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

Chapter 168: Chapter 168: THE END OF THE FOUR

​09:30 AM. The sun rose higher, casting its light over a battlefield choked with smoke and littered with debris.

​In the skies, the struggle remained fierce. On the ground, the Sudrath forces began to close in from all directions.

​The final act had begun.

​In the northeastern sky, Seraphina led her remaining dragons in a relentless onslaught.

​Of the 250 dragons she had brought, only 127 remained airborne. The others had fallen, victims of the Air-Bombers’ steam cannons. But they did not falter. They kept moving, attacking, and flying at high velocity—for to slow down was to invite death.

​Seraphina beat her wings powerfully, weaving through a hail of fire. Around her, the other dragons followed suit—diving, breathing fire, and ascending in a lethal dance amidst the clouds.

​”Seraphina!” Kaelen’s voice crackled over the radio. ”We’re flanking you for support!”

​Twelve Sky-Hunters flew low, raining rockets upon the Air-Bombers. One by one, the dirigibles erupted, falling to the earth in a rain of fire.

​Thamrin, in his cockpit, fired without pause. One Air-Bomber exploded. Two. Three. Four. But their numbers were still vast. Every time one fell, two more seemed to rise in its place.

​”Kaelen, there are too many of them!” Thamrin shouted.

​”Keep firing! Don’t stop!”

​Seraphina heard the desperation. She knew she had to act. She had to take down their commander.

​Her eyes scanned the fleet—and found him. Arctus, within his massive command dirigible, shielded by dozens of escort bombers.

​”There,” she hissed.

​She beat her wings with renewed vigor. Her massive draconic form blurred as she tore through the enemy line.

​Steam cannons roared. A dragon at her side was struck, falling with a piercing shriek. Two others managed to evade. But Seraphina pressed on.

​She saw Arctus. The distance closed. A hundred meters. Fifty. Twenty.

​In that heartbeat, her form shifted.

​In an instant, she transformed from a massive dragon into a human. But the transformation was incomplete—her arms remained in dragon mode. Sharp, powerful, lethal claws were still fused to her limbs.

​She lunged forward, propelled by sheer momentum, directly toward Arctus.

​Arctus saw her. His eyes bulged. ”WHAT—”

​Too late.

​Seraphina smashed into the dirigible’s gondola. Her draconic claws clamped around Arctus’s throat.

​Both fell, dragged by momentum, out of the crumbling balloon. Seraphina didn’t care. She was focused on one thing: Arctus’s neck.

​”YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN?” she hissed.

​Arctus thrashed. His hands clawed at her grip. His legs kicked. But the dragon’s strength was absolute. He couldn’t breathe. His face turned red, then blue, then a sickly pale.

​Several Air-Bombers tried to close in to assist, but Kaelen and the Sky-Hunters were already there, intercepting them.

​”Stay back!” Kaelen roared.

​Seraphina tightened her grip. She stared into Arctus’s fading eyes.

​”For Roland,” she whispered softly.

​CRACK.

​Arctus’s neck snapped.

​His body went limp. His hands fell. His eyes turned hollow.

​Seraphina let go. Arctus’s corpse plummeted, hitting the ruins below with a dull thud. He didn’t move again.

​In the sky, Seraphina began to fall—she had no wings in her human form. But at the last second, a dragon dove and caught her, carrying her back into the fray.

​The Air-Bomber fleet descended into chaos. Their commander was dead. They had lost their direction. Some began to retreat, others fought on blindly, but without coordination, they were easily picked off.

​Kaelen saw the opening. ”ATTACK! WIPE THEM OUT!”

​To the south, Zoldrak and his dragons continued their assault.

​They flew at terminal velocity—striking and vanishing. They never lingered. Every time they slowed, the Heavy Cyborgs’ cannons roared. Some dragons fell, but the rest surged forward.

​”Lord Zoldrak, we’re losing too many!” a dragon cried at his side.

