Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 162: RUDIGOR’S VISE
07:30. An hour after Rianor’s orders were dispatched, the morning mist began to lift. But behind that veil of white, shadows were converging.
Inside his Wolf-Tusk tank, Leofric sat with his eyes locked onto the tactical display. Beside him, Gideon monitored the incoming stream of data. Numbers flickered across the crystal tablet, and a pattern began to emerge—the very one they had feared.
"Leofric," Gideon said. His voice was level, but weighted with pressure. "Look at this."
Leofric turned to the screen. From the north and south, two wings of the enemy force were moving. They weren’t charging or attacking directly—they were cutting. Slowly, surely, they were closing the gap behind them. Like two giant arms beginning to fold inward.
Leofric remained silent, his eyes narrowing.
"We’re being encircled," Gideon muttered.
Leofric didn’t panic. He remained preternaturally calm, even as something simmered in his chest. It wasn’t anger or fear; it was a strange sort of... admiration. Rudigor had played them perfectly.
"Rudigor..." he whispered. "He let us push in on purpose. From the very start."
Gideon tapped his tablet. "Estimated strength: twenty thousand cyborgs from the north, fifteen thousand from the south. They’ve already severed our retreat path by two kilometers."
Leofric took a long, steady breath. His hand gripped the radio, his fingers finding the comms button.
"All units, halt. Form a circular defensive perimeter. No further advance." His voice was firm, but he didn’t shout. Gideon looked at him in surprise—Leofric was never this composed. Usually, he roared until the radio speakers rattled.
"You’re remarkably calm," Gideon murmured.
Leofric gave a thin smile. "Panic won’t save us, Gideon. I’m the commander because I know when to scream and when to shut up." He stared at the screen, calculating positions. "Now is the time to be silent."
The tanks began to shift, forming a steel ring of defense. Cannons faced outward, overlapping their fields of fire. Their treads ground through the rubble, seeking the best traction. The Wolf-Tusks took the outer ring while the Titan MK-1s held the center—a formation they had practiced hundreds of times.
"Report to Rianor," Leofric commanded. "Tell him we’ve walked into a snare, but we’re holding. Request instructions."
In the eastern sector, Thorne received the same grim news.
His radio crackled. "Thorne, this is West. Leofric is pinched. They’ve formed a defensive circle. Two enemy wings are closing in from the north and south."
Thorne said nothing. His eyes swept over his surroundings—the market ruins, narrow alleys, collapsed walls, and low rooftops. It was the perfect terrain for a stand. He had fought here before. Years ago, during the evacuation, he had seen cyborgs butcher civilians in this very market. Now, it was his turn to hold the line.
He looked at his men. Eight hundred infantrymen were scattered among the debris. Their faces were tense, but not a single one flinched. They had had their coffee, checked their weapons, and were ready.
"You hear that?" Thorne roared. "The tanks in the west are pinched! They’re counting on us to hold this ground!"
He pointed to the ruins ahead.
"Look at this terrain! Narrow alleys, fallen walls, low roofs! There may be many cyborgs, but they have to come through here one by one!" His voice rose, cutting through the tension. "We turn every alley into a graveyard! Every wall into a fortress! If they want to pass, they pay in blood!"
The soldiers moved into position. Sudrath Spears were leveled; magazines were double-checked. Some took high ground on the roofs, others dug in behind walls, while some crawled into the narrowest corridors.
"Thorne," a sergeant approached, his breath hitching slightly. "From the north... they’re coming."
Thorne turned. At the end of an alley, amidst the ruins, shadows began to emerge. Cyborgs. Dozens. Hundreds. They moved with a slow, relentless gait. Their mechanical feet crunched on the debris, creating a haunting, rhythmic clatter.
Thorne remembered. He remembered the evacuation of Northveil. The way those machines showed no mercy—women, children, the elderly—all were the same to the cold logic of the machine.
He gripped his Sudrath Spear tightly. History would not repeat itself.
"Let them come," he whispered. "Let them feel it."
At the command hill, Rianor’s crystal pager vibrated.
He read the message from Leofric. Then from Thorne. Then from the scouts in the north. Report after report flooded in, yet his expression remained unchanged—flat, focused, calculating.
