I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

July 5th, 1701 – Elysee, Capital of the Kingdom of Elysea.

Day of the Grand Procession

The morning sun climbed over the skyline of Elysee, turning the domes and spires of the capital a brilliant gold. Church bells rang across the districts, their echoes overlapping in a rhythm that made the entire city feel alive. From the royal avenue to the outer boulevards, the streets were lined with red and gold banners bearing the royal crest and Masséna's insignia—an eagle with outstretched wings above crossed sabers.

It was a day of celebration. A national day of honor.

But for General André Masséna, seated in his formal carriage near the palace gates, it didn't feel like a victory parade. Not to him.

He adjusted the collar of his decorated uniform as servants affixed fresh white gloves to his hands. He had been dressed by the royal tailors that morning—his old, worn campaign coat traded for a crisp ceremonial uniform tailored specifically for the event. Medals gleamed on his chest, polished so brightly they nearly blinded him in the mirror. A sword—one he hadn't drawn in months—hung at his side. It was all ceremonial now.

A knock on the carriage signaled the beginning of the procession.

"General," said the steward, bowing. "The palace gates are open. The city awaits you."

Masséna nodded once and leaned back in the cushioned seat. The carriage began to roll forward, its iron wheels clattering softly against the cobblestone as it exited the palace courtyard.

Outside, a sea of people filled the wide avenue. Elysee had turned out in numbers not seen since the coronation of King Bruno. Children waved small flags. Merchants and workers stood shoulder to shoulder with noble families, all pressing closer to catch a glimpse of the man who had saved the empire.

As his carriage passed, people cheered.

"Vive Masséna!"

"Savior of Pan America!"

"Hero of the Empire!"

Masséna nodded politely. He raised his hand in acknowledgment, as expected. But he felt strangely detached—like he was watching it all through glass.

Behind his carriage came a column of Elysean cavalry in polished breastplates, followed by a marching band playing the national anthem. And then, soldiers from the New World Expeditionary Force—some fresh, some veterans—marched in unison. Their uniforms were spotless, their steps perfectly timed.

At the grand plaza before the Royal Forum, a massive stage had been erected. On it stood King Bruno, Queen Amelie, and senior members of the Royal Council. Nobles lined the upper tiers, diplomats and foreign envoys filling the rest. A crowd of thousands surrounded the plaza.

As Masséna's carriage came to a stop, the crowd erupted once more.

The footman opened the door.

"General," he said with a respectful bow, "this way."

Masséna stepped out into the sunlight. His boots struck the marble stairs as he ascended to the platform.

The king was the first to approach him.

"In front of the people," Bruno said quietly, "we are not kings and generals. We are symbols. Stand tall."

Masséna inclined his head. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Queen Amelie stepped beside the king, offering a warm smile.

Then the king raised both hands.

The crowd quieted instantly.

"People of Elysea," Bruno began, "we gather today not merely to celebrate a victory—but to honor the man who made it possible."

He gestured to Masséna.

"General André Masséna was given an impossible task. To end a war not against a foreign enemy—but against our own. And he did so with skill, restraint, and loyalty."

The crowd burst into applause again.

Bruno continued.

"Let no one say this was an easy war. It was fought with blood and fire. It took from us many sons and daughters. But it also revealed something greater—the strength of our unity, and the importance of our vigilance."

He turned to Masséna.

"For your service, and your unwavering loyalty to the crown, the realm bestows upon you the title of Marshal of the Empire."

A herald stepped forward and unrolled a scroll.

"In recognition of acts of valor, command, and devotion to the Kingdom of Elysea, His Majesty hereby grants André Masséna the rank of Marshal, to serve as protector of the empire, counselor of war, and guardian of the realm."

A ceremonial sword was presented to Masséna—a gilded weapon with an ivory grip, engraved with his name.

Masséna accepted it and bowed.

"Thank you, sire."

The applause resumed. The band played once more. Petals were thrown from balconies above. A full twenty-one gun salute echoed from the hills behind the city.

