Lancelot and Alicia walked side by side along the gilded hallways.
Ever since he left that room, he had been quietly analyzing the surroundings. There were no electrical fixtures anywhere. No light bulbs, no wires. Every corridor was lit by candle sconces and ornate chandeliers hung with polished crystal.
The architecture reminded him of early western neoclassical styles—arched ceilings, symmetrical stone columns, wooden paneling, and gold trim accents. It was beautiful… but outdated.
He glanced at the servants they passed. All of them wore linen uniforms, bowed their heads deeply, and avoided eye contact. No one questioned the prince's presence or his silence. That was power—but the kind born from hierarchy, not respect.
And as for the country, Kingdom of Spain. He has never heard of it from his past life. The reason was it simply didn't not exist in his world. So it only meant that he reincarnated in another world in a completely new body. Though he wondered what happened to the original person of the body he was occupying.
And about the technological level of this world. Well—how would he level it? There were no signs of modern technology around, though there were guns according to his memory as the prince was a hunter, it was only a primitive level, a musket. No electricity, and the people weren't using steam to power contraptions.
At best, this world's technological level is in the late 1700s.
And speaking of outdated, there was no signs of modern technology present in this palace, or in this world.
Meanwhile, Alicia casted a long side glance at him as they walked. She noticed the Prince's mind being drifted away by his thoughts, and it's making her curious about what he was thinking.
But before she could ask, Prince Lancelot spoke suddenly.
"What's your impression of me Alicia? You can be honest."
Alicia blinked. That wasn't a question she expected. They continued walking for a few more steps in silence. She thought he was joking at first, but when she glanced at him again, his expression was calm. Serious.
She sighed.
"If I answer that honestly, I hope you won't be offended."
"I won't," Lancelot replied. "I need to hear it. Not from servants. From you."
Alicia slowed her pace and folded her hands behind her back, walking more deliberately now.
"Then I'll be blunt," she said. "You were lazy, entitled, and careless."
Lancelot kept walking.
"You never finished anything you started. Tutors came and went because you wouldn't sit through a full lesson. You wasted money on things you didn't even remember buying. You skipped meetings, ignored policy briefings, and left me to speak with ministers in your place while you chased birds in the woods."
"Wait I'm just the crown prince, why do I have to be in a meeting where I am just sort of a figurehead?"
Alicia gave him a sharp look.
"That," she said plainly, "was exactly the kind of thinking that made everyone lose faith in you."
Lancelot didn't answer right away. He let the words sink in as they continued walking.
Alicia didn't stop.
"You're not just the Crown Prince in name, Your Royal Highness. You're the only heir. That means every noble, minister, and foreign emissary already sees you as the next king—whether you act like one or not."
Lancelot exhaled. "So even when I wasn't doing anything… they were still watching."
"Always," she said, voice firm. "And they didn't like what they saw."
She glanced sideways at him. "You used to treat responsibilities like they were someone else's problem. It didn't matter if you had power or not—what mattered was that you didn't want any. You ran from anything that made you feel accountable."
That stung a bit. Not because she was wrong, but because even if the past Lancelot wasn't him, he still had to wear the consequences like a second skin.
"Do you think it's too late to change their view of me?" he asked quietly.
Alicia stopped walking.
He turned to face her.
"It's not about what I think," she said after a moment. "It's about whether you actually change or not. Not for a day. Not for show. But long enough that the people around you realize you're not pretending."
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them by a pace.
"If this is just a phase—if you're just trying to impress your father for a week or two—then no. It's too late. They'll laugh behind your back and wait for you to return to the old you."
Lancelot met her eyes. There was no anger in them. Only honesty.
"And if it's not a phase?" he asked.
"Then prove it," she said simply. "Start with something that matters. Do what the old you never did: follow through."
He nodded once.
"I will," he said.
Alicia's cheeks blushed a little. This was the first time she heard the prince this determined before.
She smiled. "Then we'll see."
