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

Chapter 127: Chapter 127: THE BITTER COMMAND OF THE OLD LION

​The snow falling over Northveil was no longer white. It had turned a dismal, ashen gray, mingling with the soot from the Northern Fortress that Ben had just detonated. The atmosphere in the Central District was suffocating; the only sounds were the heavy, rhythmic thrum of steam engines, the hiss of overtaxed pistons, and the desperate cries of humans swallowed by the relentless blizzard. The fires burning at various corners of the city cast a haunting, hellish orange hue upon the thick steam fog that blanketed the asphalt streets.

​On the main thoroughfare leading toward the City Hall, Sir Riven Sudrath stood tall, though his breath came in jagged, painful gasps. His heavy exoskeleton armor was marred by deep gouges and stained with black hydraulic oil. Emerging from the smog before him, a three-meter-tall iron titan strode forward, each footfall vibrating through the earth.

​This was Martin, Commander of the 3rd Destruction Division of the Iron Empire.

​Martin was no longer dressed in a standard officer’s uniform. He was encased within his ”Commander’s Steam-Rig”—a mechanical monstrosity bristling with copper pipes that hissed jets of superheated steam. In his right hand, he wielded a Steam-Powered Crusher Hammer, a massive bludgeon equipped with a rear-mounted piston drive system for explosive kinetic delivery.

​”We meet again, Knight of Sudrath,” Martin’s voice echoed through his armor’s audio circuits, sounding like the grinding of heavy gears. ”You have endured longer than our simulations predicted.”

​Riven did not offer a verbal retort. He merely tightened his grip on his mechanical axe, which was spinning at a low, guttering hum due to the exhaustion of its mana-cells. ”As long as there is breath in my lungs, you will not lay a finger on the people behind me.”

​Martin growled, a sound muffled by his respirator. He engaged the primary piston on his hammer. PSHHHT! Scalding steam erupted from the valves on his back. With a speed that defied the laws of physics for a suit of that mass, Martin charged. The massive hammer swung in a horizontal arc, tearing through the air with a predatory roar.

​Riven leaped backward, but the shockwave from the hammer’s impact pulverized the sidewalk where he had stood a second before. Shards of stone flew like shrapnel. Riven attempted a counter-strike with his axe, aiming for the shoulder joints of Martin’s rig. Metal clashed against metal, erupting in a shower of sparks that momentarily illuminated the snowstorm.

​”Too weak!” Martin roared, pivoting his hammer and using the piston’s recoil momentum to launch an upward strike from the blind spot.

​Riven attempted to parry, but the sheer kinetic force behind the steam-hammer was insurmountable. His mechanical axe vibrated violently, and Riven could feel the bones in his forearms screaming in protest. He was propelled backward five meters, his boots leaving deep, scorched furrows in the asphalt.

​Several kilometers from the battlefield, within the Maritime Observation Building—which was beginning to shudder under the bombardment from the enemy’s smaller escort vessels—Rianor Sudrath sat slumped before a radio operator’s desk. His face was deathly pale, cold sweat drenching his brow. His physical stamina and mana reserves were at absolute zero, yet he refused to succumb to the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.

​”Master Rianor, our primary communication arrays are being jammed by the electromagnetic residue from the Railgun strikes!” Count Hektor shouted, his fingers frantic as he attempted to bridge a scorched circuit board.

​Rianor stared at the glove on his right hand—the Mana-Glove

. It was the only way left. If he could not broadcast the coordination orders now, the retreating forces would scatter and be hunted down one by one.​”Hektor... patch the transmitter cable directly into my Mana-Glove’s input module,” Rianor commanded, his voice a mere rasp but laced with steel.

​”But Sir! Your mana circuits are already ruptured! Conducting a high-yield transmission directly through your body will—”

​”DO IT!” Rianor cut him off, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. ”Do not let Ben’s sacrifice be for nothing!”

​With trembling hands, Hektor connected the thick copper cables to the glove’s circuitry. Rianor closed his eyes, forcing the last dregs of energy from his parched mana-core to flow.

​”Argh!” Rianor groaned as a sensation like a thousand hornet stings raced from his fingertips to his brain. The Mana-Glove began to glow with an unstable, electric-blue light. Through this makeshift interface, Rianor acted as a living antenna, forcing his voice through the atmospheric interference.

​”All units... this is Rianor Sudrath...” his voice echoed in the radios of every field commander. ”Ghost Squad... take positions on the roofs of Sector 3. Thorne... support Riven on the main road. We must... we must hold them just a little longer...”

