I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 81: Acting On Their Own

The war room in the Elysean compound was silent, but the air was thick with anticipation. General Armand Roux stood at the head of the table, his hands gripping the edge as he stared at the assembled officers and ministers. The decision had been made.

There would be no surrender. No negotiations. No retreat.

Foreign Minister Charles Dufort ran a hand through his graying hair, exhaling sharply. He looked up at Major Baptiste Laurent, who had been one of the most vocal supporters of war.

"This is madness," Dufort muttered. "We are acting without the King’s direct orders."

Roux scoffed, his expression cold. "The King sent us here to secure Elysea’s future. I don’t need a written letter from Bruno to tell me that we are not handing over our men to be executed."

Laurent nodded, arms crossed. "And even if we send a message now, by the time the King replies, the Tunisian army will have already surrounded us."

Dufort clenched his jaw. The logic was sound, but that didn’t make it right. They were gambling with Elysea’s standing in the world. They were about to ignite a war that could reshape North Africa forever.

A war King Bruno hadn’t approved.

But Roux and his officers had already made their decision.

March 21, 1695.

The compound gates remained locked, but behind them, Elysean forces moved with urgency. Officers barked orders as men donned their blue and gold uniforms, checked their muskets, and secured their ammunition pouches.

The artillery crews loaded cannons with grapeshot and solid iron balls, positioning them on the walls for when the inevitable counterattack came.

In the officer’s tent, Roux, Laurent, and Captain Étienne Giraud stood over a detailed map of Carthage.

"Our objective is clear," Roux said, tapping the Grand Bazaar district with his gloved finger. "We strike first."

Laurent nodded. "A night assault. The Tunisians will not expect us to make the first move. They assume we are still negotiating."

Roux smirked. "Then let’s make sure they never get the chance."

The plan was simple:

Seize the Grand Bazaar and the surrounding districts before dawn.

Establish control of the main roads, cutting off reinforcements from the city garrison.

Force the Grand Vizier’s hand—before Tunisian forces could fully mobilize.

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Dufort stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed. "You’re making a mistake."

Roux didn’t even look at him. "You should be glad we’re solving this before it gets worse."

Dufort sighed, knowing there was nothing left to say. The soldiers had already been given their orders.

The decision was made.

And at the stroke of midnight, Elysea marched.

March 22, 1695.

The first shots rang out just before dawn.

Elysean grenadiers stormed through the narrow alleyways of the Bazaar District, their muskets raised, bayonets glinting under the lantern light.

Tunisian watchmen barely had time to react before they were cut down. The sound of gunfire and screams filled the streets.

The Grand Bazaar, once filled with merchants, spices, and silk, was now a battlefield.

Elysean forces moved in tight formations, firing disciplined volleys into Tunisian guards rushing to defend the district.

Tunisian soldiers, fighting on home territory, used the rooftops and alleyways to counterattack with muskets and curved swords.

The Elysean artillery, positioned outside the marketplace, fired grapeshot into defensive positions, tearing through wooden barricades and stone walls.

Captain Giraud, at the head of his men, cut through a line of Tunisian defenders with his sword drawn, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers as he advanced toward the heart of the district.

"Push forward! Do not give them ground!" he shouted.

The Elysean musketeers reloaded quickly, firing another deadly volley.

One by one, the Tunisian defenses began to break.

By sunrise, the Grand Bazaar belonged to Elysea.

Inside the Palace of the Grand Vizier, the mood was grim.

Suleiman al-Mutazz stood before a gathering of his top generals, his face dark with rage.

A messenger rushed into the chamber, his robes torn and blood-stained. "My Lord! The Elyseans have taken the Bazaar! They are fortifying the district—our soldiers are being slaughtered in the streets!"

General Idris bin Rashid, his hands clenched into fists, stepped forward. "Enough! We must drive them out now! Send every available regiment into the city—tonight, we reclaim Carthage!"

Suleiman raised a hand. "No." His voice was cold, calculating.

The generals fell silent.

"We do not waste our men in reckless counterattacks," the Grand Vizier said. "We will let the foreigners take Carthage. Let them believe they have won."

The room fell into a stunned silence.

Rashid frowned. "My Lord… you mean to abandon the city?"

Suleiman’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. "No. We will let them take the city. And then… we will burn it around them."

The Tunisian generals exchanged glances of understanding.

Suleiman turned to one of his aides. "Send word to the Sultan. Tell him the Elyseans have chosen war. It is time we remind them why no foreign power has ever conquered Tunis."

The messenger bowed deeply and disappeared.

The Tunisian army would not reclaim Carthage in a direct assault.

They would make it a graveyard.

March 23, 1695.

The Elysean flag now flew over the Grand Bazaar.

General Roux stood atop the ruins of a destroyed barricade, looking over the city.

Captain Giraud, his uniform stained with blood and soot, approached.

"We hold the Bazaar, General. The Tunisians are falling back."

Roux smirked. "Good. Then we have won."

But before Giraud could respond, a massive explosion erupted in the distance.

A Tunisian supply depot—set ablaze by their own retreating forces.

Smoke billowed into the sky, casting an ominous shadow over Carthage.

Dufort stood behind Roux, watching the fires spread.

"They aren’t retreating," he murmured. "They’re setting a trap."

Roux’s smirk faded. "What do you mean?"

Before Dufort could respond, a thunderous explosion erupted from the eastern quarter of Carthage. A shockwave tore through the district, rattling windows and shaking the ground beneath them.

A second explosion followed, this time near the docks. The Elysean warships in the harbor rocked violently as flames and debris soared into the air.

Captain Étienne Giraud rushed into the war room, his uniform stained with soot and blood. "General! The Tunisians are blowing up the city! They’re destroying their own supply depots, their warehouses—everything!"

Laurent paled. "They’re burning Carthage to the ground."