Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 138: CALL FROM THE HORIZON

​The acrid scent of burnt oil and the lingering tingle of ozone still clung to Rianor Sudrath’s clothes as he stepped into his administrative office in Alpha Building. Outside his window, the sun was beginning its slow ascent, casting a golden hue over Iron Hearth—a city that had forgotten how to sleep. The distant, rhythmic thundering of sledgehammers and the persistent hiss of steam from the foundries had become the new symphony of Northreach, a constant reminder of their frantic industrial rebirth.

​However, inside the office, the atmosphere was far more volatile than Roney’s steel-melting furnaces.

​"Two gold coins per year?! For a single recruit?!"

​Silas, a man usually known for his unflappable composure and the steady scratch of his quill, was now standing with a face flushed deep crimson. He stared down at the draft announcement on the oak desk as if it were a declaration of national bankruptcy. "Master Rianor, I am fully aware that you are a technological visionary, but this figure... this is financial insanity! Our elite infantry veterans barely earn half of that. You’re going to give Rumina a heart attack the moment she returns and sees the ledger!"

​Rianor sat back in his leather chair, leaning his head against the headrest as he massaged his temples. The dull ache from yesterday’s flight test—a byproduct of the intense spatial disorientation—was still pulsing behind his eyes.

​"Silas, listen to me very carefully," Rianor said, his voice calm but possessing an edge of absolute authority. "We aren’t looking for street sweepers or gate guards. We are looking for pilots. We are looking for men and women willing to seal themselves inside a cramped metallic box, hover hundreds of meters in the air, powered by an engine that could turn into a fireball at any second if a mana-circuit overflows."

​"But two gold coins—"

​"That is the price of a life in the sky, Silas," Rianor cut him off, his gaze turning icy. "On the ground, if you’re wounded, you still have the earth beneath your feet. In the air, if the engine fails and you falter for even a second in your emergency procedures, you don’t just die; you disintegrate alongside a machine that costs thousands of coins to build. The risk is unparalleled. I need people with nerves of cold steel, and you don’t buy that kind of courage with copper scraps."

​Silas went silent. He looked at Rianor, then back at the draft. His eyes drifted over the specific recruitment points.

​"Sudrath Aerial Military: Silver Wing Division," Silas muttered, reading the title. "Requirements: Peak physical health, high mental resilience, and the ability to pass a basic logic examination. Master Rianor... a logic exam? Most of our population can barely read a merchant’s ledger, let alone solve abstract puzzles."

​"That is precisely why you will print the salary of ’Two Gold Coins’ in the largest font possible," Rianor said, a thin, calculating smile playing on his lips. "Lure them in with the gold, then filter them with the mind. I don’t need a thousand fools. I need fifty intelligent men who are brave enough to be crazy."

​By that afternoon, Silas had moved with the efficiency of a man possessed. Through the network of the Sudrath Daily newspaper and thousands of flyers plastered on every corner of Iron Hearth’s central square, the announcement exploded like a steam-pressure bomb.

​In the middle of the boisterous crowd, a small group of men in drab, brown robes stood with sour expressions. They were representatives of a minor religious faction that had remained in the city, a group that viewed Sudrath’s rapid advancement as a direct insult to the ’sacred order’ of the world.

​"First, they created the great iron worm that roars upon the rails," an old man with a gnarled wooden staff croaked, referring to the Lightning Rail. "Then, the iron elephants that spit fire. And now? Iron dragonflies? Man was never destined to fly! Master Rianor is attempting to tear the laws of the Heavens apart with his cursed knowledge!"

​"Be calm, Father Geryon," one of his followers whispered nervously. "The Sudrath family holds the power here. It is unwise to speak so loudly."

​"A power that will lead us to ruin!" Geryon hissed. However, his cries were quickly drowned out by the exuberant cheers of the young men in the square, their eyes gleaming as they stared at the figure ’2 GOLD’ on the bulletin boards. To them, Sudrath’s progress wasn’t a curse; it was the first beacon of hope they had seen since the fall of Northveil.

​Meanwhile, at the Iron Hearth City Hospital, a different kind of debate was unfolding. Dr. Elena stood firmly in front of the ward doors, blocking the path of Riven, who was attempting to leave his post-recovery check-up to see his brother.

​"Rianor has lost his mind, Riven! Truly!" Elena crossed her arms, her sharp eyes boring into her husband with professional medical concern. "He wants to send people into the clouds on that spinning contraption? Did you see what happened to Captain Thorne yesterday? He was vomiting and nearly collapsed from spatial disorientation! The human brain isn’t designed for such movements!"

​Riven sighed, his large, calloused hand reaching out to gently touch Elena’s shoulder. "Elena, listen. I’ve seen the machine in action. It’s terrifying, yes. But Rianor... he has calculations in his head that we don’t understand. If he says it can fly, then it will fly."

​"This isn’t about whether it can fly or not, Riven! This is about the cost in lives!"