​”I know!” Zoldrak roared back without turning. ”But we cannot stop! If we stop, we die!”

​They spun, dove, attacked, and ascended like a whirlwind that refused to be stilled.

​Drayk, in the heart of his army, was gravely wounded. His claw was shattered from a previous dragon strike. The cannon on his shoulder was a ruin of scrap metal. Yet he stood his ground, barking orders.

​”DAMN DRAGONS! FACE ME DIRECTLY!” he bellowed.

​Zoldrak ignored him. He kept flying, kept striking.

​The Breaker Units were nearly extinct. Of the dozens, only a handful remained. The Heavy Cyborgs had been reduced to a third of their original strength. Junk Cyborgs scattered like dust in the wind.

​Zoldrak saw his chance.

​He ascended high—so high he was nearly invisible from the ground. Then, he dove like a falling star, aiming directly for Drayk.

​The wind howled in his ears. Fire gathered in his throat.

​Drayk saw him coming. He raised his shattered claw, bracing to parry—or at least to try.

​But Zoldrak did not strike with his claws.

​He opened his maw.

​Dragon’s Breath. A torrent of blue, incinerating flame—heat so intense it could liquefy steel—poured over Drayk.

​Drayk screamed. Not a human scream, but a sound of metal warping and flesh vaporizing. His armor turned to liquid. His flesh charred. His bones crumbled.

​In seconds, Drayk was nothing more than a pool of molten metal and ash.

​Zoldrak pulled up, not stopping for a moment. There was no time for celebration. The enemy still lingered.

​Drayk’s forces saw their commander die—melted into nothingness. But they did not flee. Cyborgs knew no fear. They continued to fire blindly, without direction or command.

​Zoldrak snarled. ”Destroy them all. Leave nothing.”

​Isafjord.

​The atmosphere was different here.

​Riven sat beside Lionel, who lay in his chambers. His wounds were severe—blood-soaked bandages covered his body. But his eyes were open. He could still see.

​”Lord Riven,” Lionel’s voice was raspy, barely audible. ”You... you saved us.”

​Riven shook his head. ”You held the line. I only came to assist.”

​Lionel smiled, despite his pallor. ”Without you, Isafjord would have fallen. I... I can never repay this debt.”

​Riven remained silent. His hands rested in his lap. There was nothing more to say.

​For a moment, silence filled the room, punctuated only by the distant sounds of soldiers clearing bodies and tending to the wounded.

​Then, Riven stood up. ”I must return.”

​Lionel tried to rise, his body swaying. Two soldiers immediately stepped forward to support him.

​”Lord Riven.” Lionel’s voice was firm, despite his weakness. ”Listen to me.”

​Riven turned.

​”I, Lionel Andreas, Count of Isafjord, do hereby swear.” His voice rose with effort. ”Not as a mere subordinate. Not out of obligation. But out of a life-debt. My blood, my soldiers, my city—all belong to the House of Sudrath. All for Northreach. I swear it.”

​Riven stared at him for a long time. Then, he nodded.

​”I will deliver your words to Duke Lucian.”

​The surviving Isafjord soldiers—only about 300 men—cheered. Their voices were hoarse and weary, yet full of fire. They raised their weapons in salute.

​Riven’s forces, the 800 infantry he had brought, stood at attention. They were ready to return to Iron Heart.

​”Back to the Maglev,” Riven ordered. ”We’re going home.”

​Before leaving, he glanced back at Lionel. ”Guard your city.”

​Lionel nodded. ”With my life.”

​Northveil, Command Hill.

​Reports flooded in one by one.

​From Kaelen: Arctus dead. Seraphina succeeded. Air-Bombers in chaos, half destroyed.

​From Zoldrak: Drayk dead. His forces are holding, but disorganized.

​From Thorne: Remnants of Martin’s army wiped out. Eastern sector clear.

​From Leofric: Tanks down to half, but still advancing.

​Rianor read every report. His face remained calm. No smile, no joy. Only focus.

