Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 161: THE HUNT BEGINS
04:30. An hour after the explosions rocked Northveil, smoke still billowed from four distinct points. The eastern sky began to pale, but below, fires still raged in the ruins of Rudigor’s headquarters, the decimated ammunition depot, and the collapsed communication tower.
But behind the veil of panic, Rudigor had already begun to move.
Above Northveil, twelve Sky-Hunters flew low—as low as they dared. Their rotors sliced through the cold morning air, creating a distinctive, sharp whistling sound. The morning mist started to lift, but the broken city beneath remained shrouded in shadows.
Kaelen, in the lead cockpit, scanned the urban landscape below. In his seat, Thamrin sat with his hands white-knuckled around the flight controls. His eyes—the same eyes that had witnessed his mother crushed by rubble and his sister cleaved by a cyborg in that very market—were now burning. It wasn’t just rage. There was a cold, piercing focus.
"Thamrin, Sector 4," Kaelen’s voice crackled over the radio, calm as ever. "Enemy concentration. It looks like they’re trying to rally."
Thamrin banked his craft. In an open plaza amidst the ruins, dozens of cyborgs were swarming. Some carried heavy armaments, while others seemed to be awaiting orders. Their movements were erratic—still in a state of disarray following the missile strike.
"I see them," Thamrin muttered.
"Engage. Don’t give them a second to regroup."
Thamrin took a breath. His finger squeezed the trigger.
Rockets streaked from the Sky-Hunter’s pylons. Four, six, eight—showering the plaza in fire. Cyborgs were torn into jagged fragments. Sequential explosions carved small craters into the earth. Smoke and metallic sparks flew in every direction.
Thamrin spotted one cyborg, its left leg obliterated, still crawling forward. Its metal fingers clawed at the dirt, dragging its mangled chassis. He fired again. And again. Until it went still.
"Thamrin," Kaelen’s voice returned. "Break off. Relocate."
Thamrin exhaled, the adrenaline coursing through him. "Understood."
The Sky-Hunter veered away, vanishing behind a skyscraper to hunt for its next target. Behind it, the plaza was left as nothing but scrap metal and smoldering ruins.
In the western sector, Leofric led forty-five tanks into the city.
The Wolf-Tusks and Titan MK-1s moved in formation—not spreading out, but focusing on a single path Hektor had identified as the weakest point in the enemy’s defense. Their steel tracks ground the shattered asphalt into dust, leaving deep furrows in the snow-dusted earth.
Barricade after barricade crumbled under their weight. Barbed wire, concrete blocks, sentry posts—all were leveled. Heavy cyborgs attempted to intercept, emerging from behind the ruins with pneumatic cannons primed. But before they could fire, the 105mm cannons of the Wolf-Tusks spoke first. A single thunderous crack, and the heavy cyborgs were reduced to shrapnel.
"FORWARD! KEEP MOVING!" Leofric roared over the radio, his voice echoing through the comm channels. Beneath the roar, there was palpable excitement. "THEY’RE RUNNING! CRUSH THEM!"
Gideon, beside him, remained silent. His eyes were glued to his crystal tablet. Data flowed rapidly—positions, velocity, hydraulic pressure, ammunition counts. All green. All perfect.
Too perfect.
"Leofric," Gideon broke the silence.
"What?"
"This is going too smoothly."
Leofric frowned. "What do you mean?"
Gideon swiped his tablet, showing the tactical map. "We’ve advanced two kilometers. Barricades smashed, heavy cyborgs fallen. But look at this." He pointed to the blips around them. "They’re retreating too neatly. There’s no mass panic. Look at the retreat pattern—they aren’t fleeing; they are moving in a disciplined withdrawal."
Leofric fell silent. For the first time that morning, he didn’t shout.
"You think it’s a trap?"
Gideon shrugged. "I don’t know. But Rudigor won’t just roll over. He’s a general. He has centuries of experience."
Leofric bit his lip, his hand tightening around the radio. "We keep moving, but stay sharp. Order all units to halt deep penetration. Maintain spacing. Don’t let the line get cut."
"Understood." Gideon began typing out the commands.
