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

Chapter 81: Chapter 81: Rhea’s Wedding (Garden Party & Painful History)

Iron Hearth Castle – The Rear Gardens. Sunday Afternoon – Wedding Day.

In stark contrast to General Riven’s wedding, which had been a grand, formal affair dictated by rigid military protocols and the somber echoes of the Northreach Cathedral, Lady Rhea Sudrath’s wedding was an exercise in beautiful, organized chaos. It was, in every sense of the word, very ”Rhea.”

The concept was a Garden Party.

There was no crimson carpet to be found. No vaulted stone ceilings or stained-glass windows depicting ancient saints. Instead, there was a vast, rolling emerald meadow at the rear of the castle, framed by the jagged peaks of the northern mountains. Thousands of aerostatic Magitech lanterns, designed by Rianor to resemble floating lotus blossoms, drifted lazily in the air, casting a warm, ethereal amber glow over the festivities as the sun began its descent.

Long, rustic oak tables were lined up across the grass, groaning under the weight of a feast designed for survivors, not socialites. Whole roasted rams, skewers of monster-beef satay, and massive wooden tuns of chilled ale occupied the center of the spread.

The guest list was perhaps the most ”miraculous” sight Aethelgard had ever seen.

On the left side: The high-tier nobility—friends of Duchess Aurelia—sat stiffly in their silk finery, occasionally fanning themselves and looking bewildered.

On the right side: The members of the Adventurer’s Guild (Black Branch) from East-Port. These were Rhea’s ”new friends”—men and women with scarred faces, dented armor, and voices like gravel, who laughed thunderously while slamming their fists against the tables. It was a demographic disaster waiting to happen, kept in check only by the terrifying reputation of the Sudrath family.

The Groom’s Preparation Tent.

Inside a small, silk-lined pavilion on the edge of the garden, Professor Arvid was experiencing a physiological crisis.

”I... I cannot proceed with this operation...” Arvid stammered, his fingers fumbling with his collar. His chest felt as though a mountain was resting on it, and his vision was slightly tunneling.

He was dressed in a tailored cream-colored tuxedo. The cut was masterful—designed by Rumina to broaden his narrow shoulders and mask his scholarly hunch, making him look surprisingly dignified.

”Stay still, Professor,” a flat, clinical voice barked from behind him.

Rumina Sudrath was currently kneeling on the rug, adjusting the hem of Arvid’s trousers with a handful of pearl-headed pins. Her eyes were narrowed in a look of intense concentration.

”You’re vibrating, Arvid. Every time you twitch, you risk a puncture wound. This is hand-stitched silk, you know. I used cave-spider thread for the lining—it’s high-tensile and costs more than a small villa. Do not ruin the drape with your anxiety.”

”But Rumina...” Arvid peeked through a slit in the tent curtains, his eyes wide behind his thick lenses. ”Look at those guests! At table four, that’s ’Gorgon the Bone-Breaker.’ At table six, the Wolf Mercenary Clan is currently sharpening their axes! They brought heavy weaponry to a wedding reception! This is a Grade-5 security breach!”

Captain Garrick, serving as the Best Man and looking uncharacteristically sharp in his dress uniform, patted Arvid’s healthy shoulder with a heavy hand. ”They’re Miss Rhea’s colleagues, Prof. They won’t start a riot. At worst, they’ll just get a bit rowdy after the third barrel of ale.”

”And if they do break anything,” Rumina added, standing up and tightening Arvid’s bowtie with a sharp, forceful jerk that nearly choked him, ”I will be sending them an itemized invoice for property damage. There, you’re presentable. Try not to make my masterpiece look bad by shaking like a leaf.”

The tent flap opened, and General Riven Sudrath marched in. He was carrying Kaelven in one arm and a glass of chilled fruit punch in the other. Riven looked remarkably relaxed, wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his scarred forearms.

