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

Chapter 166: Chapter 166: THE PINNACLE OF CUNNING

​In Northveil, the smoke grew suffocatingly dense. Three commanders were already on the field, and thousands of cyborgs continued to press forward. The Ghost Squad remained faithful to the rooftops, picking off targets one by one. The near-silent cracks of their Gauss Rifles harmonized with the roar of tanks and the cacophony of war cries.

​In Isafjord, axe and hammer continued to clash. Riven and Brakkar were locked in their duel, neither yielding. Every collision sent sparks flying, illuminating the weary faces of the soldiers on the battlements.

​And to the south, in the far distance, new shadows began to stir.

​Highgarden, Sunspire Palace.

​The room was opulent. Not merely wealthy—it was excessively lavish, to the point of feeling as though it were trying too hard to prove a point. Crystal chandeliers hung from ten-meter ceilings, each reflecting light in a thousand directions. Thick tapestries from overseas covered the polished white marble floors. On the walls, portraits of House Solari ancestors looked down with arrogant gazes, as if they were still alive and judging every soul who entered.

​On the highest seat, Duke Alistair Solari sat with casual grace. One leg was crossed over the other, one hand holding a gold-engraved wine glass, while the other rested on the red velvet armrest. Beside him, a bottle of Highgarden’s finest vintage—said to be produced only once a year—was nearly half empty.

​Before him, seven of his subordinate nobles sat in lower chairs. It was a seating arrangement that required no explanation: everyone knew who held the power in this room.

​Alistair smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator playing with its prey before the kill.

​”Gentlemen,” he began, his voice dominating the room without need for a shout. All eyes turned toward him. ”News from the north. The Iron Empire is advancing. The barbarians have breached Isafjord.”

​The nobles exchanged looks. Some smirked—a look of satisfaction they didn’t bother to hide. Others nodded slowly, as if confirming what they had long suspected. Two of the youngest seemed to be struggling to keep themselves from cheering.

​”Good,” said a noble in purple robes. He was advanced in years, his hair silver at the temples, but his eyes remained sharp. He was one of Alistair’s oldest advisors, having seen three generations of Solari rule. ”Northreach will crumble from two sides. There is no way they can survive.”

​”Precisely.” Alistair sipped his wine slowly, savoring every drop before swallowing. ”The Iron Empire controls a portion of Northreach. The barbarians seize Isafjord. Lucian is trapped.”

​Another noble, younger with a sharp face and thin beard, leaned forward. His eyes glittered. ”Then when do we move, Your Grace? Our forces have been ready for two months.”

​Alistair placed his glass on the side table. The clink of crystal against mahogany echoed clearly in the silent room.

​”Patience, Lord Rebel.” Alistair used the formal title for the young noble. ”Patience is the most powerful weapon in politics. You know that.”

​Lord Rebel backed off slightly, but his eyes were still full of fire. ”Forgive me, Your Grace. It’s just... we’ve waited so long.”

​”And we will wait longer still.” Alistair stood, walking slowly to the grand window overlooking Sunspire. Below, the city was waking up. Merchants opened their stalls, farmers walked to the fields, children ran in the streets. They had no idea that above them, their lord was planning the destruction of their neighbor.

​”When the Iron Empire has taken half of Northreach,” Alistair continued, his voice low but clear, ”when the barbarians have slaughtered half their forces, when Lucian has exhausted all hope—that is when we enter.”

​The purple-robed noble nodded slowly. ”And no one will accuse us? No one will be suspicious?”

​Alistair turned. His smile widened. ”Suspicious? Of course they’re suspicious. Queen Marianne has long been wary of me. Prince Leonardo as well. But proof?” He laughed—a short, cold sound. ”There is no proof. We are merely coming to the aid of a struggling ally. Is that not the duty of a nobleman?”

​Several nobles laughed along. Others only offered thin smiles.

​”Lucian is hated by the other dukes,” Alistair continued, returning to his seat. ”The King himself is starting to doubt him. Who will defend him? Eastmarch? Clarissa has already begun to antagonize him.”

​He picked up his glass again, pouring more wine. ”No one will defend Northreach. They will fall, and we will be there to... assist.”

