Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 110: The Tarnished Crown

The snow falling over the Alps-Draconia Pass had long ceased to be a symbol of winter’s purity. A thick, viscous crimson began to seep into the layers of ice, creating a macabre tapestry as the Silver Eagle Cavalry collided for the first time with the steel wall of House Sudrath. The blare of the war trumpets from Marcus’s side was shrill and high-pitched, an ancient call to glory that was almost instantly drowned out by the discordant hum of technology that bypassed their era by centuries.

"CHARGE! CRUSH THE TRAITORS!" Marcus bellowed, his sword unsheathed and pointed toward the heavens, radiating a magnificent but hollow golden aura.

The thunder of four hundred mounts, driven to a fever pitch by illegal alchemical stamina potions, created a vibration powerful enough to shake the snow from the surrounding granite peaks. Yet, below them, the hundred Sudrath infantrymen did not flinch. They stood like monolithic statues of metal, their boots seemingly rooted into the frozen earth. Captain Elian stood at the absolute front of the vanguard, his eyes fixed on the rapidly closing distance through a visor equipped with a mana-powered Heads-Up Display (HUD).

"Activate the compression circuits! Hold... Hold..." Elian whispered into the Vibro-Comm integrated into his throat.

ZIIIIIIINNGGG!

A sharp, magnetic hiss tore through the air. Atop the cliffs, Dom and the Ghost Squad did not wait for the cavalry to make landfall. They unleashed the fury of their Gauss Rifles. Thumb-sized solid projectiles, accelerated to supersonic velocities by electromagnetic rails, lanced through the atmosphere without smoke or the thunder of gunpowder. They left only a flickering trail of atmospheric distortion in their wake.

The Silver Eagle Knights in the front rank were hurled from their saddles instantly. Their gleaming silver armor, the pride of the Capital and claimed to be impervious to mid-tier magic, was punched through as if it were nothing more than wet parchment. Warhorses in mid-gallop suddenly lost their riders, collapsing into a heap of muscle and metal that acted as a grisly barricade, stalling the momentum of the second wave.

"Keep firing! Do not let a single one of them reach Lord Roland!" Dom commanded, his voice vibrating directly into the inner ears of every squad member through bone conduction.

Below, the physical collision finally occurred. The remaining Silver Eagle cavalry, having managed to survive the rain of magnetic slugs, slammed into the Sudrath shield barricade. But instead of the shields shattering under the weight of the horses, the reverse occurred. The moment the lances of the Silver Eagles touched the carbon-steel surfaces of the Sudrath shields, the Mana-Interruption circuits etched onto the metal flared, forcibly neutralizing the magical reinforcement on the enemy’s weapons.

"NOW! THRUST!" Elian roared.

A hundred Magitech Spear MK-IIs were thrust forward in a singular, synchronized movement. As the spear-tips made contact with the enemy armor, the mana-compression circuits within the blades released a localized burst of kinetic energy.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Amidst the chaos of rending metal and churning snow, a knight clad in significantly thicker silver armor surged forward. Sir Ulbert, Marcus’s right hand and a veteran of dozens of campaigns, swung his greatsword with surgical precision. He managed to parry a spear thrust and lunged for Captain Elian’s head.

"You cowardly sorcerers with your strange toys! Face me like a true knight!" Ulbert raunged. His blade radiated a sharp, white light—a high-tier Sword Aura capable of cleaving boulders in half.

Captain Elian did not retreat. He regulated his breathing, engaging the Overdrive mode on the mana-circuits of his armored gauntlets. Through the HUD on his visor, the structural weak points of Ulbert’s armor were highlighted in a stark, pulsating red.

CLANG!

Ulbert was stunned. His massive overhead strike, which should have shattered any wooden spear shaft, was caught and held by the Magitech Spear’s light-alloy body. Elian did not respond with a swing, but with a short, clinical thrust.

"Your era has reached its end, Sir Ulbert," Elian said flatly.

He pulled the mechanical trigger on the spear’s handle.

VROOOM!

The tip of the Magitech spear didn’t just pierce; it vibrated at a high frequency driven by mana-compression. When the tip touched Ulbert’s breastplate, the stored energy was released in a singular, static explosion of force.

CRACK!

The silver armor, claimed to be impenetrable, shattered into fragments. Ulbert coughed out a spray of blood, his eyes wide as he felt his internal organs vibrating violently from the mana-induced shockwave. He fell to his knees, staring at Elian’s spear, which didn’t even show a hint of wear or tear.

"This isn’t magic..." Ulbert whispered with a ragged breath. "This is... the destruction of a knight’s honor."

"This is efficiency," Elian replied coldly, before retracting his spear and allowing Ulbert to collapse into the blood-stained snow.

Roland stood approximately ten meters behind the infantry line, positioned precisely beside the carriage door. He had not unsheathed a weapon. His hands were folded calmly behind his back, while Rumina stood behind him, clutching the data case with fingers that had turned white from the intensity of her grip.

"Brother..." Rumina whispered, her voice trembling. "This... this isn’t a battle anymore. It’s a slaughter."

Roland did not turn around. His sharp gaze remained fixed on the unraveling carnage before him. "This is the consequence of ignorance, Rumina. They brought swords into a war that is now dictated by the logic of the machine. Father always taught us never to initiate a conflict, but if someone knocks on our door with the intent to kill, we must ensure they can never knock on anyone’s door ever зgain."

Prince Marcus, caught in the center of the slaughter, finally realized his vanguard was being obliterated. Four hundred of his elite knights were falling to a hundred Sudrath infantrymen who hadn’t even broken formation. His rage escalated into a state of pure, unadulterated madness. He spurred his black stallion forward, attempting to weave past the piles of corpses to strike directly at Roland.

