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

Chapter 82: Chapter 82: Post-Marriage Life (Diaper Mission & Training from Hell)

Iron Hearth Castle – Rear Training Grounds. 06:00 AM.

The morning sun over Northreach began its ascent, casting a golden hue over the dew-kissed grass of the castle’s vast training grounds. It was a scene of idyllic peace—birds chirped melodiously in the ancient oaks, and the cool mountain air carried the scent of pine and fresh soil. In any other corner of the world, this would be a moment for quiet reflection.

However, in the center of the Sudrath military compound, the silence was violently obliterated by a high-pitched, agonizing scream that sounded remarkably unmanly.

”ARGH! CEASE! RHEA! MY GASTROCNEMIUS MUSCLE IS EXPERIENCING A CATASTROPHIC CRAMP! THIS IS A TOTAL BIOMECHANICAL SYSTEM FAILURE!”

S sprawling across a thick tatami mat laid over the turf was Professor Arvid—the newest son-in-law of House Sudrath and the most unlikely member of the continent’s most powerful military dynasty. He looked like a sun-dried squid that had been put through a laundry wringer. His white training shirt was so saturated with sweat it had become translucent, clinging to his skeletal frame. His thick, round glasses were tilted at a precarious forty-five-degree angle, and his breathing sounded like a steam locomotive that had run out of mana-coal miles ago.

Standing over him, hands on her hips and radiating a terrifying aura of health and vigor, was his wife: Lady Rhea Sudrath.

Rhea wore a form-fitting black athletic tank top that showcased her toned, cord-like arm muscles and a pair of olive-drab military cargo pants. Despite the intensity of the morning, she hadn’t broken a single bead of sweat. Her short black hair was slightly tousled by the breeze, giving her the look of a relaxed predator.

”Get up, Bookworm,” Rhea commanded, delivering a playful yet firm kick to Arvid’s shin. ”You’ve only run two laps around the perimeter. My grandmother in the East-Port markets can outrun you while carrying three bags of monster-cabbages during a flash sale.”

Arvid raised a trembling finger toward the sky, his eyes fixed on a passing cloud as if searching for salvation. ”Correction... those elderly women are fueled by the primal adrenaline of economic survival. I am being subjected to the militaristic coercion of my own spouse. Motivation directly dictates energy output, Rhea. My biology is currently in protest.”

”Too many excuses,” Rhea said, crouching down and grabbing Arvid’s collar, yanking his face inches from hers. The scent of lavender and iron clung to her—a scent Arvid had grown to love, even if it usually preceded physical pain. ”Listen to me, my dear husband. You promised to be my ’Eyes,’ didn’t you? And I promised to be your ’Muscle’?”

”I... I believe that was the verbal contract, yes,” Arvid squeaked, his heart hammering against his ribs.

”Well, here is the operational reality,” Rhea continued, her tone becoming deathly serious. ”If we are ever pursued by a high-tier monster again, I can’t carry you like a sack of grain indefinitely. I need you to be able to sprint at least one hundred meters in fifteen seconds. That gives me enough time to unsheathe my blades and establish a defensive perimeter without having to worry about your fragile ankles.”

”Fifteen seconds?!” Arvid’s eyes bugged out behind his thick lenses. ”Rhea, statistically speaking, the average speed of a male academic with a sedentary lifestyle and a history of chronic anemia is—”

”Shut it. Push-ups. Twenty reps. I’m counting, and if you cheat, we’re doing another lap.”

”Twenty?!” Arvid whimpered, his voice cracking. ”My humerus bones will literally fracture under the load!”

”One!”

Arvid fumbled, his arms shaking as if he were trying to hold back an earthquake as he attempted to lift his upper body. Rhea watched with the sharp, unyielding gaze of a drill instructor, but a tiny, secret smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She enjoyed this. Not because she was sadistic—well, perhaps a little—but because she wanted her husband to survive the world they lived in. She wanted him to live long enough to finish his history books.

On the second-floor balcony overlooking the grounds, Sir Roland Sudrath stood leaning against the stone railing, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He watched his sister ”training” her husband and slowly shook his head.

”Love truly is blind,” Roland murmured to himself, taking a measured sip of his dark roast. ”And in this family, it is also physically excruciating.”

The Nursery – West Wing. 07:15 AM.

While physical torture was underway on the training grounds, a different kind of psychological warfare was being waged in the castle’s nursery.

