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

Chapter 73: Chapter 73: Bird in a Golden Cage (The Rusty Blade)

Iron Hearth Castle – Main Dining Hall. Night – One Year Since the ”Era of Peace” Began.

If there was one sound that dominated the halls of Iron Hearth Castle tonight, it was not the rhythmic clanging of practice swords or the thunderous booms of Magitech experiments. Instead, it was the sound of excessive, borderline obnoxious, baby kisses.

”Mwah! Mwah! Oh, who’s the handsome boy? Who is it? Is it Papa’s little soldier? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”

General Riven Sudrath—a man whose very name could cause a seasoned bandit to lose control of his bladder—was currently making the most ridiculous, distorted face imaginable. He was crossed-eyed, sticking his tongue out, and bobbing his head in front of his infant son, Kaelven, who sat regally in a high-backed mahogany high-chair.

Kaelven erupted into a fit of giggles, his tiny hands smeared with orange carrot puree. He reached out and slapped Riven’s rugged, scarred cheek with a wet, sticky thwack.

”Darling, that’s enough,” Elena scolded gently, though her eyes were sparkling with amusement as she wiped a glob of puree from Kael’s chin. ”You’re blocking the path for the servants trying to pour the water. You’re a General, try to act like one for five minutes.”

”Let them wait, Elena. Look at him! He just said ’Pa-Pa.’ Come on, Kael, say it again. Say ’Pa-Pa is the Greatest’!”

”Baaa!” Kael replied, spraying a bit of carrot juice.

”Did you hear that?! He said Papa is the Greatest! He’s a genius! A tactical prodigy!” Riven cheered, pumping his fist as if he had just won a major campaign.

Across the long mahogany table, Duchess Aurelia was holding a thick catalog of imported silks with an expression of intense focus, as if she were analyzing a map of enemy fortifications.

”Lucian,” Aurelia called out, her voice sharp but melodic. ”In your professional opinion, for the guest suite curtains in the east wing... do you think Lilac is too subtle? Should we go with Lavender?”

Duke Lucian, who was enjoying a bowl of creamy corn soup with a serenity that only a retired patriarch could possess, offered a wise, patient smile. ”What is the difference, my dear? They are both purple, aren’t they?”

”The difference?!” Aurelia snapped her fan shut with a sharp clack. ”Lilac is a youthful, spring-toned violet with hints of morning dew. Lavender is a mature, elegant, and deeply sophisticated hue. Honestly, Lucian, you have the interior design instincts of a mountain goat!”

The atmosphere in the dining hall was suffocatingly warm. The Mana-powered crystal chandeliers cast a soft, golden glow over the room. The fireplace crackled with a gentle, comforting heat. The aroma of roasted Wagyu, garlic-infused potatoes, and fresh herbs hung heavy in the air. Laughter and light conversation flowed like a river that knew no obstacles.

This was the picture-perfect image of a happy family. A family that had won everything: Wealth, Power, Prestige, and most elusive of all, Peace.

However, at the far end of the table, as far from the warmth of the fireplace as possible, sat a single chair that felt strangely cold.

Lady Rhea Sudrath sat there, motionless.

She wore an exquisite evening gown of deep maroon silk. Her short, dark-red hair was brushed back with military precision. She looked beautiful, poised, and utterly numb.

On her plate sat a cut of the finest monster-beef steak, seared to perfection. Rhea’s hand gripped a silver dinner knife.

Srek. Srek. Srek.

Her movements as she cut the meat were too precise. Too clinical.

She wasn’t cutting randomly like a diner. She was slicing exactly between the muscle fibers, separating the marbling of fat at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. It was the movement of an anatomist. The movement of an assassin performing a dissection rather than a meal. She wasn’t eating; she was maintaining her hand-eye coordination.

”Rhea?” Aurelia called out suddenly, breaking the girl’s trance.

Rhea’s knife stopped instantly, the blade buried exactly halfway through a cube of meat. ”Yes, Mother?”