​Hektor exhaled a long breath at his side. ”Lord Rianor... three commanders are dead. Martin, Arctus, Drayk. Only Rudigor and Varkon remain.”

​Rianor nodded, his eyes fixed on the map. ”It’s not over yet.”

​He picked up the radio. ”All units, listen. Rudigor is still in the north. Their forces may be depleted, but they are still dangerous.”

​His voice was steady and authoritative. ”Leofric, advance from the west. Thorne, from the east. Zoldrak, from the south. Seraphina, you hold the sky—make sure no one escapes.”

​The responses came in succession. ”Understood.” ”Ready.” ”Copy that.”

​Rianor turned to Hektor. ”Borch?”

​Hektor checked the pager. ”Still at the eastern building. Hasn’t moved.”

​Rianor nodded. He opened a channel to the Ghost Squad’s private frequency.

​”Borch. Varkon is your target. Long range. High difficulty.”

​Borch’s voice came back, flat as ever. ”Understood.”

​No other words were needed.

​In the north, Rudigor stood amidst the remnants of his army.

​Of the tens of thousands—perhaps nearly a hundred thousand cyborgs—only thousands remained. Maybe three or four thousand. The rest were scrap, ash, or fragments scattered across the field.

​Varkon, at his side, was calculating. His mechanical eyes whirred as they analyzed the situation.

​”My Lord, the ships are still intact. We can withdraw—”

​But before he could finish, objects streaked from the distance.

​Not one. Not two. Four.

​Garrick’s Fury Missiles. They shot across the sky from an unexpected angle, heading directly for the Iron Empire ships anchored in the rear.

​Varkon turned. His eyes widened. ”NO—”

​BOOM!

​The first explosion. One ship shattered.

​BOOM!

​The second explosion. Another ship was engulfed in flames.

​BOOM! BOOM!

​The third and fourth explosions. Two more ships sank into the icy waters.

​In seconds, the four ships—their only path of retreat—were total wrecks.

​Varkon stood stunned, watching the fire consume their escape. ”We... we can’t retreat,” he whispered.

​Rudigor didn’t answer. He only stared toward the command hill. There, in the distance, behind the smoke and dust, he knew Rianor was watching.

​”He calculated everything,” Rudigor murmured. ”From the beginning. He knew we’d try to flee. He knew exactly when to launch those missiles.”

​Varkon clenched his fist. ”So? We die here?”

​Rudigor offered a smile. Not a happy one. Not a winning one. A smile of resignation. The smile of a soldier who knew this was his final stand.

​”We fight. To the death.”

​To the south, Zoldrak continued the attack. To the east, Thorne began his advance. To the west, Leofric’s tanks ground through the rubble. In the sky, Seraphina and the Sky-Hunters waited. All eyes were on the north, where Rudigor stood.

​The siege had begun.

​Rudigor looked at his remaining forces. Thousands of cyborgs—once so terrifying—were now just broken remnants. Damaged. But still standing.

​He took a deep breath. ”Varkon.”

​”Yes, My Lord?”

​”Are you afraid?”

​Varkon was silent. His mechanical eyes blinked. ”I do not know what fear is.”

​Rudigor laughed—a bitter laugh, the sound of a man who had seen too many wars. ”Lucky you.”

​At the command hill, Rianor remained standing.

​Hektor reported the progress. ”The encirclement is complete. Rudigor has no escape.”

​Rianor nodded. He reached into his pocket. His fingers touched the Snow Chrysanthemum petal—still there, still warm.

​”Wait for me, Elara,” he whispered. ”I’m coming home.”

​Hektor looked at him. ”After Northveil is free... I will rebuild this city. Better than before.”

​Rianor gave a faint smile. ”We’ll build it together.”

​On the battlefield, Rudigor stood his ground. Still commanding. Still resisting.

​But his steps were starting to falter.

​The battle wasn’t over.

​But victory was in sight.