Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 153: THE TRIAL OF THE PREDATORS
The Hexagon Hall was not merely a meeting chamber; it was a vacuum of absolute authority where the wills of the realm’s most powerful entities collided. From the vaulted ceiling, twenty meters above, hung massive crystal chandeliers blessed by pure light magic. They cast sharp, unforgiving shadows across the circular obsidian table, making every furrowed brow and tightened lip at the center of the room appear like a landscape of jagged terrain.
Lucian Sudrath sat perfectly upright, his hands resting with deceptive calmness on the cold surface of the dark wood. Behind him, Captain Thorne and Borch stood as motionless as iron statues. By royal protocol, they were not permitted to carry their Sudrath Spears—the modified SIG MCXs—into the presence of the King. Yet, the sheer military presence they exuded, honed by the carnage of Northveil, was enough to keep any Royal Guard at the door in a state of constant, twitchy vigilance.
King Edward IV tapped his fingers against the gilded armrest of his throne. The sound—thump... thump... thump...—reverberated through the magically tuned acoustics of the hall, creating a rhythmic pressure that weighed on the nerves of everyone present.
"We have already reviewed the reports from Highgarden regarding their grain surplus, and from Eastmarch concerning the stabilization of mana ley lines on the Eastern frontier," Edward’s voice was raspy, laden with the weight of years, yet it still carried the undeniable resonance of a monarch. His blue eyes, beginning to dim with age, suddenly sharpened as they locked onto Lucian. "Now, we arrive at the most unpleasant agenda on the docket. Northreach."
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly. The passive mana pressure released by Duchess Clarissa across the table made the air feel syrupy and thick.
"Lucian," Edward continued, his tone devoid of its usual warmth. "I do not ask for a bureaucratic report prepared by your secretaries. I demand an explanation from a Duke of the Realm. Why did your son, Roland Sudrath, find it necessary to spill the blood of Prince Marcus on land that was supposed to be a protected corridor of the Crown? Does House Sudrath feel that the laws of Aethelgard are merely suggestions that no longer apply to the North?"
Lucian did not rush his reply. He allowed the silence to stretch for several heartbeats, taking a slow, measured breath. Inside his mind, Sanusi was running high-level risk simulations. This was not a negotiation; it was a high-stakes ’Board of Directors’ hearing where the penalty for a failed argument was execution.
"Marcus was not a mere Prince passing through on a leisure trip, Edward," Lucian’s voice was steady, lacking even a tremor of hesitation. "He was a commander who bared his steel against the official envoys of Northreach while our territory was under active invasion. Roland did what any Sudrath is bred to do: he survived. If Roland had not defended himself with the necessary lethality, you might not be looking at me today. Instead, you would be looking at the Iron Empire’s banners fluttering over our smoldering ruins because a Prince decided to play politics with our border security."
"Self-defense?" Alistair Solari interjected with a low, rumbling laugh that sounded like stones grinding together. The Grand Duke of Highgarden leaned forward, his gold-plated armor gleaming under the magical light. "You dare categorize the murder of a Prince as self-defense? Northreach has played with hot iron for far too long, Lucian. It seems you have forgotten how to show proper subservience to the Sun Throne."
"Respect is earned through protection, Alistair," Lucian fired back, his eyes narrowing as they met the Grand Duke’s gaze. "Where were your legions when Northveil fell? Where were your knights when the Iron Empire’s scouts were burning our villages? You all remained silent, safely tucked behind your southern walls. And now, when we have made the sacrifices necessary to hold the line, you have the audacity to speak to me of respect?"
"Enough!" Edward slammed his palm against the table. The sound echoed like a crack of thunder. "This conversation will spiral into madness if we only trade blame. However, Lucian... there is another matter that has the lords of this council feeling... agitated. It is not merely about Marcus."
Archbishop Alexander cleared his throat softly. He adjusted his pristine white robes, which were encrusted with jewels that represented the various saints of the Church. "Duke Sudrath, the Church of Light has been observing the ’industrial’ developments in Iron Hearth with growing concern. These tools that operate without the grace of mana, these metal tubes that emit the sound of lightning, and the forbidden principles you apply... they bear a disturbing resemblance to the heresies documented in the Codex Maleficarum—the Book of Demonic Knowledge."
Alexander produced an ancient, weathered scroll from the depths of his robes. "Thousands of years ago, the Old Civilization collapsed because of their arrogance. They sought to create machines that challenged the will of the Divine. You are exhaling life into that same forbidden knowledge, Lucian. You are sowing the seeds of the same cataclysm."
Lucian stared at the Archbishop with an expression of flat indifference. "The ancient texts you cling to are historical records misinterpreted through the lens of fear, Archbishop. Those machines are tools of survival, not challenges to the Divine. If the Creator intended for us to perish in ignorance, He would not have gifted us with the intellect to innovate and adapt."
"Blasphemous arrogance!" Alexander surged to his feet, his aura erupting in a blinding halo of golden light that made the air hum with divine static. "You openly admit to utilizing the Prohibited Paths!"
