The next morning, Portsmouth Dockyard did not feel like a place building a ship.

It felt like a place building a statement.

By now, the rumors had spread. Visitors came. Journalists from London stood on platforms. Politicians sent aides disguised as "logistics investigators." Officers from the French embassy had been spotted in the crowd. Even an American naval attaché lingered for a full hour, taking notes more discreetly than he thought.

Phillip ignored them all.

He walked straight into Dry Dock No. 4.

The ribs of the ironclad now rose like the skeleton of some colossal creature — curved, towering, precise. Workers didn't climb scaffolding anymore; they navigated between steel arches like engineers inside a machine.

Henry stood at the corner, rubbing his eyes, a stack of sketches in his arms. He looked exhausted — but there was fire in his expression.

"They're ahead of schedule," he muttered as Phillip approached. "Barron just told me we can begin plating by next week."

Phillip looked at the framework — the rising hull, the beams aligned perfectly down the length. Not a wooden plank in sight.

He nodded.

"Then plating begins next week."

**

Work — Week Five

Steel plates arrived from the Birmingham foundry — some more than twenty feet long, thick, heavy, and resistant to even concentrated cannon fire. They gleamed under the morning light as if defying nature to weather them.

Wooden ships were built to flex, to bend with the waves.

This one would not bend.

It would break whatever dared strike it.

By now, the dockworkers had stopped comparing it to anything they had ever built before.

They simply called it by a new name:

"The Iron Beast."

The first plate was lifted by chain pulleys. Men no longer shouted commands—they gave measured instructions based on Phillip's tolerance charts.

A rivet gun hissed. Sparks flew.

The first plate attached to the rib with a metallic punch.

Thud.

Not hollow like wood.

Not shaky like timber.

Solid.

Permanent.

Irreversible.

Henry stood with Barrett and Commander Vale.

"It sounds different," Henry murmured.

Barrett grunted. "Aye. Woden gives way."

Commander Vale, arms crossed, nodded.

"That… is the sound of a ship that doesn't ask permission from the sea."

**

Work — Week Six

The first internal compartments took shape — engine rooms, coal bunkers, machine bays, future ammunition magazines. Unlike wooden frigates, these were not built around structure.

They were the structure.

Everything was interconnected — the skeleton, the plating, the frame, the bulkheads. The ship was not a box of parts, but a single engineered war machine.

One naval officer stared, awe-struck.

"There are… multiple walls inside the ship?"

Phillip nodded. "Watertight bulkheads. If pierced, flooding stays isolated."

"Which means…" the officer whispered slowly.

Phillip finished, "Which means this ship will not sink unless every compartment is destroyed. Unlikely against cannonballs."

The officer stared longer, until he finally said:

"You're not building a ship."

Phillip raised a brow. "No?"

The officer shook his head.

"You're building a fortress. One that floats."

**

The Engine Warehouse — Week Seven

The triple-expansion engine was nearly complete.

The low-pressure cylinder alone was taller than a man. Valve wheels and intake manifolds gleamed under lantern light, polished, calibrated, exact.

Malcolm Barron, the Scotsman, wiped coal dust from his beard and muttered, half to himself:

"Wooden ships breathe. They creak. They groan."

He rested his palm on the polished engine body.

"This one will pulse."

Phillip ran his fingers across the piston assembly, checking alignment.

"Two weeks," he said.

Malcolm paused. "Two weeks until installation?"

Phillip nodded. "It must be ready when the hull plating reaches the midpoint."

Malcolm slowly smiled.

"Then I'd better stop letting my engineers sleep."

**

Work — Week Eight

Henry had taken to keeping a ledger — of names, designs, changes, even mistakes.

One evening, Phillip found him sitting beneath a lantern, writing quietly.

"What now?" Phillip asked.

Henry didn't look up.

"Twelve plate warps. Six tolerance recalculations. One riveter burned his hand. And…" He hesitated.

"And?"

Henry looked up at Phillip.

"And fifty-seven workers who asked when they could serve aboard it."

Phillip paused.

That was new.

Not when it would sail.

Not what it would cost.

But when they could serve.

Phillip looked out at Dry Dock No. 4, where the rising frame now began to resemble a hull — sharp at the bow, sloped for armor deflection, curved just enough to cut through water and not a degree more.

"We build it first," Phillip said quietly.

"Then we see who earns it."

**

Evening — Week Nine

Commander Vale walked with Phillip along the dry dock, past stacks of yet-unmounted turret rings — early prototypes for rotating cannon platforms.

"Once turrets are installed," Vale mused, "this ship will have firing arcs on both ends, and the sides."

Phillip nodded.

"Wind will no longer decide combat range. Angle will."

Vale smirked. "You've changed how ships move."

Phillip looked at the ironclad.

"Next," he said, "we change how they fight."

**

Roof of the Fabrication Shed — End of Month Two

The skeletal outline of the ironclad was now undeniable.

No longer just metal ribs.

It had shape.

It had volume.

It had presence.

Barrett, the master shipwright, stood beside Phillip, arms crossed.

"I built ships for thirty years," he muttered. "Ships used to look… alive. Like something that belonged to the wind."

"This," he said, staring at the ironclad, "doesn't look alive."

Phillip glanced at him. "Then what does it look like?"

Barrett swallowed.

"A weapon."

**

Work — Week Ten

Testing began.

Not in the sea.

Not yet.

But in pieces.

A prototype turret — mounted on circular rail tracks — was tested by a team of gunners.

Henry watched, scribbling notes furiously.

"How many men does it take to turn the turret manually?"

Phillip stood beside him, calculating under his breath.

"Twelve, with current bearings. Six, with hydraulics."

Henry blinked. "Hydraulics?"

Phillip quietly unfolded a design sketch labeled: 'Rotational Torque – Steam Assisted.'

Henry stared.

"You're going to let steam turn guns?"

Phillip nodded.

"Ships should not wait on men," he said.

"They should let men keep up with ships."

**

Work — Week Twelve

The engine arrived at the dock.

Moved by rail wheels.

Escorted by guards.

Watched by silence.

Not because it was heavy.

Not because it was large.

But because of what it represented.

Phillip walked in front of it.

Henry walked beside him.

Commander Vale walked behind them.

And the workers — all of them — stood aside, watching, saying nothing.

Malcolm Barron stood at the dry dock ramp, arms crossed, eyes wet — though he'd punch anyone who pointed it out.

"Careful with that," he barked, voice cracking. "That's not just a machine."

Phillip nodded.

"Yes. It's a heartbeat."

The engine entered the hull.

Not as cargo.

Not as equipment.

But as purpose.

**

Evening — End of Month Three

There were no speeches.

No ceremonies.

No celebrations.

Just men standing around Dry Dock No. 4 as the last of the framework disappeared beneath steel plating.

The Iron Beast was no longer a frame.

It was becoming a ship.

Phillip stood alone at the edge of the dock, coat stained with oil, hands in his pockets.

He watched the silhouette.

The bow was visible now — angled, reinforced, menacing.

Henry walked up beside him.

Quiet moment.

Then—

"It doesn't look like it wants to move anymore," Henry murmured.

Phillip nodded.

"No," he said softly.

"It looks like it wants to lead."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.