”You’re daydreaming again. That steak is already cut into cubes so small they look like dice. Are you planning to play a game with your food?” Aurelia teased, though a hint of worry touched her eyes.

”No, Mother. Just... thinking.”

”Thinking about what? A suitor?” Aurelia’s eyes lit up instantly, the purple curtains forgotten. ”Oh! That reminds me! Aunt Bella mentioned that her son, Baron Felix, has been asking about you quite frequently!”

Rhea let out a long, slow breath through her nose. ”Baron Felix? The one who vomited last week when he saw me sharpening my daggers in the garden?”

”He didn’t vomit! He was... overcome by the summer heat!” Aurelia defended. ”He’s a poet, Rhea. He writes beautiful sonnets. He’s the perfect ’Yin’ to your ’Yang.’ You need a soft man to balance your... sharp edges.”

”He’s flimsy, Mother,” Rhea replied flatly, skewering a tiny cube of meat with her fork. ”If a bandit group attacked, I would have to carry him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I don’t need a poet. I need a challenge.”

”Oh, for goodness’ sake! There are no bandits anymore! Northreach is the safest city on the continent! You don’t need a strong man; you need a stable, wealthy man who appreciates your status!”

Riven chimed in between spoonfuls of baby food. ”Mother’s right, Rhe. Put the knives away. Enjoy the quiet life. Look at Kael, isn’t he enough to make you want to settle down? One day you’ll want a little monster of your own.”

Rhea looked at Kael. The baby was indeed adorable.

She looked at Riven. Her brother looked truly happy. The predatory edge in his eyes had softened into the gaze of a protector.

She looked at Aurelia and Lucian. Her parents were enjoying their twilight years in luxury and safety.

Rhea offered a thin, ghost of a smile. ”Yes. He is cute.”

But inside her chest, there was a vast, aching void.

Everyone at this table had a role to play in this new era of peace.

Riven, the General, was now a symbol of security and a father.

Elena, the Doctor, healed the citizens.

Rianor, the Inventor, built the future.

Roland, the Diplomat, managed the state.

Raphael and Raveena, the Students, were the scholars of tomorrow.

And Rhea?

She was an Assassin.

Her talent was infiltration. Her skill was silent killing. Her purpose was to be the shadow that vanished before the light arrived.

In a world that was perpetually bright and peaceful, her skill set was trash. She felt like a legendary, blood-soaked blade hung decoratively above a fireplace. Praised for its history, polished every day, but slowly rusting on the inside because it no longer tasted iron.

”I’m full,” Rhea said, laying her silk napkin on the table. She stood up, her chair let out a sharp screech against the marble floor.

”What? It’s only seven o’clock?” Riven asked, surprised. ”Usually you stay for dessert. I think there’s mango pudding.”

”I have no appetite. I want to sleep early,” Rhea lied.

”Make sure you use the heavy blankets. It’s getting cold outside,” Elena added with maternal concern.

”I will. Night,” Rhea said curtly.

She walked out of the dining hall. Her stride was steady, but her back looked lonely. She left the warm, golden glow of the family circle and entered the dim, echoing corridors of the castle.

Rhea’s Bedroom – Midnight.

The silver light of a full moon bled through the open balcony doors. The night wind danced into the room, tugging at the silk Lilac curtains Aurelia had chosen.

In the center of the room, the beautiful maroon evening gown lay discarded on the floor like the shed skin of a snake.

Rhea stood before a full-length mirror. She had returned to her true form.

She wore tight, matte-black leather trousers that allowed for silent, unrestricted movement. Her boots were reinforced with sound-dampening rubber soles. A light, obsidian-glass tactical vest protected her vitals, and a charcoal-grey hooded cloak hung from her shoulders, designed to break her silhouette in the shadows.

She reached for a worn leather belt sitting on her bed, its surface covered in notches and scratches.

Click. Click.

Her twin daggers, ”Fang” and ”Claw,” slid into their sheaths at the small of her back.

Rhea pulled a rugged military traveling pack from beneath her bed. She packed it with cold, lethal efficiency:

Dry rations (monster jerky, preserved for a month).