General Riven Sudrath—the Northern Lion, the Conqueror of Basilisks, the man whose roar could halt a cavalry charge—was currently facing the most formidable adversary of his career.

A Magitech Diaper.

Riven stood before the mahogany changing table, wearing a faded t-shirt that already bore a fresh, milky stain on the shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep, and his hair was a chaotic mess. In front of him, Young Master Kaelven Sudrath lay on his back, gurgling with delight and kicking his chubby legs in the air with the rhythmic precision of a martial artist.

”Alright, son. Let’s negotiate,” Riven whispered in a low, gravelly voice, as if he were addressing a high-ranking prisoner of war. ”You stay still for five seconds. Just five seconds. I secure the fasteners, and then you’re free to resume your domestic insurgency. Do we have a deal?”

”Baaaa!” Kaelven replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Then, with a ninja-like roll, he twisted his body to the side, attempting a daring escape toward the edge of the table.

”Eits! Target is moving! Target is moving!” Riven panicked, his massive, scarred hands moving to gently pin his son’s belly to the padding.

Riven reached for a fresh diaper. This wasn’t a common cloth wrap. This was the Smart Diaper Mark IV, a prototype developed by Rianor. It featured integrated temperature sensors, ultra-absorbency via monster-slime gel, and an automated adhesive system.

The problem was, the automated adhesive was far too sensitive.

As Riven tried to position the diaper, his thumb brushed a sensor. SRET. The adhesive instantly locked onto Riven’s finger.

”Dammit!” Riven hissed, shaking his hand. The diaper swung wildly, stuck firmly to his skin. ”Let go! You stupid piece of tech!”

While Riven was occupied with his struggle against the adhesive, Kaelven saw his opening. He giggled, took a deep breath, and...

CROT.

A miniature fountain of warm liquid shot upward with surprising trajectory, hitting Riven squarely on the chin and splashing across his neck.

The world went still for a moment.

Riven froze, his eyes staring blankly ahead as the warm droplets dripped from his jawline onto his shirt. Kaelven, sensing his victory, erupted into a fit of pure, unadulterated laughter. ”Kyaaaa! Ba-ba!”

The nursery door swung open. Dr. Elena walked in, looking refreshed after a shower, smelling of lavender soap and baby powder, and already wearing her professional physician’s coat.

”Good morning, darling,” Elena said cheerfully. She stopped mid-stride as she processed the scene. ”Oh. Riven... why are you wet?”

Riven turned his head slowly, his expression a mask of hollow defeat while his soul wept. ”Elena... your son has launched a chemical attack. I require immediate medical evacuation. A towel. And a new sense of dignity.”

Elena burst into a fit of laughter, the sound bright and musical. She walked over, snatched a wet wipe, and with the practiced dexterity of a surgeon, she cleaned Kaelven in a single motion. She hoisted his legs with one hand and snapped the new diaper into place with the other in under three seconds. KLIK. Done.

Riven stood there, mouth agape. ”How?! I’ve been in here for ten minutes, engaged in a high-stakes standoff!”

”It’s called Skill, darling,” Elena said, leaning in to kiss Riven’s cheek—specifically the part that hadn’t been hit by the ’fountain.’ ”You are a master of crushing monster skulls; I am a master of managing baby backsides. It’s an equitable division of labor.”

Riven let out a long, weary sigh of resignation. ”Fine. I’m going to wash my face. This scent does not align with the image of the Northern Lion.”

The Main Dining Hall. 08:00 AM.

The breakfast table of House Sudrath was a study in cultural fusion and high-volume drama. The spread this morning consisted of toasted artisan bread, grilled sausages, and—the crown jewel of the morning—Bubur Ayam, the traditional savory chicken porridge made from Duchess Aurelia’s secret Bandung recipe.

At one end of the table, Duchess Aurelia was busy cutting up sausages into bite-sized pieces for Arvid.

”Eat up, Arvid dear,” Aurelia said in a voice that was suspiciously sweet. ”Look at you, you’re skin and bones. I saw Rhea torturing you on the field earlier. My poor, intellectual son-in-law.”

Arvid, whose hands were still trembling from the push-ups, struggled to hold his spoon. ”Th-thank you, Mother. However, from a physiological standpoint, my stomach is currently experiencing a mild contraction due to the—”

”Sst! Less talking, more eating!” Aurelia shoved a piece of premium sausage into Arvid’s mouth.