”Well, well, little brother-in-law,” Riven greeted, a mischievous glint in his eye. ”What’s taking so long? Rhea is already at the staging area. You shouldn’t keep the Lioness waiting; she has a tendency to bite when she’s impatient.”

”General...” Arvid swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ”I... I’m terrified of the vows. I haven’t memorized the traditional religious texts. What if I stutter in the Middle Aethelgardian dialect?”

Riven laughed, the sound deep and resonant. He set Kael down on the carpet, letting the baby crawl toward Garrick. Riven walked up to Arvid and placed both hands on the thin man’s shoulders.

”Listen to me, Vid,” Riven said, his voice dropping into a rare, serious tone. ”You don’t need to be a poet today. You don’t need to be a hero from a storybook.”

”You only need to promise her one thing: that you will use that massive brain of yours to guide her home. Rhea... her eyes only look straight ahead. She’s a blade that moves with total momentum. She doesn’t have a ’rear-view mirror.’ You are her mirror, Arvid. You see the things she misses.”

Arvid went still. The metaphor was unconventional, but to a mind that lived on logic and data, it made perfect sense. ”I understand. The function of navigation and early warning systems.”

”Exactly!” Riven delivered a massive, bone-jarring slap to Arvid’s back, making the scholar cough. ”Now get out there! Show them that a Sudrath husband doesn’t need muscles to be a man.”

Rumina offered a rare, small nod of approval. ”Move. This suit is sweat-proof, so no one will see you’re panicking. That’s a premium feature I added just for you.”

The Wedding Altar – Beneath the Great Oak.

The music began. It wasn’t the booming roar of a pipe organ; it was the delicate, soulful harmony of an acoustic violin and guitar, played by the duo of Raphael and Raveena. They sat on stone stools to the side, their melody weaving through the evening breeze.

Arvid stood beneath the ancient Great Oak tree, its branches draped in glowing crystals. His legs were still trembling, but he stood as straight as his spine would allow.

Then, Rhea Sudrath appeared.

A profound silence swept over the garden. Even the rowdy mercenaries stopped mid-sentence, their mugs held in mid-air.

Rhea did not wear a voluminous white gown like a storybook princess; she knew such a garment would only hinder her movements and annoy her soul. Instead, she wore a sleek, high-slit gown of deep maroon silk—her signature color. The dress was designed for an ”Assassination Aesthetic”—elegant yet dangerously practical.

In the front row, Rumina smiled with pride. She had hidden tactical sheaths within the folds of the skirt, allowing Rhea to carry her twin daggers without breaking the dress’s silhouette. It was a masterpiece of ”Couture Combat.”

Rhea walked down the grass, her arm linked with Duke Lucian’s. Her face bore minimal makeup, allowing her natural, fierce beauty to shine through. As she reached Arvid, she offered him a wicked, knowing smirk.

”Breathe, Bookworm. You’re so pale you look like a ghost.”

”You... you are magnificent,” Arvid whispered, the sincerity in his voice causing Rhea’s cheeks to flush a deep crimson.

The Priest began the ceremony, his voice steady. ”Please, exchange your vows.”

Arvid took a deep breath, his voice shedding its nervous squeak and becoming calm and resonant. He looked directly into Rhea’s dark eyes.

”I, Arvid, promise before the witness of history and time...”

”That I will be the chronicler of your story. I will be the strategist behind your courage, and I will be the home you return to when your blade is weary. Statistically speaking, a life with you increases my risk of a premature death by over two hundred percent. However... that is a risk I calculate to be entirely worth the investment, every single day.”

A wave of light laughter rippled through the guests at the mention of statistics, but Duchess Aurelia was already dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Then, it was Rhea’s turn. She took Arvid’s thin, scholarly hands into her own—hands that were rough, calloused, and scarred.

”I, Rhea Sudrath, promise...”

”That anyone who insults you will answer to me. Anyone who harms you will pay tenfold. I will be the muscle that protects your mind, and the shield that guards your peace.”

