Reincarnated as the Crown Prince
Chapter 65: Turning East

Chapter 65: Turning East

The mountain winds had changed.

For seven months, Prince Lancelot had built and burned through the jungles, highlands, and coasts of West Africa. Cities had risen. Railways carved paths through ridges that once defied even wind. And with each hammerfall and electric spark, the Kingdom of Aragon stepped deeper into the modern age.

But Lancelot’s eyes no longer lingered on the plateau.

They looked further—across oceans, beyond Africa, to the land of emperors and scholars.

To the East.

To the Qing Dynasty.

—

It began with a map.

In the early hours of morning, Juliette found Lancelot in the cartographic chamber, hunched over a sprawling scroll spread across the drafting table. Oil lamps cast a golden hue over the parchment—a detailed depiction of East Asia. From the Russian tundra to the jungles of Indochina, and in the heart of it all, the dragon-shaped dominion of the Qing.

"You’re not sleeping," she said softly.

He didn’t look up. "I don’t dream these days. Just plan."

Juliette stepped closer. "China?"

He nodded.

Juliette frowned. "They’re not like the tribal federations or broken colonies we’ve dealt with. The Qing still rule. A dynasty, yes, but not a weak one."

"They’re decaying," Lancelot said quietly. "But not dead. Not yet."

"And you want to push into that?"

Lancelot rolled the edge of the scroll. "I don’t want war. I want access. To silk, to porcelain, to minds that understand calculus before they hold a musket."

Juliette folded her arms. "You think they’ll welcome foreign railways? Another Western nation preaching steel and civics?"

"No," Lancelot admitted. "But I think they’ll welcome a mirror. One that shows them their future—not in European thrones, but in electric light."

—

The history between Aragon and Qing was sparse but notable.

In the 18th century, Aragonese missionaries had traveled east, preaching not just Christianity but also natural sciences and rudimentary mechanics. While Jesuits from other crowns had been banished for overreach, the Aragonese were tolerated—respected even—for their humility and skill with the mechanical arts.

One such figure, Brother Elías Mendoza, had spent two decades in Guangdong, designing waterwheels and teaching celestial navigation. A bronze bust of him still stood near the Grand Canal.

But then came the fractured century—when empires turned to smoke and steel, and Aragon, like others, withdrew to consolidate power in Europe.

Now, Lancelot sought to reclaim that forgotten bridge—not with priests, but with engineers.

—

The first step was diplomatic.

He drafted a letter in both Castilian and Classical Chinese, penned with his own hand and sealed with the Civic sigil rather than the royal one.

It read:

"To the Court of the Qing Dragon,

I write not with gunpowder, but with blueprints.

The Kingdom of Aragon extends a hand—not to rule, but to collaborate. We seek minds, not mines. And in return, we offer light, steam, and wires that carry the voices of children learning to speak the world’s new tongue.

I invite emissaries. Let them see Firewell. Let them speak with those who no longer fear the dark.

And in time, let us build together.

—Prince Lancelot of Aragon, First Architect of the Fourth Age"

Juliette read it thrice before sealing.

"Too bold?" she asked.

"Not bold enough," Lancelot said.

—

Three weeks passed.

Then, at the newly established seaport of Saint Torralba—rebuilt atop an old slave dock—an unfamiliar vessel appeared on the horizon.

It was a Chinese junk—sleek, layered sails, and reinforced with iron brackets. The crew spoke clipped Portuguese and Mandarin. At their head was a man in his forties, cloaked in blue silk and bearing a silver token of the Qing court.

He introduced himself as Envoy Cao Wen.

"I am here to see your empire," he said.

—

They showed him everything.

Nueva Cádiz, with its lighthouse that ran on solar reflectors.

Firewell, where schoolchildren recited thermodynamic formulas alongside verses of poetry.

Mount Kareya, where an airship had just completed its first supply run, reducing a ten-day journey to under three hours.

Envoy Cao asked questions. He watched. He scribbled in his journal with quiet fascination.

Only once did he speak of politics.

At the edge of the Firewell reservoir, he said, "In the Forbidden City, our libraries are vast. But our furnaces are few."

Lancelot replied, "Then let’s build one in Beijing."

—

But not all were convinced.

A month later, a letter arrived from the Governor of Canton—polite, but curt.

"Our gates remain closed to Western consolidation. Our traditions endure not because they reject change, but because they choose when to welcome it."

Juliette frowned. "That’s a no."

Lancelot shook his head. "That’s a maybe. They just don’t want us arriving with flags and rifles."

He traced a finger along the Pearl River Delta on the map. "So we don’t arrive in force. We arrive with value."

