I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The skies over Port-Luthair were unusually clear.

Not a wisp of cloud. Not a single hawk in flight. Just pure, unbroken blue—a perfect backdrop for what was to come.

Inside Hangar Three, the mood was anything but still.

Engineers moved with purpose, tightening bolts, checking pressure gauges, adjusting fuel lines. The hum of tools and shouted instructions echoed beneath the steel rafters. At the heart of it all, the latest Falcon Striker stood on its landing gear, bristling with new modifications. Its nose gleamed with a reinforced housing—the result of weeks of trial and error, frustration and breakthrough.

Echo Gear.

The synchronized firing system. A machine of exquisite precision, designed to time each bullet with the rotation of the propeller, ensuring none would clip the blades on their way forward. Dozens of prototypes had failed. Propellers shattered. Bullets ricocheted back into the hull. Hartwell once spent an entire night cleaning mangled brass from the cockpit.

But today, it was ready.

King Bruno arrived just after sunrise, sleeves rolled up, goggles resting on his brow. Amalia Fen stood by the Striker, helmet in hand, her face calm but pale. No one blamed her. She was about to test the most dangerous contraption the Aeromechanical Division had ever built.

"Fuel mix?" Bruno asked.

"Refined," Hartwell replied. "High-octane. Stable burn. Minimal knock."

"Repeater load?"

"Belted and locked. Twenty rounds. Aluminum casing. Subsonic charge."

Bruno turned to Amalia, his voice quieter now. "You know what to do if the system skips timing?"

"Kill throttle. Cut ignition. Nose up. Bail if needed."

"Good."

He rested a hand on the fuselage. The aluminum was cool beneath his palm. Smooth. Elegant. Deadly.

"All right," Bruno called out. "Clear the hangar. Flight team, take your posts."

Amalia climbed into the cockpit, strapped in, and ran her pre-flight checks. The engine sputtered once, twice, then roared to life with a growl that vibrated through the floor. Ground crew scrambled back. The hangar doors creaked open. Wind rushed in.

Bruno stepped onto the observation deck with Hartwell and Kellan Vire beside him. General Delacroix had insisted on watching from the command tower—he'd seen enough near-deaths for one lifetime.

The Striker rolled onto the runway. The new nose assembly glinted like a knight's visor.

Bruno's grip on the railing tightened.

Then she took off.

Smooth. Confident. The propeller a blur against the morning light. She climbed quickly, banking eastward before leveling out at a safe altitude.

A red flag rose at the far end of the field—target dummies set in a shallow trench, painted with enemy colors. This was no ceremonial test. This was a live-fire evaluation.

"Here we go," Hartwell murmured.

Amalia circled once… then dove.

The repeater let out its first burst.

Bup-bup-bup—

The sound was different. Cleaner. Crisper. Not the rattling chaos of an unmodulated gun but a measured, surgical rhythm.

Bruno's eyes were locked on the propeller.

It kept spinning.

Round after round, the bullets cleared the blade arc with mathematical precision.

On the ground, two of the dummies were shredded by the impact. Dust rose, caught by the wind.

A cheer erupted from the hangar floor.

"She did it!" someone shouted.

"She did it!"

Amalia pulled up, circled once, and buzzed the runway, letting loose the final rounds on a second line of targets. Her aim was good—two direct hits. The third missed by inches, but it didn't matter.

Echo Gear had worked.

She landed to a frenzy of applause. Mechanics pounded their fists on tool crates. Pilots clapped and whistled. Kellan whooped loud enough to startle a flock of birds.

Amalia dismounted slowly, peeled off her gloves, and looked up at Bruno.

He was already striding toward her.

"That was the cleanest burst I've ever seen," he said. "You didn't even graze the prop."

"Scared me to death," she replied, wiping sweat from her brow. "But it worked."

Hartwell arrived moments later, carrying the data sheets from the tracking team.

"Confirmed—ninety-eight percent hit accuracy. No blade strikes. Chamber temperature held under threshold."

Bruno looked around at the gathered personnel. Every face bore the same stunned expression: awe. This was more than a successful test. It was a turning point.

"Tomorrow," he said, voice rising, "this rig gets mounted on five more units. Start rotating trainees into live drills. We double night flight hours and begin drafting integrated air-armor doctrine. I want operational guidelines on my desk by the end of the week."

No one protested.

