I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom

The parade grounds of Fort Lasserre were unlike any other place in Elysea. Spread across a vast plain south of the capital, it was the military's central command and training compound—home to the kingdom's elite regiments and artillery batteries. Normally, it echoed with the sound of marching boots, shouted orders, and the crack of rifle fire on the practice ranges.

But today was different.

Today, the air above the compound was alive with anticipation.

Soldiers stood in neat formation, officers in their dress uniforms, rifles at rest. At the far end of the parade field, atop a wide wooden platform adorned with the Elysean crest, King Bruno stood with his hands behind his back, eyes narrowed against the rising morning sun. Beside him stood General Marc Delacroix, Supreme Commander of the Elysean Armed Forces—a towering man with silver hair, broad shoulders, and the skeptical gaze of a career soldier.

"I'll be honest with you, Sire," Delacroix said, his voice low. "I've seen plenty of war machines. Rolling mortars. Rapid-fire guns. Even those signal towers you had installed last year. But I've never seen anything fly."

Bruno gave him a small smile. "That's why you're here."

Behind them, an entire battalion of engineers and mechanics swarmed the edge of the newly paved airstrip—no longer gravel and wooden slats, but carefully laid stone bricks, flattened and reinforced with crushed clay and mortar. It gleamed in the sunlight, freshly cured, barely cooled.

Three aircraft sat in plain view under canvas hangars, each significantly larger than the original Skylark. Their engines, covered with tarps, were being prepared by ground crews. The air smelled of oil, rope fiber, and tension.

The first aircraft was a two-seater, christened the Falcon I. With dual propellers—one at the front and one rear-mounted—it had greater stability than the Skylark and a reinforced pine and aluminum frame. The second was even larger: the Falcon II, a four-seat prototype with a partially enclosed cockpit and retractable landing skids. It was the pride of the new division.

But the third machine drew the most attention.

Painted dark gray, its wings broader and frame sleeker than the others, it had no civilian markings. Only a gold insignia on its nose—a hawk diving with talons outstretched.

The military prototype.

The Aegis I.

"Three months ago," Bruno began, his voice rising across the field, "we proved to the kingdom that flight was no longer a dream. We soared beyond the limits of what was thought possible. Today… we take the next step. Not in dreams, but in defense."

A murmur spread through the ranks. Some soldiers shifted, others stared upward as if expecting something to descend from the clouds.

"You've seen horses charge," Bruno continued. "You've seen ships patrol our coasts, and artillery guard our walls. But the next war—should it ever come—will not be fought solely on land or sea. It will be fought in the air."

He stepped aside and motioned to a nearby officer. A horn blew once.

The demonstration had begun.

Engines whined to life. First the Falcon I, its twin propellers spinning into a blur. Ground crew gave clearance, and with a rumble, the plane began to roll forward. It took off in less than 80 meters, lifting smoothly into the air.

Gasps rippled across the crowd as the aircraft climbed steadily, wings holding firm. The pilot, a former cavalry officer turned aviator named Captain Ronan Vale, banked into a wide arc over the field. He circled once, then twice, performing a low pass directly above the crowd. Soldiers ducked instinctively as the engine roared past.

General Delacroix watched with arms crossed, his brow furrowed. "Impressive. Still not convinced it's more than a show."

Bruno didn't reply. He simply gestured again.

The Falcon II was next. Slower, heavier—but more stable. The crew aboard waved from the partially enclosed cockpit as they climbed into the sky. One of the engineers released a small crate from the rear hatch mid-flight. It deployed a parachute and landed gently near the reviewing stand.

Bruno spoke without turning. "Mail. Medical supplies. Orders. Even small arms. All deliverable within minutes to any outpost."

Delacroix grunted. "And if they're shot down?"

"Then we build them faster than they can be destroyed."

A third horn echoed.

The moment everyone was waiting for.

The tarp was pulled from the Aegis I.

Its engine rumbled deeper than the others—a guttural snarl compared to the Falcon's hum. Sleek, fast, and streamlined, it was designed not just for flight but for combat.

"Is that… armed?" Delacroix asked, finally unsettled.

"Yes," Bruno said simply. "Observe."

The Aegis I took off in a heartbeat, its wheels barely scraping the runway before it leapt skyward like a bird of prey. Unlike the other two aircraft, it climbed steeply before leveling off at altitude.

