I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 82: Easy Victory

The city of Carthage had become a blazing inferno.

Flames tore through the marketplace, the harbor, and the lower districts, consuming entire streets in a wave of destruction. Black smoke coiled into the sky, choking the air and casting an ominous shadow over the Elysean forces.

Yet, amid the chaos, the soldiers of Elysea did not falter.

General Armand Roux stood atop the city walls, his gaze locked on the burning skyline. His forces had the superior firepower, discipline, and technology. The Tunisian strategy was clear—they intended to destroy everything before it could fall into Elysean hands.

But they had underestimated one thing.

The resilience of Elysea’s army.

At the harbor, chaos reigned.

Tunisian saboteurs, disguised as dock workers, had set fire to supply depots, ammunition stockpiles, and even ships. The docks were engulfed in smoke, and several vessels had already been lost.

But Captain Étienne Giraud would not let them have their victory.

"Secure the port! No more fires!" Giraud roared as he led his men through the flames.

His musketeers formed disciplined firing lines, cutting down Tunisian arsonists before they could ignite more destruction.

One saboteur attempted to set fire to a moored Elysean warship, but a rifle shot rang out—his body collapsed into the water, blood mixing with the flames.

Cannon crews redirected their guns, targeting the source of the attacks. Tunisian boats filled with gunpowder were intercepted before they could reach the fleet.

Within an hour, the flames had been controlled and the Elysean fleet remained intact.

Giraud, wiping soot from his face, turned to his officers. "The docks are secure. The city is still ours."

At the Bazaar District, the Tunisian forces launched a desperate last counterattack. They knew the city was lost, but they fought to bleed Elysea as much as possible.

General Roux, standing at the frontlines, commanded his troops with unwavering confidence.

"Steady! Let them come!"

The Tunisian warriors, clad in traditional armor and wielding curved swords, charged forward in waves. Their muskets, outdated and unreliable, fired sporadically, while their cavalry tried to break Elysean formations.

But Elysea’s military superiority was undeniable.

Volley fire rained down on the charging Tunisians. Each Elysean line fired in unison, cutting down ranks before they could even reach striking distance.

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Artillery positioned on the rooftops unleashed devastating grapeshot blasts, shredding through cavalry and infantry alike.

Elite grenadiers launched explosives into the advancing troops, creating fiery eruptions that halted the momentum of the enemy charge.

The Tunisian forces, outgunned and outmaneuvered, began to break.

General Roux watched as their lines crumbled, his smirk returning. "Finish them."

Elysean dragoons charged in, sabers flashing.

The last remnants of the Tunisian army in Carthage were cut down, their bodies strewn across the bloodstained streets.

The battle for the Bazaar District was over.

Carthage now belonged to Elysea.

By sunset, the last of the flames had been extinguished.

The city lay in ruins, but it remained standing.

The Tunisian army had failed to drive them out. Their scorched-earth strategy had only weakened their own position.

Inside the Palace of the Grand Vizier, General Roux and Captain Giraud stood victorious.

The palace was eerily quiet, the echoes of war still lingering beyond its walls. The once-pristine hallways, decorated with intricate mosaics and golden chandeliers, were now smeared with soot, blood, and the scars of battle.

General Armand Roux stood at the center of the Grand Vizier’s audience chamber, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his sword. His uniform, still stained with smoke and sweat, bore the unmistakable mark of battle.

Beside him, Captain Étienne Giraud, his tunic torn and dirtied, glanced warily at the Tunisian officials who remained. Their faces were grim, their gazes filled with hatred, resignation, and bitter defiance.

At the far end of the room, seated on his throne of blackwood and ivory, was Grand Vizier Suleiman al-Mutazz.

Despite his loss, the man did not appear broken. His dark eyes, lined with exhaustion, remained cold and calculating. His fine robes were disheveled, his turban slightly askew, but he had not fled.

Instead, he sat still—watching his conquerors with unwavering defiance.

"It appears," Roux said, breaking the silence, "that the war is over."

Suleiman exhaled slowly. "The war is never over, General Roux. Only battles end."

Roux smirked. "Call it what you will, but Carthage belongs to Elysea now."

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended above the room.

One of the Tunisian nobles—a man in his fifties, dressed in traditional robes—stepped forward, his voice laced with contempt. "Do you think the Sultan will allow this to stand? Do you think our people will kneel to you?"

Roux turned his piercing gaze toward him. "The Sultan may try to reclaim this city. Your people may resist. But if either of them does, we will do what we must to remind them why they failed the first time."

Suleiman’s jaw tightened. "You speak of peace, but your words reek of conquest."

Dufort, who had just arrived from the secured districts, sighed as he stepped forward. "It does not have to be conquest, Grand Vizier."

Suleiman let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. "Tell me, Minister Dufort, does your king even know what his army has done in his name?"

A beat of silence followed.

Roux’s smirk faltered.

Dufort’s expression remained unreadable. "Elysea has secured its position. That is all that matters now."

Suleiman’s lips curled into a slight smirk. "Then you are either a liar or a fool. Your kingdom came for trade, and now you sit in my palace, dictating the terms of surrender. How long before your king realizes you have given him an empire he did not ask for?"

"Oh, our King really intended on creating an empire."

"Oh, your King really intended on creating an empire?" Suleiman murmured, voice filled with quiet mockery.

"He may not have planned for it to happen this soon," Roux admitted, "but it doesn’t change the outcome."

Suleiman exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And so you believe that this city, this conquest, makes you rulers of North Africa?"

"Pretty much, after all you are the strongest country in this continent but yet you were defeated by a small number of forces. That’s humiliating."