”And I promise... that I will never be bored again. Because an adventure with you is more exhilarating than hunting a dragon.”

The Priest, sensing the intense energy between them, hurriedly concluded. ”It is finished! By the laws of the North, you are wed! You may kiss the bride!”

Arvid leaned in hesitantly, but Rhea had no patience for hesitation. She grabbed his tuxedo collar and pulled him into a fierce, deep kiss. The garden erupted into a cacophony of cheers as the Black Branch adventurers threw their hats into the air and roared with joy.

The Reception – One Hour Later.

The party was in full swing.

Rianor and Elara were currently engaged in a heated debate with the lead chef over the thermal efficiency of the ram-roasting pit. Raphael and Raveena were entertaining the younger nobles with Magitech illusions. Aurelia was busy parading her new son-in-law to her socialite friends, boasting about his ”intellectual lineage.”

Rumina stood near the buffet line, watching the mercenaries eat as if they were in a competition. ”Easy on the drumsticks!” she barked at a Dwarf who was swallowing a chicken leg whole. ”We have plenty of stock, don’t choke! I refuse to cover the medical costs for an obstructed airway!”

Rhea and Arvid sat at a simple, decorated table, finally enjoying a few skewers of satay.

”Exhausted?” Rhea asked.

”Significantly. Social interaction is a high-energy-consumption activity,” Arvid replied, dabbing a bit of sauce from his lip.

Suddenly, the atmosphere at the garden entrance shifted. The music faltered. Several adventurers stepped aside, their expressions turning sour.

A man dressed in obscenely luxurious noble attire—a navy velvet coat with excessive gold embroidery—marched into the garden. He was flanked by four royal guards in polished silver plate. He was handsome, heavily perfumed, and radiated an aura of suffocating arrogance.

Prince Cedric Sol-Regis (The Third Prince).

Rhea’s former fiancé—the man who had once rejected her.

Rumina, who was closest to the entrance, immediately narrowed her eyes. She performed a rapid visual audit of his attire. Elf-woven silk jacket... Imported calf-leather boots... Ebony cane with a solid gold handle... Tch, what a waste of capital, she thought with disgust.

Cedric walked through the crowd, his nose wrinkled as if he were smelling something foul. He stared with visible disdain at the mercenaries eating with their hands. He marched straight toward the high table.

”Well, well,” Cedric’s voice was high and irritating. ”I heard there was a ’peasant festival’ happening in the North. It seems the rumors were true. It smells like a stable in here.”

Rhea set her satay skewer down, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. ”What are you doing here, Cedric? I didn’t invite any trash to my wedding.”

”Peace, Lady Rhea,” Cedric offered a condescending smile. ”I am merely stopping by during an official diplomatic transit. I was curious... what kind of man would eventually pick up a barbarian woman rejected by a Prince of the blood.”

Cedric turned his gaze toward Arvid. He let out a mocking, high-pitched laugh.

”This? Seriously? This twig of a man?”

Cedric gestured toward Arvid with his ebony cane.

”He looks like he can barely lift a fork, let alone a sword. Is this your husband? Or a household pet? How pathetic for House Sudrath. Their female heir ends up with... this fragile thing.”

Rhea’s fists clenched. The veins in her neck began to throb. She prepared to stand up and shatter the Prince’s nose with a single strike. In the distance, Rumina had already picked up an empty wine bottle, her aim locked on Cedric’s head.

But a hand gently caught Rhea’s wrist.

Arvid’s hand.

Arvid stood up slowly. He adjusted his glasses with a calm, deliberate movement. There was zero fear in his expression—only a look of profound, clinical interest. He picked up his wine glass and stepped down from the dais, standing face-to-face with the Prince.

”Your Royal Highness, Prince Cedric,” Arvid greeted politely.

”Step aside, commoner,” Cedric hissed. ”Do not address me.”

”Technically, as of thirty minutes ago, I am a member of House Sudrath. Our social status at a negotiating table is currently equivalent,” Arvid said in a flat, academic monotone.

