I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The next morning, a veil of low fog clung to the hills around Port-Luthair. The air was damp and still, as if the land itself were holding its breath.

Inside the fortified hangar complex, Bruno stood before a new group of engineers, tacticians, and weapon specialists. They gathered around a reinforced drafting table littered with blueprints and sketches—some freshly inked, others annotated with smudged graphite and fingerprints.

A single question hovered over the table like smoke.

"How do we arm the skies?"

Bruno's finger hovered over a new schematic—a modified version of the Falcon II with a top-mounted frame and side brackets near the cockpit.

"We begin with this," he said. "Lightweight, belt-fed. Something that doesn't rip the wings off."

Silvain Hartwell folded his arms, scanning the drawing. "A modified crankshaft under the forward propeller won't give us enough clearance. We'd need synchronization, or the bullets will tear through the blades."

"We can mount it above the nose instead," offered Amalia, leaning over the table. "Offset, angled slightly to the right. The pilot compensates by aim—like archers learning to shoot from horseback."

One of the weaponsmiths—Kellan Vire, a gruff, one-eyed veteran from the Artillery Corps—grunted in approval. "I can strip weight from the repeater design we use on cavalry wagons. Replace the casing with aluminum alloy. Barrel's short, but it'll punch clean through timber and flesh."

Bruno nodded. "Do it. Keep the firing rate modest—we need control, not a storm of bullets."

Hartwell hesitated. "And bombs?"

The room went silent.

Bruno turned to a crate in the corner. With effort, he lifted its lid, revealing a cluster of cast-iron spheres, each no larger than a melon. Tail fins of folded copper jutted from their bases.

"Impact shells," he said. "Each weighs no more than three kilos. The fuse is short—three seconds from release. Enough time to clear altitude after drop."

Kellan stepped forward, examining one. "What's the yield?"

"Localized," Bruno said. "One can level a trench. Two can collapse a barn. No blast waves. No firestorms. I want precision—not terror."

Amalia exhaled slowly. "We're really doing this."

"We must," Bruno said quietly. "Because one day, someone else will."

He looked each of them in the eye.

"And if they get there first, it won't be flour sacks they drop."

By the end of the week, the first armed prototype—codenamed Falcon Striker—was ready for its maiden test.

The machine stood out from the others at the aerodrome: painted matte gray, its forward frame reinforced with a mounted repeater and a narrow steel ammunition tray sloping into the cockpit. Under each wing, small release brackets had been added—crude, mechanical claws meant to carry two impact shells per side.

The demonstration took place at a secluded military testing ground northeast of Fort Lasserre. Only Bruno, General Delacroix, Hartwell, Kellan, and a handful of trusted officers were permitted to attend.

Amalia once again took the controls. Her nerves were hidden behind her steady hands and practiced gaze.

"This isn't like the last time," Bruno warned as he helped her strap in. "If anything jams—don't fight it. Pull out. Land safe."

She smirked. "And miss the chance to be the first person in history to shoot from the sky?"

Bruno sighed. "Just come back in one piece."

Amalia saluted, tugged her goggles down, and gave the ground crew a thumbs-up.

The Striker roared to life.

It raced across the runway and lifted into the air with ease—its heavier frame balanced by additional stabilizers built into the rear. The repeater jutted forward like a fang, its belt already loaded.

At a signal flare from the field, three straw-filled dummies were wheeled into place on the far hill, spaced twenty meters apart.

Bruno raised a pair of binoculars.

The Striker circled high once… then began its descent.

The repeater rattled.

Dust kicked up from the hillside. Two of the dummies collapsed under the barrage. The third staggered as splinters flew from its frame.

The aircraft pulled up, banked left, and came around again.

This time, the pilot aimed lower.

Bruno saw the first bomb drop—a glint of iron tumbling through the air.

Then a muffled thump.

A burst of smoke and soil erupted from the hillside.

The second shell followed, striking a wooden wagon target. The explosion split it in half.

When Amalia landed, silence hung over the test field like mist.

Then Delacroix began to clap—slow, steady.

"Well, damn me," he muttered. "You built a flying gun."

Bruno turned to Kellan. "Make twenty more."

