Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 46: Beneath the Capital Part 1

The scent of wet earth and masonry clung to the morning air as Prince Lancelot descended the final rungs of the reinforced iron ladder. Behind him, the pale glow of a newly installed electric lantern cast long shadows down the tunnel wall, illuminating the glistening concrete arches of Madrid’s newest arteries.

The tunnel was vast—nearly twelve feet high and wide enough for three men to walk abreast. The floor had been carefully graded to a slight angle, designed to allow runoff to flow naturally toward the pumping stations at the riverbanks. Above, hundreds of lanterns lined the corridor at fixed intervals, their light barely enough to chase away the gloom, but a sign of progress nonetheless.

Waiting below was Engineer-Captain Tomas Garza, clipboard in hand, boots covered in grime, and spectacles fogged at the edges from the moist air.

"Your Highness," he said, bowing slightly before offering a gloved hand to steady Lancelot’s landing. "You’re early."

Lancelot brushed the dust from his sleeves and adjusted his coat collar. "Habit, I’m afraid. When war trains leave late, people die. I assume delays here only mean filth and disease."

Garza chuckled. "Less dramatic, but no less true."

Lancelot looked around, his eyes sweeping across the crew: dozens of men and women, some hammering reinforcements into support beams, others rolling iron carts filled with cement and bricks. Further down the tunnel, a small team was fitting iron grates and pouring lime into the drainage troughs. The echo of picks, shovels, and shouted orders reverberated down the subterranean chamber.

"These walls," Lancelot said, resting a palm against the smooth concrete, "they’ll carry more than runoff. They’ll carry the memory of cholera, of famine. They’ll carry every death we failed to prevent."

Garza’s expression sobered. "You remember the numbers from 1786?"

"I don’t forget the dead," Lancelot replied. "Ten thousand lost to disease in a single summer. And most of it could’ve been prevented with proper sanitation."

The engineer nodded. "Which is why we’re here."

They began walking, boots squelching lightly in the damp, carefully packed path that ran beside the central channel. Garza pointed to several offshoots in the walls—side tunnels leading to future junctions.

"Each of these will link up with residential catchments above. We’ve completed twelve sectors so far. Another eighteen are underway."

"And the mains?"

"Three of the five major channels are already linked to the river intake filtration vault. The rest should be operational within six months, assuming weather and material imports cooperate."

Lancelot’s gaze lingered on one of the workers—an older man with a missing finger and sun-weathered skin, carefully guiding a pipe into position with the help of a younger assistant. Their motions were practiced, patient.

"Are they being paid fairly?" Lancelot asked suddenly.

Garza blinked. "Yes, sir. In accordance with the Royal Labor Mandate. And we rotate shifts to reduce strain. We’ve had no major injuries in two months."

"Good. This city is being rebuilt by its people—not for them, but with them."

They paused at a junction point where two tunnels merged. Garza gestured to a crude diagram etched on the wall.

"This is where we’ll install one of the primary sluice gates. It’ll allow us to isolate sectors for maintenance or redirect flow in case of overflow during the rainy season."

Lancelot ran a finger over the chalk lines. "Make sure this section is triple-reinforced. The nearby neighborhood lies in a basin. A collapse here would flood half the district."

"Already accounted for. We’re using volcanic cement from Montserrat. Harder than anything we had five years ago."

The prince glanced upward, toward the ceiling of curved stone and iron ribs. "And ventilation?"

"We’ve integrated vertical shafts leading to covered street grates. Passive airflow pulls the methane out."

Lancelot nodded. "Smart."

They continued walking. At every turn, workers paused and gave small salutes or nods of recognition. Some looked surprised to see the prince down here at all. He met each gaze with equal respect, asking questions, inspecting joints, even adjusting a rope pulley with a mason whose knot had started to slip.

Eventually, they came to a raised chamber. Wooden scaffolds crisscrossed its upper levels, where two teams were mounting one of the massive iron turbines that would drive the pumping mechanism.

Electricians worked on the opposite wall, threading copper wire through conduits and installing ceramic insulators. A generator, newly imported from the capital’s research division, sat humming in the corner—its quiet thrum a sign of the future taking shape beneath their feet.

"This is one of the main hubs?" Lancelot asked.

Garza grinned, pride softening the lines on his face. "Yes, Your Highness. This vault alone will manage the outflow of three districts. We’ve reinforced it like a fortress."

Lancelot stepped toward the turbine, watching the team install the final bolts. "Once it’s operational, this alone will prevent the kind of flooding we saw in 1789."

Garza nodded. "And that’s just the beginning."

Lancelot folded his arms. "What’s the public sentiment so far?"

Garza hesitated. "Mixed. They appreciate the jobs, and they’ve noticed the cleaner water already—but they don’t yet understand how deep this goes. Some still think sewers are a luxury, not a necessity."

"Then we’ll educate them," Lancelot said firmly. "Sanitation is not charity—it is civilization."

As if on cue, a young apprentice jogged into the chamber, covered in dust but beaming.

"Captain Garza! The eastern tunnel team says they’ve struck the old Moorish well shaft. It’s deeper than we thought, but still intact."

"Excellent," Garza said, then turned to Lancelot. "That gives us a perfect reservoir to work with. We’ll integrate it as a pressure overflow chamber."

Lancelot offered a rare smile. "Let’s go see it."

They moved through a narrower shaft this time, torch-lit, with lower ceilings and slick stone underfoot. The air grew cooler as they descended into older levels—remnants of previous generations’ attempts at drainage, now being repurposed into the new system.

When they reached the chamber, Lancelot stepped to the edge and looked down into the depths. The ancient Moorish stonework curved beautifully, framing a deep well of clear water that glistened under torchlight.

"This is what lies beneath the empire," he murmured. "Centuries of knowledge... and neglect."

"But not anymore," Garza said.

Lancelot nodded. "No. Not anymore."

He turned to the workers assembled there—many of them tired, sweating, but watching him with quiet anticipation.

"This is what victory looks like," he told them. "Not banners. Not fireworks. But brick. Cement. Clean water. Healthy children. When history speaks of Aragon, let it not remember the swords we carried—but the sewers we built."

The workers erupted into applause—not rowdy or raucous, but full of reverence. A pride that came from knowing they were part of something lasting.

Lancelot took one last look at the well and then turned back up the tunnel.

"Captain," he called over his shoulder, "prepare to brief the Cortes. I want a sanitation charter drafted within the month. Madrid will not be the only city to benefit from this."

"Yes, Your Highness."

And with that, the prince walked onward—toward the light at the end of the tunnel, where the true foundations of his empire were being laid one stone at a time.

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