Shropshire Foundry was already awake by the time Phillip arrived.

Even from the carriage, he could hear the rhythmic clanging of hammers, the throaty roar of the furnaces, and the hiss of molten metal being poured into molds. Smoke curled upward in long gray ribbons, blending with the late-morning sky.

But Phillip hardly noticed any of it.

His mind was still racing with numbers, diagrams, and half-formed calculations.

He stepped out of the carriage—coat slightly loose, hair disheveled, ink staining both sleeves. Anyone else would have looked like a madman.

To the workers of Imperial Dynamics, he merely looked… busy.

Very busy.

A familiar voice called from across the yard.

"Oi! Phillip!"

Henry Carter jogged toward him, coat half-buttoned, hair a mess, and an expression caught between annoyance and concern.

"You look terrible," Henry announced the moment he reached him.

Phillip blinked. "…Good morning to you too."

Henry folded his arms. "Do you know how many messages you ignored last night?"

Phillip rubbed his forehead. "Three?"

"Fourteen!" Henry cried. "Fourteen! I thought you'd passed out on top of a furnace again!"

Phillip didn't respond.

Because technically… he had fallen asleep on his drafting desk.

Henry sighed loudly, grabbing Phillip by the arm and dragging him toward the foundry entrance.

"Alright, genius, what has you possessed this time? What new monstrosity are you trying to inflict upon the world?"

Phillip pulled a roll of parchment from under his coat and handed it to him.

Henry frowned… then unrolled it.

He froze.

The color drained from his face.

"Phillip," Henry whispered, "this is a ship."

Phillip nodded. "Yes."

"A big ship."

"Correct."

"A metal ship."

"Yes."

"A metal ship," Henry repeated, waving the parchment at him, "with rotating gun turrets, twin propellers, triple-expansion engines, and armor thick enough to crush a barn."

Phillip tilted his head. "I wouldn't phrase it that way, but—"

"PHILLIP," Henry hissed, shoving the blueprint back into his hands, "THIS IS A SEA MONSTER."

Phillip shrugged. "It's a battleship."

Henry covered his face with both hands.

"Oh saints preserve us…"

They walked deeper into the foundry as Henry kept muttering under his breath.

Phillip only half-listened.

His mind was already elsewhere—planning, calculating, sketching possible improvements in his head.

Steel production, machining tolerances, rivet spacing, boiler pressure limits…

He needed this foundry running at full capacity.

And he needed more.

Much more.

Inside the central assembly hall, the workers paused briefly as Phillip and Henry entered.

Dozens of men stood by the casting pits, the Bessemer converter towering above them like a giant iron beast. Long chains rattled as cranes moved steel ingots across the hall.

Henry leaned toward Phillip.

"You're going to have to tell them eventually," he muttered.

Phillip exhaled slowly. "I know."

He stepped onto a raised platform—one normally used for announcing wages or safety protocols—and called out:

"Everyone, attention please!"

The noise of the foundry gradually died.

The men gathered closer—some wiping sweat from their brows, others still carrying tools. A few apprentices whispered excitedly; whenever the young lord spoke like this, it meant something big was coming.

Phillip held up a rolled parchment.

"I've been summoned by the Admiralty," he began, voice steady.

A low murmur rippled through the workers.

Phillip unrolled the blueprint, letting its full length spill across the table beside him. Sketches of the ironclad hull, engine diagrams, and turret mechanisms gleamed under the lantern light.

"What you see here," Phillip continued, "is the next project for Imperial Dynamics."

Silence fell.

He tapped the hull plan.

"A steel warship—driven by engines, not sails. A vessel faster and stronger than anything afloat today."

Someone in the crowd let out a low whistle.

Another muttered, "…madness…"

Phillip pressed on.

"This ship will require more steel than any locomotive. More machining. More precision. More everything." His gaze swept across them. "If railways were our first revolution, this will be our second."

Henry leaned closer and whispered, "Phillip, they're going to faint."

Phillip ignored him.

"I will need new teams," he continued. "Engineers trained in marine propulsion. Blacksmiths drilled in armor plating. Machinists familiar with tolerances for rotating turrets."

He pointed toward the Bessemer converter.

"We will triple steel output within the next two months."

Henry nearly choked. "Triple?! Phillip, the men are still recovering from the last jump in production—"

Phillip spoke over him.

"I'll expand the foundry. Build a second converter. And extend the machining wing by another fifty meters."

The workers exchanged stunned glances.

Phillip then added—calmly, almost casually:

"And I will personally train ten marine engineers. That begins tomorrow morning."

Henry stared at him with wide, horrified eyes.

"You—will—WHAT?"

Phillip looked at the workers again.

"This project will push all of us to our limits. But if we succeed…" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "We will not just build a ship. We will build history."

A heavy silence followed.

Then slowly, a few men nodded.

A few more straightened with renewed purpose.

One man grinned. "Well, lads… looks like we're changing the world again."

Laughter rippled through the hall.

The mood shifted.

Tension dissolved.

Hope took its place.

Henry exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Why do you always do this…"

Phillip smiled faintly. "Because it must be done."

They stepped down from the platform, and Henry followed him back toward the planning room.

"Phillip," he said quietly, "you're serious about all this, aren't you?"

Phillip stopped walking.

He turned to Henry.

His expression wasn't fierce or dramatic.

It was calm.

Resolved.

"I'm serious," Phillip said, "because Britain needs this. The world will change. Nations will race for technology. And the first to master steam at sea… wins."

Henry swallowed.

"And you think we can build it?"

Phillip looked back toward the towering Bessemer converter—its fiery glow reflecting in his eyes.

"With unlimited manpower and unlimited funding," he said softly, "yes."

Henry raised a brow. "And the Admiralty will give you that?"

Phillip smirked faintly.

"They'll have to."

Because Phillip Wellington was no longer merely an engineer.

He was the keystone of Britain's future.

And the Admiralty knew it.

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