno continued. "We are going to give up Loretto. I'm sure you are aware of why."

"I know, Your Highness, Loretto is not equipped to protect itself from naval invasion," General Berthold acknowledged.

"We are going to mobilize our elite battalion, they'll come with us to the next city," Bruno announced.

Elite battalion is a part of the Corse Army equipped with the latest iterations of rifles and cannons. They were the best of the best, handpicked by Bruno and Berthold. They are the last line of defense.

"Understood, Your Highness. I'll have them mobilize," General Berthold said firmly.

"Let's leave!"

***

Admiral Lucien Vaubert stood on the quarterdeck of his flagship, watching through his spyglass as the city of Loretto burned. The smoke from the dockyards, warehouses, and shattered buildings spiraled into the sky, forming a dark cloud over the once-thriving port. The rhythmic boom of cannon fire echoed across the waves as another volley was unleashed from the fleet, further reducing the Corsican capital to ruins.

Vaubert's grip tightened on the brass casing of the spyglass as he swept his gaze over the futile defenses of the city. The coastal artillery fired back, but their return fire was sporadic, disorganized. The few batteries that remained operational struggled to match the overwhelming firepower of the twenty ships of the line under his command.

He lowered the spyglass, exhaling slowly.

"They are resisting more than expected, Admiral."

The voice belonged to Captain Armand Renoux, the commander of the gunnery crews of the flagship.

"It doesn't matter, they will fall, and so does Prince Bruno de Elysea."