Riven, sitting opposite him and staring miserably at a bowl of boiled chicken breast (no skin, no salt, the ”General’s Diet” prescribed by Elena), watched with pure envy.

”Mother, why does Arvid get the premium link-sausages while I’m stuck with this flavorless poultry?” Riven protested.

”You have high cholesterol!” Aurelia and Elena snapped in unison without looking up.

Riven went silent, defeated by the combined medical and maternal authority of the house.

Beside Riven, Rumina was tapping rapidly on a Mana-powered calculator while staring at a thick ledger, ignoring her breakfast entirely. She glanced over her glasses at Kaelven, who was sitting in his high-chair.

”Brother Riven,” Rumina called out.

”What now, Rum? Please don’t tell me I’ve exceeded my diaper quota.”

”Worse. It’s the educational toy budget,” Rumina said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ”This month, expenditures for ’infant development’ have surged by two hundred percent. Who authorized the purchase of a Miniature Walking Golem?”

Rianor, who had just arrived at the table with the messy hair and glazed eyes of a man who had been up until 4 AM, raised a hand weakly. ”That was me. It’s a prototype research project. Kael likes it.”

”Rianor!” Rumina scolded. ”That Golem is powered by a genuine Mana Core! What happens if Kael tries to swallow it?!”

”Relax, Rum. I’ve coated the entire unit in a layer of bitter-melon extract. If he puts it in his mouth, he’ll spit it out instantly,” Rianor replied casually, reaching for a bowl of porridge.

The debate then shifted to the most sensitive topic in the Sudrath household: The Porridge War.

Rhea sat next to Arvid. She snatched his bowl of porridge, poured in an excessive amount of sweet soy sauce, chili paste, and white pepper, and then began to stir it with a brutal, mechanical efficiency until the entire bowl turned a muddy brown, abstract mess.

”Here,” Rhea said, sliding the bowl back to Arvid. ”Eat it. This way, the nutrients are homogenized for rapid absorption into your muscle fibers.”

Arvid stared at the bowl with a look of profound mourning. ”Rhea... from an aesthetic and textural perspective, this is a violation of the laws of physics. The crackers have lost their structural integrity. They are now... soggy.”

”You stir it to ensure an even distribution of flavor, Bookworm! Do you want to eat a lump of salt in one bite and plain rice in the next?” Rhea glared at him.

”But...” Arvid glanced toward Elena. Elena was eating her porridge the ”Elegant Way”—unstirred. The chicken and toppings remained neatly arranged on top, and her crackers were still crisp.

”The Unstirred Team is significantly more sophisticated,” Arvid whispered under his breath.

”What was that?” Rhea asked, leaning in and pointing her butter knife toward Arvid’s throat.

”I-I said... Stirred Porridge is the pinnacle of culinary innovation!” Arvid shouted, frantically shoveling the brown mush into his mouth. ”It’s delicious! Mmm! The texture is perfectly... homogenous!”

Roland let out a quiet chuckle, cutting his toast with a silver knife.

”How peaceful,” Roland said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. ”A General conquered by a doctor. A scientist scolded by a treasurer. A historian tortured by an assassin. Our family is truly a traveling circus.”

”And what about you, Roland?” Aurelia asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. ”When will you bring a candidate home? Rianor already has Elara, though they are dragging their feet on the ceremony. When is your turn? I will not have you remaining a bachelor until you’re fifty. Don’t make me arrange a match with the Princess of the Toad Kingdom.”

Roland nearly choked on his toast. His usually calm, diplomatic mask faltered into a moment of genuine panic.

”Uh... soon, Mother. Soon. Politics is... currently complicated.”

Roland glanced toward the window facing east—toward the distant borders of Draconia. In the silence of his mind, he whispered a single name: Patience, Sera. Just a little longer.

Breakfast continued with its comfortable, familiar chaos. No one noticed that beneath the laughter and the porridge debates, behind the thick stone walls of the castle, the wheels of fate were beginning to grind.

Far to the north, in the mist-shrouded waters of the open sea, a high-frequency Mana-radar built by Rianor began to pick up an unnatural signal. A signal of moving iron and cold intent. It was a rhythmic pulse that signaled the end of this short-lived peace.

But for this morning... let them argue over diapers and porridge. For this may be the last quiet breakfast they share for a long time.