Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 57: First Date (Mission: Impossible)

Capital City of Sol-Regis – "The Golden Inn" Luxury Suite. 18:30 – 30 Minutes Before H-Hour.

The VIP suite, which usually radiated an aura of quiet nobility, currently looked like it had been hit by a mana-grenade. Clothes were strewn across the plush velvet floor, silk shirts hung precariously from the crystal chandelier, and polished leather boots had been kicked into the far corners of the room in a fit of frustration.

In the center of this chaotic whirlwind stood Sir Riven Sudrath. He was staring at a floor-to-ceiling mirror with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, and cold sweat the size of corn kernels beaded on his tanned temples.

"Garrick!" Riven bellowed, his voice cracking with anxiety. "This isn’t right! This is fundamentally wrong! I look like a bloated penguin that’s been stuffed into a sausage casing!"

Captain Garrick, who was currently sprawled on a nearby sofa peeling grapes, let out a long, weary sigh. He didn’t even look up from his snack.

"That, General, is called a Tuxedo," Garrick replied dryly. "It is the latest model from the Capital’s most exclusive boutique. Sir Roland personally recommended it, saying it was the only way to look ’civilized’ for a lady of Doctor Elena’s standing."

Riven clawed at the stiff, high collar of the black jacket. "It’s too tight! It’s strangling me! I feel like I’m being garroted by a high-level Goblin assassin! If I suddenly have to jump into a combat stance, I won’t be able to move! My range of motion is restricted by at least sixty percent!"

"You are going on a date, Boss. Not conducting a trench raid," Garrick pointed out, finally glancing at his commander. "Just hold your breath and suck in the stomach. You have the physique of a god; you just need to stop tensing your muscles like you’re about to parry a war-hammer."

"I can’t!" Riven groaned. He tried to adjust his posture, but the sheer density of his pectoral muscles proved too much for the delicate fabric.

KREAAAK.

The sound of expensive silk tearing echoed through the room. A seam on the back of the tuxedo had surrendered to Riven’s sheer mass.

Silence fell over the suite.

Garrick slowly covered his face with his hand. "That was a fifty-gold-coin silk shirt, Boss. Roland is going to send you the bill, and Rumina is going to audit your soul for wasting capital."

Riven ripped the ruined jacket off and hurled it onto the floor. "I don’t care! I’m not comfortable! If I’m not comfortable, I’m nervous. And if I’m nervous, I’m liable to accidentally punch a waiter or accidentally collapse the entire restaurant’s infrastructure!"

Riven dove toward his massive iron equipment chest. His eyes lit up with a familiar, comforting glow as he looked at his "safety zone."

"I’m wearing this instead."

Garrick’s eyes went wide. "Boss... please tell me you aren’t thinking of wearing..."

"It’s formal, Rick! This is the Ceremonial Full Plate Armor! Polished to a mirror finish, gallant, and a hundred percent stab-proof!" Riven began donning the heavy steel plates with practiced, lightning-fast efficiency. "It says ’I am a man of status’ and ’I can protect you from a dragon’ simultaneously!"

"Boss, Doctor Elena is a civilian doctor! If you show up looking like a walking scrap yard, she’s going to think you’re declaring war on the medical board!"

"Shut it! I’m a General," Riven argued, his voice muffled as he strapped on his greaves. "My identity is tied to this steel. If she doesn’t like me in my armor, then she doesn’t accept the real Riven Sudrath!"

(The truth, which Riven would never admit, was that he felt naked and vulnerable without three inches of Adamantite-reinforced steel between him and the rest of the world.)

Five minutes later, the "War Lion" stepped out of the inn. He was clad in full plate armor (minus the helmet, mercifully), a crimson cloak billowing behind him, and a massive broadsword strapped to his waist. He looked magnificent—ready to lead a thousand-man cavalry charge into the gates of hell.

But for a quiet dinner for two? He looked like a mental patient who had escaped from a historical museum.

Military Doctors’ Dormitory. 19:00 Sharp.