Hektor stood beside him, visibly tense. "What’s the move?"
Rianor didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the map. Red dots were closing in from the north and south. The blue dots—Leofric’s tanks—had stopped and formed a circle. The green dots—Thorne’s infantry—were spreading through the market ruins.
"He’s pinned us," Rianor murmured.
Hektor turned pale. "We have to pull them back—"
"We can’t." Rianor cut him off, his voice resolute. "Leofric is too deep. If we order a retreat now, they’ll be struck from the rear while in transit. It’s better to hold their current ground."
He paused. His fingers touched his pocket—the Snow Chrysanthemum petal was still there. Warm. The memory of Elara flashed briefly before he shoved it aside. Later. All of that was for later.
His eyes sharpened.
"Report from Ghost Squad?"
Hektor checked the pager. "From Borch. They see a massive concentration of forces in the north. Highly organized, unlike the others. Likely Rudigor’s reserve command center."
Rianor stared at the map. The red dots in the north—the thickest, most disciplined cluster. That was the heart of the encirclement. If he could shatter that...
He took a breath. Calculation. Risk. Reward.
"Contact Zoldrak. It’s time for the dragons to descend."
Hektor gasped. "But Rudigor—"
"He thinks he’s won." Rianor pointed north. "He thinks that by encircling us, he can annihilate our forces. But he’s forgotten one thing."
"What?"
Rianor gave a thin, cold smile. "He doesn’t know we have dragons. And he doesn’t know when we’ll use them."
Above the clouds, Zoldrak received the signal.
He stood up, glancing at Seraphina. His eyes glinted with ancient fire.
"Now, Crown Princess. It is time to fly."
Seraphina smiled—a predatory grin that had been held back far too long. Her tail lashed the air impatiently.
"Finally," she whispered.
Two hundred dragons shifted into their true forms. Wings unfurled, scales shimmering under the morning sun. Fire gathered in their throats—a heat capable of liquefying steel.
They dived.
Not like birds, but like vengeful meteors. Like the wrath of the gods.
The wind roared in Seraphina’s ears. Below, the city rushed up to meet them. She could see the smoke, the fires, and the tiny moving specks—Rudigor’s army.
In the north, Rudigor’s forces were concentrating. Thousands of cyborgs, dozens of field commanders, emergency comm towers, and temporary barracks. They were prepared to march south. They weren’t looking at the sky. They didn’t see the shadows.
Until it was too late.
Seraphina led the descent. Fire erupted from her maw, incinerating the reserve headquarters. Cyborgs melted, their alloys liquefying. Equipment was vaporized. Field commanders tried to run—but there is no running from a dragon.
Zoldrak was beside her, shattering an emergency communication tower with a single sweep of his talons. Two hundred other dragons fanned out, raining fire upon the area. Screams and explosions blended into a single chorus of destruction.
In minutes, Rudigor’s reserve command center ceased to exist.
Inside his primary headquarters, Rudigor was studying the map.
His deputy burst in—an unusual display of haste for the half-machine man. His footsteps were frantic, his eyes—one organic, one optical—wide with alarm.
"Excellency! From the north! Dragons!"
Rudigor spun around. In the distance, through a grime-streaked window, he could see pillars of fire reaching for the sky. Not ordinary fire—the bluish-green inferno that only dragons could produce. Even from here, he could feel the phantom heat.
He fell silent. For the first time that morning, his smile vanished. His brow furrowed.
"Dragons..." he muttered.
His deputy reported quickly, his voice carrying a rare tremor. "The reserve command center is destroyed. At least three field commanders dead. Half our reserve forces are being diverted north to engage them, but they are being slaughtered!"
Rudigor stared at the map. The perfect encirclement was beginning to fray. The northern wing was weakening—the forces there had lost command and direction. The southern wing couldn’t act alone without coordination.
"He played his hand," Rudigor whispered. "He knew exactly when to strike. He found my blind spot."
The deputy waited for orders.
Rudigor paused. His eyes narrowed, recalculating. Then he smiled again—but it was different this time. Not a smile of triumph, but one of curiosity. The smile of a general who had finally found a worthy adversary.
"So, you are the commander, Rianor Sudrath." He looked toward the command hill. "You are cleverer than I imagined. Far cleverer."
