The weather was getting hotter.

Winter could be bitterly cold at times, but wearing more clothes always helped. There were ways to stay warm.

Summer, however, was pure torment. Even without clothes, the heat was inescapable. The air itself was scorching, and even the wind felt like fire—blowing not with relief, but with more heat.

Even in Eminence’s busiest streets, the crowds had thinned. People feared the heat.

Lynch thought of summers in Nagaryll. The temperatures there were even higher than in the Federation, yet it never felt as unbearable. Under the swaying trees, the sweltering heat turned cool, the breeze carried a refreshing chill that settled deep within.

Sitting in a rattan chair, feeling that breeze, watching Nagaryll laborers sweating at construction sites—there was no greater pleasure.

When Lynch entered the research institute, a team of workers was adjusting some equipment.

“What are they doing?” he asked casually.

The institute director, who had come to greet him, immediately explained, “They’re installing a temperature regulator. It maintains a stable temperature range inside the facility.”

“Some materials sensitive to temperature changes need to be tested in different environments, so we ordered a system. I think it’s called central… something.” He couldn’t quite recall the term and didn’t particularly care.

It was central air conditioning, essentially. Lynch nodded.

But he was slightly mistaken—it wasn’t just central air. This system could cool rooms down to nearly zero degrees, which most standard AC units couldn’t do.

Sometimes, one breakthrough in high-end tech could lead to a cascade of related innovations. For the Federation, it was on the verge of a technological boom. As long as someone had a persuasive, novel idea, getting funding from wealthy backers wasn’t hard.

Lynch had acquired the institute for a modest sum. The property and equipment weren’t worth much—less than 300,000—but it became his. It came with no valuable data or personnel, just some decent, though not cutting-edge, research equipment.

The institute was now part of Blackstone Industries. But Blackstone Industries wasn’t a typical production company—it didn’t manufacture anything. Not now, not in the future.

It was purely a research organization. Lynch invested heavily, hiring real scientists and a few independent inventors. Its value lay in turning interesting ideas into reality.

These ideas would be patented, then licensed to Blackstone Manufacturing and other companies where Lynch held shares.

For example, the aircraft company backed by relatives of congressional members and military officials—they would receive licenses to produce certain items.

Lynch would never entrust anything critical to such interest-driven ventures. They were full of holes—completely incapable of safeguarding anything important.

After an anti-static check, Lynch and the director officially entered the institute.

“Mr. Lynch, we’ve already started designing an engine based on your ideas for aircraft,” the director said, opening a door for him.

Security at the institute was handled entirely by Blackstone Security—trusted, in-house people.

Many researchers recognized Lynch, but none paused their work to greet him. They were focused on calculations and experiments.

Lynch had promised that if a dedicated aircraft engine prototype was completed by January 1st next year, at least 3%—and up to 10%—of the first-generation engine’s profits would be distributed as bonuses to all research staff.

That might not sound like much—each engine might only fetch tens of thousands—but the production volume would be significant.

Whether through military procurement or civilian enthusiasts, the researchers believed selling several thousand units during its lifespan was realistic. Even 3% in royalties could amount to hundreds of thousands or more.

As long as the engine remained in production, the researchers would continue to benefit.

In an economic slump, such a deal was rare, so everyone worked hard.

The institute director wasn’t a top-tier scientist himself. He had worked as an engineer at a heavy machinery firm, designing high-power engines for construction equipment.

The work was dull and lacked passion—until Lynch approached him with a new opportunity.

Flight had always been one of humanity’s most romantic dreams. Everyone longed for the freedom of the skies, and the director was no exception. So when someone told him Lynch wanted him to work on aircraft engines, he agreed immediately.

He even brought over several colleagues willing to change jobs—helped, of course, by Lynch’s generous compensation.

Lynch was enthusiastic—and so was his money. Enthusiasm was hard to refuse.

“Based on your ideas, we’ve completed an initial design…” the director began. Lynch had been silent so far, making him a bit nervous. The institute had been running for three months, and he’d be embarrassed if there were no progress.

He led Lynch to the back of the institute, where numerous sketchboards were pinned with diagrams and equations.

He found one and pulled it out to show Lynch.

“After research and discussions, we’ve theoretically pushed the first-generation engine’s output beyond 100 horsepower. Our aircraft designers also created a very sleek design…”

The director proudly patted the draft sketch behind him—designed by one of the independent scientists.

At this stage, the divide between academic and independent scientists wasn’t yet rigid, and collaboration was smooth.

The design resembled the biplanes from Lynch’s memory—propeller in front, simple and effective structure. Many amateur aircraft designs at the time looked just like this.

“Why biplane?” Lynch asked—a small question, but not easy to answer.

The director stammered, apologized, and called over the designer—a civilian aircraft inventor personally invited by Lynch.

Lynch had seen one of his flight demos—the plane took off smoothly, then crashed spectacularly. It left an impression.

Lynch repeated the question. The inventor’s answer was: “Stability.”

“Mr. Lynch, the biggest issue in the air is stability and durability. The biplane design addresses both. We don’t have to worry about structural failure or the wings breaking during ascent.”

“The new engine gives it more power, but we always have to consider whether the wings can handle it…”

This independent inventor was clearly a hands-on practitioner. Given his history of crash landings, his real-world experience was arguably more valuable than the abstract formulas scribbled by other researchers.

That was exactly why, even after recruiting academic scientists, Lynch also brought in experienced amateurs—to combine theory and practice in one place.

Practical experience is always more meaningful than theoretical work on paper. Their knowledge came from failure, not simulation, and that made it more valuable.

Any independent aircraft inventor still active in this era had survived countless life-threatening crashes.

Those lacking the necessary skills or intellect had already died in their final flight accidents.

The inventor kept explaining his views, which ultimately boiled down to this: current materials couldn’t support high-powered aircraft performing complex maneuvers in the air.

In other words, the engine being developed at the institute had already, in theory, surpassed all previous engines. Aircraft design now had to accommodate the engine—not the other way around.

“How long can it fly? How far?”

“We currently have three designs…”

“The first is a single-seat version, stripped of all non-essential equipment. Theoretically, it can fly about 500 kilometers.”

“The second can carry two people, with a range of a little over 300 kilometers.”

“The third can carry one pilot and six 105mm howitzer shells, with a range of approximately 150 kilometers.”

As they shared these figures, both the director and the inventor were visibly proud. Numbers like these could shake the entire industry.

They even preemptively designed an attack system to drop shells directly from high altitude.

Previous aircraft had also considered offensive capabilities, but their methods were largely ineffective—handguns, rifles, and even machine guns mounted on aircraft offered little practical value.

Handguns and rifles couldn’t hit ground targets. Machine guns could, but required low-altitude flight.

And it was widely known that the biggest problem with aircraft was that after a steep dive, they often couldn’t pull up in time—ending in a crash. So machine guns weren’t a viable solution either.

As for dropping grenades…

Too high, and they exploded midair. Too low, and the aircraft risked being shot down by machine guns—and landing was already a major challenge. Because of this, aircraft had yet to enter the military mainstream of any nation.

As long as aircraft couldn’t deliver real combat value, no one was eager to invest too heavily in their development. It was easier to let independent inventors keep tinkering, with occasional funding from the military or private companies.

If they produced results, great. If not, nothing much was lost.