Outside, the tanks continued their advance. But this time, they moved slower. More cautiously.
On the rooftop of a skyscraper near the market ruins, Borch and Dom moved without a sound.
They were shadows. And shadows had no need for words.
Borch adjusted his scope, scanning the area below. Enemy infantry were shifting, cyborgs were patrolling, but his eyes searched for one thing: the ones giving the orders. Not the rank-and-file, but those carrying radios. Those pointing. Those speaking louder than the rest.
Dom, ten meters to his side, found a target first. An Iron Empire officer—human, not cyborg—stood on a third-story balcony, barking instructions into a handheld radio. From his gestures, he was directing a mortar squad below.
Dom tapped his microphone twice. Code: target acquired.
Borch shifted his scope. His breathing slowed. His finger rested on the trigger. He waited for the wind. He waited for his heartbeat to settle.
Thwip.
The Gauss Rifle barely made a sound—only a faint magnetic hiss, like a sharp intake of breath. But the projectile streaked at three times the speed of sound.
The officer dropped. The radio in his hand shattered. His body slumped onto the balcony, motionless.
"Relocate," Borch whispered.
They vanished into the shadows, leaving the rooftop empty. Below, the mortar squad began to panic—their commander was dead, and no one was left to give the orders.
One by one, the field commanders of the Iron Empire fell. Their forces began to lose direction. Cyborgs without command moved aimlessly, waiting for instructions that would never come. They spun in place, searching for leaders who were no longer alive.
In the eastern sector, Thorne led eight hundred infantry into the market district.
The smell of scorched iron and dried blood hung heavy in the air. Thorne knew this scent. He had smelled it during the evacuation of Northveil, when he watched cyborgs slaughter unarmed civilians.
"Remember your training!" Thorne shouted, his voice firm. "Cyborgs have no fear! But without a commander, they are just aimless machines! Don’t give them time to think!"
The infantry fanned out, moving from one ruin to the next. Sudrath Spears barked—a staccato rhythm that had become familiar to their ears.
A cyborg lurched from behind a wall. Before it could raise its weapon, three soldiers fired in unison. Its head disintegrated, and its body collapsed. Yet its hand still twitched, clawing the ground, trying to reach for its fallen rifle.
The soldier fired again. Only then did it go still.
"Never assume they’re dead until they stop moving!" Thorne roared. "They’re cyborgs! The mechanical parts can stay active even if the brain is gone!"
The battle was fierce, but the infantry held the upper hand—for now. The cyborgs were uncoordinated, easily picked off one by one. But Thorne knew this wouldn’t last. Once the enemy consolidated their numbers, their sheer mass would become a problem.
"Thorne!" A sergeant ran up, breathless. "Northern sector is clearing. At least forty cyborgs destroyed. Our boys only have minor injuries."
"Good." Thorne nodded. "But don’t let your guard down. This is still—"
"Thorne!" Another voice crackled over the radio. "Report from the west—Leofric’s tanks are slowing down. Gideon wants all units on high alert."
Thorne’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the surrounding ruins—shadows that could hide anything.
"Tell the men to stay frosty. Don’t push too deep. Keep visual contact with adjacent units." He gripped his weapon. "This is just the beginning. Rudigor hasn’t shown his teeth yet."
Above the clouds, Zoldrak and Seraphina were still waiting.
Two hundred dragons in human form sat on a high ridge, watching the battle below. From this height, they could see it all—the tanks in the west, the infantry in the east, the helicopters buzzing back and forth. But they could also see something else: movement in the shadows, forces creeping slowly along the city’s outskirts.
Seraphina was restless. Her tail twitched impatiently, whipping the air behind her.
"You are anxious, Crown Princess." Zoldrak didn’t look back, but his voice was clear. His aged eyes remained fixed on the fray below.
"I just..." Seraphina let out a long breath. Her fists clenched. "I want to go down. They are fighting down there, while we just sit here."
"And you will go down. When Rianor commands it." Zoldrak finally turned, his gaze sharp. "Patience is a weapon, Crown Princess. Flying now will only exhaust you before the real battle. Look." He pointed down. "They’re only just warming up."
