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

Chapter 129: Chapter 129: REMNANTS OF GLORY AND THE CROWN’S WRATH

​The mountain winds of Iron Hearth usually carried the crisp, invigorating scent of pine and the fiery spirit of a booming industry. But today, the air in the capital of Northreach felt heavy, as if the dark clouds hanging low in the sky bore the crushing weight of the thousands of lives extinguished in Northveil. Along the main thoroughfare leading toward the castle, the citizens—usually bustling with trade and talk of progress—stood in a haunting, deathly silence. They watched a procession that was far from the grand return they had hoped for. Logistics trucks with bodies riddled with bullet holes, command SUVs with windshields shattered into a thousand spider-webs, and infantrymen sitting in open trailers with heads bowed, their uniforms charred by steam explosions and stained with soot.

​This was not a hero’s homecoming. It was a funeral procession for a fallen dream.

​The convoy finally slowed, tires crunching over the cobblestone courtyard of Iron Hearth Castle. Dust and fine snow swirled as the thick vulcanized rubber finally came to a halt. Vehicle doors opened with the agonizing groan of damaged hinges, releasing a cocktail of smells: fresh blood, burnt mana residue, and stagnant despair.

​Rhea Sudrath stood at the forefront of the castle stairs. Beside her, Arvid watched with a face drawn tight with tension. Rhea did not weep; her eyes were narrowed into sharp slits, radiating a cold, lethal fury as she surveyed the battered state of her family’s pride. Her hands were clenched white beneath her cloak, feeling a physical ache at the sight of her kin returning in such a broken state.

​”Medical teams! Move! Now!” Captain Thorne’s roar shattered the oppressive silence.

​The rear doors of a medical transport swung open. There, Elena—Riven’s wife—stepped forward with a gait she forced to remain steady. She wore her physician’s whites, but her face was as pale as the snow surrounding her. In her arms, wrapped in thick wool blankets, was the infant Kaelven, only a few months old. Elena was a professional; she had treated hundreds of traumatic wounds, yet when her eyes fell upon the stretcher being lowered by the soldiers, her internal walls crumbled.

​Lying upon that stretcher was Riven Sudrath. The giant seemed diminished, as if the spirit that powered his massive frame had been siphoned away. His heavy armor had been stripped, leaving only thick, layered bandages wrapped around a chest that rose and fell with a shallow, irregular rhythm.

​”Riven...” Elena’s voice flickered, barely audible over the wind.

​She approached the stretcher as the soldiers paused for a moment of respect. Tears flowed freely down Elena’s cheeks, dampening Kaelven’s swaddling cloth. She knelt beside her husband’s broken body. Dark thoughts began to haunt her—visions of raising Kaelven alone, of becoming a young widow in the midst of a war that had no end in sight. The fear was visceral, choking her lungs tighter than the smoke of Northveil ever could.

​Riven moved his heavy eyelids, struggling against the darkness. With a surge of strength that seemed impossible for a mortal in his condition, he lifted his trembling right hand. His rough, scarred fingers reached out and brushed Kaelven’s tiny hand, as if needing to confirm that his legacy was still whole. Then, his hand moved further, wiping a stray tear from Elena’s cheek with a movement of profound tenderness.

​”Don’t... be afraid...” Riven whispered, his voice thin and parau.

​Only those three words escaped before his eyes slid shut again and his head rolled weakly to the side. Elena sobbed once, a sharp, jagged sound, but she immediately stood back up. Her medical duty called louder than her grief. ”Move him to the primary surgical theater! Immediately!” she commanded, her voice forced into a hardness her heart did not feel.

​Yet, the drama in the courtyard was far from over.

​Another truck pulled up directly in front of the stairs. Grimm descended, his face looking decades older than his actual years. Behind him, two soldiers carried a stretcher with agonizing care. Upon it lay Raveena Sudrath.

​The condition of the youngest daughter was visually more horrific. Her hair, usually perfectly styled, was matted with sweat and dried gore. Her skin was bruised blue in several patches—a symptom of extreme magical compression. Her breathing was so shallow it was almost imperceptible.

​Duchess Aurelia, who had been trying to maintain her dignity as the Matriarch of the house, instantly lost all control. At the sight of Raveena’s limp, helpless body, Aurelia let out a scream—a sound so heart-wrenching it carved into the souls of everyone present. She sprinted down the stairs, ignoring protocol, ignoring her station.

​”RAVEENA! MY CHILD!”

​Aurelia nearly threw herself onto the stretcher before Grimm caught her, his grip gentle but unyielding.

​”My Lady, please, remain calm. Lady Raveena must be taken to the intensive care ward immediately,” Grimm said, his own voice thick with emotion.

​”Let go of me, Grimm! That is my daughter! Why is she like this?!” Aurelia struggled, her tears staining her silk gown. She chased after the stretcher as the medics ran toward the hospital wing Arvid had prepared. Aurelia continued to scream her daughter’s name until her voice echoed and faded into the cold stone corridors of the castle.

​In another corner, Rianor was helped down from the command SUV. He had not fainted, but his eyes were hollow, staring vacantly at the gray sky. The effects of the ”Neural Mana-Burn” made him feel as if thousands of needles were piercing his brain every time he tried to form a coherent thought. Count Hektor stayed by his side, providing physical support for the young genius.

