I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 162: More Iterations

Rain pattered against the slanted tin roof of Hangar Three. Outside, wind gusted over the ridgelines of Port-Luthair, carrying the sharp scent of brine and engine oil. Inside, beneath humming lamps and the scent of burning solder, the future of aerial combat lay in pieces across a dozen workbenches.

The Echo Gear project had entered its final phase.

Hartwell stood over the disassembled engine of a Falcon Striker, sleeves rolled, face pale from a third sleepless night. His voice was hoarse as he addressed the small gathering of engineers and observers around him.

"We've corrected the lag. Reduced misfire error to less than one degree of rotation. The crankshaft and trigger cam now cycle at perfect half-timing. The Echo Gear is ready."

Bruno, standing nearby in his long coat, offered a nod but remained silent. He'd learned that breakthroughs didn't come from speeches—they came from silent confidence and open minds. Amalia stood next to him, helmet tucked under one arm, her brows drawn tight. She would be the one to test it.

"It still scares the hell out of me," she muttered.

Bruno glanced at her. "Good. That means you respect it."

She cracked a smile, then stepped toward the Striker, which had been specially fitted for this test. The nose-mounted repeater had been replaced with the Echo Gear's prototype: a twin-barrel configuration mounted between the propeller arc. If it worked, bullets would fly cleanly through the spinning blades. If it failed…

Kellan Vire, the grizzled weaponsmith, patted the nose cone with a grim nod. "We reinforced the blades. If the sync is off, it won't shear the engine. But it will ruin the prop. And maybe her day."

Bruno raised a hand to the crew. "Let's fly."

They pushed the Striker into position at the far end of the runway. Wind whipped across the concrete as fog peeled back from the cliffs, giving way to a sharp, clear morning sky. Target banners had been erected halfway down the field—padded sacks suspended on poles, wide enough to show hits.

Amalia strapped in.

Bruno leaned in one last time. "Remember, short bursts. Let the cam do the work. Trust the timing."

She gave a firm nod. "If I crash, you're designing the next plane to make coffee."

Bruno smirked and stepped back.

The engine roared.

The propeller spun.

The crowd—officers, engineers, recruits, even a few pressmen—watched from behind safety barriers as the Striker hurtled forward and took off, climbing in a steep arc before leveling into a low, deliberate approach run.

Bruno gripped the rail, binoculars raised.

"Come on," he muttered.

At the halfway mark, Amalia dipped the nose.

Then—flash.

Muzzle bursts flickered in rhythmic, precise intervals. Not a single misfire. Not a single glancing blow to the propeller.

The banners trembled under the hail of lead.

Cheers erupted behind Bruno.

"She hit every one!" someone yelled.

"She didn't just hit," Hartwell said, stunned. "She grouped them."

As Amalia banked left and made her way back, the crowd parted for Bruno and the engineering crew to meet her as the wheels touched down. The propeller was intact. The gun unjammed. The Echo Gear had worked.

Amalia climbed down and tugged her goggles off with shaking hands.

"Well?" Bruno asked.

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She grinned. "It sings."

That afternoon, the prototype was brought back into the hangar for inspection. Dozens of sketches and schematics were revised on the spot. Hartwell dictated measurements to the scribes while Bruno paced between tables, pointing out adjustments for mass production.

By evening, the palace messengers were already riding for Elysee with sealed scrolls.

The Echo Gear would be standard on all new Striker units.

And the rest of the world didn't even know it existed.

Two Weeks Later – The Capital of Elysee

In the heart of the Royal Military College, General Marc Delacroix stood behind a lecture podium, his hand resting beside a model of the Striker aircraft. Across the hall, junior officers and academy tacticians sat in stunned silence as he described what had occurred at Port-Luthair.

"Repeat this back to me," he said, voice like steel. "What is the new battlefield?"

"The sky," the officers said in unison.

Delacroix pointed to a chalk map where red arcs curved across coastlines, valleys, and strongholds.

"Our enemies still think of war as something that begins with drums and ends with cavalry. But from now on—war begins with silence. And then, it screams overhead."

He tapped the propeller model once.

"They won't hear it coming until it's too late."

Bruno stood atop the northern overlook with Hartwell and Amalia. Below them, the newest wing of the hangar complex had been completed: Assembly Bay Echo.

Rows of Striker airframes lined the interior like skeletal birds waiting for wings. Technicians mounted synchronized gears into gun housings. Pilots drilled on dry land with firing routines, learning the cadence of burst patterns and nose corrections.

Bruno exhaled as he scanned the horizon. "We've changed the way battles will begin."

"And ended them," Hartwell added.

But Bruno shook his head. "No. Ending war takes more than machines. It takes vision."

Amalia crossed her arms. "So what's next, then?"

He looked down at his hands—greased, callused, tired.

"We show the world we have power… and the wisdom not to use it carelessly."

Then he turned back to the bay.

"But if they test us…"

He smiled faintly.

"They'll get their answer in the wind."

Late That Night – In the Palace Workshop

Alone in his study, Bruno sat hunched over a clean piece of parchment.

He drew a new shape—slender, swept-winged, with a twin-engine mount and an enclosed cockpit.

It was nothing Elysea had built yet.

