The Grand Chamber of Saint Isidore's Basilica in Madrid had not seen this many bishops gathered under its arched dome in decades.
Tall candlesticks lined the marble floor, casting flickering light on gold-trimmed cassocks and silver pectoral crosses. Incense hung heavy in the air, mingling with the whispers of clergymen trying to decipher why they had all been summoned.
At the front stood Lancelot, not in royal robes, but in a modest navy coat, the only insignia a golden pin of the Crown Trust Bank. He stood not as a king—but as a steward of reform.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice even and polite, "the Crown invites you not to surrender—but to secure."
Eyes narrowed. A few cardinals exchanged glances.
Lancelot gestured toward the long mahogany table where a stack of documents lay neatly organized.
"The Sacred Investment Act is not a seizure. It is a safeguard. We offer the Church a vault built not of stone, but of principles: stability, security, and sanctity."
The Archbishop of Zaragoza leaned forward. "You ask us to deposit tithe and rental income? Into a bank you control?"
"We ask you to ensure the future of God's wealth," Lancelot countered smoothly. "Gold locked in crypts and chests serves no one. But imagine your revenues earning 8% interest annually. Imagine cathedral expansions, charitable missions, and seminaries—funded by profits, not alms."
One bishop cleared his throat. "But the funds are bound for seven years."
"Because true growth," Lancelot said, "requires faith."
That silenced the room.
He let the words settle before continuing.
"To make this partnership sacred, each diocese will be issued gold-trimmed ledgers and personalized seals—Custodians of the Sacred Treasury. Your names shall be inscribed in the Register of Eternal Stewardship, preserved in the Crown Archives."
The titles were meaningless—but sounded divine.
And it worked.
By the time the bishops left the basilica, thirty-nine dioceses had agreed in principle to transfer funds to the Crown Trust Bank. The first deposits, expected within a fortnight, would exceed 700,000 Ducados—gold that had once sat useless in vaults, now soon to flow through the arteries of the Crown.
***
Later that week, the royal courtyard was transformed into a spectacle of silk, sabers, and song.
Brass horns sounded as the noble families of Aragon arrived, dressed in their finest. Velvets from Naples. Gems from Andalusia. Eagle-feathered hats from Castile. They came not for politics—but for pageantry.
Atop the dais stood Lancelot once again, this time flanked by royal guards bearing the crimson banners of the newly founded knightly orders.
One by one, the nobles knelt before him, and one by one he dubbed them with a gilded ceremonial sword.
"Arise, Sir Mateo de Galvez, Knight of the Crown's Progress."
"Arise, Lady Isadora de Liria, Knight of Crown's Progress."
To the crowd, it was a coronation of virtue.
But behind each title was a transaction.
Mateo had donated five warships for the Crown Fleet.
Isadora had transferred ownership of 2,000 hectares of vineyards in Navarra.
Another duke gifted a marble quarry. One noblewoman surrendered three warehouses in Seville. All in exchange for sashes, plaques, and invitations to the royal masquerade.
No one asked where their gifts were going.
They only cared that their names appeared in the royal registry, their letters bore the emblem of the Order, and the peasants addressed them as "Sir" and "Lady."
And the best part?
They didn't even know they were being taxed.
Meanwhile, across the empire, posters fluttered from city walls and port gates.
"WIN BIG! THE ROYAL LOTTERY IS HERE!"
In Madrid, Valencia, Cadiz, and even in Manila, lottery booths were swarmed. Farmers with muddy hands queued beside bakers, tailors, and dockworkers. Soldiers pooled their coin for group entries.
The top prize?
10,000 Ducados. Enough to buy a home, a vineyard, or freedom.
Every ticket purchased was a flicker of hope.
But week after week, no winners emerged.
At first, it was chalked up to odds.
Later, the Crown announced that the winning ticket holders had failed to claim their prize within the allotted time.
Then came stories—clearly planted—of a widow in Burgos who had donated her ticket to a church and "won," but humbly refused to claim it.
Each story was accompanied by portraits of smiling faces, printed in Company-run broadsheets.
The people believed.
And the money flowed.
By the end of the month, the Crown Vault held 480,000 Ducados in lottery revenue alone—all unclaimed, all untouched, all waiting for Lancelot's next move.
One evening, Lancelot sat in his study, the fire crackling low. Alicia entered, holding a fresh scroll from the Crown Trust Bank's chief accountant.
She handed it over.
"Three weeks in, and the Sacred Investment deposits now total 1.2 million Ducados," she reported. "Knight Orders have brought in another 900,000 in estates, assets, and pledged contributions."
"And the lottery?"
"Still no legitimate winners. We've issued two staged winners for morale, but the pot remains untouched."
Lancelot set the scroll aside. "It's time."
Alicia tilted her head. "Time for what?"
He turned to the map beside the fireplace. Pins marked factories, ports, bridges, and towns.
"It's time we begin the infrastructure initiative. The roads. The schools. The shipyards. The factories. We will mobilize the engines of this kingdom. It's time for change. I call it…industrialization, funded by the nobles, churches, the people, the RTC, basically by them. Do you see the genius of this plan?"
Alicia's eyes widened, she was dumbfounded and shocked. It was all for this, to fund the projects that would change the way of life of all the Aragonians. The Crown Prince had truly changed from within and without. She had said this before, she would beg whatever spirits that had come to possess the crown prince to not leave his body.