—

The next phase was economic infiltration.

Lancelot summoned the Civic Trade Council.

They drew up plans for a "Collaborative Development Mission"—a civilian delegation of engineers, doctors, and civic teachers, bearing no military escort, only solar lanterns, turbine prototypes, and agricultural tools.

They would begin in Indochina—through third-party local kingdoms still loosely tied to the Qing sphere. There, they would build first.

Small.

Visible.

Useful.

"We don’t conquer," Lancelot told the Council. "We convince."

—

Within three months, the first Civic Outposts opened in northern Vietnam—under local permission and Chinese observation.

They built irrigation systems, hydropower mills, and opened free clinics. Children who once plowed rice fields by hand now operated hand-crank generators.

Qing officials watched from afar.

Some sneered.

Others took notes.

—

Back in Firewell, Juliette met with Lancelot in the planning dome.

"There’s murmurs," she said. "London calls it soft conquest. Paris says we’re buying influence."

Lancelot smirked. "Funny. They never said that when they sent opium instead of books."

She sat across from him. "But what’s your endgame? Are we building an embassy? A trade office?"

He unfurled a scroll—a schematic.

It was a campus. Towering, circular, built of wood and steel, surrounded by gardens and wind turbines.

"A Civic Academy," he said. "In Qing territory. Taught in Mandarin and Spanish. Co-funded by Aragon and local provinces. Not a base. A bridge."

Juliette stared.

"Do you think they’ll let us?"

"No," Lancelot said. "But their children will ask why not."

—

The Qing hesitated.

But one province answered.

Yunnan.

Isolated. Rich in minerals. Ignored by Beijing. Its governor, a progressive scholar named Shen Ruiji, invited the Aragonese to present before his council.

Juliette was chosen to lead the delegation.

She arrived with plans, blueprints, and samples of Aragonese technology—not in armor, but in plain civic uniform. She quoted Confucius and Voltaire in the same breath. She offered not gifts, but questions.

"What happens when steam climbs mountains faster than mandarins?"

The governor listened.

And he approved.

—

Construction began the following spring.

The Yunnan Civic Academy would become the first formal Aragonese installation on Qing soil—with full permission.

Its foundations were laid with local labor. Its lessons blended Chinese classics with Aragonese modernity. And every nail driven whispered a new era.

Not colonial.

Not conquered.

But conjoined.

—

Still, not everyone in the Qing court welcomed it.

In Beijing, whispers of foreign interference grew louder.

One minister petitioned the Empress Dowager to revoke the Yunnan charter.

In reply, Governor Shen sent a single letter:

"If you deny your sons the chance to learn from the world, the world will teach your enemies instead."

—

By the end of the year, Aragonese engineers had mapped potential highland rail routes from Yunnan to Myanmar. Proposals were being drawn for a southern corridor linking the Mekong basin to Firewell by airship relay.

Lancelot looked east, and saw not conquest—but collaboration.

A machine of progress, powered not by coal alone—but by curiosity, courage, and the will to uplift.

And as he stood atop the observation deck of the Kareya Tower, watching the stars blink into view, he whispered:

"This is how the dragon wakes—not in chains, but in light."

Lancelot stayed on the tower until the stars faded.

The winds had shifted again, warmer now, carrying the scent of distant jasmine and factory smoke. It was an odd combination—sweetness and soot—but it suited this new age he was building. He inhaled deeply, as if to capture it and commit it to memory.

Juliette joined him silently, holding two cups of spiced black tea. He accepted one with a nod of thanks.

"Yunnan was just the beginning," she said quietly.

He sipped. "It always is."

"We’ll be stretched thin. Logistics through Indochina are brittle. And if Beijing hardens its stance—"

"They’ll have to decide," he cut in. "To wall themselves off... or to walk with us."

Juliette glanced up at him. "And if they choose the wall?"

He didn’t answer immediately. The wind tugged at his coat.

"We build a ladder," he finally said.

Juliette chuckled, half-amused, half-exhausted. "You’re impossible."

"No," Lancelot replied. "I’m necessary."

They stood in silence for a moment longer.

Below them, the lights of Firewell twinkled—lanterns, turbines, electrified tram lines, schools still humming with activity even past sundown.

Beyond those hills lay the sea.

And beyond that, the vast unknown of the East.

Lancelot raised his gaze to the horizon.

"We won’t stop," he said. "Not until every child, in every forgotten province, looks up from a book and sees a future that belongs to them."

He turned away from the stars, stepping down the tower steps.

Tomorrow, they would draft the next letter.

And the day after that—they would build.