Because everyone knew—the age of synchronized fire had arrived.

That night, Bruno called an emergency meeting in the war college's High Council chamber. The ceiling stretched high above them, banners hanging from beams, each representing a regiment of Elysea's past. A single new banner had been added recently—deep blue, embroidered with silver wings and a crown.

The Royal Air Corps.

On the wall, a new map had been pinned beside the old campaign charts. This one showed air lanes, wind corridors, elevation currents, and target markers in the mountain ranges to the north.

Delacroix sat with his arms crossed, sipping strong coffee. Admiral Serane, head of the naval command, leaned forward, eyes narrowed at the document before her.

"You're proposing cross-theater coverage?" she asked. "Airborne logistics from the capital to Fort Marin?"

"With the new synchronizer, we can secure airspace in contested zones," Bruno said. "We control the skies, we dictate the battle."

"What about range?"

"Two hundred kilometers with a two-seat scout build. Four hundred with fuel tanks underwing. And that's before the auxiliary booster system is ready."

Serane gave a low whistle. "That's… ambitious."

"It's inevitable," Bruno replied. "And we'll need you."

The admiral looked up.

"I want to retrofit two of our dreadnoughts with launch rails. Light aircraft only—recon and rapid strike. We test waterborne deployment by midsummer."

Delacroix barked a laugh. "Floating airfields now, Sire?"

"Would you rather wait until the Arcanians build theirs?"

The laughter stopped.

Serane closed her folder. "Very well. I'll begin drawing plans."

Bruno looked around the room. "This is not a dream. It's doctrine. From this point forward, every campaign plan includes an aerial component. Every engagement assumes a third axis."

He pointed to the sky.

"We are the first. But we will not be the only."

The room nodded.

And the future shifted again.

—(Continued in next message due to 1800-word request) ​

​

Certainly! Here's the continuation of the chapter from the war council discussion:

The days that followed saw movement unlike anything Elysea had experienced before.

The Royal Air Corps—once a fledgling experiment—now found itself at the center of every strategic document. Air lanes were etched across the maps in red ink, training schedules doubled, and fuel reserves were tripled. New recruits—some barely seventeen—poured into the Port-Luthair Academy, eager to trade saddle for stick, hooves for propellers.

Bruno visited the training hangar often. Not as a figurehead, but as an instructor, a mentor.

One gray morning, he stood beside a half-assembled Falcon Scout while two new cadets—Tomas Elric and Jorah Arendt—adjusted the tension on the flight pedals. Both boys looked up as he approached, their spines snapping straight.

"No need to salute," Bruno said, smiling. "You're pilots now. You'll be strapped into metal coffins soon enough. Save your arms."

They laughed nervously.

He knelt beside their mount. "These pedals are too tight. Loosen them or you'll cramp during descent. In a dive, seconds matter."

Jorah blinked. "You've flown in a dive, Your Majesty?"

Bruno gave him a look. "I've flown when the sky looked like it was coming apart at the seams. Believe me. Comfort matters."

Later that day, during lunch in the open-air mess, Bruno joined the trainees and engineers under the wing of a Striker prototype. The conversation turned to the nature of flight—what it meant to defy gravity, to slip the bonds of earth. Someone asked Bruno what it was like the first time he truly felt airborne.

He took a moment before answering.

"It's like standing on a knife's edge," he said. "But the blade is moving—forward, fast. And the only thing keeping you alive is your belief that it will hold."

The silence that followed wasn't from reverence—but understanding.

They would remember that.

That evening, Bruno, Amalia, and Hartwell gathered at the edge of the airstrip, where construction had begun on the second runway. Lights had been strung up between poles, flickering faintly against the encroaching night. The hum of distant engines echoed beyond the trees.

"Do you ever wonder," Amalia said, "if we've gone too far?"

Bruno glanced at her. "You mean if we're building a future filled with too many moving parts?"

"No," she said, softly. "I mean if we're building a future that forgets the stillness."

Hartwell chuckled. "Stillness doesn't win wars, Fen."

"No," Bruno said, "but peace does."

The three of them stood in silence for a long while. Watching as two Striker units circled overhead—practicing formation turns against a field of stars.

Above them, the world no longer felt unreachable.

It felt engineered.

Earned.

And Elysea, forged in fire, now reached skyward not with desperate hope—but with the certainty of flight.