I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 133: Recognition of Victory

Port of Brest, Western Elysea

The morning fog rolled in from the Atlantic, low and heavy, casting a pale sheen over the Port of Brest. Gulls circled lazily overhead, and the salty air carried the quiet creak of mooring ropes and the muffled clamor of dockhands unloading cargo. The royal vessel Ardent had arrived at dawn, cutting through the mist like a blade through silk.

General André Masséna stood near the gangplank, dressed in his uniform—not parade regalia, but the dark navy coat he had worn during the final days in Pan America. It bore the scuffs of travel, but the medals pinned to his chest gleamed.

A small detachment of royal soldiers greeted him on the dock. Their lieutenant, young and stiff-backed, saluted sharply.

"General Masséna, welcome home, sir. Your transport to the capital awaits."

Masséna nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

He stepped onto the dock, boots landing with a solid thud. He was back in Elysea. And yet, it felt more foreign than the colonies ever had.

He was led past the port buildings to a waiting platform—new, freshly built, with iron rails stretching inland like black veins through the countryside. At the center stood a sleek steam locomotive, painted black with crimson accents, the crest of the Elysean crown mounted proudly on its engine. This was the pride of the kingdom's newest infrastructure: the Royal Western Line. A direct route from Brest to Elysee.

Masséna boarded without ceremony, escorted to a private car furnished in rich red velvet and polished mahogany. The whistle blew, long and sharp, and the train lurched forward.

Through the window, the fields of western Elysea slid past—golden with wheat, dotted with grazing cattle, small villages tucked beneath rolling hills. Children waved as the train sped by. Masséna nodded absently in return.

He hadn't taken the time to look at his country like this in years.

It was quiet. Almost too quiet.

For hours, he sat alone with his thoughts, watching the landscape change. The rugged coast softened into farmland, which then gave way to sprawling suburbs. The smell of coal and steam clung to the air.

By late afternoon, the skyline of Elysee appeared through the haze—tall domes, gleaming towers, and the unmistakable spires of the royal palace in the distance. The capital had grown, even in the short time he'd been away. New roads, new bridges, and the skeletal frames of factories rising on the city's outskirts.

The train hissed to a stop at the Central Terminal, an iron-and-glass behemoth that had only recently opened to the public. The platform bustled with travelers, workers, and soldiers—but Masséna's arrival caused a hush. People turned to look. Some saluted. A few simply stared.

A royal carriage waited outside, flanked by Crown Guard riders. The footman opened the door and bowed low.

"General Masséna," he said respectfully.

Masséna climbed inside.

The carriage rolled forward, iron-clad wheels crunching over cobblestone as they moved through the heart of Elysee. Along the boulevard, citizens paused to catch a glimpse of the man they had heard so much about—the general who had ended the rebellion.

There was no parade. No band. No cheering crowds.

That would come later.

For now, it was just him, the city, and the long road to the palace.

The Royal Residence loomed ahead—an enormous complex of marble and limestone, ringed by iron fences and manicured gardens. Flags fluttered from every turret. Guards stood at attention as the carriage passed through the gates.

Masséna stepped out in the courtyard, greeted by the warm light of the late afternoon sun.

A senior court official approached with a tight smile.

"His Majesty is waiting."

Masséna nodded and followed.

The palace interior had not changed—its floors gleamed with wax, its tapestries told stories of old wars and older kings. But it all felt different now. As if everything had shifted slightly in the wake of what had happened.

At last, the doors to the royal reception chamber opened.

Inside, King Bruno stood near a tall arched window, hands clasped behind his back. At his side stood Queen Amelie, regal as ever in a light silver gown. Her expression was calm but watchful.

Masséna stepped forward and knelt, head bowed.

"Sire. Your Majesty."

Bruno turned. "Rise, André."

Masséna obeyed.

Bruno stepped forward, studying the man before him.

"You look older."

Masséna gave a slight smile. "The colonies have that effect."

Queen Amelie stepped forward. "You look thinner," she said gently. "I hope you've been eating."

"I've done my best, Your Majesty."

Bruno motioned toward a chair. "Sit. This is not a trial. This is a conversation."

Masséna sat.

Bruno remained standing, gaze steady.

"I received your reports. The dispatches. The letters." He paused. "And now you've read mine."

Masséna nodded. "The reforms are sound."

New novel 𝓬hapters are published on ƒreewebɳovel.com.

"You agree with them?"

"I do."

There was a moment of quiet.

"You could have fought them," Bruno said. "Claimed insult. Argued that your authority had been undermined."

"I could have," Masséna said evenly. "But I didn't."

"Why?"

Masséna looked at the king.

"Because the war showed me what happens when we wait too long to act. Roux didn't start as a traitor. He started as a patriot with too much leeway. Too much power. I don't want to become that man, sire."

Bruno studied him for a long moment. Then, he nodded.

"That's why I summoned you."

Masséna blinked. "Not for the ceremony?"

Bruno gave a small smile. "That, too. But more importantly—I wanted to see if you still understood the weight of your uniform."

Masséna's eyes did not waver. "I do."

Queen Amelie stepped forward again. "You saved the colonies, General. And though the kingdom will remember the battles, we will also remember the restraint."

Bruno added, "You could have made yourself a second Roux. You chose not to."

"I'm a soldier, not a ruler."

"Good," the king said. "Because soldiers can be recalled. Replaced. But rulers… they forget who they serve."

He stepped closer and placed a hand on Masséna's shoulder.

"You've done your duty. And for that, you have my gratitude."

Masséna inclined his head. "Thank you, sire."

Bruno straightened.

"There will be honors. A parade. You will attend. Smile, if you can. The people must see the man who kept Elysea whole."

Masséna hesitated. "And after?"

Bruno's voice softened. "Then, you may go. A post will be arranged—quiet, as you requested. A command in the southern provinces. Peaceful. Agricultural."

Masséna exhaled. "That would be welcome."

Bruno turned to the guards. "Escort the general to his chambers. He is to be treated as an honored guest."

As Masséna stood to leave, Queen Amelie spoke once more.

"Rest, General. You've earned it."

Masséna bowed deeply.

"Your Majesties."

He turned and left the chamber.

The doors closed behind him.

And for the first time in many years, André Masséna walked away from power—not in disgrace, not in rebellion, but in peace.

And that, he believed, was a victory all its own. ​