Then, with surgical precision, it descended into a dive.

There were no weapons yet—no mounted guns or rockets. But what it had was accuracy.

Three painted wooden targets had been set up in the field—representing cavalry, artillery, and a supply wagon.

From above, the pilot released weighted mock payloads—canvas sacks filled with chalk and flour.

The first struck the cavalry dummy dead center.

The second shattered the cannon prop.

The third sent the supply wagon's canvas frame tumbling.

Applause broke out spontaneously among the junior officers. Even some of the grizzled veterans murmured their approval.

When the Aegis I looped around for its final pass, it pulled into a vertical climb before executing a shallow barrel roll. The maneuver was imperfect, rough—but it was real.

It landed with a controlled skid, its propeller still whirring, and rolled to a stop not twenty paces from the reviewing stand.

The pilot climbed out. It was Amalia Fen.

Helmet in hand, grease-streaked but smiling, she saluted.

"Permission to report successful demonstration, Your Majesty."

Bruno returned the salute, grinning. "Granted."

General Delacroix walked down the steps toward the aircraft, staring at the frame like it had emerged from another world. He reached out, touched the wing, then turned back to Bruno.

"We'll need training regiments. New logistics. Defensive strategies. A doctrine for this kind of warfare."

"You'll have it," Bruno said. "I'm commissioning a new branch: the Royal Air Corps. Your staff will coordinate with Hartwell and my engineers. We'll start with a dozen recruits. Expand to fifty by winter."

The general looked back at the aircraft one more time.

"And what of armaments?"

Bruno's smile faded slightly. "That comes next."

That evening, inside the war room of Fort Lasserre, blueprints were spread across the table. Concepts for drop-pods. Air-to-ground signaling flags. Even lightweight belt-fed weapons for defensive fire.

Bruno stood at the center, surrounded by generals, officers, and engineers. He did not speak like a monarch—but like a man planning the future of his nation.

"We won't build bombers yet," he said. "But scouts, couriers, and rapid-response units. Tactical overwatch from above. Let our enemies march in tight lines and columns. We'll be the wind above them."

One of the younger officers leaned forward. "What about naval integration? Aircraft on ships?"

Bruno met his gaze with a twinkle of amusement. "One step at a time."

Outside the war room, the soldiers of Fort Lasserre gathered near the airfield, watching the aircraft being wheeled into hangars. Some joked about flying. Others argued who among them would volunteer first. But one thing was clear—the kingdom had changed again.

No longer content to rule the land or protect the sea…

Elysea was now reaching for the skies.

And the sky, at last, was within reach.

That night, as the stars shimmered above the high towers of Fort Lasserre, the officers' mess hall remained alight well past midnight. Maps had been cleared to make room for mugs of steaming coffee and open notebooks filled with hurried sketches and doctrine proposals. The talk wasn't of infantry formations or cavalry maneuvers—but of flight paths, fuel weights, and air corridors.

General Delacroix sat at a corner table with his top aides, poring over a preliminary chart drafted by one of Bruno's engineers. "Altitude protocols, wind factor, payload limits," he muttered, tapping the parchment with his knuckle. "We're not just adding wings to our army—we're rewriting the entire book."

Meanwhile, in the adjacent hangar, Amalia Fen sat on an overturned crate beside the Aegis I, wiping oil from her hands with a cloth. She looked up at the aircraft, then toward the open sky through the hangar's large doors. The air still carried the scent of scorched fuel and dust—a smell she was beginning to associate with history.

King Bruno arrived quietly, stepping beside her without ceremony. "You did well today."

Amalia stood, brushing off her trousers. "The aircraft did well. I just followed her lead."

Bruno chuckled. "And I suppose she installed the pitch rudder herself, too?"

She laughed lightly, then grew thoughtful. "When I was a girl, I used to dream of flying. But it never felt real. Not until now."

He nodded, eyes drifting to the winged silhouette in the dark. "Now it is. And soon, others will follow you into the sky."

A beat passed between them, quiet and steady.

Then Bruno spoke again, softly but with resolve. "This is just the beginning, Amalia. The skies will not be a frontier… but a battlefield. And Elysea will not be left behind."

Above them, the wind rustled the canvas, whispering promises of all that was yet to come.