I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

March 27th, 1701. The air was thick with smoke. The ruins of Fort Saint-Louis stood as a broken skeleton against the morning light, its walls shattered, its banners burned. The battlefield was a graveyard of men and ambition. Yet, Armand Roux still lived. General André Masséna sat at the edge of the war tent, staring at the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his forearm. His wound throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the frustration boiling inside him. He had come to end the rebellion. He had come to kill Roux. And yet, the Marshal had slipped through his fingers. The battle should have been a victory. Roux's forces had been shattered, his stronghold obliterated, and his command structure crippled. It should have been over. And yet, it wasn't. Masséna clenched his jaw. He had failed. Masséna sat in his command tent, his hands pressed against the table, the map of Pan-America spread before him. His officers stood around him in tense silence. None dared to speak first. Devereux finally cleared his throat. "General, we won the battle. Fort Saint-Louis is no more." Masséna's cold gaze snapped up. "Is that what you call this? A victory?" Devereux hesitated. "Sir, we forced Roux into retreat. His forces are scattered. His supply lines are severed. Without a stronghold, he has nowhere to consolidate his forces." Masséna exhaled sharply. He knew all of that. He had planned it. He had executed it. And yet, it didn't feel like a victory. Because Roux still breathed. Because his men, even scattered, still followed him. And because as long as Roux lived, the rebellion would not die. Masséna ran a hand through his disheveled hair, suppressing the growing rage inside him. One single mistake had cost him everything. If the cannon hadn't interrupted their duel… If his men had reached Roux's body first instead of retreating... He had underestimated Roux's resilience. And now, they would pay the price for it. Devereux shifted uncomfortably. "What are your orders, General?" Masséna stared at the map. Pan-America was vast, but it was fragile. Roux had held it together through sheer will and charisma. Without him, the entire region would collapse. All Masséna had to do was find him and finish what he started. He tapped a finger against the map. "We should have never pulled back." Devereux tensed. "With all due respect, General, our troops were exhausted. We had broken their defenses, but our men were bleeding. Another push could have stretched us too thin." Masséna's expression darkened. "Another push would have ended this war." Silence. Masséna inhaled slowly, calming himself. It was useless to dwell on what had already happened. Now, he had to plan what came next. March 28th, 1701. The officers gathered once more, this time with reinforcements arriving from the fleet. The Elysean banner still flew over the wreckage of Fort Saint-Louis, but it was meaningless until Roux was dead. Masséna took his place at the head of the war table. "Roux is still alive." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "And as long as he is, this war is not over." One of the younger officers shifted. "His forces are scattered, sir. We could—" Masséna cut him off with a sharp glare. "Do not mistake this as weakness. Roux has done what he always does. He has survived." The room fell silent. Masséna placed his hands on the table. "If we do not strike now, he will rebuild. He will recover. And next time, he will not be so easily outmaneuvered." Devereux spoke next. "Where do we start?" Masséna exhaled, then pointed to the map. "Everything hinges on Roux. The people follow him, the soldiers fight for him, and the natives see him as their only hope. If we kill him, this rebellion will crumble. There is no other leader strong enough to take his place."** He traced a path along the map, showing the thick forests and riverways that stretched beyond Fort Saint-Louis. "He's injured, possibly gravely. He will need a place to recover. He can't run forever."** Another officer spoke up. "If we don't know his location, then where do we strike?" Masséna tapped the map again. "The villages. The settlements. The people who would shelter him." Devereux frowned. "You mean to smoke him out?" Masséna's eyes were cold. "If they give him refuge, they are enemies of the crown." The tent went silent. One of the officers swallowed. "Sir… these are civilians." Masséna didn't flinch. "They are rebels." This was no longer a simple war between armies. This was a war of survival. If the New World wanted to stand with Roux, then it would burn with him. Devereux shifted uncomfortably but nodded. "Then we begin immediately." March 30th, 1701. Across Pan-America, Elysean forces spread out like a storm. Villages were searched. Towns were interrogated. Any sign of Roux was met with iron and fire. Those who sheltered him were branded as traitors. Those who resisted were crushed. But Roux was still nowhere to be found. Masséna rode through one of the occupied villages, watching as his men rounded up the inhabitants. Some of the natives spat at their feet. Others remained silent, their eyes burning with defiance. They would rather die than betray him. Masséna exhaled through his nose. Roux had built more than an army. He had built something dangerous. Something stronger than weapons and forts. He had built loyalty. And loyalty was hard to kill. April 2nd, 1701. Masséna sat in his tent, the latest reports stacked before him. Every lead had gone cold. Every attempt to corner Roux had failed. He was still out there. And as long as he was, the war was not won. Masséna clenched his fists. The New World should have been his victory. Instead, it was slipping away. He rose from his chair, grabbing his sword. This wasn't over. Not until Armand Roux was dead. And once he is dead, his mission will be fulfilled and he will be allowed to return home and receive reward from the king. Though it was already an honor serving the king without expecting return, he sure will be rewarded for this.