"Get along well, my foot! I'm going to the battlefield—if I don't find a way to kill you, I'll admit defeat."
Eighteen bullets in the back—
suicide?
Or perhaps the artilleryman was a temporary worker who made a mistake?
After leaving the palace, Clement was so preoccupied with finding an opportunity to deal with Godoy that he completely forgot to offer his father, the king, even a token greeting.
By the time he realized it, his carriage was already nearing his villa.
Oh well.
Charles IV spent his days indulging in pleasure anyway. Missing him for a day wouldn't matter much. His hands-off style of rule was actually decent—certainly better than meddling incompetently and ruining everything.
Historically, although Charles IV was far from capable, Charles III had laid a solid foundation for Spain. If not for Napoleon's obsession with seizing the Spanish throne, Spain—if not fully revitalized—would at least not have seen its vast colonial empire collapse overnight and could have endured much longer.
And now, with Clement here, the idea of colonial independence was even less likely—at least within his lifetime.
As for whether he could truly lead Spain to revival, as long as he avoided provoking France and industrialized as quickly as possible, there was still a strong chance.
The primitive accumulation required for industrialization had already been completed centuries ago. Spain's immense wealth from its American colonies meant there was no need to squeeze its own people dry.
Wasn't an empire built by one's ancestors meant to allow future generations to live more comfortably and suffer less?
With that thought, Clement suddenly ordered the carriage to stop.
"Stop. We're not going back to the villa. We're going to the University of Madrid."
The University of Madrid had nothing to do with the institution Clement remembered from his previous life, which had been formed through the merger and renaming of religious schools.
The current university was funded directly by the Spanish royal family. Calling it the Real Madrid University would not have been an exaggeration—though people of this era did not favor overtly royal names as later generations would. In any case, the Spanish royal family had no need to boost its prestige through a university.
More importantly, the name Real Madrid was already too firmly ingrained in Clement's mind and felt utterly inappropriate for an academic institution.
Well, he mused, if industrialization succeeds, football could be introduced earlier as well.
It was a sport beloved by workers and commoners alike, useful for easing social tensions and suppressing class conflict.
There was no helping it—Clement was now firmly part of the ruling class.
His arrival at the University of Madrid caused little commotion. There were no crowds or grand welcomes.
This was not because the Crown Prince of Spain lacked status, but because in this era, those who attended university were themselves members of the elite. The University of Madrid was the most prestigious institution in Spain, and its students were long accustomed to power and privilege.
After all, the nominal rector of the university was still the King of Spain.
Clement had come for two reasons: to check on the progress of a technology he cared deeply about, and to select a number of noble students to accompany him on the upcoming military campaign.
The technology in question was the improvement of the steam engine.
The steam engine had been invented in the early 18th century, but its inefficiency had limited its application. By 1793, however, the Englishman James Watt had significantly improved it, making large-scale use possible.
Clement had once considered acquiring the technology directly from Britain. However, due to the hostile relations between Britain and Spain—and Britain's strict secrecy regarding such technology—that plan had failed.
Unable to obtain mature technology from abroad, Clement had no choice but to rely on domestic development.
The good news was that the technology was still in its formative stage. There was no overwhelming generational gap, and even if Clement couldn't recall the exact improvements, catching up was entirely feasible.
The bad news was Spain's lack of scientific talent, a consequence of its historically weak education system.
Ironically, the French Revolution helped alleviate this problem.
As France descended into chaos, death was not limited to nobles—countless innocent civilians were swept up as well. In such an environment, scientists and scholars naturally feared for their lives.
Thanks to Clement's recruitment efforts, many French scholars relocated to Spain, drawn by its relative stability and the royal family's willingness to fund research.
One such example was the vice-rector—and de facto rector—of the University of Madrid: the renowned mathematician Lagrange.
Anyone with even a basic knowledge of astronomy knew his name. It was precisely because of his presence that the University of Madrid had been able to attract talent from across Europe.
However, when Clement met Lagrange this time, something felt off.
Normally, Lagrange carried himself with a calm confidence, his eyes bright with intellect. Today, however, his gaze seemed dimmed.
Clement was startled. Had Lagrange fallen ill?
He immediately asked,
"Respected Principal Lagrange, are you well? Have you been overworking yourself with research? Perhaps you should rest more. I could arrange for a physician."
"No… I'm fine," Lagrange replied slowly. "I just…"
He raised his eyes slightly and continued,
"I've received news about a friend of mine. I'm deeply saddened."
Clement's first thought was that Lagrange had learned of Louis XVI's execution.
Given that Louis XVI's earlier travels to Paris and Madrid had been facilitated in part by Lagrange, it was understandable.
To prevent unrest in Spain, news of the execution had been tightly controlled and limited to the upper echelons of society—Lagrange should not have known.
Who leaked it?
Some noble student with loose lips?
Suppressing his irritation, Clement asked cautiously,
"You… already know about the death of the King of France? Who told you, without regard for your peace of mind?"
Lagrange glanced at him. The familiar clarity returned to his eyes. He gave a forced smile and shook his head.
"Your Highness, please don't overthink it. A friend in France wrote to me personally.
"I am deeply saddened by the death of His Majesty Louis."
He paused, then added quietly,
"But I am worried about someone else."
"Oh?"
Clement nodded, understanding that a scholar of Lagrange's stature would have his own channels of information.
Curiosity crept into his voice.
"Who could cause you such concern?"
"An academic friend," Lagrange replied. "A distinguished scholar."
His hesitation and troubled expression only deepened Clement's confusion.
After a moment, Lagrange seemed to steel himself. Looking directly at Clement, he said urgently,
"Your Highness, you've come at the perfect time.
Please—save my friend."