Doctor Elena stood at the entrance of her dormitory. She had been ready for ten minutes, checking her reflection in the glass door.

Tonight, Elena had shed her clinical white coat. She wore a simple yet elegant navy-blue midi dress that hugged her frame in all the right places, paired with a hand-knitted cream cardigan. Her chestnut hair was down, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and she kept her glasses on—which only added to her sharp, intellectual beauty.

Suddenly, the ground began to vibrate with a rhythmic, heavy thud.

KLANG... KLANG... KLANG...

The sound of metal striking stone echoed through the quiet street. A few stray cats hissed and bolted in terror. Elena narrowed her eyes, looking toward the source of the noise.

At the end of the boulevard, a giant figure in shimmering, clanking armor was marching toward her with the stiffness of a wooden puppet. In his massive, armored gauntlet, he clutched a bouquet of lilies that looked comically tiny, like a sprig of parsley in the hand of a titan.

Elena’s mouth hung open slightly.

Riven came to a halt exactly three paces in front of her. He snapped into a perfect military salute, his gauntlet hitting his temple with a loud CTANG!

"Reporting! General Riven Sudrath is ready to escort Doctor Elena for the scheduled dinner engagement!" Riven barked at the top of his lungs, as if he were addressing a division of troops at dawn.

Elena stared at him, her gaze traveling from his polished boots up to the spiked pauldrons and finally to his sweating, nervous face.

Ten seconds of excruciating silence passed.

"Riven," Elena said flatly.

"Sir! I mean—Yes, Elena!"

"Where exactly are we having dinner? In the middle of an Orc-infested death-trap?"

"Sir, no! At a local establishment...?"

"Then why," Elena crossed her arms over her chest, "are you dressed like you’re planning to slay a primordial dragon? Do I look like a national security threat that requires this much protection?"

Riven stammered, his face turning a shade of purple that matched his cloak. "I-It’s not like that! This is my best attire! Most expensive! Most secure!"

"Secure from what? A tomato sauce splash?" Elena massaged her temples. "I am not walking down the street with a walking tin can. You’re too noisy. Klang-kling-klung. Every step you take sounds like a blacksmith shop falling down a flight of stairs."

"But..." Riven looked down at his beloved armor with the eyes of a kicked puppy.

"Take it off," Elena commanded. "Or I am going back inside to catch up on my medical journals."

Riven panicked. "N-No! Wait! Okay! I’ll take it off!"

There, in the middle of a public street in the Capital, the Great General of Aethelgard was forced to perform an emergency roadside striptease. He frantically unbuckled his pauldrons, ripped off his chest plate, and shed his arm guards. Garrick—who had been hiding in the bushes like a professional stalker—scrambled out to collect the pile of expensive junk.

Finally, Riven stood there in his under-armor basics: a tight black linen shirt (currently damp with nervous sweat) and comfortable trousers.

Without his steel shell, Riven felt horribly exposed. He slouched, his broad shoulders dropping as he tried to hide his massive frame. He felt like a crab that had lost its shell during a tide change.

Elena watched him. She saw the giant of a man suddenly looking like a little boy who had been scolded by his mother. A soft, genuine smile finally broke across her face. She stepped forward, reaching up to straighten his messy collar.

"There," Elena said softly, her fingers briefly grazing his warm chest. "This is much better. Now I can see the human being, not the killing machine."

Riven’s heart skipped a beat. The lavender scent of her hair filled his senses, making him dizzier than any concussive blow ever had.

"I-Is that so?"

"Let’s go. I’m starving. And don’t expect a fancy five-star restaurant. I know a place that actually has flavor."

Capital Night Market – "Bu Gendut’s Tent Stall."

Riven had expected Elena to choose a high-end steakhouse or a quiet seafood terrace. Instead, she had led him into the heart of the bustling night market, a place thick with the smoke of charcoal grills, the shouting of vendors, and the chaotic energy of the common folk.

They sat on a long, weathered wooden bench inside a tent stall that smelled heavenly.

