Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 135: HARD LABOR BEHIND THE IRON WALL

Chapter 135: Chapter 135: HARD LABOR BEHIND THE IRON WALL

​The northern wind howled through the jagged ruins of Northveil, a desolate mourning for a fallen city. It carried with it the suffocating stench of oxidized rust and the heavy, lingering pall of steam-driven soot. High atop an observation balcony that remained only half-finished—a skeleton of rebar and cold stone—General Rudigor stood like an immovable monument of steel.

​His singular mechanical eye, a glowing orb of malevolent crimson, pulsed with a dim, rhythmic light. It whirred as it scanned the landscape below. What had once been a bustling hub of industry was now a blackened charcoal sketch, a sea of obsidian-hued debris stretching toward the horizon.

​"They’ve truly committed to a scorched-earth policy, General," a voice drifted from behind him—cold, monotonous, and devoid of any organic inflection.

​Rudigor didn’t turn to acknowledge his adjutant. The man was a towering, spindly figure, more clockwork than flesh, with brass gears clicking behind his uniform.

​"Nothing remains," the adjutant continued, his voice accompanied by the faint hiss of escaping steam. "The ammunition depots, the mana-transmission leyline nodes—even the dregs of lubricant in the smallest workshops. They torched it all before their final retreat. They left us a graveyard, not a base."

​Rudigor remained silent, but his heavy metallic hand gripped the balcony’s iron railing. With a slow, deliberate application of force, the reinforced steel groaned and began to buckle, screaming under the pressure of his hydraulic strength until it was twisted into a grotesque, jagged shape.

​"The Sudraths are no amateurs. Lucian understands that technology is the beating heart of our Empire," Rudigor’s voice was a low, guttural rasp, sounding like grinding stones. "He would rather watch his ancestral lands turn to ash and cinders than allow a single blueprint or engine scheme to fall into the hands of the Iron Empire."

​The adjutant tapped a button on his metallic forearm, and a flickering blue holographic projector hummed into life.

​"Our projected invasion of the other cities in Northreach will be delayed, General. We are looking at a window of at least four to five months," the adjutant reported. "The logistics lines from the main continent are being choked by extreme weather patterns, and with their sabotage of the local infrastructure, we are forced to rebuild the steam-power grids from absolute zero."

​Rudigor fell into a pensive silence. The only sound was the whistling wind and the rhythmic clicking of his internal clockwork.

​"Give them their time," Rudigor finally said, his voice carrying a chilling sense of inevitability. "Let the House of Sudrath crawl into their holes and huddle for warmth. Four months is but a fleeting moment in the eyes of the Machine’s eternity. Let them build. Let them hope. Because when the storms finally break, I want the entirety of Northreach to become a furnace—a crematorium for their entire bloodline."

​Iron Hearth City, Northreach.

​While Northveil lay in the cold embrace of death, Iron Hearth was pulsating with a rhythm so frantic it felt like the city itself was hyperventilating. It was the heartbeat of a nation preparing for its last stand.

​Every morning, the silence was shattered by a rhythmic, thunderous symphony—BANG! BANG! BANG!—echoing from the military training grounds. But the citizens didn’t flinch. Instead, laborers paused their work and merchants looked up from their stalls with a newfound, fierce pride. Those sounds weren’t the echoes of defeat; they were the sounds of their retribution being forged in lead.

​Inside the sprawling complex of the Main Workshop, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and hot oil. Rianor Sudrath stood before a massive steel chassis, a skeletal giant of iron that occupied the center of the bay. His hands, which had once been racked by uncontrollable tremors from mana-overload, were significantly steadier now.

​Beside him, Dr. Elena was meticulously packing several glass vials of iridescent liquid—nerve-stabilizing tonics—into her leather medical kit.

​"You look considerably better today, Rianor," Elena remarked. Her tone was professionally stern, but her eyes held a spark of genuine relief. "The low-frequency mana injections, combined with the meditation techniques provided by the city’s mages, have successfully suppressed the inflammation in your neural pathways. But remember, this isn’t a miracle. Do not push yourself to the breaking point again."

​Rianor offered a faint, weary smile, flexing his fingers. "Thank you, Elena. If it weren’t for you and the mages, I’d probably be unable to hold a screwdriver by now. But I have four months. Four months before Rudigor’s legions begin to march. I cannot—I will not—stop now."

​"The boy is right, Doctor," a deep, gravelly voice interrupted.

​A pair of grease-stained boots protruded from beneath the massive tank chassis. With a metallic clang, Hektor Torricelli slid out on a wooden creeper, his face a mosaic of black oil and sweat. The former ruler of Northveil, a man who had once navigated the heights of aristocratic society, now looked like a common grease-monkey.

​"If we don’t finish this ’Grinder,’ all the mana injections in the world won’t save us when the enemy’s Railguns come knocking on our front gates," Hektor said, wiping his hands on a rag that was already saturated with grime. He no longer cared for the etiquette of high nobility. To him, every gear he aligned was a step toward reclaiming his home.

​Rianor turned his attention to the machine. "Hektor, give me an update on the suspension system."

