CHAPTER 69: THE COMPASS OF PROGRESS

The sea was calm that morning, glassy beneath the sun’s golden rise, as the Resolución cut westward across the Visayan Sea. The water mirrored the sky—a perfect dome of blue interrupted only by the soft churn of the ship’s wake. From the upper deck, Lancelot watched the island of Samar fade into haze, its dense green coastline slowly swallowed by distance.

Juliette stood beside him, holding a scroll—Maria’s letter—now copied and filed in the Hall of Archives. The original, however, remained safely tucked inside Lancelot’s coat pocket.

He hadn’t let go of it once.

"We’ve changed something," she said softly.

Lancelot nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the horizon. "Yes. But change never stays still. It asks to be carried."

They sailed for the port of Kareya—a former pirate haven, now a strategic colonial hub near the northern tip of Mindoro. In just two years, the once-lawless settlement had transformed into a beacon of modernity: a shipyard, a naval academy, a trade council, and most notably, the Commonwealth Forum, where native and Aragonese delegates debated policies on equal footing.

The moment the Resolución docked, cheers erupted from the quay. Kareyan workers, students in blue uniforms, and officials in linen coats gathered at the wharf, waving banners bearing both the crest of Aragon and local tribal emblems stitched in careful red thread. A brass band—clumsy but enthusiastic—played a march composed by a Kareyan teenager. Its melody was uneven but sincere.

Lancelot smiled as he stepped onto the pier. "It’s amazing what harmony sounds like when no one is trying to shout over the others."

Juliette laughed beside him. "I think they added a drum just for you."

They were greeted by Chancellor Daeso Ng, a tall Kareyan scholar in spectacles who had studied in Firewell before returning to serve his homeland. He bowed deeply.

"Prince Lancelot. Kareya welcomes you, not as master, but as mentor."

"And I come as student," Lancelot replied.

The entourage moved quickly from the harbor to the Commonwealth Forum—a columned hall of stone and glass set on a bluff overlooking the sea. Inside, the air was cooler, tinged with ink, parchment, and the faint scent of frangipani blossoms arranged at the chamber’s heart.

Delegates from across Aragon’s holdings in the archipelago stood and applauded as Lancelot entered. A mix of tribal chiefs in patterned robes, merchant guild leaders in silk, professors, engineers, and a growing number of young women from the emerging middle class.

The Kareya Doctrine was no longer a plan.

It was policy.

At the high table, a young woman from Bohol, Representative Aleja Cruz, took the podium. Her voice was calm but strong.

"We, the Commonwealth Partners of Aragon, hereby petition for shared authority over local rail decisions, customs tariffs, and education standards. We request that Kareyan representatives be assigned to every colonial office, including the Civic Council of Firewell. We seek not favors, but responsibilities."

Murmurs rose from the chamber. Some foreign delegates looked to Lancelot, uncertain.

He rose without hesitation.

"Granted," he said simply.

A pause.

Then an eruption of applause.

Juliette leaned in. "You just rewrote the rules again."

"No," Lancelot said. "I let them write their own."

After the forum adjourned, Lancelot convened with his inner circle—Juliette, Chancellor Daeso, Governor Balase from Panay, and now Doctor Remas, the head of the Aragonese Medical Corps.

Remas brought troubling news.

"There’s a disease spreading among workers laying the northern railway. Not cholera—something new. Symptoms include fatigue, bleeding gums, and slow wound healing. I suspect scurvy, but it’s spreading even among those not on sea rations."

"Malnutrition?" Juliette guessed.

"Possibly. But I think it’s more than that. Poor sanitation, heat exhaustion, and inadequate rest. These are labor camps, not schools."

Lancelot’s expression darkened. "Are the contractors using indenture?"

Remas nodded grimly. "Local foremen are pushing quotas. With the military absent, discipline has been... cruel."

Lancelot stood. "We’re going. Tonight."

Within hours, he boarded a light rail transport heading north. The journey took them into the rugged foothills of northern Luzon, where steaming tracks had only recently been carved into the cliffsides. The construction zone sprawled across a scar in the jungle, where rows of tents sagged under humidity, and coughing echoed louder than the pickaxes.

The camp stank of sweat and iron.

Lancelot dismounted at the edge and was met by the chief engineer, an Aragonese contractor named Olias Mendro. The man wore a pressed shirt, but his boots were clean—a sign he hadn’t walked the site recently.

"Your Highness," Mendro greeted with forced cheer. "Unexpected visit. We’ve made progress—twelve kilometers last week."