But as the celebration went on, Masséna's mind wandered. Not to the cheering crowd or the shining sword in his hands—but to the jungles of Pan America. To the ruins of Saint-Michel. To the faces of soldiers who had not made it back.

He stood tall through the ceremony, through the banquets and the endless toasts later that evening, but it was not glory he tasted.

It was duty.

That night, as the city continued to celebrate with fireworks and music, Masséna sat alone in a guest chamber at the royal palace. He removed the marshal's uniform and placed the sword carefully in its case. Then he looked out the window.

From there, he could see the entire city of Elysee—bright and grand, untouched by the horrors of rebellion. The people here had danced in the streets while others bled in the colonies.

And yet… they were still his people.

A knock came at the door.

It was Leclerc, the king's minister.

"Marshal," he said with a polite nod.

"Minister."

"I bring a letter. From His Majesty. It confirms your next post."

Masséna accepted the envelope and opened it.

He read quietly.

After a moment, he nodded.

"Agricultural command in the Southern Provinces," he said aloud. "As promised."

Leclerc smiled. "The king keeps his word."

Masséna folded the letter.

"I will leave within the week."

"The court will miss you."

"They'll forget me by the next ceremony," he said dryly.

Leclerc chuckled softly.

"Perhaps. But your reforms will not be forgotten. Nor your war."

Masséna looked out the window again.

"I don't want to be remembered. I just want peace to hold."

Leclerc bowed slightly and excused himself.

Masséna remained at the window long after the noise faded.

The next day, he visited the war memorial being constructed near the Ministry of Defense. It was unfinished—scaffolding still wrapped around the base—but the names were already being carved.

He found the section labeled "Saint-Michel."

There were hundreds of names. Some he recognized. Others he would never know.

He ran his fingers along the stone.

And then, with no guards, no ceremony, and no audience, he bowed his head and stood there in silence.

A marshal of the empire.

A man who had won a war.

And a man who knew—better than most—that the price of keeping the empire intact would never truly be paid.

Not by decrees.

Not by medals.

Only by remembering.

Masséna stood before the memorial a while longer, his fingers lingering on the cold stone. His eyes moved from name to name, pausing at one he hadn't expected to see—Captain Arnaud Giraud. He stared at it for a long time.

He remembered the man clearly—sharp, loyal, always ready with a biting remark during the long, tense days at Saint-Michel. Giraud had died defending the chapel stairs, buying minutes that allowed others to fall back. Masséna hadn't known he'd been confirmed dead. The last reports had listed him as missing.

"I should've sent a letter to his family," Masséna whispered to no one.

He pressed his hand flat against the engraving. For a moment, the noise of Elysee—its carriages, its voices, its cheers—vanished. All he could hear were the crack of muskets, the scream of orders, the silence that followed the end.

A soft voice broke the moment.

"Marshal?"

It was a young soldier, barely older than twenty, standing respectfully a few paces away. He wore the uniform of the Crown Guard, his posture stiff, his eyes nervous.

"Yes?"

"I was ordered to escort you back to the palace, sir. The king has requested your presence for a final portrait session… for the Hall of Marshals."

Masséna exhaled. "Of course he has."

He gave one last glance to the wall, then turned away from it.

As they walked down the gravel path, Masséna spoke quietly.

"Do they teach you about Saint-Michel in the academies?"

The young man looked surprised. "Not yet, sir. Only basic lessons about the rebellion. Mostly about Roux."

Masséna nodded slowly. "One day, they'll teach it properly. Make sure when they do, you remember the names on that wall more than the speeches they gave."

"Yes, Marshal."

They reached the waiting carriage. Masséna hesitated before climbing in. He looked back at the construction site one final time, watching as workers laid more stones and an artist chiseled letters under a canvas tarp.

History was already being written.

But he had seen the truth behind it.

He climbed into the carriage, closed the door behind him, and allowed it to take him back to the palace.

There were still ceremonies to attend, paints to pose for, and dinners to endure.

But soon, he would be gone.