​Hektor’s eyes lit up with the fire of an engineer. "I’ve completely scrapped the traditional coil springs. I’ve replaced them with a modified hydraulic-steam hybrid system. The profile is significantly lower than the Titan MK-1, making us a harder target to hit. I’m calling it the ’Wolf-Tusk’ Main Battle Tank."

​He slapped the cold steel of the hull. "And the best part? No complex mana-circuitry for the drive train. If the steel supply from the Southern Hills remains stable, we can churn out ten of these beauties a month."

​Rianor nodded, his mind already calculating the logistics. "And the protection?"

​"Layered plating—Spaced Armor," Hektor explained, tracing the air where the outer shell would sit. "There’s a calculated air gap between the outer carbon-steel plate and the main hull. When the enemy hits us with a steam-cannon, the shockwave dissipates in the first layer before it can reach the main hull. It’s pure mechanics. No magic for the enemy to dispel here."

​The workshop doors creaked open, and Arvid stepped in, clutching a stack of logistics ledgers.

​"Our treasury is still holding, though it’s thinning fast," Arvid reported. "The raw material acquisitions are massive. Rumina is going to have a heart attack when she sees the ledger, but Father has already given the green light for the emergency war budget."

​Arvid paused, glancing toward a particularly dark and shadowed corner of the room. "Speaking of security... Rhea has been busy."

​From the impenetrable shadows, Rhea Sudrath emerged. She moved with a silent, predatory grace. Behind her stood a young woman with short-cropped hair and eyes as sharp as a mountain hawk.

​"Iron Hearth is sanitized," Rhea reported, her voice as sharp as a razor. "There were certain... elements... spreading dissent about the power diversions. They’ve been ’re-educated.’ The public sentiment is stable. They believe in the sound of the rifles at the training grounds."

​Rianor looked at the woman standing behind his sister. "Who is she, sister?"

​"My field assistant," Rhea introduced her coolly. "She leads our new internal security unit: the Nightshade Sentinels. They are armed with heavy-caliber magitech handguns and short-swords. They are the eyes and ears that ensure no sabotage ever reaches this factory."

​The woman stepped forward and bowed deeply. "It is an honor, Young Master Sudrath. I am here to ensure that every square inch of this factory remains safe from the enemy’s shadows."

​"Good," Rianor said. "Because our focus now must shift to Captain Thorne and his men." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

​The Main Training Grounds.

​The air here was a thick, acrid soup of sulfur and gunpowder smoke. Captain Thorne stood before a thousand infantrymen. In their hands was the Sudrath Spear—the SIG MCX Sudrath Edition—blackened, utilitarian, and lethal.

​"Do you feel it?" Thorne’s voice boomed over the wind. "Do you feel like you’ve lost your honor? Do you feel like you’ve been stripped of your knightly dignity because you no longer channel mana into a piece of wood?"

​Silence met his question. The soldiers stared at the weapons with a mix of fear and awe.

​"Listen to me!" Thorne paced the line. "Northveil didn’t fall because we lacked courage! It fell because we couldn’t touch them! This weapon... this cold, unfeeling piece of iron... is your voice. It is how you say ’NO’ to the enemy from five hundred meters away! As long as your finger can pull this trigger, you are a threat to anyone who stands in our way!"

​Thorne barked an order. "Unit One! Load magazines!"

​A sharp, synchronized CLACK-CLACK-CLACK rang out.

​"Aim at the targets! Three-round bursts! FIRE!"

​DOR-DOR-DOR!

​The clearing exploded in a cacophony of kinetic energy. Hundreds of holes appeared instantly in the thick wooden targets and iron plates. The recoil sent a few recruits stumbling, but they quickly recovered their stances.

​"Look at that!" Thorne pointed to the shredded remains. "That is the result of Master Rianor’s genius. No incantations. No mental focus. Just line up the sight, and pull the trigger!"

​In the distance, Duke Lucian Sudrath watched alongside Duchess Aurelia. Lucian wore his formal military overcoat, his hands clasped behind his back.

​Deep within him, the soul of Sanusi felt a grim sense of satisfaction at the sight of modern military standardization. Yet, the original soul of Lucian felt a lingering ’strangeness’—a nostalgic ache for the days of the longsword.

​"The people are settling, Lucian," Aurelia said softly, sliding her hand into his. "They see this progress as proof that we haven’t given up. To the citizens of Iron Hearth, the sound of those rifles is the most beautiful lullaby they’ve ever heard."

​Lucian nodded, his eyes reflecting the muzzle flashes. "The Iron Empire is building its strength in the ruins. They think they have the luxury of time to dissect us... Narrow-minded fools."

​"Rianor is working on the aerial prototypes, isn’t he?" Aurelia asked.

​"Yes. But that is for the next act," Lucian replied, a predatory glint in his eyes. "For now, let the Sudrath Spear and the Sudrath Grinder be the nightmare that haunts any man who dares to cross the Northreach border."

​Night fell over Iron Hearth, and the streetlights flickered low as power surged into the factories. But in that darkness, the brilliant blue arcs of welding and the showers of sparks from the lathes shone brighter than any star. House Sudrath was forging its fangs—fangs made of steel, sulfur, and a controlled, righteous fury.