I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The battlefield was still littered with corpses, the air thick with the stench of blood and gunpowder. The Elysean soldiers moved through the carnage, searching bodies for anything that could identify their attackers. General Armand Roux stood in the center, his uniform stained with dirt and dried blood, his saber still caked with gore.

Captain Étienne Giraud approached, a strip of cloth pressed against the wound on his arm. "We found something, General."

Roux turned. "What is it?"

Giraud held out a piece of parchment, covered in strange markings. "It was tucked inside the tunic of one of the fallen warriors. It doesn't match any of the known tribes we've dealt with before."

Roux took the parchment and examined it. The symbols were unfamiliar, but they were carefully drawn, not random scrawlings. "This isn't just some unorganized warband," Roux muttered. "This was coordinated."

Giraud nodded. "And it wasn't just one tribe. Some of the warriors bore different insignias. This was a coalition."

That complicated things. If multiple tribes were uniting against Elysea, their campaign would face more resistance than anticipated. Roux turned to his men. "Did we take any prisoners?"

"Only a few, General," Giraud replied. "Most fought to the death."

Roux exhaled sharply. These warriors had no fear of dying. That meant interrogation wouldn't be easy. "Have the prisoners bound and brought back to camp. We'll question them once they've had time to sweat."

As the soldiers carried out his orders, Roux turned to the distant hills. Somewhere out there, the enemy was regrouping. And he intended to find them before they struck again.

By midday, scouts returned with valuable intelligence. They had discovered a trail leading deep into the jungle, marked with the same tribal symbols found on the warriors.

Roux wasted no time. "We move immediately."

With 800 men still combat-ready, the Elysean force pushed forward, following the tracks left behind by the retreating enemy. The march was grueling. The jungle was thick, the air humid, and visibility was low. But they pressed on, their rifles at the ready.

After hours of marching, a scout returned, panting. "General, we found something. A village, hidden in the hills."

Roux's eyes narrowed. "How many warriors?"

"Hard to say, sir. We counted at least a few hundred. But there could be more inside the huts."

That was enough.

"Prepare to attack," Roux ordered.

Nightfall gave them the cover they needed. The Elysean soldiers crept into position around the village, using the dense foliage as concealment. The village itself was large—dozens of huts, wooden watchtowers, and a central meeting hall that appeared to be the heart of the settlement.

Through his spyglass, Roux spotted warriors moving about, some carrying weapons, others tending to wounded men—survivors from the last battle.

"They're not expecting us," Giraud whispered.

"Then let's make sure they never see it coming," Roux replied.

He signaled to his officers. Within moments, machine guns were set up, their barrels aimed at the main thoroughfare of the village. Soldiers took positions along the treeline, rifles ready.

Then, Roux raised his hand.

"Fire."

The night exploded with gunfire. The first volley tore through the village, cutting down warriors before they could react. The watchtowers collapsed as bullets shredded the wooden supports.

Panic spread through the enemy ranks. Some tried to mount a defense, but before they could even raise their bows, the Gatling guns unleashed hell upon them.

The villagers screamed, running for cover. Some warriors attempted to rally, forming a defensive line, but Elysean artillery spoke next. A shell crashed into the center of the village, sending fire and debris flying.

"Advance!" Roux commanded.

The Elysean infantry surged forward, bayonets fixed. Warriors who tried to resist were gunned down, while others fled in terror.

Roux led the charge himself, cutting down an enemy warrior with his saber before spinning to fire his revolver at another. His soldiers moved efficiently, storming huts and securing captives.

Giraud wrestled with an enemy in the middle of the street, using the butt of his rifle to break the warrior's jaw before driving his bayonet into his chest.

Gunfire echoed through the village as the last remnants of resistance were crushed. By the time the smoke cleared, bodies littered the ground, and the flames from burning huts illuminated the battlefield.

The village had fallen.

Roux wiped his brow, his breathing heavy. Around him, the Elysean soldiers rounded up the survivors—mostly women and children, but also dozens of warriors who had surrendered after the battle was lost.

"Lock them up," Roux ordered. "We'll find out who they are and why they attacked us."

As the prisoners were gathered, Roux noticed something strange. Some of the warriors bore markings that were different from the others. Different insignias. Different armor.

Giraud noticed it too. "These men weren't from the same tribe," he murmured.

Roux's expression darkened. This wasn't a random uprising. Someone was uniting the tribes against them.

And he intended to find out who.

The battlefield still smoldered as Elysean soldiers moved through the wreckage, rounding up prisoners and tending to their wounded. The sun had long since set, and the eerie glow of burning huts cast flickering shadows across the jungle. The cries of the dying and the low murmurs of soldiers filled the air, mixing with the distant sounds of the jungle creatures.

Roux turned to Giraud. "We need to find out where they came from. Have the scouts look for any tracks leading away from here."

Giraud nodded and quickly relayed the orders. Soon, groups of scouts disappeared into the darkness, lanterns flickering as they searched for any sign of where the remaining enemy forces had fled.

Meanwhile, Roux examined the captured warriors. There were over sixty of them—hardened fighters with strong builds, their bodies covered in scars and war paint. Despite being bound in chains, they sat with their heads held high, their eyes filled with hatred.

One of the prisoners, a broad-shouldered man with tribal tattoos across his chest, glared at Roux. His jaw was clenched, his muscles tense. Roux could tell that these men had no intention of speaking.

"We won't get anything from them," Giraud muttered. "Even if we had a translator, they wouldn't talk. They look ready to die rather than give up anything useful."

Roux sighed. "Then we'll let their actions speak for them."

He motioned for his men to inspect the prisoners' clothing, weapons, and markings. The Elysean soldiers stripped away crude leather armor, examined arrowheads, and searched for anything that could hint at the origins of these warriors.

After several minutes, one of the officers approached. "General, some of these men have different markings. Different armor styles, different weapons."

Roux studied the prisoners closely. Some had curved swords, others carried bows with unique fletching on their arrows. The patterns painted on their skin weren't uniform—there were distinct differences between them.

"These are different tribes," Giraud said, realization dawning. "They don't just look different; they fight differently. Whoever brought them together didn't just rally one group—he united warriors who normally wouldn't even fight alongside each other."

Roux's grip tightened on his saber. "That means there's a leader—a central figure organizing these attacks."