Riven sat stiffly, his knees hitting the underside of the table because his legs were simply too long for the furniture. He kept glancing around with predatory suspicion, checking the shadows for pickpockets or assassins.

"Twenty skewers of Chicken Satay, Ma’am! Two portions of rice cakes!" Elena ordered with practiced ease. "And two iced oranges. Make one of them sugar-free," she added, pointing a finger at Riven.

"Coming right up, dear!" the vendor shouted.

Riven stared at the crowded, grease-stained surroundings. "El... is this place... hygienic?"

"Your body is a map of scars, you’ve drunk swamp water during the war, and you’ve eaten monster meat to survive," Elena gave him a sharp, sideways glance. "Don’t start acting like a porcelain prince now."

Riven winced. "Point taken. My apologies."

The food arrived. The savory, nutty aroma of the grilled satay was intoxicating. Riven, driven by instinct, reached for a skewer immediately. He was about to shove it into his mouth when Elena’s hand caught his wrist.

"Wait," Elena said, taking his plate.

With surgical precision, she began separating the charred chicken skin and the clumps of fat from the meat. She pushed the lean pieces back onto Riven’s plate and moved the "tasty" parts to her own.

"Hey! The skin is the best part!" Riven protested.

"Cholesterol," Elena said curtly. "Do you want to live long enough to see your younger siblings grow up? Do you want to be there to protect them in ten years?"

Riven went silent. That hit him harder than a physical strike.

"Yes..."

"Then eat the lean meat. And eat the cucumbers too. Fiber is your friend, General."

They ate in silence for a moment. Riven found himself mesmerized by Elena. She ate with gusto, completely unconcerned with "nobility image." There was a tiny smudge of peanut sauce at the corner of her lip. Riven wanted to tell her, but his tongue felt like a piece of lead.

"Riven," Elena said suddenly, setting her skewers down.

"Yes?"

"Why aren’t you married yet?"

COUGH! Riven choked on a piece of rice cake. He lunged for his sugar-free orange juice, which was so sour it made his eyes water.

"That’s... a very direct question," Riven gasped, wiping his mouth.

"I’m a doctor. I’m trained to diagnose problems quickly and accurately," Elena said, resting her chin on her hand. "You are wealthy, a Duke, a national hero, and... well, objectively speaking, you are physically attractive. There should be a line of noblewomen stretching to the city gates."

Riven looked down, fidgeting with a used skewer. The noise of the market seemed to fade away.

"They’re afraid, El."

"Afraid?"

"Look at these hands," Riven said, holding up his massive, rough palms. They were calloused, scarred, and looked like they belonged to a monster. "These hands have taken more lives than I can count. People call me the Northern Lion, a Hero... but when they get close, they tremble. They don’t see a man; they see the blood on my hands."

Riven offered a bitter, self-deprecating smile.

"Who wants to sleep next to a monster who might accidentally break their neck if he has a nightmare?"

A heavy silence settled over their table, contrasting with the laughter of the crowd around them. Riven immediately regretted his words. Great job, Riven. You just ruined the mood with your war-trauma.

Suddenly, a warm, soft hand reached out and gripped Riven’s rough, scarred palm.

Riven flinched. He looked up.

Elena was holding his hand with both of hers. Her hands were clean, soft, and smelled of lavender—a stark contrast to his own.

"These hands are rough," Elena said, her thumb tracing the thick callouses on his fingers. "They are covered in scars."

"But..." Elena looked deep into his eyes, her gaze unwavering.

"These are the same hands that held up the collapsing roof of the field hospital during the earthquake so the patients wouldn’t be crushed. These are the hands that carried your brother when he was wounded. These are the hands that built a future for the people of the North."

Elena offered a gentle, radiant smile.

"I don’t see blood, Riven. I see a protector. And as a doctor... I know the difference between the hands of a killer and the hands of a savior. You are the latter."

Riven felt a lump in his throat. His eyes burned with a sudden, stinging heat. In his thirty-five years of life—including his previous life as a common thug—no one had ever validated him like this. No one had ever looked past the "monster" and seen the "shield."

