Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution

Chapter 63: Chapter 63: The Chicken Porridge Proposal

Iron Hearth Castle – Riven’s Private Quarters. Midday – One Week After the Family Dinner.

A torrential downpour lashed against the rugged stone walls of Northreach. The sky was a bruised shade of purple, and the thunder that rattled the castle’s foundations was tectonic in its intensity, echoing through the jagged mountain passes. Yet, as loud as the celestial storm was, it could not compete with the pathetic, soul-wrenching moans emanating from the master suite of the eldest Sudrath son.

”Cough... Wheeze... Mother... tell the ancestors I’m coming... the light is fading...”

Stretched out across a King-size bed—its silk sheets embroidered with a pattern of crossed swords and shields—was a giant in a state of absolute, unprecedented ruin. General Riven Sudrath, the ”War Lion of the North,” the conqueror of the Southern plains, and the slayer of the Swamp Basilisk, was currently a helpless heap beneath a mountain of thick wool blankets.

His face was a vibrant, sickly crimson. His nose was completely congested, forcing him to breathe through a mouth that felt as dry as the Northreach deserts. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, and his voice sounded like someone had tried to gargle with a handful of sharp gravel. He had been struck by the most feared and lethal affliction known to the modern man, a sickness that ignored his level 99 physical stats: the ”Man Flu.”

The cause of this catastrophic decline was entirely self-inflicted. Two days ago, in a fit of romantic angst while brooding over his complicated feelings for Doctor Elena, Riven had decided to undergo a grueling four-hour physical training session in the middle of a freezing thunderstorm. Shirtless. He had wanted to ”clear his head” with the cold rain, but instead, he had cleared the path for a viral invasion. The result? A case of acute masuk angin that would have made a lesser man crumble into dust.

The heavy oak doors of the room creaked open, moving on well-oiled hinges that did little to dampen the sound.

Doctor Elena entered the room, carrying a silver tray with a steaming ceramic bowl and a collection of medicinal vials. She was still in her white clinical coat, having been summoned to the castle via an emergency ”SOS” telegram sent by a panicked Duchess Aurelia. The telegram had read, in all capital letters: ELENA! RIVEN IS ON HIS DEATHBED! PREPARE THE SURGERY! GODS HAVE MERCY!

Elena stopped at the foot of the bed and stared at her patient with a flat, clinical expression that bordered on judgmental.

”I honestly expected a myocardial infarction or at least a spontaneous cerebral hemorrhage based on your mother’s telegram,” Elena said, setting the tray down on the mahogany nightstand with a soft clink. ”I see now that the Duchess’s definition of ’dying’ is actually just a common head cold.”

”This... this isn’t a common cold, Elena...” Riven whimpered, his voice nasal and utterly pathetic. ”My brain feels like it’s being struck by a ten-ton industrial sledgehammer every time I blink. My throat feels like I swallowed a handful of rusty nails and washed them down with acid. I suspect... I have less than forty-eight hours left to live. Tell Garrick... he can have my spare axe. The one with the serrated edge.”

Elena let out a long, weary sigh. She reached out and pressed the back of her cool, professional hand against Riven’s burning forehead.

”Your temperature is thirty-eight degrees Celsius. That is a mild fever, General. Most infants in the local villages don’t even bother crying at this level of discomfort. Your heart is strong, your lungs are clear, and your dramatic flair is functioning at one hundred percent capacity.”

”But I’m so weak...” Riven pulled the wool blanket up until it covered his nose, leaving only his moist, pleading eyes visible. ”And it’s so cold. Is the furnace broken? Why is the world so cruel to its heroes?”

Elena ignored his theatrics, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she wrung out a cold, damp towel and placed it gently across Riven’s forehead.

”This is what happens when you try to act like a mythological figure in a lightning storm. You have a physique that could withstand a direct cannon blast, but an immune system that shatters like a cheap cracker the moment it touches cold water. You’re lucky it didn’t turn into pneumonia.”

Riven went silent, closing his eyes as he savored the cooling sensation of her touch. It was more effective than any magical elixir he had ever taken. He opened one eye slightly to watch her as she began mixing a bitter-smelling medicinal powder in a cup of warm water. Her face looked tired—the dark circles beneath her eyes suggested she had just finished a double shift at the hospital—yet she had dropped everything to come and nurse him.

”El,” Riven whispered softly.

”What? Need more water? Or another blanket to hide under?”

”Are you... aren’t you disgusted? Taking care of a snot-nosed, pathetic man like this? I’m supposed to be the General. The wall. But look at me.”

Elena stopped mixing and turned to face him, her hands on her hips in that characteristic posture that always made Riven feel like a recruit. ”Riven, I have spent hours debriding necrotic monster-inflicted wounds and dissecting stomachs filled with green bile and parasitic worms. Your nasal congestion doesn’t even rank in the top fifty most disgusting things I’ve dealt with this week. To a doctor, you’re just a patient. A very loud, very whiny patient.”

