The demonstration changed everything.
Within days of the Iron Parade, the newspapers filled with sketches of gleaming coaches, bold headlines screaming "THE RAILWAY AGE BEGINS!" and "WELLINGTON'S IRON ROAD TRIUMPHS!" What had once been dismissed as a mechanical curiosity was now the talk of every club, coffeehouse, and chamber in the kingdom.
Parliament's corridors buzzed with speculation. Merchants jostled for investment shares. Canal owners—once scornful—went pale with fear.
And in the quiet offices of Imperial Dynamics, orders began to flood in.
Phillip stood in the grand drafting hall of the London branch, surrounded by ledgers, maps, and blueprints stacked in teetering piles. The winter light slanted through the high windows, illuminating his worktable where a map of Britain lay unrolled across the surface. Bold red lines stretched outward from London like veins of fire—to Birmingham, to Manchester, to Liverpool, to Bristol, and beyond.
Henry Carter entered, clutching a sheaf of papers. "You'd better sit down for this," he said with a smirk. "You remember those gentlemen from Parliament who said your idea was madness?"
Phillip glanced up. "Which ones?"
"The same ones who've just requested thirty miles of private rail between their estates and the capital." Henry slapped the papers onto the desk. "They're offering full payment in advance—ten thousand pounds each."
Phillip let out a quiet breath. "So, even the skeptics have turned investors."
"Not just investors," Henry said, grinning wider. "They're calling you the Iron Duke's son—the man who made Britain move."
Phillip shook his head with a faint smile. "They flatter because they profit. But so long as it builds the rails, I'll take it."
Over the following months, Imperial Dynamics expanded faster than any enterprise in living memory.
New foundries rose along the Thames and in Birmingham, their furnaces blazing day and night. The steel converters worked without rest, pouring out rails in a constant stream. Carpenters in Nottingham shaped oak and pine into sleepers. Upholsterers in London stitched fine velvet and leather for first- and second-class coaches, while smiths in Manchester hammered out wheels and fittings for freight wagons.
Everywhere, the name Imperial Dynamics System was whispered with awe.
The first railway contracts from the Crown itself arrived by January 1783:
London to Birmingham – 110 miles of mainline track
Manchester to Liverpool – 32 miles, approved for commercial transport
Birmingham to Bristol – 85 miles, pending expansion
And beside them, Parliament's seal authorizing the creation of the Royal Rail Office, a new bureau tasked with regulating fares, safety standards, and—most importantly—ensuring Imperial Dynamics' monopoly over design and production for ten years.
It was an empire of steel, sanctioned by law.
One snowy evening, Phillip stood before the great furnaces of Shropshire once more. The yard had changed beyond recognition—larger, louder, alive. The air reeked of iron and coal, but to him it smelled like progress.
Rows of passenger coaches stood waiting under lantern light, their lacquered sides glinting gold. Beside them, freight wagons loaded with rails stood ready for dispatch.
Henry joined him, breath steaming in the cold. "We're working three shifts now. Half the men sleep by the furnaces. You've built an army, Phillip."
Phillip watched sparks rise into the night. "An army that fights with hammers, not muskets. Every rail they lay wins ground for the future."
Henry chuckled. "And every contract makes you richer than a duke."
Phillip frowned slightly, shaking his head. "Wealth is just a means, Henry. The true prize is motion. A nation that moves is a nation that lives."
Still, he couldn't deny what the books showed.
By the end of 1782, Imperial Dynamics' net profits had surpassed £200,000—an unimaginable sum. His personal wealth had grown nearly tenfold since the company's founding. Parliament's grants, investor shares, and private commissions were pouring in faster than they could count.
Even foreign envoys had begun to call—France, Prussia, and Austria—all sending letters inquiring about rail licenses and engine designs.
But Phillip refused them all. "Britain first," he told Henry firmly. "We will perfect it here before we share it abroad. The world can wait."
In February, the Duke of Wellington visited the Shropshire yard for the first time since the demonstration.
He rode in by carriage, stepping out to see lines of rails stretching far beyond sight, the silhouettes of locomotives shrouded in steam. Workers froze mid-strike, staring as the Duke passed among them.
He found Phillip near the foundry, sleeves rolled, coat smudged with soot.
"You've turned this place into a kingdom," the Duke said quietly.
Phillip smiled faintly. "Not a kingdom, Father. A bridge. Between cities, between men. When the first line opens, London will be two days' journey from Edinburgh instead of seven. Trade will triple. People will move freely as they never have before."
The Duke nodded slowly, pride softening the lines of his face. "You speak as if you already command the empire."
Phillip met his father's gaze. "Not command it—connect it."
In London, Parliament prepared for the next phase: the Royal Demonstration Line. A permanent passenger route between London and Birmingham, to be inaugurated by the Crown itself. The Queen's private carriage was already under construction—gold trim, white lacquered panels, and silk cushions embroidered with the royal seal.
Beneath the luxury, though, Phillip insisted on the same mechanical foundation: reinforced frames, double bogies, advanced brakes, and safety valves tested beyond tolerance. "If even one bolt fails on that journey," he told his engineers, "we'll lose not only lives—but the future itself."
He worked long nights in the Shropshire office, checking every blueprint personally. His world was steel and ink, numbers and firelight.
Henry once found him asleep at his desk, soot on his collar, a ruler still in hand.
"You'll burn yourself out," Henry muttered, shaking his head.
Phillip stirred, smiling tiredly. "Better to burn bright than rust away."
By spring 1783, Britain had changed.
Rails gleamed across the countryside. Laborers once bound to farms now worked in workshops, smithies, and yards. Mail coaches began to vanish. Canal barges moved slower than the tide of iron spreading from the capital.
Every town that heard the whistle of a locomotive knew what it meant—connection, opportunity, and the arrival of modernity.
From London's merchant houses to the poorest village taverns, people spoke one name with reverence and awe:
Imperial Dynamics.
And countries from the mainland continent couldn't help but feel envious of the development Imperial Dynamics had been doing to Britain, one country in particular, the Kingdom of Fonseine.