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

Chapter 141: Chapter 141: WINGS OF THE STORM-BRINGER

​The sun had not yet dared to show its face over the eastern horizon of Northreach, yet the South Paddock had already transformed into a bubbling cauldron of anxiety. The thin, silver mist that usually blanketed the grasslands was being torn asunder by the deafening, rhythmic roar of mana-steam engines. The sharp, acrid scent of sulfur and ozone bit at the senses, mingling with a biting cold that seemed to seep into the very marrow of the bones.

​If yesterday they had fought with ink, parchment, and logic in the auditorium, today they stood before a different kind of judgment. Five units of the Sudrath Sky-Hunter stood lined up under the harsh, white glare of mana-powered floodlights. Their duralumin frames, lightweight yet incredibly resilient, shimmered like resting predators—metallic beasts waiting for someone crazy enough to try and domesticate them.

​Rianor Sudrath stood atop the makeshift control tower, his hand gripping the latest Aero-Link radio unit. His face was a mask of scientific detachment, but beneath that exterior, his eyes darted incessantly toward the mana-fuel gauges on the telemetry board.

​”Sister Rhea was right; this is an incredibly expensive investment,” Rianor murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the mechanical din. ”If even one of these prototypes falls because of their clumsiness... Rumina will hunt me to the ends of the continent just to scream about the budget deficit.”

​He could vividly imagine his sister’s face, counting every copper coin with terrifying precision. To Rianor, an enraged Rumina was far more frightening than facing a wild Basilisk in the dark.

​”Master Rianor, all systems on units zero-one through zero-five are green,” Sergeant Kaelen’s voice crackled through the radio, breaking Rianor’s train of thought. ”The first candidate is strapped into the cockpit.”

​”Proceed according to protocol,” Rianor replied firmly. ”Show no mercy. The sky is an unforgiving mistress; she has no pity for the careless.”

​The inaugural flight tests began with a tension that made the air feel heavy. One by one, the candidates climbed into the cramped cockpits, surrounded by a dizzying array of levers, dials, and glowing mana-crystals. Some who had scored perfectly on the theoretical exams found themselves trembling violently the moment they felt the raw vibration of the engine beneath their seats.

​Candidate Number 12, a burly young man with a decorated military record, attempted the first takeoff. However, as the helicopter lifted three meters off the ground, panic seized him. He yanked the Collective lever too sharply, causing the machine to tilt dangerously to the side.

​”Stabilize your tail pedals! You’re going to spin!” Thorne bellowed from the edge of the runway.

​CRASH!

​Fortunately, the Aero-Balance Array—the automated safety circuit Arvid had spent nights perfecting—immediately cut the mana flow. The helicopter slammed back into the dirt. While it didn’t explode, the duralumin landing struts were twisted into useless scrap.

​”Candidate 12, failed. Drag him out and call the technical team!” Rianor ordered coldly. His heart ached at the sight of the damage. A set of duralumin hydraulics... that’s worth the salary of a hundred infantrymen, he lamented internally.

​Of the forty candidates, they began to fall one by one. Some vomited inside the cockpit due to severe motion sickness; others froze in place, paralyzed by a sudden, overwhelming fear of heights; and some nearly took out the control tower because they misread the mana-radar navigation.

​Until it was Thamrin’s turn.

​The boy stepped forward with his chin held high, his movements devoid of the hesitation that had plagued the others. As he settled into the cockpit of Sky-Hunter 03, he didn’t see a machine. To him, this was not a collection of gears and mana-valves; it was an extension of his own soul, a soul that hungered for retribution.

​”Sky-Hunter 03, requesting permission for liftoff,” Thamrin’s voice came through the radio, strikingly calm.

​”Permission granted, Cadet. Show me if your brains are balanced with your courage,” Rianor replied.

​Thamrin pulled the Collective lever with a slow, deliberate grace. His fingers danced across the control console with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. The helicopter lifted off the ground with a smoothness that suggested it was born for the air. He executed turns, climbs, and simulated emergency landings with a fluidity that left the instructors speechless.

​At an altitude of a hundred meters, Thamrin looked down. He saw the mighty fortifications of Northreach encircling the city of Iron Heart, and in the far distance, the jagged, shadowed peaks of Northveil—territory now defiled by the enemy. A single tear escaped his eye, not out of fear, but from a surge of overwhelming pride.

​Finally... I have reached the sky, Thamrin thought. Father, Mother... look at me now. I am no longer the soldier who can only crawl upon the earth.

​However, that warmth quickly turned into an icy chill. His gaze sharpened as his heart beat in sync with the engine’s roar. Every vibration beneath him felt like the pulse of a monster ready to pounce.