She picked up the ceramic bowl from the tray. The aroma hit Riven’s senses immediately—a rich, savory scent that reminded him of home, of safety, and of the streets of Bandung from his past life.

Chicken Porridge.

It was a thick, creamy rice congee topped with finely shredded chicken, crispy fried shallots, bits of fried dough (Cakwe), toasted soybeans, and a generous handful of crackers. It was the ultimate comfort food for a sick man, a recipe passed down from Aurelia to the castle chefs.

”Sit up. You need to eat something substantial before you take the medicine,” Elena commanded.

Riven struggled to push himself up against the carved mahogany headboard, groaning with every microscopic movement as if his joints were made of grinding stone. ”Feed me... my arms are like jelly... I can’t even lift my own pride...”

”You have two perfectly functional hands, Riven. I saw you lifting crates of Adamantite yesterday.”

”Too heavy, El... the spoon feels like it weighs fifty kilos... I’m losing the battle against gravity...” Riven deployed his most effective psychological weapon: the ”Puppy Eyes” technique, perfected through years of manipulating his siblings.

Elena rolled her eyes, a gesture of pure exasperation, but she sat down on the edge of the bed anyway. ”You are such a big baby. Fine. Open your mouth.”

Riven opened his mouth wide, looking like a hungry fledgling in a nest. ”Aaa.”

Elena scooped a generous spoonful of the porridge, carefully including a bit of everything, and moved it toward him.

”Wait! Stop!” Riven suddenly caught her wrist with surprising strength for a ”dying” man.

”What now? Is it too hot? I blew on it!”

Riven pointed at the bowl with an expression of genuine, wide-eyed horror, as if he had just spotted an assassin in the room.

”Is... is it not stirred yet?”

Elena furrowed her brow in utter confusion. ”Stirred? Why would I stir it? If you mix it all together, the crackers get soggy and it looks like cat vomit. You’re supposed to eat it layer by layer so you can appreciate the individual textures of the toppings.”

”Absolutely not!” Riven’s Northern soul—and his previous life’s heritage—revolted. He shook his head so hard the damp towel nearly flew off. ”Porridge must be stirred, Elena! It’s a fundamental law of the universe! You have to mix the soy sauce, the chili paste, the crackers, and the broth into a singular, unified harmony of flavor! An unstirred bowl is just a chaotic pile of segregated ingredients! It’s an insult to the chef!”

”It’s aesthetically repulsive, Riven. It’s uncivilized. Eating mush is for the toothless.”

”To hell with aesthetics! This is about the soul of the dish! Stir it, El. Please... for a dying man’s last wish before he crosses the veil?”

”No. I am firmly Team Unstirred. It’s the superior way to dine. If you want it turned into a brown sludge, you can do it yourself.”

”But my jelly arms... they’re failing me...”

They stared at each other for ten tense seconds. It was a clash of civilizations, a theological debate centered around a bowl of rice. It was the irresistible force of the ”Stirred Team” meeting the immovable object of ”Team Unstirred.” Finally, seeing the genuine misery on Riven’s face (mostly from the flu, but partially from the existential dread of unstirred porridge), Elena surrendered with a groan of defeat.

”Fine. Just this once. Because you’re sick and pathetic and I want you to shut up,” Elena muttered. She took the spoon and aggressively churned the porridge until the vibrant toppings had vanished into a uniform, brownish, savory paste. ”There. Are you satisfied, you barbarian?”

”Extremely,” Riven grinned, showing his teeth. ”Harmony has been restored.”

Elena began feeding him again. Riven ate with the appetite of a man who hadn’t seen food in years. Between every swallow, his gaze remained fixed on Elena. He watched the way her glasses caught the light of the mana-lamp, the way her brow furrowed in concentration as she made sure not to spill a drop, and the way she instinctively blew on the spoon before offering it to him.

She was sharp. She was stubborn. Her taste in porridge was objectively wrong. But she was here.

She was taking care of him at his absolute worst—smelling of eucalyptus oil, covered in sweat, and acting like a petulant toddler. A profound, crystalline realization washed over Riven, as clear and bright as the searchlight on his Iron Duke Titan.

I don’t ever want her to leave.

I don’t want anyone else to ever take care of me for the rest of my life.

Riven swallowed the last of the porridge, the warmth of the broth settling in his chest.

”Elena.”

”What? Still hungry? Or was there not enough chili in the mix?”

Riven shook his head slowly. He reached out and caught the hand that was holding the empty spoon. Riven’s hand was hot and dry from the fever, while Elena’s was cool, soft, and steady.

”Elena, you know what my job is as a General, right?”

