I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

April 16th, 1701 Saint-Michel The fires had gone cold, but the smell of smoke and blood still clung to the streets like rot. The battle was over. But the reckoning had just begun. Rows of Elysean soldiers marched through the ruined town, their boots crunching on shattered wood and scattered debris. The rebel flags had been torn down. The walls repainted with the imperial crest. And in the center of Saint-Michel's town square, the rebellion's last remnants had been gathered like livestock awaiting slaughter. Nearly two hundred men knelt in the mud—wounded, bruised, beaten into submission. Some still bled from bayonet wounds. Others bore black eyes, split lips, and cracked ribs. Their weapons had been taken. Their uniforms stripped. Many wore nothing but undergarments or rags. The Elyseans had made sure to humiliate them, parading them through the streets like trophies. Civilians who hadn't fled peeked from behind broken doors and shattered windows, silent witnesses to the fall of their defenders. General André Masséna stood before them, flanked by Colonel Devereux and a retinue of officers. He wore no ceremonial cloak, no polished armor. Only the same blood-stained coat he'd worn in battle. His expression was unreadable. The prisoners were forced to kneel in rows, heads down, hands bound behind their backs. "Names," Devereux barked to the clerks standing by with ink and parchment. The scribes stepped forward, reading off lists, cross-referencing faces. "Lieutenant Benoît, 4th rebel infantry." "Captain Julian, rebel artillery." "Corporal Émile Marat…" The process was cold. Mechanical. Names were logged. Ranks identified. Sentences pre-written. Treason. The word was written next to every name. Masséna watched in silence as the rebels were processed like cattle. He didn't speak. Not yet. His gaze drifted across the faces—some young, barely more than boys. Others grizzled, hardened veterans who had followed Roux since the war began. Most didn't look afraid. They looked proud. That irritated Devereux more than anything. "These bastards still think they're heroes," he muttered. Masséna didn't answer. Giraud, still bleeding from the shoulder, was shoved forward by a soldier. He stumbled but stayed on his knees. His glare was defiant. "You're wasting your breath," he spat at the clerk. "You want names? We already gave you everything we had on the battlefield." Devereux stepped forward, striking him across the face with the back of his hand. Giraud coughed blood but laughed. "If this is victory, I hope you choke on it." Devereux raised his hand again, but Masséna stopped him with a sharp look. "Enough," the general said quietly. Devereux stepped back, his jaw clenched. Masséna stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into the blood-soaked earth. He addressed the prisoners directly, his voice calm but carrying. "You stand accused of rebellion against the Crown of Elysea. You raised arms against your king. You burned his banners. You defied his rule. That is treason." Murmurs rose among the kneeling rebels. Some cursed. Some bowed their heads. Others said nothing. Masséna continued. "Under Elysean law, treason is punishable by death. And by the power vested in me, I will see that sentence carried out." There was a pause. Then Giraud spoke again, voice loud enough for all to hear. "If we're to be executed, then do it now. Don't waste time pretending you're merciful." Masséna's jaw tightened. He walked down the line slowly, looking into the eyes of each man. He stopped in front of a boy—no older than sixteen. His face was pale, his lips trembling. A farm boy who had picked up a musket to defend his home. The boy didn't speak. But his eyes said everything. Why? Masséna turned away. "To those who lay down their arms willingly," he said, "you will be given mercy. Prison camps, hard labor. A chance to live." "But those who fought to the end…" He looked toward the bloodied chapel. "Those who chose to stand and kill Elysean soldiers until the very last moment…" He let the silence finish the sentence. Vasseur was among those kneeling. He couldn't stand anymore. His side had been torn by shrapnel, and his arms were bound tight. He looked up with blurry eyes and whispered, "You can kill us, Masséna. But the idea lives." Masséna turned to face him. "That's what they all say," he murmured. "But ideas die when no one is left to fight for them." He raised his hand. Devereux nodded to the execution squads. A group of Elysean soldiers lined up with muskets. They marched into position, twenty paces from the front row of prisoners. Some of the rebels flinched. Others raised their heads high. A few began praying. Roux was not among them. He had been taken elsewhere, too wounded to kneel, guarded night and day. Masséna gave the order. "Begin." Crack. The first volley fired. Bodies collapsed. Screams followed. The second row was marched forward. Devereux looked to Masséna. "Shall we continue with the rest?" Masséna's eyes were distant. He did not answer immediately. Then finally, he spoke. "No." Devereux's brow furrowed. "Sir?" "Keep the remaining prisoners alive. Let them see what happens when rebellion fails." Devereux hesitated. "And Roux?" Masséna exhaled slowly. "He will stand trial. Publicly. Let the world see that even the great Marshal of the New World kneels before the king's justice." The executions were halted. The surviving rebels were shackled and marched through the burned streets of Saint-Michel, jeered at by Elysean loyalists, watched by hollow-eyed villagers. They were a symbol now. A warning. Masséna stood alone after the square was cleared. The blood soaked into the soil at his feet. It was over. The rebellion had been crushed not only with cannon and blade—but with humiliation. And yet, as he looked up at the broken chapel, where Roux had made his final stand, something gnawed at him. He had won. He had obeyed the king. But he wondered—how long before another spark caught flame? How long before someone else rose? In the silence, there was no answer. Only the wind. And the memory of what had been lost.