Lancelot didn’t answer. He was staring past the man at a group of workers sitting limp under a tattered canvas. One man’s legs were swollen to twice their size. Another had collapsed with a shallow breath. None had shoes.

"Why are they barefoot?" Lancelot asked.

Mendro hesitated. "Boots tear fast in the mud. And importing more has been... delayed."

"Then you should’ve halted operations until they arrived."

"We’d lose time," Mendro protested.

"And now you’ve lost trust," Lancelot said coldly.

He turned to Doctor Remas. "Set up a field clinic. Begin blood testing. Send for nutrition experts. Juliette—find the budget line that approved this."

She was already writing. "Found it. Third-tier subcontractor. Funds diverted from worker provisioning to ’rail security expenses.’"

"Embezzlement," Daeso murmured.

Lancelot didn’t raise his voice. "From this moment, all labor projects must be inspected weekly by Commonwealth auditors. No more third-tier middlemen. And every worker will have a bed, boots, and a ration plan signed by a medical officer."

"And Mendro?" Juliette asked.

Lancelot turned to the contractor. "You’ll supervise road paving in Davao. With your own boots on the ground."

Mendro paled. "But I—"

"You built twelve kilometers of track," Lancelot cut in. "Now go walk them."

By dawn, repairs were already underway—sanitation trenches dug, boots distributed, water barrels cleaned. Word spread fast. In Ilocos, a band of workers refused to proceed with construction until they had confirmation of Lancelot’s reforms. Rather than send soldiers, Aragon sent books on labor law and mobile tribunals.

In Cebu, when a plantation foreman underpaid female weavers, Juliette personally led a legal delegation that froze the mill’s exports until restitution was paid.

One by one, the dominoes fell.

And with each act of justice, the Civil Empire strengthened.

But cracks remained.

In Zamboanga, reports emerged of foreign agents trying to bribe local leaders to stage uprisings. In Palawan, pirates—likely funded by those same powers—raided Aragonese supply ships.

It was time to respond.

But not with war.

With clarity.

Lancelot called for an emergency session of the Forum. Delegates packed the grand hall in Kareya, anxious.

Standing before them, Lancelot held up a simple item—a brick.

"This is not a weapon," he said. "But it can be used as one. So can railways. So can schools. So can medicine."

He set the brick on the table.

"We build not to dominate, but to connect. And those who fear connection will always try to tear it down. We must be ready—not to fight them, but to outlast them. Through transparency. Through strength. Through alliances."

He unrolled a new document.

The Pact of Open Ports.

A mutual defense and trade agreement for all Commonwealth partners. Under it, no port controlled by Aragon could deny entry to a partner nation’s flagged ship. In return, partners would jointly fund maritime patrols and infrastructure upgrades. It was radical.

And brilliant.

Within a week, seventeen island polities signed.

Three months later, the first jointly funded dry dock opened in Mindoro. Not for warships—but for civilian steam freighters and coastal ferries.

The world took notice.

The Dutch, under pressure, began reducing tariffs in Batavia.

The French dispatched envoys to observe Kareya’s medical colleges.

The British proposed shared lighthouse construction to avoid naval collisions.

But it was in Samar, once again, where the real story continued.

Maria—the ten-year-old girl who had written the letter—stood barefoot in a line of children outside the site of the newly built medical college. Her hair was tied with ribbon, her smile gap-toothed and bright. She didn’t recognize the man who passed by her, dressed plainly, with a satchel over his shoulder.

It was Lancelot.

No guards. No titles.

Just a man walking through the campus.

She approached him with a hesitant wave.

"Are you the one from the story?"

Lancelot paused. "Which story?"

"The one about the dragon who turned into a doctor."

He smiled. "I’ve heard that one. It’s not quite true."

Maria tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because I’m still learning," he said. "Doctors study every day. So must I."

She giggled, then reached into her bag and offered him a folded paper. A new letter.

"I wrote another one. You can keep this too."

He accepted it.

The envelope read: "For Prince Lancelot, wherever he is."

He nodded and tucked it into his coat.

As he walked away, he passed students reciting anatomy terms in the shade of guava trees. He saw nurses tending to an injured fisherman, and a teacher showing a diagram of the lungs drawn in charcoal on rice paper.

He saw, not a colony.

But a future.

That evening, aboard the Resolución, Juliette joined him on the stern deck as the stars bloomed overhead.

"You’ve given them so much," she said.

Lancelot shook his head. "No. I only reminded them what they already had."

Juliette leaned against the railing. "Then what’s next?"

Lancelot looked out to sea, where distant lanterns marked islands yet unreached.

"Now?" he said softly.

"Now we plant more forests."