Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 70: Shadows Over the Empire

The Palace of Tuileries, Paris — November.

The fire crackled in the ornate hearth, but the room felt colder than the frost outside. Heavy curtains muffled the sounds of the street protests below, where students and merchants shouted slogans against "Aragonese expansion masked as charity." Inside, a summit of European dignitaries had gathered in the grand salon under the watchful gaze of oil-painted emperors.

A man with a grey goatee and hawk-like features slammed a folder onto the table.

"This is no coincidence," barked Minister Delacroix of the Francois Republic. "A medical school in Samar. Polytechnics in Panay. Naval weather posts in Zamboanga. They’re not building allies—they’re building dependencies!"

Across from him, the Dutch ambassador—a ruddy-faced man with spectacles too small for his face—adjusted his collar nervously. "Aragon hasn’t fired a shot. The locals welcome them. What would you have us do, Monsieur Minister? Sanction chalkboards? Burn textbooks?"

"That’s precisely the problem!" Delacroix shot back. "They don’t need guns. They’re using the one weapon we’ve never been able to master—consent."

A murmur rippled around the table.

At the far end, a British lord with a silver pocket watch cleared his throat. "We’ve long known Lancelot was clever. But this Kareya Doctrine of his... it’s dangerous. The promise of autonomy, rights to withdraw, access to education—who could resist it? Especially when we offer tariffs and sugar quotas."

"And yet," the Spanish delegate mumbled, "you didn’t complain when we built missions."

"That was before," Delacroix snapped. "Before the world learned to read."

Silence fell again. Every nation in the room had a stake in Asia. Every power had a colony to lose. But none had a solution.

Delacroix finally exhaled and said, "We need to undermine the narrative. Reveal the flaws. Find cracks in this... Civil Empire."

"Expose them?" the Dutchman asked.

"No. We make them stumble. Let the world see Aragon fail on its own terms."

Firewell, Capital of Aragon

The golden dome of the Civic Council Hall gleamed beneath a gray sky as storm clouds rolled across the highlands. Inside, the mood was uneasy. Council members sat around a long oak table, reviewing documents printed on crisp Kareyan paper.

"The treasury reports a 17% increase in education grants to overseas provinces," said Treasurer Varga, frowning. "Meanwhile, grain prices in the north are rising due to supply redirection."

"We’ve stretched too far, too fast," added Minister Talib, adjusting his robes. "Every scholar and engineer we send to the colonies is one we lose at home. Kareya’s universities are emptying."

Juliette, seated beside the window, tapped her pen against her notebook. She looked to Lancelot, who sat quietly, scanning a letter from a hospital in Davao.

"I know what you’re going to say," he muttered. "That we should slow down. Consolidate. Secure the home front."

"No," Juliette said softly. "I think we should prepare for the storm."

"Meaning?" asked Varga.

She rose and walked to the map pinned to the wall—a tapestry of red lines, rail routes, and white stars marking schools and clinics.

"We’ve been planting seeds," she said, "but seeds don’t grow in silence. The world is watching. And someone—perhaps many—will try to uproot what we’ve sown."

Lancelot folded the letter, stood, and approached the council. "So we prepare. Not with soldiers. With witnesses."

He looked to the scribes and gave the order: "Invite scholars, journalists, and students from every nation. Let them see with their own eyes what we’re doing."

"And if they write lies?" asked Minister Talib.

"Then we build louder truths," Lancelot replied.

Panay Island – Nueva Vitoria

Weeks later, the first foreign observers arrived. A delegation from the East India College. A Dutch reformist. A skeptical Francois journalist named Alexandre Maret.

They were escorted through towns where irrigation systems were underway. They visited hospitals where nurses taught local midwives. They sat in classes where Visayan and Castilian were taught side by side.

At first, Maret scoffed. "This is stagecraft. Theater."

But in the second week, he fell ill—feverish, weak.

He was treated by a young nurse named Alina, trained under Aragonese doctors but native to Zamboanga. She stayed by his side for days.

When he recovered, he asked why.

"My brother died last year," she said, "before the water filtration kits came. Now I make sure no one else does."

Maret said little after that. But his next article, printed in Le Monde Républicain, bore the headline:

"The Empire That Teaches."

It went viral across the continent.

