I Reincarnated as a Prince Who Revolutionized the Kingdom-Chapter 165: Winds of Retaliation

Snow swirled outside the windows of the High War Council chamber, a slow, silent storm of powdered ice drifting down from the gray heavens above. The temperature in the room, however, was anything but cold.

"What do you mean they vanished?" General Yakov bellowed, pounding a leather-bound fist onto the oak table. "We had two trained operatives! You said they would blend in!"

"They did blend in," Lord Pavel Orlov snapped. "And that's precisely why no one saw them again. They were swallowed whole."

The council fell into uneasy silence.

Seated at the head of the table, Tsar Mikhail III steepled his fingers beneath his chin. His expression remained unreadable. "So," he said softly, "Elysea has a shadow network."

"They've always had whispers," Orlov muttered. "But this? This was something else. We underestimated Bruno."

The Tsar leaned forward. "No. We underestimated his memory. I remember when he first took the throne—people said he was more inventor than king. That he would surround himself with books and tinkerers and leave politics to the dogs. Now those same people are eating snow with broken teeth because they dared to test him."

"We need to respond," General Yakov growled. "Spies taken? Schematics lost? And now they mock us with riddles in manifest ledgers? The hawk watches now—what does that even mean?"

"It means," said the Tsar, standing slowly, "that the sky is his. And if we don't act, the ground will follow."

He turned to Orlov.

"Mobilize our maritime scouts. I want Elysea's shipping lanes monitored. No confrontations—yet. Just eyes. Quiet ones."

He turned next to Yakov.

"And prepare a war game scenario. One that assumes total aerial inferiority."

Yakov blinked. "Total, sire?"

"Total," the Tsar confirmed. "Let us imagine, for once, that the storm comes from above."

Elysee – Palace Strategy Wing

Bruno stood by the tall glass windows of the strategy room, watching as sunlight poured through the mist beyond. The mountain peaks were still capped in white, but green had begun to return to the fields below. Spring had reached Elysea.

"Any word from our merchants in Velmir?" he asked without turning.

"Yes, Your Majesty," replied Leclerc, handing him a rolled scroll. "Rumors of heightened naval observation in the Black Coast region. They haven't moved on us directly, but their intent is clear."

Bruno unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning the merchant cipher. Hidden among orders of salt, textiles, and smoked meat was a message in Athenaeum code:

"More eyes than ships. No threats, but their sails shadow the horizon."

He handed the scroll back.

"Send word to Admiral Cendre. Increase aerial patrols over the straits. I want a Hawkfire in the air every dawn. Unarmed. Just watching."

Amalia, seated nearby with a map of Port-Luthair spread across her lap, looked up.

"Unarmed? That's not like you."

Bruno smiled faintly. "Let them think we're still deciding whether to sharpen the blade. It keeps them honest."

Amalia studied him for a moment. "You're not just playing defense, are you?"

He didn't answer directly.

Instead, he walked to the far wall of the chamber and placed a hand on the map of Europa—the known world—etched into the wood with brass inlays. His finger traced from Elysea to Orosk… then to the western continent. Germania.

"They won't risk a full war," he murmured. "Not yet. But the silence in their embassies speaks louder than a thousand drums."

Leclerc nodded. "So… what do we do next?"

Bruno's eyes gleamed. "We test our second hawk."

Foundry One – Eastern Cliffs

The cavernous hangar was busier than ever. Technicians swarmed the floor like ants, wheeling crates, hoisting cables, tightening bolts. Steam hissed from pressure lines. Sparks rained from scaffolds.

At the center of it all stood the Hawkfire Mark II.

Longer than the first prototype. Sleeker. A narrower wing profile. Twin rotary engines now housed in nacelles beneath the wings, each fitted with advanced cooling jackets. And beneath the fuselage, mounted flush and hidden behind sliding doors: a rotary cannon.

Amalia walked around the new aircraft slowly, boots echoing on the metal flooring.

"Looks meaner," Hartwell muttered beside her. "And she is."

Amalia stopped at the nose cone. "Has she flown?"

Hartwell snorted. "She breathes fire, Amalia. Flew a test arc last week. Didn't tell Bruno yet. Wanted to be sure we wouldn't lose a mountain."

Amalia's brow arched. "You withheld that from the king?"

Hartwell shrugged. "He's a king. Let him be surprised once in a while."

Amalia shook her head, amused, and stepped forward, placing her hand gently on the side of the Mark II's canopy.

"You want me to fly her again?"

