Chapter 69
Chapter 69
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 69
Chapter Title: The Dream of Flying in the Sky (1)
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Long ago, Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance polymath, left this note on his airplane blueprint.
"If we have tasted flight once, the man whose eyes are fixed on the ground will forever covet the skies.
He will long to return to that realm where he once dwelt."
A profound quote that perfectly captured humanity's dream of soaring through the heavens.
Like the tale of Icarus from Greek and Roman mythology, humankind's longing for the sky was ancient and intense.
Humanity had conquered land and sea, but the vast blue skies where birds freely roamed remained untouched.
Yet humanity is a species that never gives up.
Adventurers driven to reach the one realm untouched by human hands relentlessly challenged the skies—and failed, time and again.
Then, in 18th-century France, the Montgolfier brothers invented the hot air balloon, allowing mankind to finally set foot in the heavens for the first time.
As the 19th century dawned with the Industrial Revolution sparking dazzling advancements in civilization, humanity yearned to do more than merely float in the sky on balloons—they wanted to fly freely like birds.
And in this pursuit, people began to take notice of the airplane.
Countless inventors dedicated their lives—and often their very lives—to realizing humanity's dream of flight by inventing the airplane.
Yet even as the 20th century began, the skies still did not belong to man.
Of course, these efforts weren't entirely fruitless.
In particular, Otto Lilienthal, the German pioneer of modern aviation, left a record of being the first in the world to successfully fly a glider.
But Lilienthal was no longer of this world.
Nine years ago, in 1896, he died after breaking his neck in a gliding accident during an experiment.
However, Otto Lilienthal's efforts to conquer the skies were far from in vain.
A pair of American brothers, deeply inspired by him, were diligently researching airplanes in a small village called Kitty Hawk in North Carolina.
Their names were Wilbur Wright and Orville Wright—commonly known as the Wright Brothers, inventors of the world's first powered airplane, the Flyer I, and the first humans in history to achieve powered flight.
And it was on December 17, 1903—just a few months away—that the Wright Brothers' Flyer I would make its first successful flight.
Some might wonder why I'm suddenly bringing up airplanes out of nowhere.
And they'd be right on the money: I planned to recruit the Wright Brothers to my side and claim the airplane for myself before anyone else.
It was an idea I'd toyed with for a while but never acted on—until now.
'Considering the mess the Wright Brothers faced after inventing the airplane, recruiting them should be straightforward with enough money.'
The biographies of the Wright Brothers that I'd read as a kid always ended with the triumphant success of the Flyer I's flight.
But they glossed over what came after.
All they mentioned was that the brothers continued their research until Wilbur died first, followed later by Orville.
It wasn't until I grew up a bit that I understood why those books skipped the rest: what followed was a string of frustrations so infuriating, it could've fueled a 5,700-character rant in a web novel.
It sounds absurd, but despite their world-shaking achievement, the Wright Brothers received no recognition in their home country of America.
On the contrary, the American scientific community—including the Smithsonian Institution, led by Samuel Langley (whom the brothers had once approached for advice) and his disciples—grew jealous and obstructed them at every turn.
Not content with suing the brothers for allegedly stealing and copying Langley's work, they mobilized every connection, from academic ties to personal networks, to slander the Wrights and their airplane.
To make matters worse, the U.S. Army dismissed airplanes as mere toys and showed no interest, so the brothers couldn't sell a single one in America.
Ironically, nations like the Ottoman Empire—which had created the world's first air force—and Japan showed more enthusiasm for airplanes than the brothers' own country.
Eventually, the Wrights left America and, with help from their friend and major supporter, French aviation enthusiast Octave Chanute, established their first airplane factory in France.
But even there, betrayal struck again.
Chanute leaked their technology to the French, who promptly cut ties with the brothers and began producing airplanes independently.
The Wright-Chanute friendship shattered, and the brothers returned to America.
Waiting for them was a protracted lawsuit with Glenn Curtiss, who accused them of stealing his technology.
In truth, Curtiss was the one copying their plane, but he manipulated the press to sway American public opinion in his favor.
The Wrights endured public scorn but eventually won the suit—yet gained nothing from it.
Americans sided with Curtiss even after the truth came out, and Wilbur died young from stress and overwork caused by the litigation.
'Orville later got revenge by acquiring Curtiss's company, but that's beside the point.'
The key was that the Wright Brothers' airplane went unrecognized for years.
