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

Chapter 94: Chapter 94: The Spy’s Capture (Aethel-Prima’s Legacy)

Subterranean Vault – Logistics District, Upper Northreach. 01:30 AM.

The air inside the basement of one of the Upper District’s logistics warehouses was stagnant, heavy with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of static electricity. Light was a luxury provided only by a single, flickering chandelier that swayed rhythmically, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced across the weeping stone walls. At the center of this cold sanctuary, a man named Bahlil was bound tightly to an iron chair, his limbs secured by glowing silver restraints infused with static mana-circuits.

Bahlil was no common street-thug or low-level informant. He was the Iron Empire’s primary field sabotage coordinator, a man who had successfully embedded himself within the city’s infrastructure for months. His face was a map of bruises and dried blood, but his eyes—bloodshot and wide—still radiated an unyielding, fanatical hatred that no amount of physical pain could extinguish.

Standing before him was Lady Rhea Sudrath. She was a vision of lethal elegance, meticulously wiping a smear of dark blood from her rapier with a silk handkerchief. Beside her, Arvid sat with a terrifyingly calm demeanor in front of a small, folding table cluttered with prototype electronic devices and humming mana-batteries. There was no trace of hesitation or nausea on the Professor’s face; to him, this was no longer a human life—it was an essential data-gathering procedure critical to the survival of the Sudrath dynasty.

”Your name is Bahlil, is that correct?” Arvid asked, his voice a flat, clinical monotone. He didn’t look up from a digital tablet. ”I would strongly advise you to answer with absolute transparency. The device currently encircling your neck is a Mana-Neural Feedback collar. Every time your vocal cords vibrate in a pattern consistent with a lie, the device will randomly incinerate several sensory nerve endings in your central nervous system. It has been described as feeling like thousands of white-hot needles being driven into the brain simultaneously.”

Bahlil spat toward Arvid, though the glob of phlegm only managed to hit the tip of the Professor’s leather boot. ”You... thieves! Low-born vermin who are not fit to touch the sacred legacy of our ancestors!”

Rhea stepped forward, her movement a blur of shadow. Without a single word of warning, she drove a small, needle-thin stiletto into Bahlil’s thigh and gave it a slow, agonizing twist. Bahlil’s scream tore through the vaulted room, echoing until it became a hoarse rasp, yet Rhea’s expression remained as immutable as a frozen lake.

”Northreach is not a pulpit for rats to deliver sermons,” Rhea hissed, her voice a lethal whisper. ”Tell us, why is the Iron Empire so obsessed with this specific patch of dirt? Why launch an invasion of this scale, and why now?”

Bahlil gasped for air, cold sweat pouring down his face, drenching his collar. ”This land... Northreach... this isn’t just a duchy! This is Aethel-Prima! The Alpha Site! The technology you upstarts use now—your steam engines and your mana-lamps—are nothing but broken toys compared to the original blueprints buried beneath this soil! House Sudrath has claimed what rightfully belongs to the sons of Iron! Our ancestors were exiled thousands of years ago by arrogant knights and hypocritical mages simply because our progress terrified their fragile gods!”

Arvid’s stylus moved rapidly across his tablet, recording every word. ”So, this is a conflict of historical revisionism and a claim to technological heritage. You call us unworthy, yet we were the ones who breathed life back into these ’toys,’ not you.”

”You only defiled their purity!” Bahlil shrieked, his voice cracking. ”Emperor Regulus will reclaim it all! We will purge every knight and every sorcerer from the face of this continent, from Aethel-Terra to the southern reaches! We will transform this primitive, green world into a gargantuan machine that will never stop turning! We are the future! You are the rust!”

Rhea withdrew her blade, allowing a fresh stream of crimson to pool on the floor. She turned toward Arvid, her gaze questioning. ”This information is sufficient for Father. They aren’t seeking resources; they are seeking a total biological and ideological purge.”

Arvid nodded slowly. He deactivated the neural feedback device and stood up, smoothing his coat. ”Rhea, the Duke has issued a directive via the central command transmission. We are not to maintain additional prisoners that would serve as a drain on our logistical reserves.”

Rhea looked down at the trembling Bahlil. ”Except for the coordinator. Bahlil will remain alive in the deepest cells for further interrogation regarding the fleet’s specific naval coordinates. As for the rest...” Rhea glanced toward the far corner of the room, where ten other Iron Empire agents knelt, bound and blindfolded with black cloth. ”...eliminate them.”

