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

Chapter 115: Chapter 115: The Fangs of the Seventh Prince

The Maritime Observation Building atop the Black Fang Cliffs had, for years, resonated with the rhythmic, ethereal hum of mana-crystals, a sound that synchronized perfectly with the sharp, clinical heartbeat of Rianor Sudrath. But now, that crystalline melody was dead. In its place, the chamber was filled with the abrasive, discordant clanging of raw metal, the rhythmic screech of iron levers being forced into position, and the overwhelming, pungent scent of machine oil and ozone.

Rianor Sudrath sat slumped in the corner of the room, his body appearing small against the backdrop of massive, unyielding concrete walls. His face was the color of bleached parchment, marked by the dark, dried trails of blood that had leaked from his ears during his last ”Overclocking” session. His mana reserves were not merely depleted; they were at a true nadir, a state of magical vacuum that left every nerve in his body feeling as though it were being pierced by thousands of white-hot needles. Yet, his weary eyes remained open, flickering with a faint, dying light as he watched the tall, rigid figure of the man before him.

Count Hektor stood before the mechanical map table. He was a man devoid of magical talent, a rarity in the upper echelons of the kingdom’s elite. For Hektor, the world was not defined by invisible currents of energy or the fickle whims of mana; it was a reality built upon gears, pneumatic pressure, and absolute, cold calculation. His rough, calloused hands—hands that had spent decades dismantling and reassembling the guts of the world—manipulated the dials of the Hardline Manual Telegraph.

”The pressure on the northern sector transmission cables has dropped by ten percent. Is it localized sabotage or structural failure?” Hektor’s voice was stiff, monotone, and utterly devoid of emotion. It was a chilling echo of Rianor’s own professional persona, yet it lacked the subtle, humming aura of magic.

”Structural...” Rianor rasped, his voice a jagged sliver of sound. ”The earlier steam-bombs... they’ve compromised the subterranean foundations. Use the physical frequency. Tit-tat... do not rely on the mana-waves. They are too distorted.”

Hektor nodded once, a sharp, mechanical motion of his head. He yanked the auxiliary transmission lever. ”Shifting coordination to the manual hardline. Without the assistance of mana-synchronization, our data accuracy will drop by twenty percent. We are effectively fighting with one eye closed and the other half-blinded.”

Rianor closed his eyes for a fleeting second, forcing his fractured mind to navigate through the fog of extreme exhaustion. ”It doesn’t matter... Hektor. Task... task the reserve units to the Western Sector. Rudigor is... he’s searching for a fracture in our left flank. He wants to bypass the main gate.”

One Kilometer Away – Sector B Bunker.

Deep beneath the trembling earth of Northveil, the atmosphere within the Sector B Bunker was thick with the scent of anxiety and burnt sulfur. Raphael Sudrath stood in the center of a mountain of magnetic shell casings that had just undergone a violent, manual modification. His hands were blackened with soot and grease, his fine clothes ruined beyond repair. Before him, Prince Caelus and his adjutant, Ramirez, stood with armor that had long since lost its royal luster.

”Why the left flank? Why move us now?” Caelus asked, his hand white-knuckled as he gripped the hilt of his sword.

Raphael pointed to a grimy, oil-stained map spread across a munitions crate. ”The last reports from the runners before the mana-comms died state that the Iron Empire’s light infantry units are making landfall at the Western Shoreline. If that flank collapses, they won’t just hit our trenches. They will circle behind the bastion and seal the Exodus Tunnels. That means the civilians we just evacuated and our remaining ammunition stockpiles will be entombed. We’ll be rats in a hole that’s being set on fire.”

Caelus swallowed hard. He looked at Ramirez, who returned the gaze with a cold, unshakable nod of loyalty.

”My father’s core army and Brother Riven are holding the city center. Uncle Grimm and the mages are anchored at the northern gate,” Raphael continued, his tone carrying a maturity that far outstripped his fourteen years. ”The only combat-ready force left in this bunker is the unit of ex-Aethelgard knights. They are magnificent warriors, but they need a leader who carries the blood of the crown. They need to know exactly who they are dying for.”

Caelus took a long, steadying breath. He remembered his flight from the Sol-Regis palace, a journey defined by fear and the desire to vanish. But now, that fear had mutated into something else—a bitter, heavy sense of responsibility. ”I will go. Not as a prince in hiding, but as the commander of the left flank.”

”Be careful, Caelus,” Raphael said softly. ”The Ghost Squad snipers covering you... their rifle barrels might explode after the tenth shot because of these modified rounds. Do not rely on long-range support for too long. If you find yourselves in a melee, it’s all on you.”

Caelus didn’t respond. He simply lowered his visor, the metallic click echoing in the cramped bunker. He marched out into the cold, followed by Ramirez and nearly two hundred knights who still saw him as their sovereign.

The Western Shoreline – The Frozen Inferno.

When they finally reached the surface of the Western Coast, the landscape that greeted them was a portrait of a frozen hell.

The snow was no longer white. It had been churned into a disgusting, brownish-red sludge—a mixture of melting ice, human blood, and the thick, black machine oil leaking from the carcasses of fallen enemy machines. The scent of death here was specific and visceral: the sickly-sweet smell of scorched flesh mingling with the metallic, fishy aroma of rusted iron and high-pressure steam.

