Manuel—no, Napoleon—steeled himself as he strode toward the door. Every step he took felt like walking deeper into an unfamiliar abyss, yet his heart burned with a newfound purpose. If fate had truly placed him in the shoes of history's greatest tactician, then he had no choice but to rise to the challenge.
As the door swung open, a trio of officers stood before him. Their faces were etched with concern and expectation. Among them was General Berthier, Napoleon's chief of staff—his sharp gaze scrutinizing him carefully.
"Mon général," Berthier greeted, his voice measured. "We need to discuss our situation in Egypt. The British fleet under Nelson has dealt us a serious blow. Our men grow restless, and the Mamluks are regrouping. We require decisive action."
Manuel's mind raced. He knew about the Battle of the Nile and how Nelson had shattered the French fleet, cutting them off from France. The campaign in Egypt had been ambitious but ultimately disastrous. History dictated that Napoleon would soon abandon his men and return to France in secret. But was that the right decision?
No. This time, he would do things differently.
He gestured toward the map spread across the table. "We will consolidate our forces in Cairo and prepare for a counteroffensive. The Mamluks believe us weakened, but we still have the advantage of discipline and artillery. Berthier, I want a report on our supply lines and available reinforcements by nightfall."
Berthier's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he nodded. "As you command, general."
Manuel turned his gaze to the other officers. "We must not show weakness. The British and the Mamluks expect hesitation. Instead, we will strike first. I need detailed intelligence on enemy movements. I want our spies in every possible camp. If we control the information, we control the battlefield."
The men exchanged glances. This was their general, but there was something… different about him. A sharper edge, a calculated fire in his eyes.
One of them, a captain, hesitated. "And if Paris calls for your return, mon général?"
Manuel smirked. "Then we shall give them a reason to call for our return as victors."
He had been given a chance to rewrite history. And he would not waste it.
The sun was setting over Cairo, casting an amber glow over the desert sands. In the distance, the call to prayer echoed through the city, a reminder that he was in a land far from home, a land whose fate now rested in his hands. Napoleon—no, Manuel—watched from the balcony of his headquarters, his mind racing with possibilities.
If history was to be rewritten, it had to start now. He turned away from the view and strode purposefully toward the war council, where his officers were gathered. The room was dimly lit by oil lamps, the air thick with the scent of parchment and sweat.
"Mon général," Berthier began as he placed a fresh report on the table. "The Mamluks are amassing near the pyramids. They believe we are vulnerable."
A slow smile crept onto Manuel's lips. "Then we shall teach them otherwise."
He leaned over the map, tracing the enemy's movements with his fingers. "We will lure them into a trap. The desert is unforgiving to those who do not respect it. We shall use the terrain to our advantage."
Murat, one of his cavalry commanders, grinned. "A bold move, general. But how do we ensure they take the bait?"
Manuel's eyes gleamed. "We let them think we are retreating. Draw them in. When they commit their forces, we shall strike from multiple sides."
His officers nodded in agreement, their doubts now replaced with admiration. This was a Napoleon they had never seen before—calculated, ruthless, and unpredictable.
As the meeting adjourned, Manuel took a deep breath. The battle ahead would be crucial. If he succeeded, he would secure his power and rewrite history. If he failed, he would be just another footnote in the sands of time.
One thing was certain—he would not fail.
Tomorrow, he would begin his conquest of destiny.