Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 37: Fire Over Marseille

The Aragonese fleet arrived under cover of darkness.

By the time the sun broke the horizon, casting a pale orange hue over the calm waters of the Gulf of Lion, the dreadnoughts were already in position. Santo Dominio and Resolución held formation twenty-five kilometers from shore, silent titans of steel against the early light.

On their decks, crewmen moved like clockwork, each gun loaded, each mechanism tested, each officer silent in anticipation.

Regent Lancelot stood on the bridge of Resolución, eyes fixed on the distant silhouettes of Marseille’s shoreline. A smudge of old-world stone and sea walls rose from the coast—Fort Saint-Nicolas and Fort Saint-Jean—vestiges of another age.

Admiral Tormes, beside him, lifted his telescope. "Targets confirmed. Wind minimal. Range calculated."

Below deck, the shells were ready—high-explosive, delayed-fuse monsters, each weighing over 400 kilograms. Designed to crack reinforced bunkers and sink ships in a single blow.

"Commence bombardment," Lancelot said.

A single bell rang.

Moments later, the deck beneath their boots trembled—not from failure, but from purpose.

Resolución’s forward turret boomed first. The muzzle flash lit the air like lightning. Then Santo Dominio followed with her own thunderous salute.

Twelve guns in total—six per ship—fired in perfect sequence.

From afar, Marseille had seconds to react.

The first shells landed inside Fort Saint-Nicolas. Stone cracked. Earth jumped. The explosion echoed across the city like the voice of God. Garrisoned soldiers, still struggling to rouse from sleep, were thrown like dolls as their walls caved in.

Within three minutes, Fort Saint-Jean followed—struck by three direct hits in succession. One landed squarely on its central tower, reducing it to rubble in an instant. The signal mast toppled. Flags burned. Gun crews who had barely reached their cannons were buried alive.

"Continue the line," Tormes ordered. "Stagger fire. Overlap shells. No pauses."

Gunfire resumed, methodical and merciless.

The fortifications did manage to return fire—but their guns were relics. Smoothbore cannons on fixed mounts, loaded by hand, crewed by men trained on doctrines a century old. One such cannon fired a shot at Resolución.

It landed with a hollow clang against the ship’s armored belt, ricocheted off the steel like a toy ball, and plunked harmlessly into the sea.

"Armor integrity: nominal," reported the watch officer calmly.

Tormes didn’t even glance at the impact point. "Maintain course."

Below, in the gun decks, Mirena’s engineering marvels were in full operation. The shell elevators moved with mechanical precision. Steam-powered hoists lifted charges from powder lockers with the grace of orchestras. The dreadnoughts were no longer machines—they were organisms, alive with intent.

Within the hour, both coastal forts were reduced to smoldering ruins.

Observation balloons, launched inland the previous week by Aragonese agents, now loomed above the city, gently drifting over selected targets. Light signals blinked from them in prearranged code: "Arsenal confirmed. Barracks confirmed. Munitions depot confirmed."

Lancelot gave the next order. "Phase Two. Begin urban bombardment."

A new wave of shells soared.

This time, they landed deeper into Marseille. The city’s old arsenal exploded in a shockwave of flame and metal. The south barracks disintegrated in a roar that shattered windows in every district. A telegraph station vaporized, cutting the local garrison from Paris entirely.

Smoke blanketed the skyline. The southern third of the city was already in chaos.

From sea level, transport ships had begun their advance. Minesweepers skimmed ahead—quick paddlecraft repurposed to detect and detonate primitive harbor mines. Behind them, the armored frigates surged, forming a protective wall around the transports.

From shore, occasional musket fire cracked out—but it was futile. The defenders had no range, no organization. The landing zones had been chosen for minimal resistance, and they were being cleared even before boots touched ground.

By midday, Aragonese marines landed at Calanque.

Three brigades.

They disembarked with discipline and silence, rifles in hand, eyes scanning. By the time they stepped onto the stony beaches, no cannon fired at them. Only the distant thunder of their own ships.

Mobile siege mortars were reassembled within hours—Mirena’s disassembly schematics proving their worth. Each mortar was dragged by team and winch into new positions overlooking the eastern approach into the city.

A second wave landed by dusk—infantry from Zaragoza and Valencia, already well-fed and well-armed thanks to the efficiency of Aragon’s railway logistics. The food they ate had been transported straight from Madrid’s military warehouses to Castellón by train. Not a single barrel had been delayed.

At sea, the dreadnoughts shifted slightly in their anchorage, adjusting bearing to track potential pockets of resistance deeper inland. Spotters now directed fire into the hills behind the city—believed to shelter retreating rebel units.

Shells howled overhead once more.

On the ground, General Montiel walked through the scorched ruins of Fort Saint-Nicolas. His boots crunched over blackened stone and bloodied flagpoles. Behind him, engineers erected signal posts and rangefinders, preparing for the push northward.

A soldier approached, saluting. "No survivors in the powder vaults, sir. Everything collapsed inward."

Montiel nodded grimly. "Then we begin the advance. I want patrols north by morning. The main army lands in three days."

At the city’s port, the first Aragonese flag was raised over a smoldering customs building.

