I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The wooden doors of the inner keep slammed shut behind Roux as his men rushed in, panting and bloodied from the brutal fight outside. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. Fort Saint-Louis was falling. And Roux knew it. His forces had fought fiercely, but Masséna's assault had been relentless. The east gate had crumbled under cannon fire, and now, Elysean troops swarmed through the breach like a flood. If they had remained any longer, they would have been overwhelmed. Roux turned to Captain Giraud and Lieutenant Vasseur, his most trusted officers, who had followed him into the keep. Their expressions were grim, their uniforms stained with the blood of both friend and foe. "We hold here," Roux said, his voice sharp but unwavering. "Masséna wants to end this today? Then let's see if he has the stomach for a final fight." Giraud wiped a streak of dirt from his forehead. "How long can we last?" Roux exhaled. "Long enough." He didn't know if that was a lie. Outside the keep, the battlefield was a wasteland. The once-imposing walls of Fort Saint-Louis now lay in ruins, shattered by Masséna's artillery. Smoke curled into the air, drifting over the bloodied bodies of Elysean soldiers and rebels alike. General André Masséna stood at the edge of the destroyed east gate, his cold eyes scanning the battlefield. His plan had worked—Roux had been forced into retreat. But he knew better than to celebrate early. Colonel Jean Devereux approached, wiping his blade clean. "They've fallen back to the keep." Masséna nodded. "Expected." Devereux frowned. "They'll make their last stand there." Masséna smirked. "And they'll die there." He turned to his officers. "Prepare the final assault. We finish this tonight." Inside the inner keep, Roux's men braced themselves. They knew what was coming. The fortress was all but lost, and now they had nowhere left to run. Many of the native warriors had already retreated into the jungle, knowing that the fort was doomed. Some of the Elysean deserters, however, chose to stay and fight, loyal to Roux until the bitter end. A deafening thud echoed through the keep as Masséna's cannons began their final bombardment. The walls trembled. Dust and splinters rained down. Roux tightened his grip on his saber. So, this was how it would end. Not on a battlefield, but inside a crumbling fortress, surrounded by the enemy. He had fought for the New World. And now, he would die for it. March 26th, 1701. Masséna stood at the head of his veteran troops, his eyes fixed on the shattered entrance to the keep. This was it. The final push. He turned to his men. "We do not take prisoners. End this." The soldiers roared in response, raising their bayonets as they surged forward. The battle erupted in a storm of gunfire, steel, and death. Roux fought like a demon. His saber clashed against bayonets, cutting down any Elysean soldier that came too close. His men fought with desperate fury, knowing that there was no escape. But it wasn't enough. There were too many. One by one, Roux's defenders fell. Giraud, his rifle out of ammunition, was cut down by an Elysean soldier's blade. Vasseur, bloodied but still fighting, was struck by a bullet to the chest. Roux saw them fall, but he could do nothing. The end had come. Masséna stepped forward, his sword drawn. For the first time, the two greatest commanders of Elysea stood face to face. Roux was breathing heavily, blood dripping from his wounds. Masséna, calm as ever, raised his blade. "It's over, Marshal," Masséna said. Roux gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around his saber. "You think so?" he snarled. With a final roar, Roux lunged. Steel clashed. The battle had come down to two men. One would walk away. The other would not. The world around them disappeared. There were no soldiers, no cannons, no walls crumbling under fire. There was only Roux and Masséna. Steel clashed as Roux's saber met Masséna's blade, the force of their strikes sending sparks into the air. A master of war against another. Their swords moved like lightning, neither man willing to give an inch. Masséna, ever the calculated tactician, fought with precise, measured strikes—always testing, always controlling the tempo. He moved like a fencer, sharp and efficient, his blade an extension of his will. Roux, by contrast, fought like a storm. His saber struck with raw power, unpredictable and relentless. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. He had fought through jungles, across rivers, in the burning streets of conquered cities. He had bled for every inch of the New World. And he would not let it be taken from him. Their swords met again, the ring of steel cutting through the chaos of battle. Masséna twisted, aiming a thrust at Roux's side, but Roux parried and countered, forcing the general to step back. The rebels had begun to crumble around them, yet no Elysean soldier dared to intervene. This was not a battle between armies anymore. This was war in its purest form—two men, two blades, and the fate of a nation hanging in the balance. Masséna's blade flashed, slicing across Roux's arm. Blood splattered onto the dirt. Roux grunted but did not falter. Instead, he pressed forward, swinging his saber in a brutal arc, forcing Masséna onto the defensive. The general dodged, then countered with a swift riposte. Roux barely twisted out of the way, but Masséna's blade still grazed his ribs. Both men were wounded now. Both breathing hard. Yet neither slowed. A final exchange of blows—lightning-fast, brutal, and unrelenting. Masséna moved first, stepping in and delivering a powerful downward slash. Roux barely managed to block it, but the sheer force of the strike drove him to one knee. Masséna raised his blade for the killing blow. For a moment, it seemed like it was over. Then— Roux lunged. Not with his sword—with his fist. Masséna's eyes widened in shock as Roux's fist slammed into his face, knocking him off balance. The general staggered back, blood dripping from his nose. Before he could recover, Roux was already back on his feet. The two glared at each other, both panting, both wounded. Both unwilling to yield. They charged again. Another clash of steel. Another exchange of near-fatal blows. But neither could land the decisive strike. The duel raged on, but time was against them both. The fortress was collapsing. Fire spread through the inner walls. The battlefield had become a graveyard. And suddenly—a cannon roared. The impact shook the ground beneath them. The explosion was too close, the shockwave too powerful. Both men were sent flying, crashing into the rubble as stone and debris rained from above. The world spun. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, movement. Masséna pushed himself up first, his uniform torn, his vision hazy. He reached for his sword, but his fingers barely grasped the hilt before pain shot through his entire body. He could not fight any longer. A few feet away, Roux lay motionless. Blood seeped from a deep gash on his forehead, his saber buried in the dirt beside him. He was barely conscious. Neither man had won. Neither man had lost. It was a tie. The battle of Fort Saint-Louis had reached its climax—but it had no victor. Masséna gritted his teeth, glancing toward his approaching officers. Reinforcements were coming. They could capture Roux. They could end this now. But as Masséna looked at the broken fort, the dead on both sides, and the man who had matched him blow for blow, he made his decision. He turned away. "Withdraw the troops," he ordered. Devereux, approaching with a squad of soldiers, hesitated. "General?" Masséna wiped the blood from his face. "We've done enough." Devereux frowned. "But—" Masséna's eyes were cold. "Withdraw." Without another word, the Elysean forces began pulling back. By dawn, Fort Saint-Louis was abandoned.