Alicia offered a faint nod, still processing the weight of his words.
But Lancelot, in that moment of resolve, felt a very human reminder clawing at his focus—his stomach let out a low, impatient growl.
Alicia raised a brow. "Shall I take that as the Regent's cue for a recess?"
"I've declared an empire within an empire," he said dryly, resting a hand on his gut. "I think I've earned lunch."
Not long after, a servant entered carrying a polished silver tray and set it on the side table. The warm, earthy scent of spiced broth and roasted meat filled the room. The lids were lifted to reveal a spread of caldereta de cordero—a lamb stew simmered with olives and peppers—alongside fresh pan con tomate, sun-dried olives, slices of jamón, and pickled vegetables in ceramic jars.
Lancelot sat at the table, his hunger now outweighing formality. He started slow, but within minutes he was eating like a man who hadn't touched food in a century.
And in some ways, he hadn't.
The stew was rich, layered with flavor and warmth. The bread, though rustic, had the kind of texture that no mass-produced loaf could replicate. The cured ham melted on his tongue. He paused between bites, surprised not only by the taste—but by how much he liked it.
This wasn't some overcooked mess he feared from a pre-industrial kitchen. This was culture on a plate.
By the time the tray was cleared, he sat back with a deep exhale, fully satisfied for the first time since waking up in this world. He returned to his desk and began leafing through files again, now focusing on naval logs and a census of merchant fleets.
The numbers were incomplete. The margins were scribbled. But the process—the work—was beginning to feel... normal.
No, more than normal.
Comfortable.
He glanced around the room. The walls of dusty ledgers. The blackboard with half-erased trade maps. The unlit lantern hanging by the window.
His life, once filled with late-night screens, digital noise, and fast-paced deadlines, was now filled with paper, ink, and silence.
He was adapting.
He leaned back in the leather chair and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the palace fill the air. No email pings. No message alerts. Just footsteps in the hall and the distant cawing of crows outside the tall window.
It wasn't bad.
But just as he was starting to enjoy the moment of peace...
His stomach rumbled again.
And this time, it wasn't for food.
He blinked. Sat up. Waited a moment.
Definitely not hunger.
"…Alicia?" he called out, uncertain.
She peeked in, holding a rolled-up map. "Yes?"
"Where's the… restroom?"
"The what?"
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Toilet. Lavatory. Bathroom."
Alicia blinked. "Oh. The privy? It's the stone building past the western garden. Behind the lemon tree."
He stared at her blankly.
She added, helpfully, "There's also a chamber pot beneath your bed."
He froze. "That's… all?"
She gave a slight nod, not realizing how devastating this was to someone from the 21st century.
"…Of course," he muttered.
Ten minutes later, after the most humbling experience of his new life, Lancelot stood by the basin in his chambers, pouring water from a pitcher into the porcelain bowl and scrubbing his hands with a bar of overly fragrant soap.
He dried them with a stiff towel and looked at himself in the mirror.
No plumbing. No toilet paper. No sanitation standards to speak of.
This was the 18th century in all its glory.
He returned to the office, a little paler, a little more grounded.
He sat down, stared at the documents again, and tapped a quill against the desk.
Not long after, he pushed the scroll aside.
"…God, I miss the internet," he muttered.
There was no music to stream, no breaking news to scroll through, no articles or forums to consult for advice. No Wikipedia. No podcasts. No memes.
Boredom began to creep in like a silent fog. It wasn't the gentle kind—it was the gnawing kind. The one that made time slow down, that reminded him he couldn't just Google "how to reform a feudal empire."
He stood, paced a few steps, and looked out the window. The rooftops of Madrid glowed golden in the late afternoon light. It looked peaceful, almost timeless.
But it wasn't timeless.
It was behind time.
He let out a long sigh.
"If I'm going to survive this world," he muttered, "we need indoor plumbing. But that's impossible to enact in my first days, it would take months or years, and extensive capital to do it. I guess I'll have to deal with what we have here right now."
He paused, then nodded to himself.
"All right. First the Company. Then the toilets."
Five minutes later. In his office.
Lancelot returned to his chair and pulled it toward him.
The title, embossed in neat serif type, read:
"Atlas del Mundo Civilizado, Año Imperial 1787"
He opened the cover and immediately noticed that the map style—while elegant and artistic—followed a logic that was almost familiar. The coastlines. The shapes of the continents. They were Earth… but not quite in terms of names.
For example, the country he was in is called Aragon but in the real Earth, it was Spain, and the colonies that it has are also the same in the real Earth. There were British, France, Prussia, Austria, Russia but the leaders of those respective countries are different. Heck, even the name of their nation is different. British for Britannia, France for Francois, Prussia is simply Prussia, and Austria is Glanzreich.
He wondered if the history from the real Earth would play similar here or different. Well, there's no time thinking of something he couldn't control. He has to focus on his new country now, which is Spain or Aragon.
He already imagined what the country would look like in five years. He would introduce industrialization early, introduce basic oxygen processes for steel production, a haber-bosch for gunpowder, electricity, and every modern convenience. But to do all those things, he would need money, which the Crown doesn't have.
So he is putting all of his faith in this royal trading company, and then while doing so, comes up with new streams of income without upsetting the order that had been ingrained in this country.