I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 160: Focusing on the Air Force

The morning sun cast a golden hue over the fog-laden hills surrounding Port-Luthair. Inside the fortified hangar complex, a sense of anticipation hung in the air as King Bruno convened with his team of engineers, tacticians, and weapon specialists. Blueprints and sketches cluttered the drafting table, each depicting iterations of the Falcon II modified with top-mounted frames and side brackets near the cockpit.​

"How do we arm the skies?" Bruno's voice broke the silence, his finger hovering over a schematic.

Silvain Hartwell, arms folded, scrutinized 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."

Amalia leaned over the table, her eyes alight with ideas. "We can mount it above the nose instead, offset, angled slightly to the right. The pilot compensates by aim—like archers learning to shoot from horseback."

Kellan Vire, the 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 fell silent.

Bruno walked to a crate in the corner, lifting its lid to reveal cast-iron spheres, each no larger than a melon, with tail fins of folded copper. "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 examined one. "What's the yield?"

"Localized," Bruno replied. "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 hidden behind steady hands and a 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.

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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 formation flying under simulated enemy fire. From dawn until dusk—and often beyond—engines growled, chalk smoke billowed from mock targets, and the sky above the cliffs echoed with the thunder of propellers.

Inside the command tower, Bruno stood before a massive wall map, newly inked with air routes, engagement zones, and observation grids. Red pins marked known border threats. Blue flags represented Falcon patrol rotations. He traced a route northward with his finger—toward the icy mountain passes where scouts had reported strange signal fires days before.

"Double coverage here," he told Lieutenant Norra, the logistics coordinator. "And ready a long-range Striker variant for aerial survey. I want eyes in the clouds before we march men into valleys."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Norra replied, already scribbling down the orders.

Meanwhile, inside Hangar Three, Hartwell and Kellan worked on the prototype of the synchronized firing mechanism. The apparatus—codenamed "Echo Gear"—used a rotating camshaft linked to the engine's crankshaft, timing each bullet's release between propeller blades. The device had already sheared through two test props in the early trials, but Hartwell was confident.

"Once we crack the rhythm," he muttered, tightening a bolt, "the rest is just clockwork."

Bruno joined them that afternoon, sleeves rolled up, grease already staining his gloves from another inspection. He listened as Hartwell explained the latest modification, then inspected the test mount himself. "The key isn't just synchronization," Bruno said, "it's reliability under stress. Mid-flight vibrations, temperature changes, sudden throttle shifts—it all has to hold."

"We'll get there," Kellan grunted. "Or die trying."

That evening, Amalia returned from a high-altitude patrol. Her face was wind-chapped, her lips cracked, but her smile was wide.

"Three hours at peak range," she reported, climbing down from her cockpit. "No loss of control. The long-tail stabilizer held."

Bruno clapped her on the shoulder. "Good. You'll fly the first Echo Gear test next week."

Her expression sobered. "If it fails, I lose a propeller mid-air."

"If it succeeds," Bruno replied, "you'll be the most dangerous thing in the sky."

At the edge of the aerodrome, young recruits watched from a distance. Some sat on crates, others leaned against fence rails, whispering about the machines, the heroes, the future.

One of them—a boy barely old enough to shave—pointed to a chalk sketch pinned to a notice board: a drawing of the Echo Gear mounted on the nose of a Striker.

"Someday," he said, "I'll fly one of those."

Bruno passed by behind them and smiled faintly to himself. The boy didn't know he was there.

He didn't have to.

The sky no longer belonged to myths.

It belonged to Elysea.