​An elderly noble in the corner, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was raspy, like someone who rarely used it. ”And if the Iron Empire refuses to retreat after winning? If they keep Northreach?”

​Alistair looked at him. For a moment, there was a flash in his eyes—not of anger, but of appreciation. ”A good question, Lord Theodric. The answer is simple: they won’t be able to. It’s too far from the north. The logistics are too difficult to maintain. They will retreat on their own, or we will force them out under the guise of ’helping an ally’.”

​Lord Theodric nodded. ”Wise, Your Grace.”

​Alistair raised his glass. ”Gentlemen. I know we have all waited a long time. I know some of you are impatient. But believe me, the time will come. And when it does, we shall welcome it with open arms.”

​He stood. All the nobles followed suit.

​”To Northreach,” Alistair said, ”to their fall, and to our victory.”

​”To Northreach,” they all echoed.

​They drank.

​Outside the window, the sun began to rise slowly on the eastern horizon. But in that room, no one saw it. They were too busy imagining a victory that was not yet certain.

​Isafjord, The Breach.

​Riven’s mechanical axe clashed with Brakkar’s giant axe.

​CLANG!

​Sparks scattered with every impact, illuminating the weary faces of the soldiers still fighting behind them.

​CLANG! CLANG!

​Brakkar advanced like a storm. There was no pattern, no technique—only raw, brutal power. Every swing of his axe could tear through steel, could shatter stone. He was massive, two and a half meters tall, with muscles bulging like the roots of an ancient tree. Yet he was fast—terrifyingly fast for his size.

​But Riven was his equal.

​He stepped back, dodging a slash close enough to shear off his nose. Stepped forward, counter-attacking toward Brakkar’s midsection—but the mechanical axe only grazed that thick, leathery skin. Retreating again. Advancing again. It was a dance—a dance of death that could end at any moment.

​”YOU ARE STRONG, HUMAN!” Brakkar roared between strikes. His voice boomed, overpowering the din of battle. ”I HAVE NEVER FOUGHT A HUMAN AS TOUGH AS YOU!”

​Riven didn’t answer. He was purely focused. His eyes tracked every one of Brakkar’s movements, searching for a gap, a weakness. He had fought cyborgs, tanks, and monsters—but facing a barbarian of this scale was a new experience.

​Brakkar swung again—horizontal, lethal. Riven parried, but the force of the blow sent him back three steps. His breath grew ragged. His right arm trembled slightly—a sign his muscles were beginning to fatigue.

​Brakkar saw it. He laughed—a loud laugh that revealed his sharpened teeth.

​”YOU ARE TIRED! I CAN GO ON ALL NIGHT!”

​He lunged again. The axe came down from above—a strike that could split Riven in two. Riven parried with his mechanical axe, but this time his knee almost buckled.

​Behind them, the battle raged on.

​Riven’s forces—infantry with Sudrath Spears—continued to gun down barbarians trying to breach the fortress. Every time a group of barbarians surged forward, lead greeted them. Bodies were strewn before the breach, piling up like a mountain of flesh. Blood flowed through the stone cracks, forming small rivers that ran out of the fortress.

​Yet their numbers were still vast. Thousands. And they kept coming.

​The Monster Tamer was still active. The bald man with tattoos covering his body whistled incessantly—a high-pitched signal that summoned monsters from the woods. Every time a wyvern fell, two more appeared. Every time a basilisk died, three more crawled from the gloom.

​One wyvern dove low, trying to breathe fire toward the fortress. Before it could, twenty bullets tore through its body. It crashed, thrashing, as the fire it hadn’t yet unleashed scorched its own frame.

​Two basilisks crawled from the flank, attempting to scale the collapsed wall. Bullets struck their heads one by one. The first collapsed; the second managed to crawl three more meters before finally falling.

​But more kept coming. As if there were no end.

​Riven saw it in a flash between his duel. He had to be quick. He had to end this.

​Brakkar lunged again. His axe descended.

​This time, Riven didn’t parry. He dodged—to the left, fast as lightning. The axe slammed into the ground, shattering a large boulder into shards.

