Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 50: Price of Progress

The smell of damp stone lingered in the air long after Lancelot left the construction zone. Despite the efforts to scrub the muck from his boots, traces of clay and lime still clung to his soles—a reminder that even a prince couldn’t rise above the grime of his city’s transformation.

Madrid was changing.

That much no one could deny. In just six weeks, over a dozen filtration wells had been erected across the southern wards. Nearly four hundred men were working underground every day, extending the second-tier sewer lines beneath Lavapiés and El Rastro. Brick by brick, pipe by pipe, the city was shedding its medieval skin.

But with progress came pressure.

And it was mounting.

Inside the grand stone chamber of the Cortes Generales, beneath the frescoed ceilings and the golden lions flanking the speaker’s dais, that pressure was about to explode into the open.

Lancelot sat at the front bench, flanked by Alicia and Finance Minister Darias. He had arrived early, hoping to set the tone. Instead, he now watched as delegates from every province filed in—some in long coats soaked from morning rain, others in silk and furs, untouched by weather or labor.

At precisely the stroke of nine, the Marshal of the Cortes struck his staff against the floor. Silence fell. Then came the voice of Don Teodoro de Abanca, a Viscount from Valencia and known critic of the Regent’s sweeping reforms.

"The prince," Abanca began, standing, "would have us believe that mud and mortar can save Madrid. That latrines and bricks are the foundation of empire."

Murmurs rippled through the room.

Lancelot said nothing—yet.

Abanca gestured to a stack of papers in his hand.

"These are the figures presented by the Ministry of Finance. Triple pay for sewer crews. Bulk orders of iron pipe and ventilation equipment. Seventy thousand reales allocated just last week to purchase land for waste treatment stations. And now—now—we are to create a company to handle it all? To sell shares in a glorified ditch?"

"Point of order," Darias said calmly. "This glorified ditch has reduced infection cases by thirty-one percent in less than a month."

Abanca ignored him.

"I do not deny the sickness, nor the need for sanitation," he continued. "But I question the scale. The speed. And above all—the precedent."

He turned to the assembled nobles and city representatives.

"If the crown can use the weight of its seal to raise money from industrialists for one project... it can do so again. And again. Until we are little more than shareholders in our own government."

Now Lancelot stood.

The room quieted.

"I see," he said slowly. "So your concern is not disease, or poverty, or the rising death toll. It’s that the rich may be asked to pay for the roads their carts roll over, and the drains their factories foul."

Several voices muttered agreement—but others shifted uneasily.

"The precedent, Don Teodoro, has already been set. The moment a weaver in Salamanca falls ill from foul water, and the cost of burying him falls to his parish, not his employer—that, too, is a tax. A hidden one. One you refuse to see."

The Viscount scowled. "You play with numbers and shame, Regent. But you cannot build a country on guilt."

"No," Lancelot agreed. "Only on stone. Steel. And sewage."

A few delegates chuckled—more than Abanca would have liked.

Lancelot let the silence stretch.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "this is not a choice between extravagance and austerity. It is a choice between life and disease. Between filth in the streets, or order beneath them. If you fear this plan because it is bold—then I say it is bold because we have delayed too long."

He turned toward Darias. "Call the vote."

It passed—barely.

By a margin of eleven voices, the Cortes approved the formation of the Madrid Urban Works Company, with an initial funding allotment of 3 million reales, part state-backed, part underwritten by bonds and private equity. Industrialists would be allowed to buy stakes, with capped dividends linked to future infrastructure contracts.

But victory came at a cost.

Outside the chamber, as Lancelot descended the steps to his carriage, he was approached by Don Hernando de Olvera, an elder marquis whose family had held land in Castile since the Reconquista.

"You push hard, my prince," the marquis said, walking beside him.

"I push where the rot lies deepest," Lancelot replied.

The old man nodded. "Then take care your hands don’t begin to stink."

The words stuck with him.

That night, inside the study overlooking the darkened city, Lancelot reviewed the final blueprint revisions brought by Bellido. Alicia sat across from him, sipping cooled tea.

"We’ll break ground in Retiro next," she said. "The terrain’s ideal, and the engineers say the groundwater’s shallow enough for full treatment stations."

Lancelot traced the sewer lines with his finger. "How long before we can scale this to other cities?"

Alicia looked up. "You want to nationalize it?"

"Eventually."

She hesitated. "It will bring enemies."

"Already has."

She nodded. "I’ll draft a list of cities with similar layouts. Seville. Zaragoza. Perhaps even Bordeaux, if they accept help."

He looked out the window toward the lamplit streets. "Let’s start with one."

A knock interrupted them.

The steward bowed low. "A letter, Your Highness. From Britannia."

Lancelot broke the seal.

It was a formal invitation—from the Lord Chancellor of the Isles. They had read of his reforms, studied the press releases, and sent envoys to observe the works. Now they were requesting an official delegation—to discuss knowledge-sharing, perhaps even cooperation.

He handed it to Alicia.

She read it, then raised an eyebrow. "You’re becoming more dangerous than you know."

He said nothing.

Instead, he turned back to the plans, drawing a faint circle around a block in southern Madrid.

"We start tunneling here next," he said.

"Why there?" she asked.

He tapped the parchment.

"Because that’s where the cholera started last spring."

Alicia nodded.

Outside, the rain began again—gentle, then steady. But this time, the streets did not flood. The drains, old and new, whispered beneath the stones. Madrid was beginning to breathe.

And Prince Lancelot would not let it choke again.

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