Seraphina followed his finger. In the distance, behind the ruins, she could see movement—something hiding, waiting.
"I understand." She tried to calm herself, though her fingers remained clenched.
Zoldrak gave a thin smile. "You will be a fine leader one day, Crown Princess. Because you care. But you must also learn to wait."
In a backup headquarters hidden behind the ruins of an old factory, Rudigor received his reports.
The building had once been a metal processing plant. Now, amidst rusted machinery and scrap iron, Rudigor had established his emergency command post. His deputy—a tall high-ranking officer with half a mechanical face—stood beside him with a metal data slate.
"Excellency." The deputy’s voice was flat, mechanical. "Reports from all sectors. Their tanks have penetrated too deep. The infantry has taken the market. Our field commanders... many are dead. At least seven confirmed."
Rudigor smiled.
It wasn’t a smile of anger or panic. It was a smile of satisfaction. The smile of a predator watching its prey step into the snare.
"Let them. Let them come in."
The deputy looked puzzled. "Excellency?"
"They think they’ve won." Rudigor walked over to a map hanging on a rusted wall. His metallic finger pointed with precision. "Tanks here. Infantry here. Their air support buzzing back and forth—they can’t land, they can’t refuel forever."
He traced a line on the map. "They are spread thin. They’ve pushed too deep. And they don’t know..." He tapped the map sharply. "...that this is where we pinch them."
The deputy studied the map. There, clearly illustrated, two wings of Rudigor’s forces had begun moving from the north and south, slowly closing the gap behind the tanks and infantry.
"Orders, Excellency?"
Rudigor stood tall, his eyes glowing a malevolent red that illuminated the dark room.
"Mobilize all reserve forces. Twenty thousand cyborgs from the northern sector. Fifteen thousand from the south. Direct them to the west and east simultaneously. Cut off their retreat." He grinned widely. "Don’t let a single one of their tanks return. Don’t let a single infantryman survive."
The deputy recorded the orders swiftly. "And their air support, Excellency?"
Rudigor glanced out the window at the sky. "Let them fly. They’ll run out of fuel sooner or later. When they descend..." He made a cutting motion with his hand. "...slaughter them."
At the command hill, reports began to flood in.
Hektor read his crystal pager with a thin smile. The numbers were satisfying. "Western sector 50% clear. Eastern sector 40%. Numerous enemy commanders confirmed dead. Sky-Hunters report at least three enemy concentrations destroyed."
He turned to Rianor, expecting a smile in return.
But Rianor wasn’t smiling.
His eyes were still fixed on the map. On the blips showing Leofric’s tanks—pushed too deep. On Thorne’s infantry—scattered in the ruins, difficult to consolidate quickly. And on the edges of the map, grey dots that were starting to move—reports from the scouts.
"Hektor." His voice was low. Too low.
"Yes?"
"This is too smooth."
Hektor’s smile slowly faded. "You think..."
"I think Rudigor is baiting us." Rianor took a deep breath. "He wants us deep. And then..."
He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Hektor turned pale. "An encirclement."
Rianor nodded slowly. He reached into his pocket, touching the Snow Chrysanthemum petal for a moment. Its warmth was a reminder of a promise.
Then his eyes turned sharp. Focused. Cold.
"Order Leofric to halt any further advance. Consolidate positions, do not spread out." He pointed to the map. "Thorne must pull back slightly; he cannot be cut off from the retreat path. Ghost Squad—have them scout for reserve movements in the north and south."
He stood up. Behind him, the sky was brightening. But ahead, in the city, the fires still raged.
"And ready the dragons." His voice was resolute. "We might need them sooner than planned. Zoldrak and Seraphina must be ready to descend within ten minutes of my command."
Hektor scrambled to send the orders.
Rianor stared toward Northveil. The flames were still burning, but behind the smoke and ruins, he could feel it.
Rudigor was smiling.
And inside his backup base, Rudigor truly was. He watched the map as his forces moved from the north and south, slowly closing the trap.
"Squeeze them," he whispered. "Squeeze them tight."
The real hunt was about to begin.