​Rianor coughed, dark blood trickling from his nose. In his mind, he was no longer just thinking of defensive strategies. He began to envision a steel wing, a machine that required no mana to fly, a vengeance he had named the F-5 Tiger. I will sink that ship, Rudigor. I swear it, he thought before his vision began to blur into nothingness.

​Back on the main thoroughfare, Riven’s situation had become critical. Martin was launching a relentless, rhythmic barrage. Every strike of his hammer pulverized whatever it touched. Riven tried to activate the Rune Pulse on his armor to create distance, but Martin had anticipated the move.

​Martin released a steam valve in his gauntlet, creating a counter-pressure explosion that neutralized the Rune Pulse’s shockwave. In that split second of vulnerability, he slammed his hammer squarely into Riven’s chest plate.

​CRACK!

​The sound of shattering bone was audible even over the roar of the storm. Riven was catapulted backward, crashing through the glass storefront of a shop until he lay amidst the jagged wreckage. His massive frame slumped, unmoving, amongst the debris.

​”RIVEN!” Captain Thorne screamed, having just arrived with a platoon of Magitech Spear Infantry.

​Thorne saw Riven attempting to rise, but the young knight spat out a copious amount of blood. His collarbone was shattered, and several ribs had punctured his lungs. His breathing sounded like the wet gurgle of boiling water.

​”Stay back!” Martin roared, raising his hammer for the executioner’s blow. However, a Gauss round whistled through the air from a distance, striking the visor of Martin’s rig and spider-webbing the reinforced glass.

​It was Borch. The Ghost Squad leader was perched atop a leaning tenement building, his Gauss Rifle still smoking. ”Find an opening! Secure the Young Master!” Borch barked into the Vibro-Comm to his team.

​The precision fire from the Ghost Squad forced Martin to raise his hammer as a shield, providing the precious seconds Thorne and his men needed to form a defensive line in front of the gravely wounded Riven.

​On the far side of the street, Prince Caelus led the remnants of the fleeing knights. His royal cloak was tattered, and his face was smeared with soot. Caelus dragged a Sudrath soldier with a mangled leg behind the cover of a disabled Titan MK-1 tank.

​”Hold this line! If you run now, you’ll only die in the back!” Caelus bellowed, his sword cleaving through a Junk-Cyborg that tried to pounce on them.

​Thorne glanced briefly at Caelus and gave a sharp, respectful nod. The Prince had earned his place in Northreach tonight.

​Lucian Sudrath stepped out of his armored SUV, which was now burning at the rear. He looked upon a sight that would break the heart of any general: his valiant troops were now a collection of exhausted, blood-soaked men, vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

​The Emperor continued its slow, predatory approach toward the coastline, and thousands of Stalker units began to crawl up the walls of the surrounding buildings, encircling them like a pack of wolves waiting for a dying prey to stop twitching.

​”Father...” Riven whispered hoarsely as Lucian reached his side. Thorne was desperately trying to wrap Riven’s chest with a makeshift bandage that was rapidly turning a deep, wet crimson.

​Lucian looked at his son, then at the city of Northveil he so dearly loved. He saw the City Hall, the grand railway station, and the homes of citizens that were now killing fields. His military pride and ego screamed to fight until the last drop of blood, but his conscience as a father and a leader of his people dictated a different path.

​He took the radio microphone from his communications sergeant. His heavy, commanding voice was now laced with a bitter sorrow, as if every word he spoke was a dagger plunged into his own heart.

​”All Sudrath personnel... civilians still on the evacuation routes... this is Duke Lucian Sudrath.”

​A heavy silence fell over the radio frequencies. Even Borch, atop his perch, ceased his aim.

​”We have fought with honor. We have given everything for this land. However... Northveil has fallen. I am issuing the final command for this city: Withdraw.”

​Several soldiers froze, tears carving tracks through the grime on their faces.

​”Do not let the deaths of Ben and the fortress operators be in vain. Your lives are worth more than these stones. Activate the Exodus Protocol. All units, retreat to the Capital, Iron Hearth! Leave what is heavy, take what is living! Northreach is not defeated as long as we still stand!”

​Lucian dropped the microphone. He helped Thorne hoist Riven into the back seat of the SUV that was still operational.

​”We are going, Riven,” Lucian whispered, his eyes fixed on the steam-fog where Martin and the Iron Empire forces were beginning to surge forward again. ”We will rebuild everything. Every single stone.”

​The final Sudrath convoy began its somber retreat, leaving behind a Northveil that was now being draped in the flags of the Iron Empire as they were hoisted over the ruins. That night, Northveil no longer belonged to Sudrath, but the fire of vengeance in their hearts had only just begun to burn.