Riven tightened his grip on Elena’s hand, moving with agonizing care, terrified that he might crush her delicate fingers.

"Thank you, El," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re welcome," Elena said, releasing his hand and immediately snapping back into her "strict doctor" persona. "Now finish those cucumbers. Every single one."

Riven laughed—a deep, genuine sound that drew confused looks from the other diners. The weight that had been sitting on his chest for years had vanished.

"Yes, Doctor!"

The Walk Home. 21:00.

They walked back toward the dormitory beneath the dim glow of the Capital’s whale-oil streetlights. Riven walked on the outside, closest to the road, instinctively positioning his massive body to shield Elena from passing carriages.

They passed a carnival-style game booth. A large sign read: "TEST YOUR STRENGTH! HIT THE BELL AND WIN A PRIZE!"

Elena’s eyes lingered on a massive, fluffy teddy bear hanging at the top of the prize rack. It was comically large, with a bright red ribbon around its neck.

"It’s actually quite cute," Elena murmured under her breath.

Riven, whose hearing was as sharp as a wolf’s, stopped dead in his tracks.

"You want it?"

"Oh? No, don’t bother. Those games are rigged. The hammer is weighted incorrectly, and the bell mechanism is likely jammed," Elena dismissed scientifically.

Riven was already rolling up his sleeves. He marched toward the booth owner.

"Hey, friend. How much for a swing?"

"Five coppers, My Lord!" the owner said, smirking at Riven’s size. "But you have to hit it hard enough to ring the bell at the very top! Most men only get halfway!"

Riven tossed a silver coin onto the counter. "I’ll take a shot."

Riven picked up the large wooden mallet. In his hands, the heavy tool looked like a plastic toy. He didn’t take an exaggerated stance. He didn’t even use his Aura. He just channeled a fraction of his natural strength into his right arm and swung casually.

DUAGH!

The sound wasn’t just a ring.

The iron weight shot upward with the velocity of a cannonball. It hit the bell with such force that the bell itself was sheared off its mount, flying through the air and landing on the roof of a tent across the street.

The entire strength-testing machine groaned, cracked, and promptly collapsed into a pile of splintered wood and twisted metal.

Silence fell over the market square.

The owner stared in shock. Elena stared in shock. The crowd stared in shock.

"Oops," Riven said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "I think... I might have overshot the mark a bit."

Riven looked at the pale, trembling owner.

"Friend... can I take the bear? And here’s a gold coin to cover the repairs for your... uh... machine." Riven placed a gleaming gold coin on the table—a coin worth enough to buy ten new machines.

Five minutes later, Riven and Elena were walking again.

Riven was clutching the giant teddy bear to his chest, looking comically absurd as he carried the fluffy toy that was nearly as big as a person.

"You really are a destructive force of nature, aren’t you?" Elena said, shaking her head, but she was laughing.

"The important thing is we got the bear," Riven said, handing the toy over to her. "Here. To keep you company during your night shifts."

Elena hugged the bear. Its scent was a mixture of market dust and the faint, woody smell of Riven’s soap.

"Riven."

"Yes?"

They had reached the door of her dormitory. Elena stood on her tiptoes, her movement swift and unexpected. She pressed a brief, soft kiss against Riven’s scarred cheek.

Peck.

Riven froze. His brain short-circuited. His biological system went offline.

"Thank you for the satay. And the bear. And..." Elena smiled beautifully, her eyes sparkling behind her glasses. "Thank you for taking off the armor."

Elena turned and disappeared into the dormitory, leaving Riven standing frozen on the sidewalk, his hand slowly reaching up to touch the spot she had kissed.

Riven stood there for five full minutes, a goofy, idiotic grin plastered across his face.

Captain Garrick emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Boss? You still among the living?"

"Rick..." Riven whispered, not even turning his head.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Prepare the ring. I’m getting married."

That night, the War Lion of the North didn’t conquer a territory. He was conquered by a doctor with glasses and a plate of chicken satay.