​Rianor could not speak. His mind drifted to a single point in the city hospital: Elara. His red-haired fiancée must still be lying there, fighting for her life after the Railgun strike days ago. He just wanted to see her, to ensure the vibrant red of her hair still burned bright against the white hospital sheets. But for now, even standing was a monumental task. He could only pray in silence that God would grant his family one more miracle.

​Lucian Sudrath was the last to descend. He looked at Rhea and Arvid who were waiting for him. The Old Lion said nothing. He simply stepped forward and pulled Rhea into a one-armed embrace while his other hand clapped Arvid’s shoulder. No words could encompass the sheer agony of this defeat.

​Thousands of kilometers away from Iron Hearth, within the opulent splendor of the Hall of the Sun-Throne in Sol-Regis, the atmosphere was frozen in a different kind of tension. The massive gilded doors of the hall burst open with a resounding thud. Thirty Silver Eagle knights entered with staggering steps. Their silver armor, usually polished to a mirror sheen, was covered in deep gouges, mud, and dark patches of dried blood.

​King Edward sat upon his throne, his face a mask of rigid stone, while Queen Eleanor stood beside him, her eyes burning with a venomous hatred.

​”Where is my son?” Queen Eleanor’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade. ”Where is Prince Marcus?”

​One of the surviving knights knelt, his body shaking. He placed a shattered golden sword, adorned with royal jewels—Marcus’s blade—upon the cold marble floor.

​”Forgive us, Your Majesty...” the knight’s voice broke. ”Prince Marcus... has fallen at the Draconia-Alpen Pass. He was executed... by the hand of Roland Sudrath.”

​Silence.

​The hall suddenly felt devoid of oxygen. King Edward gripped the armrests of his throne until the wood groaned and splintered. Queen Eleanor did not scream. Instead, she went deathly still, her face turning a ghostly white before flushing a deep, mottled red with uncontrollable rage.

​”Executed?” King Edward murmured, his voice heavy with disbelief. ”The Sudraths killed a Prince of the Blood? They have truly severed the ties of loyalty.”

​”It is more than that, Your Majesty,” the knight continued, his voice shrinking. ”They used weapons that defy logic. Iron that strikes without sound, spears that explode with the fury of a volcano... They claimed that Northreach is now a sovereign territory. They have openly challenged the sovereignty of the Crown.”

​In a corner of the hall, an old man in long white robes embroidered with silver thread stepped forward. This was Archbishop Alexander, the highest spiritual leader of Aethelgard, known for his fanaticism. Beside him stood the royal magic advisor, a hunched figure with a calculating gaze.

​”Your Majesty,” Alexander said in a deep, resonant voice. ”From the beginning, the existence of House Sudrath has been an anomaly. How could a noble family on the brink of ruin suddenly possess knowledge that surpasses our age? Clear glass, paper, rumbling iron machines... these are not the results of ordinary study.”

​Alexander locked eyes with King Edward. ”I and the priesthood have meditated on this. The knowledge they bring... is forbidden knowledge. Demon-spawned science from the dark dimensions. They are no longer possessed by the spirit of man, but by ancient entities seeking to disrupt the divine order of the world.”

​King Edward remained silent. He remembered Lucian Sudrath—his friend in their youth, the general he trusted above all others. But now, the descriptions of weapons that could slaughter hundreds of knights in a heartbeat made him waver. Had his old friend truly sold his soul for power?

​”They killed my son...” Queen Eleanor finally spoke, her voice trembling with the need for vengeance. ”Edward, I do not care if it is demon magic or not. I want Roland Sudrath’s head placed upon this dining table. I want Northreach burned until it is nothing but ash!”

​”Calm yourself, Eleanor!” King Edward snapped, though he was shaking. ”We cannot strike now. Our forces are still tied down guarding the Southern borders from other factions. And if it is true they possess these demonic weapons, attacking without preparation is suicide.”

​King Edward stood, staring at the map of the kingdom hung upon the wall. ”Send envoys to every duchy. Declare the Sudrath betrayal. Label them heretics and enemies of the Crown. However, do not mobilize the main army yet.”

​In his heart, Edward felt a profound sense of loss. He realized the Sudrath family he once knew was dead. In their place was a new force—alien, terrifying, and inevitable.

​Back at Iron Hearth Castle, night began to fall. Arvid was busy in the medical lab, overseeing the heart-rate stabilization machines powered by mana crystals. Beside him, Rhea stood watching her sister, Raveena, who was still breathing with the rhythmic hiss of a respirator.

​”They were outnumbered, Rhea,” Arvid broke the silence. ”Rianor’s technology is advanced, but the Iron Empire possesses a human resource that is seemingly infinite. We cannot rely solely on weapons if the enemy can send thousands of lives just to exhaust our ammunition.”

​Rhea turned toward her husband. ”Then what must we do? We do not have their numbers.”

​”We need a partner,” Arvid stared at the chemical flasks on his desk. ”Rianor needs someone who can see from the side of pure science to accelerate production. I will be that partner. We will build something that is not only powerful, but can be mass-produced without relying on complex mana circuits.”

​Rhea nodded slowly. Her fury had distilled into a cold, hard determination. She looked out the window toward the darkness shrouding Sterling and Northveil—lands now occupied by the enemy.

​Northreach was not dead. They were merely resting beneath the shadow of the snow, preparing for a vengeance that would shake the foundations of the continent.