That night, the Royal Aeromechanical Division celebrated in quiet pride. Drinks were poured in the hangars. Engineers toasted with grease-stained mugs. Amalia—flushed and bright-eyed—was carried on the shoulders of younger crewmen before being set down and fed half a roasted duck by a laughing cook.

In the palace, Bruno met with his advisors in the map room.

"We can't keep this secret for long," warned Alistair, the Chamberlain. "Spies will hear. Rumors will spread."

Bruno nodded. "Then let them. Let every kingdom from the Gulf to the Glens know Elysea commands the sky."

"And if they build their own?"

Bruno leaned forward, voice low.

"Then we'll outfly them. Outsmart them. Outbuild them."

He stood, hands gripping the edge of the table.

"From now on, we don't just respond to threats. We get ahead of them. Our air corps is no longer an experiment. It is a shield. A spear. And tomorrow, it begins to drill."

Within a month, the Striker model had four replicas. By winter, there were ten. They trained not just for precision strikes, but for escort missions, reconnaissance, and defensive patrols. Ammunition designs evolved with each iteration—some built for piercing armor, others to scatter metal shards on impact. The bombs became sleeker, deadlier, and shockingly accurate.

Amalia led the first combat exercise with live ammunition against a mock enemy convoy constructed near the coastal cliffs. The results were devastating—exactly what Bruno had hoped to demonstrate.

In the capital, wariness turned into awe. Soldiers volunteered for aerial training, blacksmiths took pride in crafting weapon housings, and children no longer played with toy boats or wooden rifles—but folded paper birds with string-pulled triggers.

The kingdom had changed again.

And now, should any enemy march on Elysea with dreams of conquest or blockade…

They would find themselves beneath the shadow of wings and fire.

Elysea did not seek war.

But it would be ready for one.

And its answer would come not with the gallop of hooves—

But with the roar of engines, and the strike of thunder from the sky.

In the months that followed, the rhythm of Elysea's military drills changed.

The beat of marching boots was now accompanied by the roar of engines above. Where once the kingdom's power had been measured in ships and cannons, now it was counted in propellers, payloads, and flight hours.

At Port-Luthair, the Aeromechanical Division's hangars operated day and night. The Falcon Striker squadrons drilled relentlessly, rehearsing strike runs, evasive maneuvers, and escort formations. Engineers fitted reinforced brackets to newer models, refining designs to balance weight and durability. A centralized command center was established on the aerodrome's northern ridge, allowing coordinated operations between air, land, and sea divisions.

King Bruno spent more time there than in the palace.

He personally reviewed flight logs. Walked the hangar floors. Ate with the engineers and trainees. His knowledge of aerodynamics and machine logic—unparalleled in this world—gave him a revered presence. To the pilots, he wasn't just a king. He was one of them.

And still, he pressed for more.

"Next," he told Hartwell one stormy morning, "we need reconnaissance variants. Long-range. Unarmed. Lightweight. I want scouts in the clouds, watching our borders before an enemy even draws breath."

Hartwell scratched behind his ear. "With a camera?"

Bruno grinned. "Eventually. For now—telescopes and hand sketching. But one day, we'll capture the sky in a box."

Meanwhile, a new line of research began quietly under the Royal Armory's supervision: synchronized firing mechanisms. The dream was to fire directly through the propeller's arc without clipping the blades. The work was dangerous, the math precise—but Bruno believed in it. If they succeeded, it would revolutionize airborne combat.

In the field, the Striker's reputation grew.

Reports came in from outposts along the northern border: patrols spotted hostile scouts near the mountains. By the time a land message reached Fort Bernham, the Striker patrol had already made two passes, scaring them off with warning shots. No blood spilled. No soldiers lost.

It was power without provocation.

Speed without sacrifice.

And it was only the beginning.

Back in Elysee, during a modest celebration for the Royal Air Corps' official charter, Bruno gave a quiet toast beneath the vaulted ceiling of the war college's hall.

"To every blade we've sharpened," he said, "we've added wings. Let those who threaten peace know—they no longer face a nation on foot. They face a kingdom that watches from the clouds."

He raised his glass.

"To the sky," the room echoed.

And far beyond the city walls, under a canopy of stars and the low hum of patrolling aircraft, the people of Elysea looked up—

And saw not just machines.

But the future.

And it was flying.