Three Magitech smoke pellets (custom-made by Rianor).

A coil of high-tensile spider-silk rope.

A pouch containing 100 Gold Crowns (enough to live like a queen for a year).

A map of the Aethelgard continent, marked with red ink in places most people avoided.

Rhea looked around her luxurious room. The plush bed, the vanity filled with perfumes she never touched, the jewelry she found heavy and useless.

”Comfortable,” Rhea whispered, her voice raspy. ”Too comfortable. This isn’t a bedroom... it’s a coffin.”

She walked to her writing desk and snatched a piece of parchment and a pen. Her handwriting was sharp, jagged, and devoid of unnecessary flourishes.

To the Noisy Family,

I’m leaving for a while. To get some air. Do not come looking for me.

To be honest, I feel myself rusting here. I need to be sharp again. I need to feel my heart beat not because of high cholesterol, but because of adrenaline.

Don’t worry about me. Worry about anyone foolish enough to get in my way.

P.S. Watch Kael. Do not give him a toy knife until he is at least five. And Mother, tell Baron Felix that if he asks about me one more time, I will shave his eyebrows while he sleeps.

Bye.

— Rhea.

Rhea weighed the note down with a red apple she had taken from the dining hall, taking a single, sharp bite out of it first. Her signature mark.

She walked to the balcony.

The night air hit her face—cold, piercing, and free. Below, Northreach sparkled with electric lights. Patrol guards moved in predictable routes that Rhea had memorized months ago.

”Forgive me, Mother, Father, Brother,” Rhea whispered to the wind. ”A lioness cannot be a house cat forever. I need to hunt.”

Rhea stepped onto the stone railing. She didn’t look back.

WUSH.

She threw herself into the fifteen-meter drop.

She didn’t fall like a stone. She plummeted with the grace of a falcon, her cloak billowing. She caught the branch of a massive Oak tree halfway down, her body absorbing the kinetic energy with a single, fluid roll, before landing on the grass without making a sound.

The shadow sprinted through the darkness, scaling the city walls with the ease of a spirit, and vanished into the untamed wilderness.

The Princess of Lions had escaped her cage.

East-Port Harbor Town (Border of the Sudrath Territories). Two Days Later.

East-Port was the absolute antithesis of Northreach.

If Northreach was the clean, shimmering city of the future, East-Port was the rotting, stinking city of the past.

The streets were perennially muddy, the air was a thick soup of rotting fish and cheap grain-alcohol, and every dark alley concealed a pair of eyes waiting for a glimpse of an unprotected purse.

But for Rhea, this stench was the scent of Freedom.

She walked along the dilapidated docks, her hood pulled low to obscure her face. Her gait was calm yet radiating a predatory alertness that made the local pickpockets give her a wide berth.

At the end of the darkest street stood a tilted wooden building that looked as though it might collapse under the weight of the sea breeze. Above the door hung a sign depicting a cracked, blackened skull.

”THE BROKEN SKULL” – Adventurer’s Guild (Black Branch).

This wasn’t a sanctioned royal guild. This was a sanctuary for the dregs of society—mercenaries, outlaws, and madmen seeking suicide missions.

Rhea pushed the heavy wooden door open.

KREEK...

The sound of a discordant fiddle and coarse, drunken laughter greeted her.

Thick tobacco smoke swirled in the air. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned toward the newcomer. Calculating gazes, hungry stares, looks of pure condescension.

Rhea ignored them all. She walked straight toward the mission board on the back wall, weaving through tables filled with muscle-bound thugs.

Rhea scanned the board. The papers were yellowed, stained with dried blood or spilled ale.

Search for Pirate Treasure (C-Rank). -> ”Boring. Just digging in sand.”

Kill the Bridge Troll (B-Rank). -> ”Too easy. One strike to the neck.”

Escort a Young Lady to the South (C-Rank). -> ”I refuse to be a babysitter.”

”Trash... trash... all of it is trash,” Rhea murmured with disappointment. ”Is there nothing challenging left in this world?”

