I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The flames crackled as another village burned. Masséna watched from atop his horse, his expression impassive. The orange glow of fire danced across his features, the distant screams of fleeing villagers fading into the night. His men had done their work well. Still, there was no sign of Armand Roux. Devereux approached, wiping sweat from his brow. "Another empty settlement, General. No sign of him." Masséna didn't reply immediately. His grip on the reins tightened, frustration simmering beneath the surface. This was not how he had envisioned the campaign. He had expected resistance. He had expected guerilla tactics. But he had not expected silence. Roux was vanishing before his eyes. Every time his scouts brought back a promising lead, it led to nothing. Every time they thought they had cornered him, he slipped away. Masséna inhaled sharply, exhaling through his nose. "And the prisoners?" Devereux hesitated. "None willing to speak." Of course. Roux's influence ran deeper than any ordinary commander's. These people did not see him as a mere leader. He was their hope. Masséna's jaw clenched. Hope was a dangerous thing. Hope had made a colony defy a kingdom. Hope had turned farmers and laborers into soldiers. Hope had let Armand Roux escape death. And hope had to be crushed. Masséna turned his horse toward the next village. "We continue." Devereux frowned. "Sir, with all due respect, these people will never betray him. No matter how much we burn, they will not give him up." Masséna's gaze hardened. "Then we give them a choice." April 6th, 1701. The people of Valencia gathered in the village square, their hands bound, their faces smeared with dirt and soot. They had been spared—for now. Masséna stood before them, his expression cold, his voice calm. "You have one chance. Tell me where Roux is, and you will live." No one spoke. The silence was expected. Masséna nodded. "If you will not speak, then we will assume you are hiding him." He turned to his men. "Execute ten of them." The reaction was immediate. Cries of horror, gasps of disbelief. The soldiers hesitated, looking at their general with uncertainty. Devereux stepped forward. "Sir, they're civilians—" Masséna's glare stopped him mid-sentence. "They are traitors." Devereux hesitated. But the look in Masséna's eyes left no room for argument. The first shot rang out. A man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Then another. And another. By the time the tenth body hit the dirt, the village had fallen into sobs. Masséna looked around. "I will return in three days. If by then, you have given me nothing, the rest of you will share their fate." And with that, he left. April 7th, 1701. Miles away, Armand Roux sat inside a makeshift war room, deep in the jungle. His wounds still ached, his body stiff from the battle at Fort Saint-Louis. Yet, there was no time for weakness. He read the latest report brought in by a scout. Masséna was burning the countryside. Roux exhaled, rubbing his forehead. "He's trying to draw me out." Captain Étienne Giraud sat beside him, his arm in a sling. "And it's working." Roux didn't argue. He knew his people. They would never betray him. But they would die for him. And that was something he could not allow. He crumpled the report in his fist. "We need to act." Vasseur, still pale from his injuries, spoke up. "We don't have the numbers to fight him directly. He's got the fleet, the guns, the resources." Roux's eyes flickered toward the map on the table. "Then we take his resources." Giraud frowned. "You're not thinking of another supply raid?" Roux shook his head. "No. I'm thinking bigger." He pointed to Port-Liberté—the largest supply hub of the Elysean forces. "If we hit them here, we don't just slow them down." His gaze hardened. "We cripple them." Silence. Then, a slow grin crept across Giraud's face. "Now that's a plan." April 9th, 1701. The night was dark, the sea calm. The Elysean supply ships sat anchored in the harbor, their holds filled with ammunition, food, and medicine. Unaware of the storm about to strike. Roux and his men moved like ghosts. Boats cut through the water, silent and deadly. Native warriors, rebel soldiers, and former slaves—all united under one banner. By the time the first gunshot rang out, the docks were already in chaos. Explosions erupted along the shoreline as kegs of gunpowder were ignited. Flames consumed the wooden piers. Elysean soldiers scrambled to form defenses, but Roux's men were already among them, striking fast and ruthless. The air was filled with shouting, gunfire, and the scent of burning wood. Roux led the charge, his saber cutting down a soldier before firing his pistol at another. His men followed, overwhelming the defenders. Within minutes, the harbor was theirs. Giraud grabbed Roux's shoulder. "The main warehouses—Masséna's entire reserve stockpile is in there!" Roux turned to his men. "Burn it all." And so they did. By dawn, Port-Liberté was in ruins. Masséna's supplies—gone. April 10th, 1701. The command tent was silent. Masséna stood in front of the ruined map, staring at the words "Port-Liberté DESTROYED" scrawled across it. He did not speak. Did not move. Did not breathe. The officers stood still, waiting. Afraid. Then, the table flipped. Masséna's fist slammed into the wooden surface, sending papers and ink bottles flying. His eyes blazed with fury. Roux had not only escaped him—he had humiliated him. Port-Liberté was the lifeblood of the Elysean campaign. Without it, resupplying his army would become a nightmare. Devereux, ever cautious, spoke carefully. "Sir, we—" Masséna cut him off. "Enough." His voice was cold. Dangerous. "We have been playing Roux's game for too long." He turned to the map, his hands gripping its edges. "No more raids. No more chasing shadows." His next words were filled with finality. "We draw him into one last battle." The officers stared. Devereux swallowed. "And if he refuses?" Masséna's lips curled into a dangerous smirk. "Then we make him understand…" His voice dropped into a deadly whisper. "That there is nowhere left to run."