Arvid began to walk in a slow circle around Cedric, inspecting him as if he were a specimen in a museum.

”Musk-perfume from Southern Draconia... Calf-leather boots... and a cane made of Ebony wood that serves no structural function other than vanity.”

(In the distance, Rumina nodded in agreement. Accurate material analysis, Brother-in-law, she thought.)

Arvid stopped directly in front of Cedric.

”You call me weak because I do not wield a blade. But let us consult the historical record, Your Highness.”

Arvid raised his voice, ensuring every guest in the garden could hear his impromptu lecture.

”In the Royal Annals of the year 504, your great-grandfather, King Theodore, was known as the ’Sword King.’ He was physically immense. He was strong. Yet he died young because of a fundamental failure in military strategy during the Border Wars.”

”Conversely, it was his advisor—a thin, frail scholar named Alaric—who managed to save the kingdom through masterclass diplomacy and economic restructuring. Alaric never touched a sword, yet his mind kept your bloodline on that throne.”

Arvid locked eyes with Cedric, his gaze sharp.

”Physical strength is a cheap commodity, Your Highness. In the slave markets of the south, muscle can be purchased for ten gold pieces. My wife’s friends over there...” Arvid pointed toward the massive adventurers. ”...possess ten times the muscle mass you do.”

”Therefore, if your definition of ’Strength’ is purely biological... then you are currently losing to the bouncer standing by the kitchen door.”

Cedric’s face turned a violent shade of purple. ”H-How dare you insult me?!”

”I am not insulting you. I am providing a factual analysis,” Arvid continued calmly. ”You rejected Rhea because she was strong and independent. That indicates a severe psychological insecurity. In the field of developmental psychology, a man who fears a strong woman typically possesses a fragile ego and a lack of self-worth.”

”Me? I married her. I am immensely proud that she is stronger than I am. Because I am confident enough in the value of my own mind that I do not feel threatened by her blade.”

Arvid leaned in closer to Cedric, whispering in a voice just loud enough for the front rows to hear.

”So, tell me, Prince. Who is truly the weak one here? The man who needs a submissive woman to feel powerful? Or the man who has the spine to stand beside a Lioness?”

The silence was total.

Cedric opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. He had been utterly dismantled. His logic was shattered, his pride trampled by a combination of history, psychology, and cold, hard facts.

”Well said!” Riven roared from the VIP table. ”Checkmate!”

”WOOOO!” The adventurers cheered, banging their mugs. ”GREAT WORK, PROFESSOR!”

Rumina clapped slowly, a smirk on her lips. ”Cost-effective victory. No property damage required to win a debate. Efficient.”

Cedric, his face burning with a shame that no perfume could mask, stomped his foot in a childish tantrum. ”You are all insane! This entire family is a den of lunatics!”

The Prince spun around and marched out of the garden at a frantic pace, trailed by the mocking laughter of the commoners and mercenaries alike.

Arvid let out a long, shuddering breath. His knees buckled instantly. He nearly collapsed, but Rhea leapt from the table and caught him in her arms.

”Are you alright?” Rhea asked, a massive, genuine grin on her face.

”My heart rate... is at one hundred and sixty bpm...” Arvid gasped, clutching his chest. ”Debating with idiots is... physically taxing.”

Rhea laughed, a loud and beautiful sound. She wrapped her arms around Arvid’s neck and kissed his cheek in front of everyone.

”That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. You really are my favorite Bookworm.”

The party continued late into the night. Under the silver moonlight and the glowing lanterns, Rhea and Arvid danced. The Sudrath family had grown larger, and tonight, they proved once again: no matter how eccentric its members were, they would always be a fortress for one another.

However, in the distance, Sir Roland—who had just arrived from the capital—stopped smiling. He looked up at the balcony where Rianor stood.

Rianor was holding a strip of paper from a long-range mana-radar. His face was grim.

The days of celebration were over.

The storm was coming.