"Sit down, Alexander," Duchess Clarissa spoke for the first time. Her voice was like the chime of fine crystal—chilly, clear, and absolute. The Elf Archmage studied Lucian with a detached, clinical curiosity. "Lucian, I have ruled Eastmarch for centuries. I have seen empires rise and crumble into dust. This technology you boast of... to us mages, it is merely a pathetic crutch for those who lack the natural gift of mana. You claim the Iron Empire is an existential threat? They are merely humans playing with boiling water. Sudrath is exaggerating this threat simply to justify your massive, unchecked military buildup."
"Exaggerating?" Lucian allowed a thin, razor-sharp smile to touch his lips—a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Clarissa, you have lived in your ivory tower for far too long. Those ’crutches’ without mana just decimated the Northveil defense fleet. They possess Railguns—kinetic weapons that can liquefy a Master-rank knight before he can even chant a basic barrier."
Alistair Solari snorted derisively. "Ranged weapons? The tools of cowards. Highgarden’s heavy cavalry would trample their steam engines into the mud in a single charge before they even had time to reload their cumbersome toys."
"None of you understand," Lucian said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that vibrated with suppressed fury. "The Iron Empire is not a band of brigands with steam engines. They are a total industrial power whose sole objective is the absolute subjugation of the entire continent of Aethel-Terra. And when they are finished with Northreach, they will come for your wheat fields, Alistair. They will come for your cathedrals, Alexander. And they will burn your libraries to the ground, Clarissa."
"And to face them, you chose to forge an alliance with monsters?" Edward asked, his tone regaining its sharp, regal edge. "My intelligence reports state you have established active contact with the Draconian Empire. Dragons are the natural predators of mankind, Lucian. Are you pointing the sword of the realm toward Draconia, or are you bringing the dragons inside our walls to finish what the Iron Empire started?"
Lucian remained silent for a heartbeat. He knew that the secret of the five hundred dragons already stationed at Iron Hearth had to remain buried at all costs. If this council discovered that Sudrath had successfully formed a functional military alliance with the Dragon Flight, this meeting would not end in a debate; it would end with an immediate death warrant for the entire Sudrath bloodline.
"Dragons are a prideful and xenophobic race, Edward. You know this better than anyone," Lucian began, treading carefully through the diplomatic minefield. "Our contact with them is a desperate effort to ensure they remain neutral while we are occupied with the Iron Empire. Negotiating with Draconia is a nightmare of ego and ancient grudges; the likelihood of them moving to assist us is abysmal. However, is it not better to have a silent neighbor than one who joins the slaughter?"
"We doubt you can truly control those beasts, Lucian," Clarissa countered. "Even their lowest castes view humans as nothing more than clever livestock. You are playing with a fire that will consume us all."
"And I would much rather be scorched by dragon fire while fighting for our freedom than be decapitated by an Iron Empire steam-blade while kneeling in a cage," Lucian retorted.
The summit continued for hours, a grueling gauntlet of accusations and counter-arguments that sought to isolate Sudrath. Alistair accused Lucian of intentionally allowing Northveil to fall to garner sympathy, while Alexander insisted that a Church Inquisition be dispatched to Iron Hearth to purge the ’Demonic Knowledge’ once and for all.
Lucian stood at the center of this storm with his head held high. He looked at the faces of these overlords—the supposed pillars of the kingdom—and saw only men and women blinded by their own prejudices and fragile egos.
"Listen to me!" Lucian’s voice boomed, cutting through the bickering and echoing with the force of a command. "I did not come here to beg for Roland’s life. I came here to warn you. The Kingdom of Aethelgard is standing on the edge of a precipice. If you choose to brand House Sudrath as traitors at the very moment we are the only shield left standing in the North... then do not blame us when that shield cracks and lets the storm wash you all away."
Edward stared at his old friend with an unreadable expression—a complex mix of lingering respect, deep disappointment, and royal caution. He had known Lucian longer than anyone else in the room. He knew the man’s intellect and his underlying sincerity. But he also knew that thrones were not maintained by the memories of youth.
As a friend, he desperately wanted to believe.
As a King, he could not afford to be naive.
"Lucian Sudrath," Edward spoke finally, his voice calm yet carrying the finality of a gavel. "The discussion regarding Prince Marcus is far from over. Blood demands a reckoning that diplomacy cannot always provide."
He paused, the room falling into a heavy, expectant silence.
"And the Inquisition into your new technologies... shall proceed as planned. We cannot allow the seeds of the Old World’s destruction to sprout in our soil unchecked."
Their gazes locked—no longer just two friends from the trenches, but two titans standing on opposite sides of a history that was already beginning to move.
The meeting continued late into the night. No final gavel was struck, and no definitive decree was announced to the public. Yet, every soul in that chamber knew one thing for certain:
Today was not the end of a debate.
It was the opening act of a catastrophe that would reshape the world.