Her eyes landed on a single piece of parchment in the bottom corner. It was blood-red, covered in a layer of dust, and its edges were frayed. It had clearly been there for months without being claimed.

Rhea read the text.

S-RANK MISSION (ANONYMOUS)

Objective: Expedition to the Ruins of ”The Silent City.”

Target: Client Escort & Retrieval of the Core Artifact.

Location: The Forbidden Forest – Death Sector.

Client: Independent Academic.

Requirements:

Ask no questions.

Master-level Close Quarters Combat (Mandatory).

Prepared for death (No life insurance provided).

Reward: 500 Gold Crowns + Free Looting Rights.

A slow, dangerous smile curved Rhea’s lips beneath her hood.

The Silent City.

Legends said it was a lost prehistoric city inhabited by ancient guardians—Automata that had gone rogue and slaughtered anyone who dared to enter. It was a ”Red Zone” avoided by even the most reckless adventurers.

”Bingo,” Rhea whispered. ”Finally, a real challenge.”

Rhea ripped the mission paper from the board with a sharp SRET.

She marched to the reception desk. Sitting there was an elderly woman with a single eye—the other obscured by a jagged scar—who was half-heartedly cleaning a glass with a greasy rag.

Rhea slammed the red paper onto the counter.

”I’m taking this one.”

The old woman stopped cleaning. Her one eye traveled from the paper to Rhea’s hidden face.

”S-9? You’ve got a death wish, girl? That mission is a graveyard. Last month, a veteran team of six took that contract. Only one came back, and he was screaming about metal ghosts before he lost his mind.”

”Good,” Rhea replied, her voice dropping into a low, menacing register. ”It means the challenge is authentic.”

”What’s your handle? I need a name to write in the ’Missing Persons’ ledger.”

Rhea thought for a moment. She couldn’t use the Sudrath name. That would prompt Riven to show up with a battalion of tanks. She looked at the maroon cloak she wore beneath her grey travel gear.

”Call me... Red.”

”Alright, Red,” the woman noted with a reluctant sigh. ”The client is waiting at the Old Library on Rat Street, Number Four. Tomorrow morning, six o’clock sharp. Don’t be late. The ’Bookworm’ hates people who lack punctuality.”

”A bookworm?” Rhea raised an eyebrow.

”See for yourself. My only advice: don’t underestimate him. Anyone brave enough to enter the Silent City with nothing but a satchel of books is either a genius or a complete lunatic.”

”Understood. Thanks.”

Rhea turned to leave.

Suddenly, three massive, tattooed thugs blocked her path. The stench of stale beer wafted from their mouths.

”Hey now, little lady...” the thug in the center said, grinning to reveal a solitary gold tooth. ”What’s the rush? Why don’t you sit and buy us a round? I want to see if that face under the hood is as pretty as your voice.”

The thug reached out, his hand grasping for Rhea’s hood.

ZING.

No one in the bar saw Rhea’s hand move.

The only thing they saw was a flash of silver faster than a lightning strike.

TAK.

Rhea’s dagger was buried three inches into the wooden table, pinning the thug’s hand to the surface—his fingers spread wide, the blade missing his skin by exactly one millimeter.

The thug froze. Cold sweat erupted on his brow. He stared at the blade, then up at Rhea.

”Touch me again...” Rhea whispered, her voice like the hiss of a viper. ”...and your fingers will be on the menu for my breakfast tomorrow.”

Rhea plucked her dagger from the table with a casual flick, spun it around her finger, and sheathed it in one motion.

”Move.”

The three thugs practically tripped over each other to clear a path, backing away as if they had seen a ghost. Rhea walked out of the bar with a steady pace, leaving a suffocating silence in her wake.

Outside, the night air felt fresh and biting.

Rhea took a deep breath, her lungs expanding with the cold. Her heart was racing—not from fear, but from the intoxicating thrill of the hunt.

”Tomorrow at six,” Rhea murmured to herself. ”Let’s see just how crazy this Bookworm really is.”