Elena set the bowl down on the tray, looking at him with a curious tilt of her head. ”I know. You guard the borders. You kill monsters that threaten the villagers. You flex your muscles to intimidate foreign diplomats who think the North is weak.”

”My job is to protect the lives of thousands,” Riven continued, his tone suddenly losing its whiny, sick-man edge and becoming uncharacteristically serious. ”But the problem is... I’m reckless. I’m clumsy with my own life. I forget to eat because I’m looking at maps. I jump into the mouths of dragons without thinking of the consequences. I’m so busy being a wall for everyone else that I forget I’m made of fragile flesh and bone too.”

Elena went quiet. She didn’t pull her hand away, her green eyes searching his. ”Where is this going, Riven? Is this the fever-talk?”

”I’m more lucid than I’ve ever been,” Riven squeezed her hand, his eyes burning with a heat that definitely wasn’t from the flu.

”I need someone, El. I need someone who has the guts to yell at me when I’m being an idiot. Someone who will force me to eat my vegetables even when I’m craving a five-pound steak. Someone who will wait for me to come home from the front, so I have a reason to actually keep my head on my shoulders.”

Elena’s face began to flush a deep, radiant pink. ”Riven... you... you’re delirious. I should check your temperature again. The fever is making you sentimental.”

”I’m not sentimental, I’m being strategic,” Riven said, a faint, sheepish smile touching his lips.

”Elena, I need you to look after my heart... literally and figuratively.”

Silence filled the room, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the windowpane and the distant crackle of the fireplace.

”Literally... you need to keep my cholesterol and my blood pressure from exploding before I turn forty,” Riven said with a soft chuckle. ”And figuratively... you need to keep my heart from being an empty, cold fortress.”

Riven began fumbling with the pocket of his pajama pants, his movements clumsy.

”Dammit... I left the box in the top drawer of the desk...” he muttered in a sudden, sharp panic.

He looked around the room frantically, his eyes searching for anything that could suffice. His gaze landed on a large, heavy hexagonal Fastener Nut made of polished, silver-grade Adamantite steel sitting on the nightstand—a leftover piece of a project Rianor had been tinkering with earlier that day.

Riven grabbed the industrial nut. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, his hand trembling slightly from a mixture of nerves and physical weakness.

”Doctor Elena,” Riven said, looking her directly in the eye. ”Will you be my personal physician... for the rest of our lives? I promise to pay you with my entire salary, my absolute, unwavering loyalty, and... well, a plate of the best chicken satay every Saturday night?”

Elena stared at the heavy, cold industrial nut in Riven’s hand. Then she looked at his face—red, sweaty, snot-streaked, and filled with a desperate, vulnerable hope that she had never seen in a soldier before.

It was the most unromantic, ridiculous, and utterly ”Riven” proposal she could have possibly imagined. It was chaotic, messy, and technically incorrect.

Tears began to well in Elena’s eyes, shimmering in the mana-light. She started to laugh, a dry, incredulous sound that quickly turned into a sob.

”You absolute, wonderful idiot...” Elena choked out, her voice thick with emotion. ”Who proposes with a piece of hardware while they’re suffering from a head cold?”

”Is that a ’no’ or a ’maybe’?” Riven asked, his heart sinking into his stomach.

Elena reached out and took the Adamantite nut from his fingers. Because her fingers were slender and delicate, the nut was comically oversized, sliding loosely down her finger, but she held it there nonetheless, pressing it against her skin.

”It’s a ’yes’,” Elena whispered. ”But on one condition.”

”Anything. I’ll eat a bowl of raw spinach if you ask.”

”If you ever act this needy again over a common cold... I’m sedating you for a week so I can get some peace and quiet.”

Riven let out a roar of relief, a sound that had more raw power in it than he had shown all day. He reached out and pulled Elena into a fierce, suffocating embrace, burying his face in her shoulder.

”Riven! Let go! You smell like eucalyptus, menthol, and sweat!”

”I don’t care. I’m sharing the germs. If I’m going down, you’re coming with me.”

”Stupid, stubborn General!”

Outside the heavy bedroom door, Duchess Aurelia—who had been peeking through the brass keyhole with the stealth and focus of a professional assassin—suddenly slumped against the wall, her legs giving out from pure, unadulterated joy.

She began to sob happily, burying her face in the broad chest of Duke Lucian, who had been standing guard behind her.

”Finally, Lucian... finally, someone took him off our hands... I thought we were going to have to pay someone to marry him...” Aurelia blubbered.

”I know, dear... I know,” Lucian patted her back, a look of profound, silent relief on his own face. ”Start the preparations. We’re going to need the largest tent in the kingdom. We’re inviting the entire continent. And make sure we have plenty of porridge.”

That day, in the middle of a fever dream and a bowl of perfectly stirred chicken porridge, the War Lion of the North officially surrendered his heart to the only woman who could tame him.