​In an instant, Riven was at Brakkar’s side. His mechanical axe swung—not at the torso, but at the legs.

​CRUNCH!

​Brakkar fell to his knees. His eyes widened—for the first time in the duel, he was truly shocked.

​”WHAT?!” he roared.

​Riven didn’t give him a moment. His mechanical axe swung again—at the neck.

​SQUELCH!

​Brakkar’s head was severed from his body.

​Blood sprayed violently, drenching the surrounding stones. The head hit the ground, rolling several times and leaving a trail of gore behind it. The giant’s body collapsed, the sound of its fall echoing back to the barbarian ranks.

​Riven stood over him, gasping for air. His chest heaved. His right arm shook uncontrollably. But he was still standing.

​He looked at the corpse for a moment, then turned to his forces.

​There was no cheer. No cry of victory. Only heavy breathing and the sound of distant gunfire.

​But Riven’s forces—the infantry he had brought from Iron Heart—began to shout.

​”COMMANDER! COMMANDER! COMMANDER!”

​Their voices echoed through the stone cracks, filling the valley that had previously been filled only by the sounds of slaughter.

​The Isafjord forces, exhausted after hours of combat, could only offer weary smiles. Some sat down where they stood; others leaned against the walls; some wept silently.

​Lionel, supported by two soldiers, smiled. Blood still seeped from his wounds, but the smile was genuine. ”You... you actually did it.”

​The Monster Tamer, from the distance, saw it.

​He stopped whistling.

​His eyes widened—for the first time in his life, he was truly terrified. Brakkar, the barbarian leader who had been invincible for two decades, had just lost his head to a human.

​He whistled one more time. But this time it wasn’t a command. It was the signal to retreat.

​The barbarians heard it. They stopped. They saw Brakkar’s corpse. They saw their headless leader.

​And they ran.

​It wasn’t an orderly retreat. They weren’t moving in formation. They fled—ran as fast as they could, leaving weapons, monsters, and everything behind.

​Hundreds of bodies were left before the breach. Thousands of footprints marked their flight into the forest. The rest—perhaps still hundreds—vanished into the dark, never once looking back.

​The Monster Tamer fled with them.

​Riven took a long breath. He lowered his mechanical axe, letting the tip touch the ground.

​He turned toward Lionel. ”You’re safe.”

​Lionel smiled, though his face was pale from blood loss. ”You... you are incredible, Lord Riven. Truly incredible.”

​Riven didn’t respond. He only looked north—toward Northveil, where his brother was still fighting. Where Rudigor still stood. Where the other three commanders still roamed.

​”It’s not over yet,” he murmured.

​Northveil, Command Hill.

​Rianor received reports from all units. The voices from the radio filled the command tent—reports from Leofric, Thorne, Kaelen, and Borch. Everything blended into one.

​Hektor sat beside him, recording every piece of incoming information. The map before them was littered with markers—blue dots for their own forces, red for the enemy.

​”Borch and the Ghost Squad are continuing to fire,” Hektor reported. ”Their targets are focused on Martin’s forces. Every time Martin tries to advance, the snipers block him. Three of Martin’s field commanders are dead.”

​Rianor nodded. ”Martin?”

​”Still alive, but frustrated. He can’t move freely.”

​”Good.”

​”Thorne has split his forces,” Hektor continued. ”A third is with him, holding Martin from the front. The other two-thirds are with Elian, holding the front line against Rudigor and Varkon.”

​Rianor looked at the map. The blue dots in the eastern sector were indeed fewer. But they were holding.

​”Leofric?”

​”Still holding with the remaining tanks. Gideon reports ammunition is sufficient for the next two hours.”

​Rianor nodded again. His eyes moved across the map, calculating, analyzing, predicting.

​Hektor waited. One minute. Two. Three.

​”Rianor,” he finally asked, ”are we winning?”

​Rianor didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the map.

​And in that moment, from an unexpected direction—the southern sector, which had been silent and untouched by battle—something moved.

​Another fortress gate swung open. Not the main gate that had been open for some time. Not the side gate used for logistics. But a hidden emergency exit behind the ruins, invisible from a distance.

​Drayk emerged.