And that was my opportunity.
Though it happened in 1908, France was originally the first in Europe to acquire airplane technology and the first to use them in combat.
But in this world, Germany and I would seize it first.
For context, unlike their obscurity in World War II, during World War I, the French air force stood toe-to-toe with the German Empire's Luftstreitkräfte, producing elite pilots like René Fonck and serving as guardians of French skies.
Especially the Stork Squadron (Escadrille 3 Les Cigognes), home to legendary pilots like René Fonck and Georges Guynemer, was one of the war's most famous units—rivaling Germany's Jasta 2.
'Of course, if we're picking the greatest pilot of World War I, it'd have to be the Red Baron, Manfred von Richthofen.'
Come to think of it, Manfred von Richthofen was born in 1892—same as me.
If we ever meet, I'd love to chat with him, along with legends like Oswald Boelcke (commander of Jasta 2, famous for his maxims) and Werner Voß.
"Anyway, I have to earn the Wright Brothers' trust no matter what. We can't let France get airplanes first."
And once development progresses, we'll start with passenger planes.
I want to escape my seasickness hell as soon as possible.
'Of course, airships beat airplanes in quietness...'
Zeppelins would be invented later anyway, and the Hindenburg disaster kept popping into my head.
Besides, Germans loved airships so much they'd fund them without my investment—no need to spend my own money.
"Hans, what are you scribbling so busily right after returning to Germany?"
"A letter to people who want to fly."
Victoria Luise, gradually shedding her childish looks as the years passed, tilted her head at my words.
She still looked like a kid to me, though.
"Fly in the sky?"
"Yes. The dream of all humanity."
I replied as I busily scribbled my fountain pen across the letter to the Wright Brothers.
A hefty investment check was included, of course.
"Wilbur, a letter arrived."
Fall 1903.
Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, USA.
Wilbur Wright, deep into modifying the Flyer I for the upcoming winter flight tests, turned at his brother Orville's words.
"A letter?"
"From Germany, no less."
"What? From Germany?"
Wilbur tilted his head at the mention of Germany.
As far as he knew, they didn't have a single acquaintance there who might write.
The only German the Wrights knew was Otto Lilienthal, whose influence had propelled them into serious airplane research.
But he'd died years ago in a tragic accident.
So Wilbur wondered who in Germany could be writing to them.
Some fellow aviation nut, maybe?
"Who sent it?"
Wilbur asked, hoping the sender might aid their development.
But the name Orville uttered was one he'd never expected.
"Baron Hans von Choi?"
"Hans von Choi?"
Who the hell is that?
The words rose to Wilbur's throat and faded away.
Since 1900, the brothers had holed up in Kitty Hawk—what Orville called a "beautiful but unlivable hellhole"—devoting themselves to glider and airplane experiments.
Naturally, they'd never heard of any Hans.
"You know him, Orville?"
"No. But he's a baron—a noble. Gotta have money, right? Maybe sponsorship?"
The brothers weren't strapped for cash, but with money from their younger brothers and sister supplementing research funds, it couldn't hurt.
Wilbur, however, was far more skeptical than his optimistic sibling.
"Sponsorship? Without results? Nah, just some noble who heard our names and got curious."
"Aw, come on. Worst case, no loss, right?"
Orville tore open the letter without hesitation.
Wilbur had said that, but curiosity won—he craned his neck to peek.
"Let's see. 'To Mr. Wilbur Wright and Mr. Orville Wright. I am Baron Hans von Choi. I've long been fascinated by aviation and was inspired by news of your work to write this letter.'"
"See? Just curious."
"Shh. There's more."
Orville swatted away his brother's knowing wave and continued reading.
"'I know many aviation researchers, but none have shown the potential for true flight like you. I believe humanity's dream of soaring will be realized in your hands.' Heh, kinda cheesy. Are we more famous than we thought?"
"Finish it. More to go."
Orville nodded and scanned the rest.
But as he read on, his eyes began to tremble.
"Uh..."
"Orville?"
"Bro. He wants to invest in us. And if we succeed, partner with him to build planes in Germany."
"What? Investment? For real?!"
Wilbur asked again in disbelief.
But when Orville pulled out a check from the letter—far beyond anything they'd imagined—Wilbur fell silent, staring blankly.
"Wow."
Those were the only words to leave Wilbur Wright's mouth moments later.