Reincarnated as the Crown Prince-Chapter 47: Beneath the Capital Part 2

By the time Prince Lancelot emerged from the eastern shaft of the sewerworks, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the city skyline. The once-smoggy afternoon sky now held the soft pastels of evening—an Aragonese blue tinged with gold, as if the heavens themselves watched and waited for what would come next.

A steam carriage waited at the entrance of the worksite, hissing and clanking softly, its driver snapping to salute as Lancelot approached.

"Back to the palace, Your Highness?"

Lancelot shook his head. "No. Take me to the Chamber of Ministers."

The driver blinked. "Shall I—notify them?"

"They’ll already be there," the prince said quietly, climbing aboard.

The Chamber of Ministers was located within a neoclassical wing of the old Cortes building—one of the few sites in Madrid that had been spared during the riots of 1785. The stone lions at the foot of the stairs had been cleaned, the bullet marks on the doors filled in, but the sense of history remained—an echo of both failure and progress.

Inside, the ministers stood in various states of readiness. Some were deep in discussion, maps of the capital spread across tables. Others shuffled stacks of fiscal reports, city health records, and water table data. Only a few noticed when Lancelot entered.

"Gentlemen. Ladies," he announced with clarity, "Madrid’s lungs are almost finished. Now we must build its heart."

The room quieted.

He stepped forward, placing a rolled scroll on the central table and unrolling it with care. The parchment revealed a detailed plan—dozens of red lines threading beneath the city like veins.

"This," he said, "is the full expansion of the Madrid Underground Sanitation Project. Not just sewers, but aqueduct extensions, filtration nodes, pumping stations, and underground canals."

Minister Álvarez, a stiff-necked man from León, frowned. "We’ve already allocated over eight million pesetas for phase one. Extending this would require ten more—at minimum."

"And save tens of thousands of lives," Lancelot countered. "Not just from disease. From flooding. From fire. This is no longer an engineering project. It is a social one."

Another voice piped up—Minister Valera, who oversaw civil works. "Do we even have enough engineers for this scale of coordination?"

"We will," Lancelot replied. "The Polytechnic Academy will double its intake next semester. I’ve already arranged scholarships for laborers’ children to study civil engineering, sanitation, and urban planning."

The room stirred. That was unexpected.

"You plan to turn ditch-diggers into scholars?" Minister Vega asked, half-amused.

"I plan to turn labor into legacy," the prince said. "Nobility of birth means little compared to nobility of purpose."

The debate continued for nearly an hour—logistics, water rights, river diversion permits, and more—but in the end, the ministers knew better than to deny what had already begun beneath their feet.

By the time the meeting adjourned, most had signed the provisional expansion plan.

As the room emptied, Alicia stepped in through the rear doors, a faint smudge of ink still clinging to her cuff.

"They’ll grumble," she said, "but they’ll follow."

"They always do when the city starts to shine," Lancelot replied. He rolled up the plans and tucked them under his arm. "Now it’s time to show them what modernity truly means."

The next morning, under a wide cloudless sky, the prince stood at the base of the Plaza Nueva’s newest tower: the Central Siphon Station, a gleaming column of glass and iron that overlooked the heart of the capital.

Cranes loomed in the distance. Workers clanged away at pipes. Children pressed against the cordon barriers, watching curiously as the city prepared for its latest unveiling. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

At the stroke of noon, the crowd hushed.

Prince Lancelot stepped onto the raised dais flanked by engineers, ministers, and a select few representatives from cities across Aragon.

He raised his voice not in grandeur—but in purpose.

"For too long," he began, "the fate of cities has rested on marble columns and monuments of kings. But today, I ask you to look below."

He gestured to the diagram now hanging from a scaffold behind him—an artistic rendering of the entire sewer network beneath Madrid.

"Beneath your homes, your bakeries, your schools—beneath this very plaza—flows a river of progress. Of health. Of hope. It will carry not just waste away from our homes, but fear away from our hearts."

The crowd murmured in agreement.

"This is not the work of nobles or generals," he continued. "This is the work of masons. Of planners. Of the common men and women who have labored with hammer and torch, not for glory—but for their grandchildren."

Then he stepped aside as a brass lever was brought forward on a wheeled plinth.

"This lever," he said, "activates the siphon gates. It will channel thousands of gallons per minute from the central districts into the pumping stations beyond the Manzanares. Madrid will be the first capital in all of Europa to be fully serviced by a modern subterranean sanitation grid."

He placed a hand on the lever. A moment of silence followed.

And then, he pulled.

A deep hum rumbled beneath the earth. Far below, sluice gates opened. Turbines turned. Pressure regulators spun into life. The ground vibrated not with violence—but with the pulse of civilization.

All across the capital, fountains cleared. Waterways ran faster. The air began to smell—less.

A cheer erupted from the gathered citizens.

Mothers wept. Old men tipped their hats. Children pointed at the tower and called it magic.

But it wasn’t magic.

It was engineering.

Later that evening, Lancelot returned to the Royal Garden for a quiet walk. The sun had just begun to dip past the horizon. The smell of fresh stone and damp earth still clung to his coat.

To his surprise, Princess Juliet was already there, sitting beside the old fountain that their mother had once loved. She stood as he approached, a journal tucked beneath her arm.

"I saw the siphon tower today," she said. "It was beautiful."

"It was loud," he said with a soft chuckle. "But necessary."

Juliet tilted her head. "The city feels different now. Safer. Cleaner. Almost... younger."

Lancelot took a deep breath. "Cities age with their rulers. And today, we’ve given Madrid new blood."

She smiled at him, then offered the journal.

"I wrote about it. Maybe one day, children will read this and wonder what the world was like before clean water and working drains."

He accepted it and opened to the first page. It read simply:

"We do not conquer nations with armies. We conquer the future with bricks, pipes, and courage."

Lancelot closed the journal and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Then let us keep building, little sister. Tomorrow, we dig in Valencia."

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