I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 53: Nail in the Coffin

July 7th, 1693 – Republican Stronghold near Fort Serrant

General Lucien Marceau stood on the walls of the Republican stronghold, watching the distant ridges through his spyglass. Smoke drifted over the horizon, and the low rumble of cannon fire echoed across the valley. The Royalists were coming.

Marceau had expected Bruno to strike, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of force. The reports had been consistent—Bruno’s forces possessed advanced artillery that could strike beyond conventional range. The destruction of the Republican army at the last battle had already proven that. Yet, Marceau had still managed to extract a portion of his troops, retreating toward Fort Serrant and entrenching in a defensive position nearby.

But Bruno wasn’t giving him time to recover.

A courier rushed up the stone steps, saluting sharply. "General, enemy artillery has begun their bombardment. Their shells are landing well beyond our range. They must have positioned their guns on the ridgeline."

Marceau gritted his teeth. He had stationed his own artillery on the forward hills to counter an assault, but their range was proving insufficient. The Royalists’ long-range cannons were tearing into their fortifications with frightening precision.

"Where is their infantry?" he asked, lowering the spyglass.

"Still advancing, sir. They’re moving in formation, covered by their artillery fire."

Marceau turned to his officers. "Pull the forward artillery back. We can’t afford to lose them before they fire a shot. Move the cavalry to the rear trenches and prepare the infantry for a staggered withdrawal into the inner defenses. We’re not holding the outer walls."

His commanders hesitated. "Sir, if we abandon the outer walls—"

"We’ll be annihilated if we stay," Marceau cut in sharply. "Bruno has superior firepower, and he knows it. If we hold our ground, we’ll be slaughtered before they even reach us."

Reluctantly, the officers nodded and rushed to carry out his orders.

On the opposing ridge, Prince Bruno observed the Republican stronghold through his spyglass. The walls were thick, and despite the bombardment, the structure was holding—for now.

"Durand," Bruno called to his artillery commander. "Focus fire on the southern bastion. I want that section of the wall weakened before we send in the infantry."

Durand nodded. "Yes, Your Highness."

The next volley of howitzer shells arced high into the sky, whistling as they descended upon the fort. Explosions rocked the walls, sending chunks of stone and debris raining down. The southern bastion shuddered under the relentless assault.

Bruno turned to General Berthold. "Signal Vallier’s cavalry to prepare for the flank assault. Once the breach is open, we won’t give them time to reorganize."

Berthold saluted and relayed the command. The Royalists were executing their strategy with brutal efficiency—bombard, weaken, and then strike with overwhelming force.

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Inside the Republican stronghold, Marceau felt the impact of another devastating explosion. Dust and smoke filled the air, and soldiers coughed as they hurried to reinforce the inner defenses.

"General!" a wounded officer stumbled forward. "The southern bastion is close to collapsing. They’ve concentrated their fire there!"

Marceau clenched his fists. Bruno was carving a hole into his defenses with mechanical precision. He had no choice but to reposition his men.

"Fall back to the central courtyard," he ordered. "Use the rubble as cover. If we can delay them, we might still have a chance."

The Republican forces withdrew in an orderly fashion, retreating deeper into the stronghold. The outer walls were abandoned just as another barrage of artillery fire shattered the southern bastion, leaving a massive gap in the defenses.

Bruno watched as the Republican forces retreated from the breached walls. "They’re giving up the outer defenses," he noted. "They’re trying to lure us into a prolonged fight inside the fort."

Leclerc smirked. "A logical move. But one that won’t work against us."

Bruno raised his sword, signaling the advance. "Forward! Take the fort!"

The royalist infantry surged forward, muskets raised. The breach in the wall became a floodgate as soldiers poured through, engaging the retreating Republicans in brutal close-quarters combat. Bayonets clashed against sabers, and gunfire echoed through the crumbling corridors.

From the eastern flank, Captain Vallier’s cavalry stormed through the secondary gates, cutting down fleeing Republican troops before they could regroup.

Inside the courtyard, Marceau barked orders. "Hold the line! We’ll make our stand here!"

The remaining Republican soldiers formed a defensive ring around the command post, desperately trying to hold off the Royalist advance. But the enemy was relentless—well-coordinated volleys cut down their ranks, and artillery fire continued to pound the remaining strongpoints.

Marceau knew they were finished. His men were outgunned, outflanked, and outmaneuvered.

An officer stumbled toward him, blood streaming from his temple. "General, we can’t hold them back!"

Marceau exhaled sharply. "Then we cut our losses."

He turned to his lieutenants. "Order a retreat. Any men who can escape, let them. The battle is lost."

His officers hesitated only for a moment before nodding. Marceau himself, however, did not move. He had fought wars his entire life, and he wasn’t about to flee from the battlefield like a common soldier.

When the Royalists finally broke through the last line of defense, they found Marceau standing tall amidst the bodies of his fallen men. His uniform was dirtied, his sword stained with blood, but his gaze remained cold and unwavering.

Bruno approached, lowering his weapon. "General Marceau."

Marceau met his gaze without flinching. "Prince Bruno."

"You fought well," Bruno said, keeping his tone neutral. "But this war is over for you."

Marceau smirked. "For me, perhaps. But not for the Republic."

Bruno exhaled. "Surrender. Spare your remaining men from unnecessary slaughter."

Marceau stared at him for a long moment before finally tossing his sword to the ground. "Very well, Your Highness. I surrender."

By nightfall, the Republican stronghold was firmly in Royalist hands. Marceau and the remaining prisoners were secured, and the royalist banners flew high above the fort.

Bruno stood on the battlements, overlooking the battlefield. This was his greatest victory yet. The Republic’s strongest general had been defeated, and their last major southern stronghold had fallen.

But he knew this war was far from over. The Republic would not simply crumble after one defeat. They would regroup, they would retaliate, and they would fight for every inch of territory.

Leclerc approached him. "What now, Your Highness?"

Bruno’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "We press forward. We take the capital. And we end this war."