I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 157: Age of Flight

​In the weeks following the public unveiling of the Elysean Cruiser, the kingdom buzzed with the excitement of a new era. The roads, once dominated by horse-drawn carriages, now echoed with the rhythmic hum of combustion engines. Citizens marveled at the sight of automobiles gliding through the streets, a testament to King Bruno's vision and the nation's ingenuity.​

The Royal Motor Works, having successfully launched the initial fleet of Cruisers, now faced the challenge of meeting the surging demand. Orders poured in from every corner of Elysea, from merchants seeking efficient transport for goods to doctors desiring quicker access to patients in remote areas. To address this, Bruno initiated an expansion of the manufacturing facilities, incorporating assembly lines inspired by his memories of industrial practices from his previous world.​

Training programs were established to cultivate a skilled workforce capable of handling the complexities of automobile production. Mechanics, engineers, and drivers underwent rigorous instruction, ensuring the sustainability of this burgeoning industry. Educational institutions began offering courses in mechanical engineering, fostering a new generation of innovators.​

Infrastructure developments paralleled these advancements. Fuel depots, colloquially known as "gasoline stations," emerged along major routes, providing the necessary support for long-distance travel. Road networks expanded, connecting previously isolated regions and facilitating commerce and communication.​

The societal impact was profound. Travel times decreased significantly, enhancing trade and cultural exchange. Rural communities experienced increased access to goods and services, improving the overall quality of life. The automobile became a symbol of progress, embodying the kingdom's commitment to innovation and unity.​

King Bruno, observing these transformations, recognized the importance of responsible governance in guiding technological advancement. He established regulatory bodies to oversee vehicle safety standards and environmental considerations, ensuring that progress did not come at the expense of the kingdom's well-being. Public forums were held to engage citizens in discussions about the implications of these changes, fostering a sense of collective ownership and accountability.

The morning was quiet but electric in the lower wings of the Royal Engineering Compound, a sprawling brick-and-steel facility that now rivaled the Royal Motor Works in both size and ambition. Located just beyond the eastern gate of Elysee, it was flanked by stacks of lumber, crates of copper wiring, and iron fittings. Inside, the smell of oil and hot metal mingled with the earthy aroma of coal dust and parchment.

King Bruno stepped through the broad iron doors, flanked by only two guards, but his presence drew every eye. He wore no crown—only a thick leather coat, black boots, and a pair of goggles perched atop his head like a mechanic ready for work. The engineers straightened instinctively. Some looked nervous. Others, excited. Bruno had come.

"Please," he said with a small wave of his hand. "Continue."

Murmurs resumed. Tools clinked. Scribes dipped their quills back into inkpots.

From the far end of the room came Silvain Hartwell, head engineer of the Royal Aeromechanical Division. Tall, wiry, and perpetually smudged with soot, he wore a tool belt like it was part of his anatomy.

"Your Majesty," he greeted with a deep bow. "We've been expecting you. This way."

Bruno followed him through the cavernous compound, passing rows of experimental rigs and half-built prototypes. Some resembled oversized birds; others looked like gliders strapped with engine parts.

They climbed a narrow staircase into a domed observatory chamber. Wide glass panels allowed sunlight to flood the room. From here, one could see the edge of the aerodrome—a newly cleared stretch of clay and grass, flat as parchment and stretching half a kilometer.

On the table at the center were blueprints. But these weren't for carriages or ships. These were wings. Engines. Gears. Control surfaces.

"This," Hartwell said with pride, "is Skylark."

Bruno moved closer. The design was simple—too simple, perhaps—but it had potential. The wingspan was wide, the frame light, the propulsion system compact.

"She's our best model yet," Hartwell explained. "A single-seater. Wooden spars. Fabric skin. The engine's been retooled from a two-cylinder Cruiser unit. Rear-mounted propeller. We estimate she can stay aloft for a full minute."

Bruno studied the plans in silence, then gestured for a piece of chalk. He knelt by the slateboard and began sketching.

"Here," he said, adjusting the tail rudder's angle. "You'll need more elevator pitch control. Right now she's stable, but won't climb. And this..." He tapped the wing base. "These joints must be reinforced. Compression load will shear them on landing."

Hartwell nodded, jotting notes furiously. "By the stars, of course—yes. I hadn't thought of torsion here."

"You will," Bruno said with a smile.

A younger woman—Amalia Fen, one of the apprentices—approached. "We've also tested gliders from the cliff edge at Fort Denarii. Our longest flight was seventeen seconds. Straight. Stable. If we add even modest thrust, we might breach thirty."

