Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 38: The Squeeze on the South

The morning sun crept over Marseille like a slow promise, painting smoke and ruin in gold. The city lay in smoldering silence, its great walls reduced, its pride shattered. But Regent Lancelot did not pause in triumph. He stood on the deck of Resolución, the surface of the Gulf of Lion glinting beneath warships and support vessels. Next to him stood Alicia, General Montiel, and Admiral Tormes. They watched as the first rays of dawn revealed the aftermath of their assault.

"We lost few men," Admiral Tormes reported, eyes scanning the docks. "No dreadnought took more than peripheral hits."

Montiel nodded toward the eastern hills. "The siege mortars have finished their sweep. Rebel pockets are scattering—no organized defense front yet."

Alicia refolded a map. "Intelligence suggests the Francois Army’s southern command is in disarray. They’ve lost Marseille’s ports, supply lines, even morale."

Lancelot looked out at the city rising behind a veil of smoke—now dotted with Aragonese engineers, cranes laying rail segments, telegraph poles being raised, and civilian volunteers guiding displaced families. "Perfect," he murmured softly. "They think this is all we came for."

Tormes turned to Nicolas, the senior engineer aboard Resolución. "We begin power generation tonight. Install portable dynamos along the docks. I want these cranes lit—and the port offices too."

Alicia made a note. "Electric lights by dawn."

"In Marseille, we don’t occupy—we rebuild," Lancelot said gently. "Let them see Aragon arrives to govern."

At the break of next dawn, three foreign delegation cutters slipped into harbor alongside the transport vessels. Flags of Britannia, Glanzreich, and Sardegna fluttered stiffly in the smoky air. Their arrival was no accident; Lancelot had personally invited them to witness both siege and strategy.

Soon, the delegates were seated under a sheltering white marquee atop the cliff overlooking the bay. Below, the railhead snaked inland. Toxic fires from the city’s housing blocks still smoldered against a steel-gray sky.

Lancelot entered, in simple grey coat and steel buttons gleaming. Adjacent were Alicia, Montiel, and Tormes in diplomatic-appropriate garb.

The Britannian ambassador approached, face pale but composed. "Your Highness," he said, bowing.

"Gentlemen," Lancelot greeted.

He gestured toward the harbor. "You saw the bombardment first-hand. You witnessed our landing. You felt nothing from the coastal guns." freёnovelkiss-com

The Ferrarian envoy of Sardegna nodded. "The spectacle was... undeniable. Aragon’s dreadnoughts redrew the map of naval power."

The Glanzreich colonel spoke next, voice smooth. "What astonishes most: your integration. Rail unloading ordnance directly into shell rooms. Engineers patching rails on the spot. By the time we arrived, you had Marseille wired, lit, and governed."

"Prompted by necessity," Lancelot said. "Regimented foresight."

The Ambassador bowed again. "It is clear. We come not asking—but offering continued cooperation."

Even as he spoke, Lancelot’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Let’s be clear: we will sell the engines, the locomotives, the guns—but not the blueprints. If your nations desire our weapons, they’ll be built in Aragon. Not here."

The Sardegna envoy sat stiff. The Britannian swallowed.

"We understand," he said finally. "We would purchase a dreadnought fleet—preferably yours."

"Then we shall discuss cost," Lancelot replied.

That same evening, Lancelot walked through Marseille’s streets: collapsed warehouses, overturned supply wagons, and Aragonese military police distributing food and blankets. A black-coated colonel walked beside him, reading aloud orders from his dispatch stamp.

Engineers erected quick-build lighting poles along the dock, streamlining shell warehouses and rail spurs. Foot-paved roads were cleared; water pumps sent pipes into the damaged well network. Overcrowded refugee encampments streamed through streets, looking for direction—but finding Aragonese officers who offered food, medical care, and purpose.

"These are the winners now," Montiel said quietly beside him. "They need neither swords nor governors—they need hope."

In a dusty courtyard, a young boy pulled out a tattered Francois flag. Soldiers gently lowered it to the ground. The boy looked doubtful.

"In Aragon," Lancelot said quietly, "no one lives by fear. We govern by law."

The boy nodded and dropped the flag into a nearby bonfire. Where terror once held control, a new future flickered.

The Next Move

Back aboard Resolución, Lancelot conferred privately with Montiel, Tormes, and Alicia.

"Next: Lyon," he said, laying his palm on a map. "We’ve severed Marseille. Now we must cut the Republic in half. Lyon is their rail hub, their strategical pivot."

Montiel nodded. "The main army is ready to land. Eight divisions in position—Zaragoza and Catalonia troops. All aboard on the transport fleet tonight."

"Rail lines?" Lancelot asked Alicia.

"We’re installing a temporary rail loop inside the docks tonight. Coal, ammunition, bridge parts—they’ll ride straight ashore, avoid the chaos of reclaiming roads."

He turned to Tormes. "What of naval support?"

"We move our dreadnoughts twenty kilometers to the west coast—protect the supply convoy and shell inland targets as needed."

"Good. Send word to Sardegna—they can patrol to the east and prevent reinforcements from Toulon. Britannia can run liaison, but we’ll be in command."

Tormes nodded.

"With Marseille stabilized, we’ll hold the south. Our attention turns north."

Alicia closed her notebook.

"What about their airfield near Avignon?"

"Spotters saw balloon sheds 15 km inland," Montiel said. "They’re recruiting crews, but they won’t have craft assembled for weeks."

"Then we can work faster."

Lancelot exhaled.

"We are shaping what the continent thinks war is. We are no longer reactive. We are architects. We deploy rails, steam, electricity—then we strike at will."

He stood and placed his hand on the deck rail, looking toward the brightening harbor.

"Let tonight be known as the second dawn—not the first salvo in Marseille. That was storm. This is purpose."

His gaze moved to Alicia.

"Send the decree: Marseille will operate under Aragonese civil authority. Lyon will be our next front. And then... whoever stands against this empire of civilization will break upon our steel."

She nodded.

The next morning, Marseille woke to music. Not the sound of guns—but of marching troops.

Aragonese bands played patriotic hymns. Town criers announced rations and rebuilding efforts. Steam cranes lifted crates of electric lighting into newly built warehouses. Tanks of lamp oil were replaced with wires and dynamos.

On the docks, two dozen flatbed rail cars waited to unload crates marked "FIELD HOSPITAL," "MOBILE POWER," "SPARE STEEL BRIDGE," "AGRICULTURE SEED STOCK." More were arriving by the hour.

From Resolución, the derricks lowered field telephone equipment—telephone poles and switchboards already rigged for installation.

Lyon had yet to fall. But Marseille was now a beacon of Aragon’s global calculus: forge a path of order, deliver decisive blows, then rebuild on your terms.

Lancelot strode among the civilians, shook hands with engineers, embraced his generals. He paused before the remains of the customs house, now bearing the Aragonese colors—and lights running day and night.

His final message:

"This city was mine by steel, fear, and fire. But now it is ours by law, hope, and purpose."

The world watched—and wondered:

What power could match an empire built by rail, steam, and the will of a single visionary prince?

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