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

Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Striking Back

The air atop the Northveil Clock Tower no longer carried the crisp, biting scent of a winter morning. Instead, it had become a shivering medium, vibrating with a high-frequency mana-resonance forced out by the transmission array Hektor had hastily mounted. Rianor Sudrath stood on the precipice of the crumbling stone balcony, his fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the ice-cold iron railing. His gaze, sharp and predatory, was locked onto the sea-line, where the blackened silhouette of The Behemoth still vented thick, sulfurous plumes of steam after its initial, devastating salvo that had erased an entire residential block from existence.

A cold, calculated rage burned behind Rianor’s emotionless eyes. Every time his gaze drifted toward the tower’s base, he was haunted by the image of Elara, lying pale and motionless within the makeshift medical bunker. She had pushed her biological limits to the brink, utilizing the ancient Barong Totem Magic to absorb the kinetic impact of an enemy Railgun, siphoning ten percent of that destructive energy into her own frame to prevent the city’s total collapse. To Rianor, every second she spent in that deathly slumber was a debt of blood—a debt he intended to collect from the Iron Empire with soul-crushing interest.

”Hektor, status of the radar synchronization?” Rianor’s voice was a low, mechanical growl, devoid of any warmth or mercy.

Hektor, usually a man of rigid skepticism and measured caution, was working with a frantic intensity he had never displayed before. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as his fingers danced across the glowing crystal console, his mana-signature flickering in tandem with the device. ”Synchronization complete, Young Master. Every Titan MK-1 unit and every operative in the Ghost Squad is now tethered to your tactical navigation grid. The network is live. We are ready to strike.”

”Excellent,” Rianor replied, the word clipped and sharp. He raised his communicator to his lips, his voice broadcasted through the encrypted Sudrath frequency to every ear on the battlefield. ”To all units: activate your instruments of death. Protocol: Hungry Wolf... Execution Phase begins now.”

Down at the fractured shoreline, Garrick ”The Butcher” let out a jagged, triumphant grin as the targeting coordinates materialized on the HUD of his Titan’s command deck in a searing neon-green. ”Did you hear that, boys? The genius has given us the green light. Engage limited-amphibious mode—let’s drag these steam-choked bastards to the bottom of the abyss!”

The engines of a hundred Titan MK-1 tanks roared in unison, a chorus of high-pitched mana-dissonance that felt like a physical vibration in the marrow of the defenders. These were not the clunky, coal-burning machines of the Empire; they were elegant predators. The tanks surged into the shallow, churning waters, their massive treads grinding against the submerged coral reefs as the rune-etched armor plates along their hulls glowed with a protective cerulean light, repelling the corrosive salt and the crushing pressure of the sea.

Fiuuu... Fiuuu... Fiuuu!

The first wave of Magitech rockets ignited, lancing into the gray sky like pillars of divine retribution. Unlike the crude, ballistic projectiles of the South, these Sudrath-made missiles were equipped with micro-wind-magic stabilization fins. They didn’t just fly; they hunted. They twisted and spiraled through the air, weaving through the incoming fire of the enemy’s steam-cannons with a choreographed grace, eventually slamming into the primary weakness of The Behemoth—the central steam-exhaust chimneys.

A series of cataclysmic explosions rippled across the deck of the Dreadnought. The sudden loss of pressure regulation caused internal pipes to burst, venting high-pressure steam into the crew quarters and creating instant, localized chaos within the enemy flagship.

”Borch, it’s your turn,” Rianor commanded through a dedicated frequency.

From their clandestine positions amidst the scorched ruins and the jagged cliffside, the Ghost Squad adjusted the optics of their Gauss Rifles. Borch, the veteran commander of the elite unit, focused his crosshairs on a high-ranking Empire officer who was frantically shouting orders from the deck of a Junk-class transport ship.

”Target locked. Initiating magnetic acceleration,” Borch murmured, his voice as flat as a funeral shroud.

Thwip!

The sound of the magnetic rifle was nearly silent, a mere whisper compared to the roar of the battlefield. But the impact was anything but quiet. The tungsten-alloy slug, accelerated to hypersonic speeds by the electromagnetic rails, tore through the officer’s steam-pressurized armor as if it were parchment. His head vanished in a spray of gore before the sound of the projectile’s sonic boom even reached the men standing beside him. One by one, the Empire’s field commanders fell to invisible ghosts, turning their Junk-Cyborg infantry into a headless, disorganized mob.