"ROLAND SUDRATH! YOU WILL DIE BY MY HAND!" Marcus raunged.

He hoisted his golden blade, preparing to unleash a wide-scale fire-magic slash. However, before he could finish the incantation, a brilliant flash of blue light lanced down from the cliffs.

Thwip!

The projectile from Dom’s rifle struck the front leg of Marcus’s mount with terrifying accuracy. The gargantuan horse shrieked in agony, losing its balance on the slick snow, and tumbled violently. Marcus was hurled several meters forward, his body striking the granite wall of the cliff before finally landing facedown in the slush.

"Cease fire," Roland commanded calmly.

Instantly, the battlefield fell silent, leaving only the moans of the dying Silver Eagle Knights and the howl of the Alpine wind. The remnants of Marcus’s force—approximately thirty men—dropped their weapons. They trembled, staring at their comrades who had been dismantled by weapons whose projectiles they couldn’t even see.

Roland walked slowly past his soldiers. Every Sudrath warrior he passed bowed their head in respect, parting like a sea of steel for their young master. Roland’s footsteps were steady against the frozen snow. He stopped directly in front of Marcus, who was crawling through the mud, reaching for his golden sword that lay several paces away.

Roland stepped on the blade before Marcus’s fingers could touch it.

"You look quite undignified, Prince," Roland said. His voice was quiet, yet it carried an immense weight of psychological pressure. "Where is the knightly pride you boasted of? Where is the power of your Royal Decree?"

Marcus looked up, his face a mess of blood, grime, and snow. His eyes betrayed a primal terror—the kind only felt by a predator who realizes they have become the prey. "Roland... You... You cannot kill me. I am a Prince! Royal blood flows through my veins! My mother... Queen Eleanor will raze Northreach to the ground if you touch me!"

Roland leaned down, picking up Marcus’s sword. He balanced the weight in his right hand for a moment. The sword was beautiful, adorned with gold and precious gems, but to Roland, it was merely a piece of metal devoid of any practical function.

"Royal blood?" Roland offered a thin smile, one that made the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck stand up. "In the face of historical truth, your blood is no more valuable than the smile of a Northreach citizen. You call us traitors, yet it was you who brought the royal army to massacre civilians while the true enemy, the Iron Empire, is already knocking at our gates."

Roland reached into his coat pocket and produced the Black Decree Marcus had thrown earlier. Without hesitation, he tore the parchment in half, right through Queen Eleanor’s black wax seal. The sound of the dry tearing echoed in the silence, marking his absolute rejection.

"Law is not determined by paper written with hatred, Marcus. Law is determined by those capable of surviving and building a civilization," Roland dropped the torn pieces of the decree in front of Marcus, his eyes flat, as if the Queen’s command were nothing more than refuse. "And today, that law dictates that you are a stain that must be cleansed."

"Wait! Roland! I can give you everything! Titles, land—"

"I already possess everything I need," Roland interrupted coldly.

Rumina approached hesitantly, her eyes wide as she watched her brother—who usually only fought with words—now holding a weapon with lethal intent. "Brother Roland... are you truly going to do it?"

Roland turned slightly toward his sister, his gaze softening for a fleeting second before turning back to steel. "Rumina, close your eyes if you must. But remember this: if we allow him to live, he will return with a larger army and burn our home to the ground. Sometimes, a diplomat must set down the pen and pick up the sword so that the peace he negotiates carries weight."

Roland turned back to Marcus. He raised the golden sword high. The pale light of the afternoon sun reflected off the edge of the blade.

"For every Sudrath soldier’s life you threatened, and for every lie you spread in my family’s name..." Roland took a deep breath. "Go to hell with your arrogance."

SRING!

With one clean, surgical strike, the blade cleaved through Marcus’s neck. Roland did not use excessive motion. He performed the act with the efficiency of a professional completing a necessary administrative task.

Marcus’s head rolled into the snow, followed by his lifeless body. The snow beneath him instantly turned a deep, saturated red.

Roland discarded the bloodied sword as if it were trash. He produced a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped a stray drop of blood from his shoe, and then turned to the remaining survivors of the Silver Eagle Knights.

"You," Roland’s voice boomed, cold and authoritative. "Stand up."

The thirty surviving knights stood, their knees still knocking together. They looked at Roland as if he were a demon wearing the skin of a nobleman.

"Return to Sol-Regis. Tell Queen Eleanor and King Edward: House Sudrath is no longer a subordinate you can bait with cheap decrees. Tell them that Northreach is a sovereign territory protected by the Sudrath family. If you send one more army across our borders, I will not just send your Prince’s head back... I will ensure the walls of Sol-Regis crumble beneath the boots of our infantry."

Roland turned away, walking back to his carriage without casting another glance at the fallen prince who was now being claimed by the mountain wind.

"Captain Elian," Roland called out as he reached the carriage door.

"Ready, My Lord!" Elian gave the highest salute, followed by the silent roar of the entire infantry: "FOR SUDRATH! FOR OUR FAMILY!"

"Clear the road. We must reach the gates of Draconia before dawn. Rumina, get inside. Our journey is far from over."

Rumina stared at her brother’s back with a mixture of awe and horror. She realized something today: Roland Sudrath was not just a Golden Tongue. He was a blade hidden beneath silk, and today, that blade had been drawn.

The Sudrath convoy moved again, leaving the Alps-Draconia Pass as a monument to the death of the Aethelgard Kingdom’s arrogance. In the distance, the peaks of the Dragon Mountains began to appear, welcoming them with an even greater mystery.