Meanwhile, in Samar

Construction of the Maria Samar Medical College was well underway. Foundations had been laid, and the skeletal frames of classrooms stood tall against the tropical hills. Children carried buckets of sand alongside laborers. A retired surgeon from Firewell, Dr. Elsa Renard, personally oversaw the training of the first cohort of local health aides.

On the third week of the build, a strange fire swept through one of the lumber depots. It was sudden. Coordinated. Precise.

The local guards caught one man fleeing with a matchbox bearing a foreign sigil: the mark of a Dutch trading guild.

The council in Firewell received the report with grim silence.

Juliette clenched her fists. "They’re testing us."

Lancelot nodded. "Then we must not flinch."

London – House of Lords

In a smoky parliamentary chamber, a debate raged.

"They’re building universities, not warships!" one young lord exclaimed.

"And yet they’re outpacing us in Manila, in Taipei, in even Borneo!" shouted another.

A veteran MP with a cane stood up. "Gentlemen, we lost America not because we were weak—but because we failed to educate. Aragon is not repeating our mistake. They are using the hunger of the mind."

He turned to the map.

"And mark me: the pen is mightier than the pound."

Back in Aragon

The Civic Council held a public assembly. Lancelot stood at the podium, flanked by Juliette, governors from Kareya, and elders from Panay, Samar, and Davao. Thousands gathered, while the speech was telegraphed to colonies abroad.

"We have been called many names," Lancelot began. "An empire. A soft power. A cunning force."

He paused.

"But what we are is simple: a bridge. Between ignorance and knowledge. Between fear and hope. Between past pain and future healing."

He looked out to the crowd.

"If they burn our schools, we build again. If they tear down our clinics, we heal anyway. Because we are not here to dominate. We are here to serve."

The cheers were thunderous.

That night, in Samar, little Maria—now in her second year of primary studies—read aloud from her new science book.

And in Firewell, Lancelot opened another letter.

"Your Highness," it read, "my brother wants to be a nurse now. I think we will both become healers."

He smiled, folded the letter, and whispered:

"One step closer."

Distant Shores – The Inevitable Clash

In Saigon, a shadowy figure named Colonel Renard—formerly of the Francois Legion—began amassing mercenaries. His mission: destabilize Aragon’s influence without drawing blame. Rebel groups were armed. Saboteurs were embedded in ports. False rumors of Aragonese betrayal were spread.

One village in Mindoro rose up, believing their rice taxes would be doubled. A mob stormed a local schoolhouse, only to find teachers still inside, handing out grain vouchers—part of a new Aragonese relief program.

The villagers stopped.

They wept.

And then they stayed, choosing to help rebuild.

But a message had been sent. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

Juliette stared at the reports on her desk. "They’ve begun a proxy war."

Lancelot nodded. "Then we fight with truth. With patience."

He paused, then added, "And if that fails... we still don’t raise the sword."

Final Scene – Firewell Observatory

Lancelot stood alone on the observatory’s terrace, staring at the stars. The map of Aragon’s reach was now dotted with more names than he ever dreamed. But so were the risks.

Juliette joined him, a cup of tea in hand.

"We should sleep," she said.

He didn’t answer at first.

Finally, he whispered, "What if we lose?"

She touched his arm. "Then let history remember that we tried. That we lit a match in the dark."

He turned to her. "No. Not a match."

He looked to the east, where the sun was just beginning to rise beyond the hills of Kareya.

"A lighthouse."

Juliette followed his gaze. The first rays of morning brushed the rooftops of Firewell, catching on the domes of academies, the spires of research halls, and the smoke stacks of factories. Beyond the horizon, ships carried goods and teachers to ports once ruled by distant monarchs and indifferent merchants.

She sipped her tea and asked, "Do you think they’ll ever see us as more than invaders with better manners?"

"Maybe not in our lifetime," Lancelot said, voice low. "But Maria might. Her children will."

A soft wind stirred the observatory’s flags. One bore the Aragonese crest. The other, the symbol of the Kareya Doctrine—a sun rising from an open book.

"Empires fall," Juliette murmured. "Always."

"Yes," he agreed. "But what if ours isn’t built to last? What if it’s built to be outgrown?"

She looked at him.

"To make ourselves obsolete?"

Lancelot smiled faintly. "Isn’t that the best legacy? To build a world that no longer needs you?"

In the silence that followed, they watched the sky brighten.

And in that stillness, where most men would plan for war, Lancelot planned for tomorrow—one school, one well, one mind at a time.

The age of conquest was ending.

The age of cultivation had begun.