​”I swear,” Thamrin whispered inside the noisy cockpit. ”By the blood spilled in Northveil, by the honor of House Sudrath that gave me these wings... I will be the angel of death for the Iron Empire. I will burn them from the heavens, and I will not let a single one of them return alive.”

​As he landed perfectly back on the paddock, the technicians and instructors stood in stunned silence. Even Rianor found himself offering a brief, involuntary round of applause.

​That afternoon, under the somber, overcast skies of Northreach, a short but solemn ceremony was held. Of the initial forty candidates, only twenty-seven remained standing tall before Duke Lucian Sudrath.

​The faces of these twenty-seven young men no longer reflected thoughts of the two gold coins. That salary, once the primary lure, now felt insignificant compared to the pride swelling in their chests. They were pioneers—the first humans on the continent to wage war in an entirely different dimension.

​Duke Lucian stepped forward, draped in his ceremonial robes that exuded a natural aura of absolute authority. Beside him, Rianor held a velvet-lined box containing silver emblems—a stylized eagle spreading its wings, clutching a glowing mana-crystal.

​”You are no longer mere soldiers,” Lucian’s deep voice boomed across the paddock. ”As of this moment, you are the Sky-Slayer Wing. You are our invisible eyes, and our talons that strike from the heavens.”

​Rianor began to pin the emblems onto each soldier’s chest. When he reached Thamrin, he paused for a moment. ”Don’t let your vengeance make you reckless in the air, Cadet... or rather, Soldier.”

​”My vengeance is my fuel, Master Rianor,” Thamrin replied firmly.

​Kaelen, who had traded his infantry greens for a specialized pilot’s uniform of deep slate-blue, stepped to the front of the line. ”Repeat after me! The Oath of the Sudrath Aerial Corps!”

​”WE SWEAR!” the voices of the twenty-seven men merged, vibrating through the cold air.

​”TO GUARD EVERY INCH OF NORTHREACH FROM THE DARKNESS!”

”TO BE LOYAL UNTO DEATH TO HOUSE SUDRATH!”

”TO BE THE STORM THAT BREAKS THE ENEMY, THE SHIELD THAT PROTECTS THE PEOPLE!”

”THE SKY IS OUR HOME, AND VICTORY IS THE ONLY PRICE!”

​In stark contrast to the euphoria and pride in the South Paddock, the atmosphere within the dungeons of Castle Iron Hearth was suffocating. Here, the sun dared not enter, leaving a darkness only partially dispelled by the dim, flickering glow of mana-lamps.

​Ember stood with her arms crossed, observing Candidate 42, who was now strapped to an interrogation chair. The spy’s face was unrecognizable; purple bruising and dried blood masked the arrogant expression he had worn only yesterday.

​SLAP!

​Ember delivered a brutal backhand. ”Still refusing to speak? You know, I have nothing but time. Master Rianor is celebrating his new unit up there, but down here... time moves very, very slowly.”

​Candidate 42 merely spat blood at Ember’s boots. ”You... will... get nothing... from me.”

​Ember exhaled, her eyes glinting with a lethal coldness. Because this candidate utilized a high-level mental seal that neutralized telepathy and mana-truth detection, she was forced to resort to primitive, physical brutality. She picked up a small blade that had been heated until it glowed a terrifying cherry-red.

​”I don’t know who sent you yet. Whether it’s the Iron Empire or the shivering rats from the Capital,” Ember said softly, bringing the glowing blade closer to the spy’s thigh. ”But I will ensure that before you die, you will scream every single name that ever gave you an order.”

​Rhea, who had been standing in the shadows of the doorway, finally stepped into the light. She looked at Candidate 42 as if he were a tedious insect.

​”Ember, is he still silent?” Rhea asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

​”He’s stubborn, Lady Rhea. The mental seal is exceptionally strong, neutralizing all magical detection,” Ember replied respectfully.

​”Use physical means exclusively then,” Rhea commanded coldly. Her concern for her brother’s research security stripped away any remnants of mercy. ”I don’t care if he breaks. What I need is a confession. I must return to the castle. Ensure that when I come back, you have a list of names.”

​”Understood, Lady Rhea. I will make him speak,” Ember smirked—a rare, terrifying expression.

​Rhea turned and left the interrogation room, which was immediately filled with a harrowing, bone-chilling scream. To her, this contradiction was ordinary. Above, her brother built the future with silver wings; below, she had to stain her hands with blood to ensure that future never fell into the wrong hands.

​The roar of the engines above and the screams below formed the discordant symphony of a house on the rise. Sudrath was no longer just a name; it was a storm, and it was coming for everyone.