Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 48: The Smell Beneath the Progress Part 1

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Chapter 48: The Smell Beneath the Progress Part 1

The morning began with a stench.

It seeped through the narrow alleys of southern Madrid, curled beneath doorframes, and clung to the linen hung out to dry. Bakers covered their noses as they opened shop. Blacksmiths cursed the rising heat for stirring the foul air. In the district of Lavapiés, the newly cobbled streets shimmered with a thin film of filth, and residents were already forming a line outside the municipal office by midmorning.

Inside the palace, Prince Lancelot read the latest report with a grim frown. The parchment crackled as he turned the page, the ink barely dry. Alicia stood beside him with her arms crossed, the heels of her boots tapping a steady rhythm on the marble floor.

"We’ve had twenty-four complaints filed in the last forty-eight hours," she said. "Mostly from the southern and eastern districts. The overflow’s spreading."

Lancelot looked up. "But the sewer system is active. We finished the fifth line last week."

"Yes, but the system was built to accommodate seventy thousand residents," Alicia replied. "Madrid has nearly a hundred thousand now. And more are arriving daily—from the countryside, from former Francois provinces, even from Britannia. Too many people, too fast. The city is not going to be able to keep up with the rapid increase of population."

He exhaled and set the parchment down.

"And the engineers?"

"Overworked. Some of the lower chambers are backing up due to poor grading. Others were blocked by waste not meant for sewers—bedding, rotting vegetables, animal bones. We’ve issued education notices, but no one reads them."

"They’ll read once their homes start flooding," Lancelot muttered. "Or if anyone knows how to read at all. The literacy rate is low, which is why we have to fix that as well through education."

Alicia didn’t laugh. "Sir, I think we’re facing a genuine sanitation crisis."

He knew she was right. It had started subtly—an increase in street rats, a few coughs turning into fevers. Now entire neighborhoods reeked of decay, and the river water downstream of the city had turned brownish-green.

Lancelot stood and straightened his coat.

"Call the Board of Public Works. I want every district inspector and sanitation engineer in the hall by noon. No excuses."

Alicia gave a nod and turned to leave, but paused. "And Montiel?"

Lancelot shook his head. "No soldiers. Not yet. We fix this before it turns into panic."

By midday, the Hall of Reformation smelled faintly of lime, ink, and sweat.

Wooden chairs creaked under the weight of overworked men—engineers, architects, clerks. Blueprints were unrolled across long tables, detailing subterranean tunnels, junction boxes, and spill basins. The room buzzed with complaints.

"It’s the grading angle in Sector Three. I told them it was too shallow!"

"They’re dumping horse waste straight into the gutters!"

"We haven’t had fresh filter cloths in two weeks—no wonder the runoff smells like death!"

Lancelot entered with a quiet authority. He did not bark orders. He did not slam a table. He simply walked to the center of the room, placed his hand on the largest map, and waited for silence.

It came quickly.

"This city," he began, "was not designed for the future we’re building. But we built it anyway. Now, it resists us."

He met their eyes one by one.

"That’s not the city’s fault. It’s ours. We scaled without planning. We expanded without caution. We triumphed in the field of war, but failed to keep our own streets clean."

A few heads dipped in shame.

"But failure," he continued, "is only final when left unanswered."

He pointed at the central map. "We will triple sanitation teams in the lower districts. We will extend the sewer grates along Calle Ortega and the Queen’s Mile. I want every street pump tested, every overflow basin scrubbed and lined. Assign rotations—day and night."

One of the engineers, a grizzled man with ash-streaked sleeves, raised a hesitant hand. "And the waste treatment, sir? It’s leaking into the Manzanares."

Lancelot nodded. "Then we reroute. Use the northern bypass for now. Divert excess to the interim filtration ponds near Casa del Rey. I don’t care how many carts it takes. Get it done."

Another clerk chimed in nervously. "And the people, Your Highness? They’re scared. Some believe the water’s cursed."

"Then we show them it’s not," he said firmly. "I will visit the worst-hit districts myself. We’ll walk the pipes. Test the water. They need to see their government standing in the same filth they live with."

The hall fell quiet again.

And then, murmurs of agreement began to ripple through the room.

Later that afternoon, Lancelot rode in an open tram through Lavapiés, accompanied only by Alicia and a handful of sanitation officers. The people watched from behind shuttered windows and alleyways. Children peered from behind laundry lines. Some sneered, others looked confused. But all of them stared.

At the southern corner of Calle Rojas, a woman burst forward from a doorway, face flushed with rage.

"My baby got sick!" she shouted. "He drank the water! He can’t stop coughing!"

Lancelot dismounted and approached. "Where do you live?"

She pointed. "Number thirty-two. The drain outside’s been flooding for days."

Without pause, he followed her through the doorway, Alicia trailing behind. Inside, the apartment was barely more than a room—a mattress, a basin, a child curled on a thin mat coughing into a stained rag.

Lancelot knelt.

He dipped his fingers into the basin of water beside the boy, sniffed it. It smelled faintly of rot and sewage.

"Get the medic," he said quietly to Alicia.

She nodded and stepped outside.

The mother trembled. "We can’t move. Nowhere else to go. My husband died building your tracks."

Lancelot looked at her, eyes steady. "Then I owe you more than a promise. I owe you a future."

By nightfall, the sanitation officers had begun clearing the drain. Dozens of civilians watched from rooftops and windows as the Prince himself helped lift the grating, revealing the blocked pipe beneath. Sludge and black water poured out in foul waves.

Still, he stood by.

Still, he worked.

And still, they watched.

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