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

Chapter 154: Chapter 154: RETURNING TO THE BATTLEFIELD

​The meeting dragged on until the sun began to tilt toward the west. Orange light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Hexagon Hall, casting a spectrum of colors across the white marble floor. Yet, not a single definitive decision had been reached. Only hatred had intensified; only prejudices had hardened.

​Finally, after hours of debate that yielded nothing but deeper wounds, King Edward IV raised his hand. The absolute authority of a monarch filled the room.

​”Enough.”

​Edward’s voice echoed, cutting off Alexander, who was preparing to hurl another curse.

​”This meeting is adjourned. Duke Sudrath, you may return to the North.”

​Lucian looked at Edward. His eyes were flat, showing neither gratitude nor disappointment. He merely offered a formal nod, as a duke must behave in the presence of his king.

​However, before he could even rise, Alexander was already on his feet, his white robes billowing from a surge of mana.

​”King Edward! What is the meaning of this? You are letting this traitor simply walk away? He—!”

​”Silence, Alexander,” Edward cut him off coldly. ”The decision has been made. You do not have to like it; you only have to accept it.”

​Alexander froze. His face turned a deep crimson, and his aura radiated a pressure that forced the guards behind him to take a step back. But he did not dare defy the King in public.

​Alistair Solari smirked cynically from his seat. He did not stand, merely leaning back with a casual air—but his eyes pierced Lucian like daggers.

​”Safe travels, Duke of Northreach,” his voice was laced with mockery. ”Give my regards to Roland. Oh, wait... he might not have time to receive them, for I shall soon crush him along with the rest of Northreach.”

​Lucian finally stood. He looked at Alistair—only a brief, emotionless glance. But to the guards who knew him, that look was the deadliest threat they had ever seen.

​Clarissa remained silent. The Archmage of Eastmarch sat with grace, both hands resting on the table. But her aura—the dense mana filling the entire room—spoke louder than words. She didn’t need to attack. She only needed to exist.

​And her gaze toward Lucian... it was the look of a newly born enmity. The beginning of something that would evolve into an open war in the future.

​Lucian did not look back again. With steady steps, he walked toward the exit of the Hexagon Hall. Thorne and Borch followed behind him, their eyes scanning every corner of the room, every movement of the royal guards.

​The corridors of the Palace of Light felt longer than usual.

​The twenty-meter-high ceilings were adorned with paintings of past heroes. Crystal lamps charged with light magic hung in every corner, reflecting golden glints off the marble walls. Magnificent. Elegant.

​And deeply, deeply oppressive.

​The rhythmic thud of Thorne and Borch’s military boots echoed in the quiet hallway. There were no servants, no knights, no nobles passing by. It was as if the entire palace knew that now was not the time to be near the Duke of Northreach.

​Lucian walked ahead. His mind drifted—not to the fanatical Alexander, nor the arrogant Alistair, nor Clarissa who had begun to oppose him. Instead, it drifted to a simple room in Iron Hearth, where his family waited.

​Riven was likely training the troops. Rianor was surely busy in his workshop. Rhea was pregnant—Aurelia must be so happy. Roland...

​Lucian’s jaw tightened.

​Roland.

​In the front courtyard of the Palace of Light, seventeen Northreach guards stood ready. They were in perfect formation beside the carriage—a traditional one deliberately chosen not to trigger further suspicion.

​As Lucian appeared at the main entrance, all the guards saluted in unison. Not a formal royal salute, but the salute of true soldiers to their commander. Their eyes shone—relieved, proud, and ready.

​Lucian nodded briefly. ”We’re going home.”

​The carriage began to move. Thorne climbed inside with Lucian. Borch stayed outside, leading the guards on their horses.

​But just before the carriage left the palace grounds, a shadow moved among the crowd of citizens watching from a distance. A moment later, that figure was beside the carriage—Nyx, moving soundlessly, without drawing anyone’s attention.

​”Your Grace.” Her voice was low, audible only to Lucian and Thorne inside. ”There is something to report.”

​Lucian opened the carriage curtain. ”Get in.”

​Nyx slipped inside. Within seconds, she was seated, disguised as an ordinary guard—but her eyes, those eyes could never be hidden. Sharp. Vigilant. Deadly.

​”A few hours ago, in a grimy tavern,” Nyx began her report without preamble. ”A Solari knight. Alone. Met with a hooded woman.”

​Thorne immediately leaned forward. ”What kind of woman?”

​”Unknown. Her face was completely covered. But the way she sat...” Nyx paused for a moment. ”Military. Not an ordinary noble. Not a harlot. Not a merchant.”

​”What did they discuss?” Lucian asked, his voice calm—dangerously calm.

​”Only one sentence I managed to catch, Your Grace: ’Royal information is very useful. For now, Northreach is the top priority.’”

​Thorne’s temper flared. His hands clenched into fists, the veins in his neck bulging. ”Solari! Those traitors! They sold information to—”

​”To the Iron Empire,” Nyx finished Thorne’s sentence. ”Most likely. That woman... I couldn’t see her face, but her aura. It was the aura of machinery. Not mana.”