"I want you to command her," Hartwell said. "The skies aren't empty anymore. We can't treat this like a one-pilot revolution. We need squadrons. Doctrine. And someone to train them."

Amalia looked at him. "You're forming the Air Corps."

Hartwell nodded. "With you at its head."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Amalia smiled. "Guess it's time I learned how to salute properly."

Germania – The Iron Tower

Eliska Weiss stood before the map room in the heart of Germania's intelligence citadel. Behind her, projection lamps cast flickering glows across dozens of markers—known bases, aerial sightings, trade routes.

A red line traced the known flight path of the Hawkfire prototype.

Another—dashed and uncertain—marked what their analysts now believed to be the location of Foundry One.

"I underestimated him," Weiss admitted aloud. "Bruno moved faster than we anticipated. The Hawkfire isn't just an aircraft. It's a doctrine."

Chancellor Friedrich von Rosenthal turned from the map, hands clasped behind his back.

"What's our response?"

"We're already behind," Weiss said. "So we don't match him. We counter him. Not with planes—yet—but with theater. Strategy. Disinformation."

Von Rosenthal raised a brow. "You intend to manipulate the battlefield?"

"No," Weiss said. "I intend to blur it. Elysea wants to parade their dominance in the open sky? Then let's make them look over their shoulder first."

She turned and handed him a sealed file.

"Operation Mirrorlight. We fake a project. One bigger than Hawkfire. Let the hawk chase shadows while we lay mines in their roots."

Elysee – Royal Airfield, Two Weeks Later

A crowd had gathered under the morning sun.

Not nobles. Not diplomats.

Farmers. Merchants. Dockhands. Schoolchildren.

They stood behind newly built fences, watching as a full squadron of Hawkfires lined the runway—six aircraft, gleaming with polished metal and burnished paint. Their pilots, uniformed in sleek blue jackets, stood at attention as Bruno walked the line.

Each bore the new insignia of the Royal Elysean Air Corps: a silver hawk ringed with a gear and flame.

Bruno approached Amalia, who now wore the badge of Commander-General of the Air.

"You ready?" he asked.

She gave a short nod. "We trained them hard. They're still green, but they believe in the sky now."

Bruno gestured toward the crowd. "So does the kingdom."

A trumpet sounded.

Engines roared.

And six Hawkfires took to the air—one by one—rising in clean arcs before forming a perfect V over the field.

The crowd erupted.

For most of them, it was the first time they had ever seen something fly.

And in that moment, something unspoken passed through the people.

Pride.

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Not just in the machine, but in the nation that built it.

That night, Bruno sat alone on a balcony in the palace, wine in hand, watching the lights of Elysee twinkle like stars below.

Leclerc joined him in silence, setting a dossier on the table.

"What is it?" Bruno asked.

"Intercepted memo from Germania," Leclerc replied. "Encrypted, but our Athenaeum cell cracked it."

Bruno opened the file.

Inside, a single sentence stood out:

"Let the hawk fly. We will blind it with mirrors."

Bruno stared at it for a long moment.

Then, quietly, he smiled.

"They want to play illusions?" he said.

He took another sip of wine.

"Then let's remind them who invented the telescope."

Bruno leaned back, letting the weight of the words sink in. Below, the palace garden rustled in the breeze, lanterns swaying softly between hedges and marble statues. The peace was temporary—he knew it—but moments like this, where power hummed not in iron or fire but in foresight, reminded him why he had taken the crown.

"I want our own mirrors," he said at last.

Leclerc glanced up. "Sire?"

"If they plan to bait us with ghosts and shadows, then we'll bait them with a reflection of our own," Bruno said. "Draft a team. Not engineers—illusionists. Scholars. Artists. Tricksters. People who know how to make something look like more than it is."

He tapped the edge of the dossier. "If Germania wishes to blur the battlefield, we'll give them a maze."

Leclerc smiled faintly. "Athenaeum already has names in mind."

"Good," Bruno said. "Then let's begin construction on Phantom Station. Out in the northeastern cliffs. Make it loud. Make it burn fuel. Make it seem real."

"And what will it do?"

Bruno raised his glass to the stars. "Nothing. That's the brilliance of it. Nothing at all. But they'll spend months trying to figure it out."

He drank slowly, savoring the wine.

"We fly faster. They chase ghosts. And while they're squinting at shadows…"

He turned to Leclerc, eyes sharp.

"…we build the storm they won't see coming."

And in the stillness of the night, beneath the quiet hum of a world preparing for war, the hawk watched.

And waited.