Observing the unraveling of the enemy’s coordination, Riven Sudrath saw his window of opportunity. ”Magitech Spear Infantry! Advance!”

Riven charged forward, the searing pain in his left shoulder ignored in favor of the adrenaline-fueled momentum. He activated the ’Boost’ function on his mechanical battle-axe—a mechanism that vented high-pressure mana from the rear of the blade to amplify the force of his swing.

SLASH!

With a single, thunderous arc, three Junk-Cyborgs were cleaved in two, their mechanical circuitry exploding in a shower of sparks and blackened oil. Beside him, Prince Caelus was fighting with a ferocity that bordered on madness. His blade moved in a blur of gold-tinted mana, parrying the rusted claws of the cyborgs while Captain Thorne provided a wall of kinetic force with his energy-spears.

”Not bad for a pampered prince!” Riven shouted over the clashing of steel and the roar of the surf.

Caelus was gasping, his lungs burning and his fine silk shirt soaked in grime, but a thin, defiant smile touched his lips. ”I had an excellent teacher, Riven! And I’ll be damned if I let these rusted scrap-heaps take another inch of Northreach soil!”

Riven let out a harsh, guttural laugh—the first genuine sign of respect he had ever afforded the prince. In the heat of the trenches, the political barriers had dissolved; they were no longer just reluctant allies, but brothers-in-arms forged in the same fire.

Back at the primary bastion, Lady Raveena peered through the magnifying lens of the artillery observation deck. ”My father was correct; they were blinded by the sheer scale of their own vessel. They forgot that the sea is a living, breathing variable.”

Raveena raised her hand toward the line of mages, their faces pale and drawn from the sheer mental strain of maintaining the mana-shields. ”One final push! Channel the entirety of your reserves into the Grimm’s Roar! Utilize the Air-Compression magic!”

A massive artillery shell, weighing half a ton and etched with stabilizing runes, was hoisted into the throat of the Grimm’s Roar battery. When the cannon fired, the sound wasn’t a mere explosion—it was a sonic boom that shattered glass windows within a one-kilometer radius.

The shell didn’t hit the ship directly. Instead, it struck the surface of the water in the center of the Empire’s junk-fleet. Upon impact, the compression magic within the shell didn’t explode upward; it created an instantaneous, localized vacuum beneath the waves. The sea was sucked into the void, creating a massive, terrifying whirlpool that dragged the smaller transport ships into the dark depths of the ocean like discarded toys.

The Behemoth, the monolithic Dreadnought, groaned as it was caught in the gravitational pull of the artificial vortex. Its massive hull began to tilt at a precarious angle.

”Final strike! Focus all Titan lasers on their primary steam reactor!” Rianor commanded from atop the Clock Tower.

Garrick, inside his command tank, slammed the firing lever to maximum capacity. ”Eat this, you overblown kettle!”

Two Titan MK-1 units had already been lost—one crushed by a direct hit from the Dreadnought’s main battery and another incinerated in a steam-pipe explosion—but the remaining dozens were fully operational. The brilliant cerulean beams from the entire Titan division converged on a singular point on The Behemoth’s hull.

The meter-thick steel plating liquefied instantly. The Sudrath lasers lanced through the internal structure, reaching the heart of the enemy’s high-pressure steam reservoir.

KABOOOOM!!!!

The resulting explosion was so immense it created a shockwave that cleared the snow from the entire city of Northveil in a single pulse. The pride of the Iron Empire was literally torn in two. Superheated steam hissed into the sky, mixing with the debris of blackened steel that fell like a rain of meteors into the churning sea.

The sky, once choked with black smoke, began to reveal the cold, pale light of the late afternoon sun. Rianor stood silent, watching as the wreckage of the Dreadnought slowly vanished beneath the waves. His breathing was steady, his eyes remaining a sharp, emotionless blue. To him, this wasn’t a moment of glory; it was simply a complex equation that had finally been solved.

”Primary target neutralized. The remaining infantry is being cleaned up by Riven’s unit,” Hektor reported, his voice trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and awe. ”Young Master... we won. We actually destroyed it.”

Rianor didn’t answer with a cheer. He simply lowered his communicator, his gaze shifting toward the internal stairs. ”I’m heading to the Bunker. You stay here, Hektor. Maintain the radar until every single one of those scrap-heaps is accounted for.”

Below him, on the shoreline now littered with rusted iron and dying fires, the soldiers of the Sudrath lineage raised their weapons toward the ashen sky, screaming the name of the family that had stood by them when their own King had looked away.