Reincarnated as the Crown Prince

The map of the known world lay unrolled before Prince Lancelot in the chamber once used for royal banquets, now repurposed as a war room of industry. Gone were the silver cutlery and tapestries of hunting scenes. In their place stood drafting tables, filing cabinets, telegraph desks, and wall-sized charts annotated with coal output, ship tonnage, and steel requirements.

Above it all, Lancelot stood with a quiet authority. He had not worn his royal regalia in months. His coat was black, plain, streaked with chalk and soot from the Iron Serpent. His boots were scuffed. His sleeves were rolled.

He pointed to the western coast of Africa with a brass divider.

"This," he said, "is where the Empire begins."

The room fell still.

Around him stood the core of Aragon’s brain trust—Bellido, the ever-skeptical logistician; Admiral Vives, whose ironclad fleet now ruled the western Mediterranean; Minister de Vallès, the nation’s foremost economist; and Juliette, silent, arms crossed, watching.

Vives cleared his throat. "That coast is held—at least nominally—by tribal confederations, Moroccan vassals, and scattered outposts of the Portuguese."

"They hold flags, not factories," Lancelot said. "We will offer something they cannot: light, rail, medicine, order. But we must be honest about our purpose. We go not as missionaries. We go for iron. Copper. Coal. Rubber. Palm oil. The arteries of industry."

Bellido leaned forward. "Do we intend to conquer or to build?"

"To build first," Lancelot said. "Then the rest becomes inevitable."

Vallès frowned. "There will be backlash. From Rome. From Paris. From London—"

"Let them frown," Lancelot cut in. "Let them scold. While they pray over parchment, we will be laying steel."