Without a heartbeat of hesitation, the Ghost Squad members lurking in the shadows raised their Gauss Rifles. The weapons were equipped with high-efficiency mana-suppressors.

Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

One by one, the saboteurs collapsed, their lives extinguished before they could even register the sound. Bahlil screamed hysterically, watching his comrades being executed with such clinical indifference. Rhea merely watched him with a gaze of pure, icy condescension before turning to leave.

”Welcome to Northreach, Bahlil. Here, we do not recognize the concept of mercy for invaders,” she said as her final parting words.

The Northreach Coastline – The Frontline. 02:45 AM.

While the internal purge was being finalized within the city walls, General Riven Sudrath was navigating a very different kind of hell. The beach, once a pristine expanse of white sand, had been transformed into a macabre, blood-soaked swamp. The landscape was a chaotic slurry of human blood, black engine oil from pulverized machines, and the glowing blue residue of spent Magitech spears. Under the dim, sickly light of a moon obscured by smoke, the scene looked like a vision from a fever dream.

”Shield wall! Hold the line!” Riven bellowed, his voice cutting through the roar of the surf and the rattle of gunfire.

From the shifting sea-mist, a new wave of infantry emerged. These were not the standard steam-armored conscripts they had faced earlier. These were the Junk-Cyborgs—the Iron Empire’s elite shock troops whose bodies had been forcibly integrated with rusted, salvaged machinery. Their arms had been replaced with high-torque steam-saws, and their eyes were glowing red optical lenses that cut through the darkness with a predatory hunger.

These warriors did not recognize the concept of pain. Even as Sudrathian bullets tore through their abdomens or severed their organic limbs, they continued to lunge forward, the gears in their chests grinding with a terrifying, rhythmic drone.

”Commander! They’re too resilient! Standard ballistics aren’t putting them down!” a lieutenant screamed, his voice bordering on panic.

Riven let out a guttural growl. He threw himself forward, his massive greatsword cleaving through the air and catching a cyborg squarely in the shoulder. Metal clashed against metal in a spray of blinding sparks. Riven felt a massive kinetic kickback travel up his arms—a testament to the density of the enemy’s integrated plating.

”Switch to Armor-Piercing rounds! Do not aim for the head—aim for the mana-reactors in their chests!” Riven commanded, his tactical mind overriding the exhaustion.

Riven fought with the feral desperation of a cornered lion. He was entirely unaware that back in the bunker, Elara was hovering on the edge of death and Rianor had devolved into a monster of vengeance. Duke Lucian had intentionally severed that specific flow of information; a general at the vanguard could not afford a single shadow of doubt in his heart. If Riven knew of Elara’s condition, his focus would fracture, and the beach would fall within minutes.

SLASH!

A steam-saw from an enemy cyborg grazed Riven’s shoulder guard, the serrated teeth tearing through the steel and deep into his muscle. Fresh blood erupted, painting his armor, yet Riven did not retreat an inch. He pivoted his blade, driving the point into the cyborg’s chest reactor and unleashing a burst of energy that detonated the machine from the inside out.

”You’re bleeding, Commander!” a soldier cried out in alarm.

”It is only blood! As long as I can draw breath, not a single piece of this rusted scrap metal will breach the city gates!” Riven’s voice boomed over the deafening cacophony of explosions.

The battle raged for hours without reprieve. Riven and his Iron Lions were reaching the limits of their endurance. Ammunition was running low, and the enemy numbers seemed to be replenished by the ocean itself. In a brief moment of respite, Riven turned his gaze toward the horizon.

Suddenly, the thick sea-mist was torn asunder by a massive, displaced volume of water. A shadow emerged, so gargantuan that it made the previous landing craft look like children’s toys. It was a silhouette of black iron, majestic and horrific in its scale, with triple-gun turrets that reached toward the blackened sky like the fingers of a vengeful god.

It was a Primary-Class Dreadnought. A vessel designed not for landing troops, but for erasing a city from the map.

Riven clenched his trembling fist, his knuckles popping. ”Father... the real enemy has finally arrived.”

Deep within the Command Center, Duke Lucian Sudrath stared at the radar screen, which was now dominated by a single, massive red blip moving into firing range. His face hardened, every line of his age becoming a mark of iron resolve.

”Riven, Rianor, Raveena, Raphael... hold on just a little longer,” Lucian whispered, his eyes shifting to the diplomatic map showing Roland’s last known position. ”Only Roland can change the course of this war now.”

The skies over Northreach grew darker still. The storm had finally arrived, and this time, it was forged of fire and iron.