"Orders, Excellency?" the deputy asked.
Rudigor took a long breath. A difficult decision, but he was a veteran. He knew when to push and when to fold.
"Halt the encirclement. Withdraw forces from the north to consolidate. Do not let them be destroyed for nothing."
"But Excellency, we could—"
"They have already lost here," Rudigor cut him off. "For today. We have lost momentum. But this war is far from over." He looked at the map one last time. "Let them taste victory. Next time, I will not underestimate them."
At the command hill, the tide had turned.
Hektor read the pager with beaming eyes. "The dragons did it! The reserve command is gone! Half their forces are diverted! The encirclement is breaking!"
Rianor didn’t celebrate. He immediately pointed to the map.
"Order Leofric. Move east. Regroup with Thorne at the market."
Hektor typed furiously. "And Thorne?"
"Prepare to receive them. Consolidate." Rianor traced the points on the map. "Do not counter-attack. Hold the position. We have won enough for today."
Hektor was puzzled. "Why? We could press the advantage—"
"Rudigor isn’t defeated yet," Rianor said, his voice cold. "He’s only pulling back to evaluate. If we chase, we walk into another trap. Look." He pointed to the red dots in the south. "They are still intact. Organized. Numerous."
Hektor nodded, though hesitant. He knew Rianor’s calculations were never off.
In the western sector, Leofric received the command.
He read the brief message and looked at Gideon. "We’re moving east. Joining Thorne at the market."
Gideon nodded. "Tanks are ready to roll. Three units are heavily damaged, but they can still limp along."
Leofric gripped the radio. "All units, form a column. We move east. No recklessness, no one left behind. Protect the damaged units."
The tanks rumbled to life, breaking their defensive ring. Steel tracks ground through the rubble as they made their way toward the market ruins. Wolf-Tusks in the lead, Titan MK-1s in the rear, and the damaged tanks shielded in the center.
Behind them, Rudigor’s forces watched—but they did not attack. They simply stood there, staring, as if they knew today was not their day.
At the market, Thorne saw the tanks emerging through the smoke.
The Wolf-Tusks and Titan MK-1s crept forward through the narrow passages. Some soldiers began to cheer softly. Thorne raised a hand, silencing them.
"Don’t cheer yet. The war isn’t over."
Leofric climbed out of his tank. His face was weary, but there was relief in his eyes. He jumped down onto the debris.
"Thorne," he nodded.
"Leofric," Thorne replied. "Your tanks still in one piece?"
"Mostly. Three are bad, but they’re moving. The crews are safe." Leofric looked around. "Your men?"
"Fourteen wounded. Three dead." Thorne’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion—he was used to this. "They held well. The cyborgs couldn’t break through."
Leofric looked at the surrounding graveyard of cyborgs. Every alley, every wall was scarred by gunfire. Twisted metal, leaking oil, and sparks were everywhere.
"You really used this terrain to your advantage," Leofric murmured.
Thorne shrugged. "It’s what Rianor ordered. Hold the line, don’t be rash. And look." He gestured to the mechanical corpses. "This is the result."
Leofric gave a thin smile. "He knew what he was doing. From the very beginning."
In the distance, smoke still rose from the north where the dragons had struck. But in the south, Rudigor’s army remained intact, waiting. For now, there was silence.
At the command hill, Rianor remained before the map.
Hektor reported the consolidation of forces. "Leofric and Thorne have linked up. Their position is secure for now. The dragons have returned to the clouds—a few minor injuries, but all can fly. Ghost Squad is still on the roofs, monitoring enemy movement."
Rianor nodded. His eyes were still on those red dots in the south. Unmoving. Waiting.
"He isn’t finished," he murmured. "Rudigor isn’t finished."
Hektor looked at him. "You think he’ll attack again today?"
Rianor shook his head. "No. He’s a general. He knows when to retreat and when to advance. Today, he lost." He pointed to the map. "But look. His army is still strong. Organized. He’s only pulling back to rethink."
Hektor was silent. There was nothing more to say.
Rianor reached into his pocket, touching the flower petal once more. Still warm. Still soft.
"We won today," he whispered. "But this war is far from over."