It had taken twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours to cripple an entire city’s defenses. Twenty-four hours to seize one of the Republic’s proudest cities. The world would know it by morning.

That night, Lancelot stood on the deck of Resolución, watching the fires of Marseille flicker in the distance. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The message was already sent—by gun, by flame, by steel.

Aragon had landed.

And it would not stop here.

As night deepened, the smoke curling above the city of Marseille glowed with a haunting orange hue, lit from below by burning barracks, shattered garrisons, and flaming warehouses. The port was drowned in silence now—no bells rang, no defenders shouted. Only the distant creak of hulls against the tide and the occasional crash of masonry giving way under its own weight.

Aboard the Resolución, Regent Lancelot remained by the aft observation deck, joined now by Alicia, her coat still smelling faintly of ash from their earlier tour of the gun decks.

"They never had a chance," she said, voice soft but unsympathetic.

"They had over a century to prepare," Lancelot replied flatly. "But they prepared for the last war, not this one."

From the crow’s nest, a signal came through—flashes from a mirror code lamp. An officer read it aloud.

"Confirmation: eastern hills cleared by initial fire missions. No sign of organized resistance. Urban reconnaissance in progress."

Alicia lowered her gaze toward the coastline. "How many dead, do you think?"

"Too many," Lancelot murmured. "But far fewer than what a drawn-out siege would bring."

Across the city, Aragonese engineers now moved to secure the major roadways and junctions. Using collapsible steel bridges stored in modular crates, they began spanning the smaller canals and broken aqueducts. Soldiers, many still fresh off the ships, worked in silence, trained to act with precision even amid the chaos.

One of the city’s remaining Francois garrisons—a small company holed up near the central telegraph office—attempted to make a stand. They fired from windows, rifles cracking from the upper floors.

But a single barrage from a forward-positioned mobile mortar cleared the block. The structure folded inward like a crushed tin box.

That night, the dreadnoughts turned their guns inland.

With no naval targets left, their turrets elevated toward the northern approaches to Marseille, firing into distant hills and roads where Francois forces might be staging. Spotters embedded among the local loyalists sent up red signal flares when they spotted movement. Each time, a shell was sent in reply.

By midnight, Lancelot convened a temporary command staff on the Resolución.

General Montiel stood over a fresh field map laid across an iron plotting table in the wardroom. The city’s layout was updated by couriers and scouts hourly.

"We’ve secured the southern and eastern districts. The central market area was abandoned. The rebels are retreating toward Aix-en-Provence and Avignon," Montiel reported.

"Let them run," Lancelot said. "We have no need to chase—not yet."

"We’ve also captured several ammunition depots intact," Alicia added, "along with a printing press and telegraph machine still wired to Paris. They were still trying to ask for help... hours after their lines were cut."

"They won’t come," Montiel said grimly. "The Republic’s army is fractured. Their northern front is still bleeding against the Prussians. Their capital is paralyzed."

"No," Lancelot said, "they’ll come. Because they can’t afford to lose the south."

He walked toward the open bulkhead and looked out over the dark sea, lit faintly by the glow of Marseille’s ruin. The wind tugged at his coat. Below, on the harbor streets, his men moved in coordinated columns. Brass trumpets occasionally signaled new orders. Searchlights flicked over the hills. New positions were being claimed by the hour.

"Tomorrow, we send word to Sardegna and Britannia," Lancelot continued. "Let them know Marseille is ours."

"And after?" Alicia asked.

"We make the city bleed us no longer. Disarm the radicals. Feed the loyal. Reopen the port for supply chains. From here, we don’t just march north—we control the entire southern coast. They’ll choke on their own inland supply lines."

Alicia nodded slowly. "The Republic has never faced an enemy like us."

"That’s because we didn’t exist five years ago," Lancelot replied. "But now we do. And now... we remind them what industry, order, and discipline look like when welded to purpose."

Below deck, soldiers were already setting up supply stations, communication rooms, and mobile medical wards. The ships’ cranes—once used to load shells—now carefully lowered crates of bandages, medical alcohol, and triage tents. Civilian volunteers followed in the second transport wave, tasked with restoring infrastructure.

Alicia turned toward the map. "If we strike Lyon next, we cut them in two. South from Paris, east from Bordeaux—all of it severed."

"They’ll realize that soon," Lancelot said. "Let them think. Let them despair. Marseille wasn’t just a landing—it was a declaration."

He turned to Admiral Tormes.

"Begin post-bombardment firing reports. I want every shell accounted for. I want kill zones mapped. I want to know exactly how fast and how efficiently we dismantled a fortress city."

"As you command, Your Highness."

At the port, the first electric generator units—carried over by engineer crews—were now being assembled. Aragonese lighting poles, shipped disassembled in numbered sections, were being erected over the docks and command centers.

By dawn, the Aragonese flag not only flew from the customs building—but illuminated by electric light.

Marseille, one of the proud jewels of the Republic, now glowed under a banner of steam, steel, and sovereignty.

As Lancelot looked upon the city one final time before retiring for rest, he whispered to no one in particular:

"This is just the beginning."

And he meant it.

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