​The massive cyborg stepped out of the darkness, his giant claws gleaming in the firelight. He was nearly three meters tall, his body almost entirely robotic. His face—the remnants of human flesh that remained—resembled a goblin. On his shoulder, a massive cannon was mounted, ready to fire.

​Behind him, dozens of Breaker Units began to run. The four-meter-tall mechanical gorillas roared—a terrifying mechanical sound—and slammed the ground with their fists. Every impact created a small tremor.

​Behind them, hundreds of Heavy Cyborgs followed. Three-meter-tall cyborgs with thick armor and pneumatic cannons on their arms. They moved slowly but surely, like an unstoppable legion.

​And behind them, thousands of Junk Cyborgs flooded the battlefield from the unguarded side. Light cyborgs with integrated steam weapons—they were like a flood drowning everything in its path.

​Hektor turned pale. His hand trembled as he held the pager. ”Rianor... Drayk! Breaker Units! Heavy Cyborgs! They... they’re surrounding us from the south!”

​Rianor didn’t answer. His eyes were still on the map.

​And from the sky, shadows began to descend. Not dragons—but Air-Bombers. Dozens of aerial battle dirigibles descended low, ready to drop steam bombs and neurotoxins on the Sudrath forces.

​Arctus didn’t descend. He remained above, drifting among the clouds, leading his fleet. His thick pilot’s jacket fluttered in the wind, his goggles gleaming. His task was clear: deal with the dragons if they appeared. Ignore the ground forces.

​Rudigor saw it all from the center of the battlefield. He stood atop a destroyed tank, steam hissing from his armor. His half-optical eye glowed red.

​”Now,” he murmured. ”Now we crush them.”

​Varkon beside him nodded. ”Arctus will handle their dragons. Our ground forces outnumber them three to one.”

​Martin, from the eastern sector, saw Drayk’s arrival. He let out a delighted snarl, raising his hammer high.

​”FINALLY! DRAYK! SMASH THEM FROM THE SOUTH!”

​But at the command hill, Rianor smiled.

​It wasn’t a smile of panic. It wasn’t a smile of fear. It was a thin smile—so thin it only appeared when everything was going according to plan.

​”Finally,” he whispered. ”All of you are out.”

​Hektor looked at him in bewilderment. ”Rianor... this is an emergency! They’re surrounding us!”

​”No.” Rianor pointed at the map. His finger traced the newly appeared red dots. ”Look. They’re all here now. Varkon, Martin, Drayk, Arctus. There are no more reserves.”

​Hektor went silent. His eyes followed Rianor’s finger.

​Varkon in the north. Martin in the east. Drayk in the south. Arctus in the sky.

​All of them were out.

​”We... we were waiting for them all to come out?” Hektor whispered.

​Rianor nodded. ”Now it’s just a matter of destroying them one by one.”

​He picked up the radio.

​”Zoldrak.”

​Zoldrak’s voice came from above the clouds, heavy and authoritative. ”We are ready, Rianor.”

​”Wait. It’s not time yet.”

​Zoldrak didn’t ask why. He simply replied, ”We shall wait.”

​Rianor closed the radio. He looked back at the map.

​Before him were four large red dots—Varkon, Martin, Drayk, Arctus—and thousands of smaller ones.

​”Bring them all out,” he murmured. ”Let me show you the meaning of strategy.”

​06:30 AM. Dawn drew closer.

​In Isafjord, Riven stood over Brakkar’s corpse. The barbarians had retreated. The Monster Tamer vanished into the woods. Riven’s forces cheered. The Isafjord forces offered weary smiles. Lionel was still alive, despite severe wounds.

​In Northveil, the battle still raged. Four commanders were on the field. The dragons were still above the clouds, waiting. Rudigor was confident. Varkon was confident. Martin was confident. Drayk was confident. Arctus was confident.

​But Rianor was smiling.

​And to the south, in Highgarden, Alistair Solari still waited. Waiting for the Iron Empire and the barbarians to finish the job.

​But the barbarians had already lost. The Iron Empire had not yet won.

​And in the north, a genius was calculating his final move.

​Dawn drew closer. The war was far from over.