Bruno looked up. Her eyes were bright, eager. The kind he remembered from his past life—when pioneers dared to reach for the sky with nothing but cloth, wood, and stubbornness.

"I want you heading lift analysis," he said. "Effective immediately."

Amalia froze, then nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Bruno stepped back from the board, turning to the rest of the room. "This project is no longer an experiment. As of this hour, the Royal Aeromechanical Division is elevated to full state sponsorship. You'll have a new facility built on the northern cliffs of Port-Luthair. Hangars. Workshops. Wind tunnels. Whatever you need."

"Wind... tunnels?" Hartwell repeated, awestruck.

"For testing airframes," Bruno said. "We'll build them."

A ripple of disbelief passed through the room.

"Funding?" one man asked, hesitantly.

"Unlimited," Bruno replied. "Your only task... is to fly."

Within the month, the Port-Luthair Aerodrome rose from the earth like a cathedral of progress. Massive hangars, test tracks, observation towers, and a reinforced runway built from compacted gravel and wooden slats—all stood testament to the kingdom's newfound obsession with the sky.

The first Skylark prototype was completed in six weeks.

Its wings stretched twelve meters tip to tip. A single propeller, mounted behind the cockpit, hummed when the engine turned over. The fuselage was light pine, reinforced with iron fittings. The frame looked delicate—but every inch had been tested, re-checked, and corrected under Bruno's scrutiny.

The day of the first powered test flight, Bruno stood at the edge of the runway. Amelie was beside him, bundled in a long coat, with Louis on her hip.

"Do you think it'll work?" she asked softly.

Bruno didn't look away from the craft. "I know it will. Whether it stays up... that's the question."

Amalia Fen was the pilot. She stepped into the open cockpit with nothing but leather gloves and goggles. The mechanics secured her harness, then backed away. Hartwell gave a thumbs-up. The signal was clear.

The propeller spun.

The engine roared.

And the Skylark rumbled forward.

Bruno held his breath. It rolled, bounced—and then, with a shudder—it lifted.

A few meters. Then five. Ten.

This chapt𝙚r is updated by freeωebnovēl.c૦m.

The craft soared into the air with a rising hum, wings stable, tail rudder slicing through the wind.

Gasps filled the air. Cheers followed.

Bruno exhaled slowly, a proud smile on his lips.

"She's flying," Amelie whispered.

"She's flying," Bruno confirmed.

After nearly forty seconds, the engine stuttered. As expected. The fuel line was primitive, the pump hand-crafted. But Amalia guided the craft into a gentle glide, descending in a wide arc before landing on the far end of the runway.

There was no explosion. No crash.

Just a touchdown.

And history.

That evening, Bruno stood before the engineers gathered in the hangar.

"You've done something remarkable," he said. "We don't yet have skyships. Not yet. But we have opened the sky."

He gestured to the Skylark behind him. "This is only the beginning. We'll go higher. Farther. Faster. We'll deliver mail across provinces in hours. Carry medicine to isolated towns. And one day... one day, our soldiers will guard our skies, not just our shores."

The engineers stood, exhausted but triumphant. Their faces were smeared with soot and oil, but their eyes gleamed with vision.

Bruno raised a hand.

"To the sky."

"To the sky," they echoed.

And outside the hangar, under the Elysean stars, the Skylark stood ready—for its next flight.

And for everything that would come after.

The following morning, Elysea woke not just to a sunrise—but to a shift in its very horizon.

Newspapers across the capital featured bold sketches of the Skylark mid-flight, the headline simply reading: "Elysea Takes to the Sky." Children ran through the streets with wooden wings strapped to their arms. Coffeehouses echoed with talk of "aerial post" and "sky patrols." Merchants, scholars, even far-flung governors sent letters to the palace requesting demonstrations—or partnerships.

Bruno, however, remained focused. The next step was scale. A two-seater model. Then a four-seater with longer range. He summoned Silvain Hartwell and Amalia Fen back to the palace that evening and unrolled new blueprints across the war table—larger fuselages, dual-prop configurations, and an enclosed cockpit.

"No more experiments," he told them. "We're building the foundation of Elysea's Air Corps."

Amelia looked toward the night sky outside the window, stars winking like distant beacons.

"And when people look up," she said softly, "they'll no longer see the sky as unreachable. They'll see it as ours."

Bruno nodded once. "Let's give them wings."

And with those words, the age of flight in Elysea did not just begin.

It soared.