​Lucian was silent for a long time. The carriage continued to roll, leaving Sol-Regis, leaving the Palace of Light, leaving all the political deceit that had nearly claimed his life.

​Finally, he spoke.

​”Highgarden is now on Sudrath’s list of enemies.”

​Thorne looked at Lucian with eyes gleaming with anticipation. ”Shall we strike them first, Your Grace?”

​”No.” Lucian shook his head slowly. ”The timing isn’t right. Our focus now is the Iron Empire. They are the ones threatening Northreach at this moment. Solari... we’ll put them on hold.”

​Nyx nodded. ”Orders, Your Grace?”

​”You come home with us. But keep your eyes open. Solari will keep moving—we must know when and where.” Lucian looked Nyx straight in the eye. ”Your task is not just to pull back the curtain on Solari’s crimes. Your task is to ensure they cannot interfere with us while we drive the Iron Empire out of Northveil.”

​”Understood, Your Grace.”

​The atmosphere inside the carriage returned to silence. Only the sound of the wheels creaking on the cobblestone road accompanied their long journey.

​Thorne wanted to speak—to vent his emotions, to plan a counter-attack. But he knew now was not the time. He could only remain silent, his hands still clenched, his eyes fixed on the carriage floor with burning hatred.

​Outside, Borch led the guards on their horses. He didn’t know what Nyx had just reported—but as an elite soldier who had survived the hallucinations in the cave, he knew. He knew that threats never came from just one direction.

​The journey home would take weeks. The horse carriage, though safe and inconspicuous, could not rival the speed of Northreach’s Lightning Rail. But Lucian chose this—let the enemy think they were weak, let the enemy underestimate them.

​Let them continue to move in the shadows.

​When Sudrath is ready, they will know.

​In Iron Hearth, the sun was also beginning to set. But here, in the most advanced industrial city in all of Aethelgard, night did not mean stopping.

​The main workshop of Sudrath Tech was alive. The sound of hammers forging metal, the hiss of steam from engines, the sparks from mana-electric welding—all blended into a symphony of a new civilization.

​Rianor stood in the middle of it all.

​His eyes were weary—not sleeping for two days would do that to anyone. But behind his exhaustion, there was a glint of satisfaction. He looked at the long shelves filled with components for the Sky-Hunter helicopters and Carrier-01. Seventy-five percent complete. Only refinement and troop training remained.

​”Rianor.”

​Arvid approached, his messy black hair a bit disheveled—a sign that he hadn’t slept either. In his hand was a large roll of paper filled with sketches and formulas.

​”I’ve recalculated the mana-fuel ratio for the missiles.”

​Rianor took the paper, his eyes scanning every figure. ”And?”

​”And we have a problem.” Arvid sighed. ”The explosive power isn’t enough to destroy the Dual Railguns. We can blow them up, but not destroy them.”

​Rianor frowned. This was not good news. The Iron Empire’s Dual Railguns were the most lethal weapons they faced. If the missiles couldn’t destroy them permanently...

​”We need a bigger warhead.”

​”Or...” Hektor Torricelli appeared from behind a pile of iron. The Count of Northveil was now seen more often in the workshop. ”Or we don’t need to destroy them. We just need to disable them.”

​Rianor looked at Hektor. ”Explain.”

​Hektor stepped closer, took a piece of chalk from the table, and began to draw on a nearby metal board.

​”The Dual Railguns operate on the principle of accumulating steam pressure. They heat the boilers for hours, storing pressure in giant accumulators, then release it in a single shot. The weak point isn’t the barrel—it’s the boiler and its valve system.”

​He drew a large circle (the boiler) with steam pipes connecting it to a box (the accumulator).

​”If we can direct the missiles to this point...” He pointed to the connection between the boiler and the accumulator. ”...not to destroy, but to create a pressure leak. The steam explosion will disrupt the entire system. They won’t be destroyed, but they won’t be able to fire because the pressure will drop drastically.”

​Rianor was silent. His eyes moved quickly, calculating, analyzing, visualizing.

​”That... actually makes more sense.” He looked at Hektor with a newfound respect. ”We don’t need to destroy their weapons. We only need to make them useless when we attack.”

​Arvid nodded slowly. ”But we need precise explosive power. Not a massive blast, but a focused wave.”

​”Mana-Interruption Explosive.” Rianor allowed a thin smile—a rare one that only appeared when he found a solution. ”We have the data. We just need to scale it.”

​For the first time in weeks, Rianor felt a glimmer of hope.

​But that hope faded as he remembered.

​Father was still in Sol-Regis.

​Facing the lions ready to tear him apart.

​Rianor looked out of the workshop, toward the south—the direction of Sol-Regis. There, his father was fighting a different kind of war. Not with swords or rifles, but with words and authority.

​”Father...” he murmured softly.

​Arvid patted his shoulder. ”He’ll be fine. He’s Lucian Sudrath.”

​Rianor didn’t answer. He only continued to stare south, toward the darkening horizon.

​In the distance, on the road to Iron Hearth, a horse carriage rolled slowly—bringing home the Duke of Northreach, bringing home his father, bringing home their last hope.

​The war had not yet begun.

​But all the soldiers were already at their respective battlefields.