But it was coming.

He titled the design: Hawkfire.

Then, in the corner, he added a date.

And a single phrase:

"The next leap is speed."

He dipped his pen again.

And began to write.

The next morning, the ink on Bruno's design had barely dried when messengers arrived from Port-Luthair bearing early telemetry reports from the synchronized-firing exercises. The results were conclusive—no jams, no misfires, no damage to the blades even under varied wind conditions. The Echo Gear, it seemed, was no longer a prototype. It was doctrine.

Bruno paced across the floor of the palace's northern wing, design parchment still clutched in one hand. He couldn't stop thinking about the Hawkfire.

The design wasn't born of necessity—it was born of possibility. The Falcon Striker was a fine aircraft, reliable and stable, but it was a rifle in a world where Bruno envisioned a sniper. The Hawkfire would be sleek, fast, and sharp-edged. It would rely on speed over armor, altitude over numbers. It would be the first of its kind.

He called for Hartwell and Amalia before midday.

When they arrived, still wind-chapped from dawn drills, Bruno unrolled the parchment across the war table.

"I want this built," he said simply.

Hartwell raised a brow. "No fixed landing skids?"

"Retractable," Bruno confirmed. "Tucked into the fuselage to reduce drag."

Amalia squinted at the side profile. "This nose… it's narrower. And this cockpit—is that sealed?"

"It will be pressurized," Bruno nodded. "Eventually. But for now, just enclosed. Less wind resistance. The pilot won't be exposed to the elements. I want her to break speeds no one's even imagined yet."

Hartwell gave a low whistle. "You're not building an aircraft, sire. You're building a dart."

Bruno tapped the corner of the schematic where the twin-engine configuration was sketched. "We'll use a dual rotary system. Smaller engines. Higher RPM. Mounted underwing to lower the center of gravity."

"Two engines?" Amalia said, tilting her head. "More power means more fuel. She won't be light."

"She won't have to be," Bruno said. "She'll be fast enough that she won't need to dodge."

Hartwell gave a cautious grunt. "We'll need new alloys. The wood won't hold at those speeds."

"I know," Bruno replied. "That's why I've already commissioned the metallurgists in Ardrin to begin refining a titanium-copper blend. Lightweight. Resilient. Flexible."

Silence fell over the table for a moment.

Then Amalia leaned forward, smiling slightly. "So… when do we start?"

Construction on the Hawkfire began within the week.

The prototype was not built at Port-Luthair's primary hangars, but in a newly sealed testing facility beneath the eastern cliffs. Bruno called it "Foundry One"—a name chosen as much for secrecy as for symbolism. No one entered without clearance. Even fewer left with knowledge of what they had seen.

Each part of the Hawkfire was bespoke. The engines were hand-machined. The fuselage was cold-forged in segments. The canopy—a one-piece dome of glassy quartz—was cooled and polished over eight days before it was declared flight-worthy.

It took nearly two months before the airframe stood complete. And when it did, even the veteran engineers of the Aeromechanical Division paused to stare.

The Hawkfire looked like it didn't belong on the ground.

It had a predator's posture—leaning forward slightly, like a hawk perched on the edge of a cliff, moments from diving.

Amalia walked around the aircraft in slow circles. Her reflection moved along its silvery surface like water. She didn't speak. Didn't need to.

Bruno stepped up beside her.

"She's yours," he said quietly.

"You sure?" she asked, eyes fixed on the cockpit.

"Who else can tame her?"

A soft laugh. "What if I can't?"

"Then she waits."

But she didn't wait.

Three days later, after a series of stationary engine tests and structural integrity checks, the Hawkfire rolled out onto the test strip at dawn.

It gleamed beneath the morning light, its nose pointed not at the runway, but the horizon.

Bruno stood at the tower with Hartwell, binoculars clutched in white-knuckled hands.

"Telemetry on?" Bruno asked.

Hartwell nodded. "Recording airspeed, elevation, throttle output. We'll get full diagnostics."

The runway team gave the signal.

Amalia throttled up.

The engines screamed.

And the Hawkfire surged forward.

It didn't climb immediately—it knifed across the strip, flattening the grass beside the stones. Then, as if remembering gravity didn't apply, it tilted skyward and soared.

Straight up.

Hartwell shouted something—Bruno didn't hear it. His eyes were on the sky.

The Hawkfire punched through a low cloudbank and vanished.

Then, seconds later, it reappeared—rolling into a wide spiral, then dipping low again for a pass so fast that the tower's flagpole rattled.

Speed gauges flickered.

Telemetry units smoked.

The observers below ducked as the Hawkfire thundered overhead.

And then it was gone—just a streak across the sky.

Bruno watched her vanish into the distance, heart thudding.

When she landed an hour later, the wheels barely screeched.

Amalia popped the canopy with shaking fingers.

"How fast?" she croaked.

Bruno held up the bent clipboard where Hartwell had scribbled a number.

"Three hundred forty kilometers per hour," he said. "And she didn't even redline."

Amalia slumped back in her seat, laughing breathlessly.

"Your Majesty," she murmured. "We've built a storm."

Bruno placed a hand on the aircraft's nose cone, still warm from flight.

"No," he said.

"We've built the future."