Caelus stepped over the body of a Sudrath infantryman whose torso had been cleaved in two by a steam-saw. The man’s intestines had frozen instantly upon contact with the sub-zero air, glistening like grotesque jewels in the dim light. Caelus did not turn his head away. As the Seventh Prince, he had witnessed many executions in the sterile halls of the palace court, but this was different. This was a senseless, industrial slaughter.

”Young Master, they are here,” Ramirez’s voice cut through the oppressive silence.

From behind the thick, roiling sea fog, gargantuan silhouettes emerged. They weren’t human. They were mid-class Heavy-Cyborgs, carrying pneumatic cannons on their left arms. Behind them, hundreds of Iron Empire infantrymen advanced with a synchronized, mechanical gait that shook the shoreline.

”FOR THE NEW AETHELGARD! FOR SUDRATH! DO NOT LET THEM TOUCH THE WESTERN GATE!” Caelus roared, his voice cracking amidst the howling sea wind.

THE COLLISION WAS TOTAL.

Steel met iron in a cacophony of shrieks and sparks. Caelus swung his blade with a technique honed by the kingdom’s finest instructors, but here, the beauty of the form mattered little. The sheer kinetic force of every enemy strike was enough to shatter a man’s wrists if the parry wasn’t flawless.

Ramirez moved like a shadow of death beside the prince. He utilized a short sword and a dagger, weaving through the lumbering cyborgs and targeting the exposed hydraulic joints in their armor. Every time Ramirez moved, a head—either of iron or of flesh—would roll across the crimson snow.

”Left side! Hold the line!” a veteran knight screamed beside Caelus.

But then, a shot from a pneumatic cannon lanced through the fog. A metallic projectile the size of a man’s fist struck the knight’s chest with the force of a thousand bars of pressure. His steel breastplate crumpled like a tin can, and his heart was vaporized instantly. A spray of warm, thick blood painted Caelus’s visor.

Caelus froze for a fraction of a second. He watched the knight fall, the man’s eyes still wide with a lingering sense of duty, even as his life vanished. A sharp, stinging guilt pierced Caelus’s chest—the guilt that this man had died protecting him, the prince he had always considered a burden to his family. But the battlefield offered no sanctuary for grief.

”ADVANCE!” Caelus screamed, cleaving the arm of an enemy soldier who tried to bayonet him. He was no longer fighting for glory; he was fighting with a cold, focused fury.

The battle raged for three hours that felt like a lifetime. The sky began to darken into an ominous shade of bruised purple, and a localized blizzard began to descend, reducing visibility to a mere few meters. The shrieks of the dying and the rhythmic clanging of metal became the only music of the coast.

In the distance, atop the cliffs, Hektor observed the carnage through manual binoculars. He continued to feed data through the hardline cables to the remaining Ghost Squad snipers. ”Western Coast, coordinates 44-90. Suppress the heavy unit. Fire.”

PTUIZZT!

The only support Caelus received was the occasional, high-pitched whistle of a sniper shot dropping a heavy unit. But the enemy was a tide of iron that refused to ebb.

Caelus watched his men fall, one after another. The knights who had stood tall in the bunker were now nothing more than mounds of meat beneath the crushing feet of the cyborgs. Of the two hundred men he had led out, fewer than a hundred remained standing.

”Ramirez... we are losing too many,” Caelus whispered, his breath coming in thick, white plumes. His shoulder was gashed, and his armor was spider-webbed with cracks.

”We still hold the line, Young Master. That is all that matters,” Ramirez replied, though his own breathing was heavy and labored.

When the final wave of the enemy assault was finally repelled back toward the dark sea, Caelus collapsed onto the wreckage of a shattered cyborg. He turned his head, looking back at the remnants of his unit.

Only about sixty percent were still able to stand, and many of them were missing limbs or clutching deep, festering wounds. The rest, the other forty percent—eighty of the finest knights he had ever known by name—were now part of the frozen Northveil landscape. They hadn’t died in a glorious, storied battle; they had died on a dirty, oil-slicked beach, protecting refugees who wouldn’t even know their names.

Caelus gripped the blood-soaked snow. He felt a profound sense of failure, yet in that moment, something was born within him. The fangs that had long been hidden behind royal etiquette and courtly smiles had finally emerged. He was no longer just the Seventh Prince Caelus; he was a commander who had been baptized by the blood of his own men.

Back in the Observation Building, Hektor lowered his binoculars. His rigid hands were shaking slightly, not from fear, but from the raw physical exhaustion of maintaining the line without the crutch of mana.

”The left flank holds... for now,” Hektor reported to Rianor, who was still slumped in the corner.

Rianor didn’t respond with words. He merely offered a weak thumbs-up before his head bowed once more.

”Hektor,” Rianor called out softly without opening his eyes. ”The temperature... it’s dropping too fast. Do you feel it?”

Hektor looked at the window, which was being covered by ice crystals at an unnatural speed. ”Yes. The atmospheric pressure is plummeting. A massive blizzard is coming.”

”This isn’t just a storm...” Rianor murmured, his voice trailing off.

Northveil was now silent, but the silence was more terrifying than the roar of the cannons. Beneath the thickening darkness of the sky, both sides were preparing for the most brutal Chapter in the history of this war.