I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 119: The Fleet Arrives

March 17th, 1701.

The vast Elysean fleet cut through the Atlantic, its twenty warships carrying thousands of soldiers across the sea. The war for the New World had begun.

But this time, King Bruno had chosen his weapon carefully.

At the helm of this expedition was General André Masséna—a man who, like Roux, was a master of war.

Masséna was no ordinary commander. He had risen through the ranks not by birthright but through brilliance on the battlefield. A student of strategy, a ruthless tactician, and a man who had spent his life winning wars others deemed impossible.

King Bruno had not chosen him out of desperation.

He had chosen him because he was the only man who could defeat Roux.

Masséna stood on the deck of the Iron Resolve, the largest ship in the fleet. The ocean wind howled as he studied a detailed map of the New World.

"Fort Saint-Louis is the key," he said, his sharp gaze locking onto the marked fortress. "We take it, we cut off the heart of Roux's rebellion."

Beside him, Admiral Jacques Dufresne nodded. "We should expect a siege. Roux knows he can't win in open battle."

Masséna smirked. "Which is why we won't give him one."

His plan was already set in motion. Unlike past campaigns, this would not be a war of attrition. There would be no drawn-out siege, no slow starvation of the rebels.

They would strike hard and fast—before Roux could solidify his new nation.

"We land in three days," Masséna said. "And when we do, we burn his rebellion to the ground."

The scouts arrived at midnight.

Roux stood on the ramparts, his eyes locked on the young messenger who had traveled miles without stopping. The man's face was drenched in sweat, his breath ragged.

"They're coming," he gasped. "The fleet has been sighted."

Silence settled over the fort.

Roux turned to Giraud and Vasseur, his most trusted officers. "How many?"

"Twenty warships. Thousands of men," the scout confirmed. "They'll be here in three days."

Giraud exhaled. "So, it begins."

Vasseur crossed his arms. "And if they lay siege to us?"

"They won't," Roux said.

His mind was already working.

Bruno hadn't sent an ordinary general. He would not waste time on a traditional siege.

No.

Whoever led this force would be aiming for a decisive blow.

"We need to draw them inland," Roux said. "Into the jungle. Into our land."

The fort was strong, but its walls were not invincible. The Elyseans had more firepower, more artillery. They had an entire navy backing them. If they fought them on Elysea's terms, they would lose.

But if they fought them on their own terms…

They could bleed them dry.

"Vasseur, get the native forces ready," Roux ordered. "Giraud, gather the cavalry. We fight them in the wilds."

His men nodded, and the preparations began.

Roux turned back toward the ocean. Somewhere beyond the horizon, his enemy was coming.

And he would be ready.

March 20th, 1701.

The first ships appeared at dawn.

Dark silhouettes against the golden horizon.

The cannons of Fort Saint-Louis roared to life, sending a warning shot across the sea.

From the deck of the Iron Resolve, General Masséna watched the fort's response with amusement.

"They still think they can fight," he murmured.

Admiral Dufresne smirked. "They will learn otherwise soon enough."

The fleet anchored just beyond cannon range. The smaller vessels disembarked, carrying the first wave of Elysean soldiers to shore.

Masséna stepped onto the sand, the waves crashing behind him.

"Send the scouts ahead," he ordered. "We find their weak spot."

The first skirmishes began within hours.

Masséna's advance scouts clashed with Roux's forward forces—native warriors striking from the jungles, cavalry hitting fast before vanishing into the forests.

It was textbook guerilla warfare.

Ambush. Withdraw. Bleed them. Repeat.

Masséna, however, was not fooled.

He saw the pattern immediately.

"This is Roux's game," he mused. "He wants to lure us into the jungle."

His second-in-command frowned. "Should we hold position?"

Masséna smiled coldly. "No. We go deeper."

The officers blinked in surprise.

"But, General, that's exactly what he wants," one protested.

Masséna nodded. "Yes. And that is why we do it."

His men hesitated, but they had learned never to question Masséna's instincts.

"If Roux believes we will fall into his trap, then we will make it look like we have," Masséna explained.

He pointed to the dense jungle beyond.

"We will let him think he is leading us into an ambush. And when he springs the trap…"

Masséna's smile widened.

"…We will already be behind him."

Deep in the jungle, Roux watched from the shadows as Elysean soldiers moved forward.

"They're taking the bait," Giraud whispered.

Roux nodded. "Good."

The signal was given.

From the trees, hundreds of native warriors descended upon the Elysean ranks. Arrows whistled through the air, striking down soldiers. Gunfire erupted from hidden positions, cutting through the Elysean lines.

For a brief moment, it looked like a slaughter.

And then—Masséna countered.

Roux's eyes narrowed.

The Elysean soldiers did not retreat. They did not break.

Instead, they shifted as if expecting the attack.

A second Elysean force emerged from behind, having circled around without making a sound.

It was a trap.

Roux's men were no longer the hunters.

They were the hunted.

The battle was chaos.

Gunfire ripped through the trees. Smoke filled the air.

Roux fought his way back, his sword cutting through enemy soldiers. But for the first time since the war began, he felt something foreign.

A sensation he had not known since his early days as a soldier.

Visit frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓ for the b𝘦st novel reading experience.

Doubt.

Masséna had matched him move for move.

And now, he knew—this war would not be easy.

The first battle ended in a draw, both sides pulling back to regroup.

But one thing was clear.

The real war had just begun.

March 21st, 1701.

Roux stood amidst the smoldering ruins of the battlefield, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. The dense jungle had been reduced to chaos, the underbrush littered with bodies—Elysean soldiers, native warriors, his own men.

For the first time in years, he had not won decisively.

He wondered who was the general leading the expedition.