They resumed walking. The massive doors to the king's bedroom stood just ahead. There were two guards stationed there, armed with muskets. They stood in attention and saluted at Lancelot.
"Open the door," Alicia commanded and the two guards pushed the door open.
Inside, Lancelot saw his father—no, this body's father—lying motionless in a grand bed draped in heavy velvet curtains. The room was dimly lit, the windows partially shuttered to block the morning sun. A fire crackled softly in the hearth nearby, but it didn't warm the room's heavy silence.
The King of Spain, Edric IV, was barely a shadow of what Lancelot imagined a monarch should be. His skin was pale, his frame gaunt. He looked like a man half-consumed by sickness, clinging to life through sheer willpower. His breathing was shallow, faintly audible in the stillness.
Lancelot approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. Alicia remained at the door, letting him go alone.
The closer he got, the more details stood out—details others might overlook.
The faint, reddish tinge on the handkerchief tucked beneath the king's pillow.
The strained, wheezing rhythm in his breath.
The hollow sound in his chest when he exhaled.
Hemoptysis, Lancelot thought immediately. Fatigue. Pale complexion. Chronic coughing. Weight loss. Labored breathing.
He'd seen this before. In his past life, he had interned briefly at a rural public health campaign—one where tuberculosis had run rampant. He knew the signs.
This wasn't a simple illness. This wasn't just "weak lungs" or "nerves" like a court physician might euphemistically say.
It was tuberculosis.
And no one here would recognize it. Not in this era.
No one knows, Lancelot thought grimly. And if I speak too directly, they'll think I'm mad.
"...Father," he said quietly.
The King's eyes fluttered open. Bloodshot and weary, but lucid.
"Lancelot," the King rasped, voice hoarse and low. "You came."
"I did."
King Edric shifted, trying to push himself up on one elbow. He managed a few inches before falling back against the pillows with a soft cough. He reached for the handkerchief—one that Lancelot noticed already had a faded stain—and held it to his mouth discreetly.
Lancelot didn't speak about it. Not yet.
"I heard you collapsed yesterday," Edric murmured.
"Yes. But I'm better now," Lancelot answered. "I'm sorry for worrying you."
The King gave a faint, wheezing chuckle. "Don't apologize. You were always... softer than you let on."
Lancelot didn't reply.
There was a long pause, broken only by the fire crackling and the occasional cough from the King.
Then Edric spoke again, this time more deliberate.
"I won't live long, Lancelot," he said plainly. "Even the physicians know it, though they whisper like fools, thinking I can't hear them."
Lancelot remained quiet.
"I've made mistakes," the King continued. "Too many to count. And this kingdom is on the verge of collapse if we don't fix it."
Lancelot glanced at him, sensing where this was going.
"Since I can no longer rule because of my condition," the King murmured, his voice weaker now, "I will name you... Regent of the Kingdom of Spain."
Lancelot froze.
"I do not mean in name only," Edric continued, shifting slightly as his breathing grew more labored. "From this day onward, you will act in my stead—with full command over the court, the treasury, the military, and all functions of the state."
"…You're giving me complete authority?" Lancelot asked quietly, still absorbing the magnitude of what was being offered.
"No," Edric said with a faint smile. "I'm giving you a burden. One heavier than the crown itself."
Lancelot stepped closer to the bed. "Father, are you certain? You know how I was—how the court sees me."
Of course he has to remind him that the old Lancelot was unreliable at best.
Edric's eyes were sharp despite the weakness in his body. "That's why I'm doing this while I'm still alive. So they can't challenge it."
He coughed again, holding the handkerchief over his mouth. This time, Lancelot clearly saw the fresh red stain left behind.
"I don't have months," the King whispered. "I may not even have weeks. There is no time for ceremony or tradition. I've already summoned the ministers and high council. They'll be in the throne room within the hour. I will name you Regent formally—publicly."
Lancelot glanced at the floor, then slowly nodded.
"Very well, father, I will take your position."