​"The world is changing, my love," Riven said, his gaze drifting out the window toward the distant paddock where the Griffin-01 was being serviced. "Don’t worry. My brother is many things, but he is not a butcher. He won’t let his pilots die for nothing."

​Elena snorted, though the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. "If any pilot falls with shattered bones because of that mechanical nightmare, I am charging the medical fees directly to Rianor’s research budget."

​Back in the Main Square, the recruitment tables had been set up under a large canvas tent. Captain Thorne sat there in full uniform—a living, breathing testament that flight was possible. Beside him, Sergeant Kaelen—a man known for his cold, mathematical precision—handled the mounting stack of paperwork.

​"Name?" Kaelen asked without looking up.

​"Thamrin, Sergeant. Infantry Division," a young man replied. He stood tall with a disciplined posture, though his face still held the lingering softness of his late teens.

​Kaelen looked up, his gaze skeptical. "Infantry? You should stay in the ranks with your spear, lad. Being a pilot requires a brain, not just the muscle to stab a target. You look like you’ve never touched a book in your life."

​Thamrin didn’t flinch. His eyes remained fixed. "I can calculate the trajectory of a crossbow bolt intuitively, Sergeant. And I’m tired of just waiting for the enemy to reach us on the ground. I want to meet them before they even see our walls."

​Kaelen grunted and slid a sheet of paper across the table—a basic logic exam designed by Rianor. "Complete this. If you get more than two wrong, go back to sharpening your spear."

​The questions were simple by Earth’s standards: basic triangle angles and numerical sequence logic. But for a local accustomed to magic or brute force, it was like a complex ancient ritual. Thamrin furrowed his brow, took the quill, and began to calculate with painstaking focus under Kaelen’s watchful eye.

​On the other side of the bustling crowd, shadows moved in an unnatural way. Two men dressed as common cloth merchants from Highgarden attempted to approach the restricted area near the component storage warehouses. They were agents sent by the Solari faction, ordered to uncover the secrets behind "Sudrath’s New Power."

​One of them pulled out a small, palm-sized recording crystal, trying to aim it at a gap in the warehouse doors.

​CLICK.

​The sound didn’t come from their crystal. It was the sound of a magitech pistol being cocked directly behind their heads.

​"Nice sketchbooks, gentlemen. But unfortunately, you won’t have hands to use them anymore if you move so much as an inch."

​Ember, the leader of the Nightshade Sentinels, stepped out from the darkness of a stone pillar. Her face was a mask of cold indifference, her eyes as sharp as daggers. Behind her, two other Sentinels had already surrounded the intruders, their short-swords drawn.

​"We... we are just lost merchants!" one of the spies stammered, his face turning pale.

​"Lost in a high-security military zone with a recording crystal?" Ember’s smile was predatory. "You have two choices. You can speak in the castle dungeons, or you can become the first test subjects for our new explosive powder. Personally? I prefer the second option."

​Without another word, Ember gave a sharp signal. The spies were neutralized and dragged away with clinical efficiency. Under Ember’s leadership, the internal security of Iron Hearth had become a lethal spiderweb for anyone daring to peek at Sudrath’s secrets.

​Back at Alpha Building, Rianor ignored the commotion outside. He stood before the disassembled chassis of the Griffin-01, where Hektor and Arvid were deep in inspection.

​"What’s the verdict, Hektor?" Rianor asked.

​"The old mana-steam distribution valves were garbage, Rianor," Hektor said, pointing to a blackened copper component. "The metal expanded too quickly due to the thermal load from Arvid’s array. But with Roney’s new Sudrath Duralumin Alloy, we can increase the heat tolerance by thirty percent."

​Arvid nodded, holding a mana-meter. "And I’ve modified the cooling circuit. We’re using a low-level Ice-Circulation Spell integrated into the pipes. Every time the engine works too hard, the mana-crystals will trigger an automatic flash-freeze cooling."

​Rianor inspected the cockpit interior, touching the hard pilot’s seat. "We need something for pilot safety, Hektor. I call it the ’Guardian’ Ejection Seat. An emergency system where if the pilot pulls this red lever, a series of small mana-explosions will launch the entire seat out of the helicopter, followed by a slow-fall spell activation."

​"Ejection?!" Hektor’s eyes widened. "You want to fire your pilots like cannonballs?"

​"Better to be shot out than to be locked inside a falling metal coffin," Rianor said flatly. "Hektor, ensure the Cyclic lever’s ergonomics are improved. Thorne mentioned his hand cramped up because the position was too rigid."

​Rianor looked out the window at the thousands of recruitment forms piling up on the desks downstairs. He saw Thorne shaking hands with a young man—Thamrin—who seemed to have just passed his exam.

​"One by one, the puzzle pieces are coming together," Rianor whispered to the empty room. "The Iron Empire might have steam giants, but they will never be ready for the storm that comes from above."

​He looked toward the North, toward the fog-shrouded ruins of Northveil. The embers of vengeance were still burning, and this time, House Sudrath wouldn’t just defend. They would fly, and they would destroy everything from a horizon that the enemy could never reach.