Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 36: Prelude to the Invasion

It began before dawn.

Madrid’s Grand Military Rail Terminal, once a symbol of modernization and pride, now thundered with the pulse of war. Under iron beams and gas-lit chandeliers, the rhythmic clanking of steel echoed as endless crates, cannon barrels, and ammunition belts were loaded with practiced efficiency. It had taken years of reforms, discipline, and sacrifice—but now, Aragon moved like a machine.

Regent Lancelot stood on a high platform overlooking the platform yard, gloved hands resting on the rail. Beside him, Alicia leafed through a thick report, while General Montiel stood rigidly at attention, his uniform pristine.

"Our numbers?" Lancelot asked without turning.

"Eighteen divisions in total," Montiel replied. "One hundred thirty-two thousand men. Five thousand engineers, ten thousand logistical staff. All of them trained, drilled, and supplied."

"And supplies?"

"Twenty-four thousand rifles, twelve hundred field guns, three hundred siege mortars," Alicia listed, "and one-point-two million rounds of ammunition. Food stockpiles to last three months. Powdered grain, salt pork, dried fruit. Coal loads have been doubled along every rail route. Steel plates and spare rail segments in case of sabotage or disruption."

The Regent said nothing, only nodded.

Along the tracks, armored steam locomotives hissed and puffed as they prepared to depart. Only Aragon had them—these iron beasts with reinforced boilers, broad steel cowcatchers, and mechanical couplings built for heavy artillery.

Flatbed cars carried mortars protected in hay-cushioned cradles. Covered wagons held spare rifles, tents, and dried ink for dispatches. Barrels of water and coal were secured by iron chains. Every fifteen minutes, another train departed south.

Only Aragon could do this. No other nation had the lines, the scheduling, or the industrial spine to move an army this size without weeks of delay. But in Aragon, a soldier could board in Zaragoza and be in Castellón by morning.

Lancelot stepped down from the platform. "Cartagena and Castellón?"

"Both ports have begun loading," Montiel answered. "Every naval crane is operating day and night. Infantry divisions arrive by rail, board within the hour."

"And the ships?"

Alicia closed the report. "Twelve transport ships launched. Six more sail at night. Each can carry over six thousand men with full supplies. The dreadnoughts Santo Dominio and Resolución are already in the harbor."

They made their way to the waiting carriage. Drawn by a team of strong Andalusian horses, the vehicle carried them to the central military staging ground outside Madrid.

There, camps had been erected along both banks of the Manzanares. Tents stretched in rows so orderly they resembled city blocks. Field kitchens operated under canvas roofs. Blacksmiths hammered fittings onto gun carriages. Chaplains blessed water and wounded alike.

Lancelot passed between the tents on foot, nodding to officers as they saluted.

From there, he continued by special train—straight to Castellón.

By the next day, he arrived at the docks. The sea air hit his face sharp and briny, the scent mixed with coal smoke and damp wood. And before him rose a sight he had waited years to see.

The dreadnought Resolución sat at anchor.

Her hull gleamed dark grey under the morning sun, the Aragonese eagle painted in crimson just below the bridge. Twelve 305mm guns in six twin turrets rested in line along the deck. Range-finding towers and armored conning posts bristled from her superstructure. Even at rest, she radiated power.

The cranes creaked and turned, loading shells by the dozens into her hull. Sailors barked orders and winched cargo. Troops lined the harbor in formation, boarding the transports in single file.

Admiral Tormes met him at the base of the boarding ramp, saluting with crisp precision.

"Your Highness."

"Admiral."

"She’s ready," Tormes said. "Both Santo Dominio and Resolución are armed, fueled, and supplied. Once our convoy assembles, we sail for Marseille."

Lancelot climbed aboard. The deck was hard beneath his boots. The guns—quiet now—seemed to hum with restrained menace.

Below deck, he toured the shell hoists—massive steel elevators designed by Mirena’s team. Crewmen practiced loading drills with dummy rounds, lifting them into the guns in seconds.

"Range?" Lancelot asked.

"Thirty kilometers, Your Highness," one of the gunnery officers replied. "We’ll begin the assault with a high arc bombardment from twenty-five. They’ll never see us coming."

General Montiel, who had joined them on the bridge, unfolded a linen map and laid it across the plotting table. Inked in dark strokes were the outlines of the Francois coastline—Marseille, its surrounding hills, and the harbor fortifications that had stood since the days of cannon and sail.

"We expect resistance along the coastal batteries here," he said, pointing to Fort Saint-Nicolas and Fort Saint-Jean. "They’ve been upgraded, but only slightly—more symbolic than effective. Their cannons are fixed in stone, limited traverse, and manually loaded. They won’t be able to return fire at our range."

Admiral Tormes nodded. "The plan is as follows: Resolución and Santo Dominio will take up bombardment positions twenty-five kilometers offshore, forming a staggered firing line to maintain continuous fire. Our first objective is the neutralization of the harbor defenses. We’ll use high-explosive shells with delayed fuses to collapse gun emplacements and demolish powder magazines."

"Once the forts are reduced," Montiel continued, "we begin Phase Two—urban shelling. Specific sectors of the city, pre-marked by air balloons released inland by our agents, will guide fire toward key military targets—arsenals, barracks, and telegraph stations. We avoid residential zones unless the revolutionaries take shelter there. Even war must have rules." freewebnσvel.cøm

Lancelot studied the map quietly. "And the fleet?"

Tormes answered immediately. "Once we confirm fire superiority, our escort frigates and converted merchant gunships will advance into the outer harbor. Minesweepers—small, fast paddle ships—will clear the approach. After that, the transports arrive."

"And the landing?"

"Three brigades," Montiel replied. "Two at Point Calanque to the east. One directly into the old port once the forts are silenced. They’ll face minimal resistance. The bulk of the Francois Army is either in the north or still recovering from the Loire battles. The south remains undermanned."

"The people of Marseille?"

Montiel grimaced. "A mixture of loyalists, merchants, and radicals. Most will flee inland once the shelling starts. Some might stay and resist. We’ll come prepared for both."

Mirena stepped forward, placing a rolled engineering scroll beside the map. "And we’re deploying a new piece—mobile siege mortars, shipped disassembled in crates. Upon landing, we’ll reassemble and begin indirect shelling on remaining rebel strongholds. By the time the main army arrives, the city will already be crippled."

Lancelot looked up, eyes calm but cold.

"No quarter for the coastal guns. I want them flattened. If they so much as raise a flag, burn it with steel. The port must be ours within three days. And when it is..." He traced a finger from Marseille to the northern roads leading to Lyon. "We drive inland and cut the Republic in half."

Tormes nodded. "As you command."

"Everything you imagined," she said to Lancelot with a faint smile.

He looked at her with quiet pride. "Everything I planned. But now... it must all work."

Later that evening, as the sun sank low over the water, Lancelot stood at the harbor’s edge and watched the last train arrive. It brought the final heavy mortars and a battalion of young recruits—barely men, but already hard-eyed and disciplined.

Each carried their own pack, rifle, and bayonet. Not one looked afraid.

He turned to Alicia. "They’ve trained for this. But war is always worse than training."

"Yes," she said softly. "But they believe in something. That’s more than the Republic can say."

The bells of Castellón tolled once.

Then came the horns—deep and long, echoing across the sea.

One by one, the transports pushed off. Santo Dominio took point, her shadow immense on the waves. Resolución followed close behind.

The fleet left the coast of Aragon, bound for the southern shores of Francois.

This is it.

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