I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 79: A Deadly Scuffle

For months, the Elysean delegation had solidified its presence in Carthage. Trade agreements were secured, markets filled with Elysean goods, and firearms quietly integrated into the Tunisian military. But beneath the surface of diplomacy, resentment was growing.

The Elysean soldiers, who had been stationed in the city to escort merchants and diplomats, viewed the Tunisian people with barely concealed contempt. To them, this was a backward land, ruled by outdated traditions and an empire too proud to admit its decline.

For the Tunisians, the Elysean presence felt suffocating. Their foreign guests, while not conquerors, carried an arrogance that was impossible to ignore. And when that arrogance turned to insults, the city’s patience finally snapped.

It started as a dispute over a trade deal.

The Grand Bazaar of Carthage was the beating heart of the city’s commerce—a sprawling marketplace of silk, spices, and gold. It was where Elysean merchants and Tunisian traders negotiated their deals, but on this day, negotiations turned to violence.

At the center of the tension stood Captain Étienne Giraud, a junior officer in the Elysean army assigned to oversee trade security. He was young, brash, and utterly convinced of Elysean superiority. He stood before a small group of Tunisian traders, his arms crossed, flanked by three Elysean soldiers, their muskets slung lazily over their shoulders.

"This is robbery," growled Hassan al-Bakri, a respected Tunisian merchant, his hand tightening into a fist. "You sell us inferior steel at double the price your king promised. This is an insult!"

Giraud smirked. "An insult? No, this is trade. Perhaps if your forges could produce something better, you wouldn’t need us."

The gathered crowd murmured angrily. Hassan’s face darkened. "You Elyseans walk our streets as if you own them. You speak to us as if we are beggars, yet it is our gold that fills your ships. Show some respect, foreigner."

One of Giraud’s men, Sergeant Michel Favreau, scoffed. "Respect? What have you given us to respect? Your city stinks of filth, your people grovel at the Sultan’s feet like sheep, and your army marches with weapons from another century. Elysea did you a favor by coming here."

The murmurs turned to outraged shouts. Bystanders closed in, fists clenched, eyes burning with fury.

Hassan took a step forward. "Take your words back, Elysean."

Giraud laughed. "Or what? You’ll wave a scimitar at me? Go back to your tents in the desert, old man."

That was the final straw.

Hassan spat at Giraud’s feet.

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air like a drawn blade.

Then, Giraud slapped Hassan across the face, sending the merchant stumbling. The crowd erupted.

A stone flew through the air, striking one of the Elysean soldiers in the shoulder. Then another. Then a dozen more.

"Back! Back!" Giraud shouted, drawing his sword. His men unslung their muskets, the steel barrels gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Hassan, his face burning with rage, pointed at them. "Get them out of our city!"

The crowd charged.

The first gunshot cracked like thunder.

A Tunisian boy, no older than fourteen, collapsed onto the cobblestone, blood pooling beneath him.

Screams of horror filled the bazaar.

Then all hell broke loose.

Tunisian men and boys rushed the soldiers, wielding knives, sticks, and anything they could grab. Elysean troops opened fire, their muskets blasting into the charging crowd.

A trader was shot in the chest, tumbling over a fruit cart. Another soldier was dragged down, his cries of pain drowned out as fists and boots beat him into silence.

The streets turned red.

Giraud barely had time to parry a dagger before a second man tackled him. He hit the ground hard, the world spinning. He glimpsed Favreau being dragged into an alley, his screams cut short.

This was not a fight—it was a massacre.

By the time the city guard arrived to restore order, seven Elysean soldiers lay dead, their bodies stripped and bloodied. At least twenty Tunisians had been killed, dozens more wounded.

The Grand Bazaar stood in ruins, stalls overturned, the scent of gunpowder and blood heavy in the air. The wounded moaned, their voices lost in the chaos.

Word spread like wildfire.

Elysean arrogance had led to bloodshed. Tunisian fury had answered in kind.

At the Elysean compound, General Armand Roux received the news with a grim expression.

Dufort, the Foreign Minister, was ashen-faced. "This is a disaster."

Roux nodded. "Tunisian soldiers are mobilizing. If we don’t handle this now, it could mean war."

Dufort turned to his aide. "Summon Grand Vizier Suleiman at once. We must negotiate before this escalates."

The aide hesitated. "Your Excellency, I… I don’t think they want to talk."

Dufort clenched his jaw. "Then we must make them listen."

The Palace of the Grand Vizier was in turmoil.

Suleiman al-Mutazz paced furiously, his advisors whispering among themselves. A group of Tunisian commanders had gathered, their expressions dark.

One of them, General Idris bin Rashid, slammed his fist on the table. "These foreigners must pay! They think they can murder our people without consequence? We should expel every Elysean from Tunisian soil!"

A murmur of agreement spread through the room.

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Suleiman raised his hand for silence. "War with Elysea would be costly. Their army is stronger. Their ships outmatch ours. We cannot act in anger alone."

General Rashid scowled. "Then what do you suggest?"

Suleiman exhaled. "We will demand retribution. The soldiers responsible must be punished. If Elysea refuses, then we take action."

The vizier turned to his aide. "Send a message to the Elysean delegation. They will answer for this crime."

By nightfall, every Elysean soldier in Carthage was on high alert. The gates of their compound were barred, their muskets loaded.

Dufort sat in his study, reading the formal demand from the Grand Vizier.

Elysea was to hand over the officers responsible for the killings, or face expulsion from Tunisian territory.

Roux entered, arms crossed. "They want blood."

Dufort set the letter down. "Then we must decide… do we give it to them?"

The next move belonged to Elysea.

And all of North Africa watched, waiting to see what they would do.