Reincarnated as the Crown Prince
Chapter 60: Beginning of the Age of Empire Part 1

Chapter 60: Beginning of the Age of Empire Part 1

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."

He turned to Juliette. "You’ve seen what electricity does to a people’s soul. Imagine bringing that to a place where darkness still governs every hour after sunset."

She nodded once. "But we’ll need engineers. Hundreds. And volunteers who can stomach the climate."

"You’ll have them," Lancelot said.

He turned back to the map. His fingers tapped out a rhythm along the coast of modern-day Senegal, to Sierra Leone, and the Gold Coast.

"These ports can be fortified. From here, we fan inland. Short-range rail. River patrols. Telegraph lines. We’ll deploy the Civic Brigades—not as soldiers, but as stewards. We’ll build hospitals before barracks. Roads before tax offices. They’ll resist at first, but in a generation, they’ll ask for schools."

"And what do we call this?" Bellido asked. "It cannot be just another campaign. It must feel like a destiny."

Lancelot’s gaze didn’t waver.

"We call it the Dawn Road." _{fr\eewe.bn(o)v\el.c(o)m}

The ministers exchanged glances.

The name stuck like iron to a forge.

—

Later that night, Lancelot stood alone on the palace balcony, looking out over Valencia’s shipyards. Smoke curled from drydocks where ironclads were being fitted with new steam turbines. Welders in leather aprons worked by electric lamplight. Sparks flew like stars.

Juliette joined him.

"You want to plant cities where no map yet dares draw lines," she said. "It’s bold."

"It’s necessary," he replied. "Barcelona was only the beginning. Our factories are already outpacing our supplies. If we don’t find raw materials, we’ll stall."

"And the people? Those we bring light to—what happens when they ask for more than roads? What happens when they want votes?"

Lancelot turned toward her, his eyes steady. "Then we teach them how to build their own."

She watched him for a moment. Then nodded.

Below them, the shipyard echoed with hammers.

The first fleet was already taking shape.

—

The next morning, the Council of Navigation was convened. It was no longer just a maritime advisory body—it had been restructured as a colonization bureau. Dozens of cartographers, naturalists, naval officers, linguists, and railway engineers attended. Each was issued a file marked with the new seal: a rising sun over an iron gear.

Admiral Vives led the first operational planning.

"We’ll need six vessels," he said. "Four dreadnought-class for protection. Two steam transports for supplies, engineers, and Civic detachments. They’ll depart in convoy, under the new Aragonese crest."

"And their targets?" asked a young engineer.

"Freetown, Bissau, and Grand-Bassam," Lancelot said. "Not to seize—but to study. We make contact. We draft agreements. We offer employment. Infrastructure in exchange for access."

Bellido raised a caution. "And if they refuse?"

"Then we thank them," Lancelot said. "And we approach their neighbors instead."

Minister Vallès added, "We will not extract by blade. That model is dead. We offer contracts. Ten-year renewable leases. Infrastructure in lieu of tribute."

Lancelot nodded. "And we’ll write their names in every blueprint. Let them build their own rails. Their own towns. But always, through us."

—

By midday, orders were being dispatched from the Iron Serpent’s telegraph room. Valencia’s drydocks were ordered to full operation. Special emissaries were prepared to board merchant ships bound for the Atlantic coast to establish diplomatic contact. Vaults of copper wire, electric lamps, relay transformers, and modular rail segments were inventoried for overseas transport.

Juliette stood in the warehouse, inspecting coil batteries personally.

"They’ll corrode in salt air," she muttered.

"We’ll coat them in lacquer and pack them in wax-sealed crates," a foreman replied.

"Good," she said. "These batteries are worth more than rifles where we’re going."

—

That evening, Lancelot received a letter from the Queen Mother in Zaragoza.

She had heard rumors of the fleet. She asked, with gentle ink, if her son was becoming a king after all.

Lancelot folded the letter carefully. He set it atop the blank sheet on which he had once written of ages.

Then, without ceremony, he wrote:

"Let the fourth age be of engines. And of those who dare to carry the flame across the sea."

He sealed the letter with wax.

And handed it to a runner bound for the port.

***

The Iron Serpent arrived at the coastal port of Cadiz just as dawn broke. Steam hissed from its valves, and whistles echoed across the harbor as cranes lifted the final pallets of equipment onto the waiting fleet.

Three ships stood at anchor—sleek, black-hulled, and bristling not with cannon, but with construction gear. Their decks were stacked with track rails, coil batteries, transformer modules, prefabricated pylons, seed crates, water purifiers, and toolkits labeled in multiple languages. Even from a distance, the vessels looked less like warships and more like a factory convoy in motion.

This is the beginning.