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

​Qaqortoq Station was far from the architectural grandeur of Iron Hearth. There were no artistic steel arches or rows of crystal lamps to please the eye. Its roof consisted only of rough gray stone slabs supported by old wooden pillars—some parts appeared cracked with age, yet they remained sturdy enough to bear the weight of the melting remnants of snow. Creeak... the wood groaned occasionally as a strong wind swept across the platform.

​Rianor stepped down from the carriage, his boot soles immediately met by a stone floor covered in a thin layer of crystal dust. The air here felt different; a dry, biting cold that pierced the tip of the nose, carrying a sharp scent of minerals and damp earth. In the distance, the rhythmic clanging of metal from the mining area sounded like a heavy, constant heartbeat—Ting! Pang!—a pulse that never ceased.

​”Do you see that?” Rianor pointed to fine dust particles glowing palely in the air, dancing in the dawn light. ”Raw mana crystals. They’re wasting too much precious material simply because the mine’s ventilation system is pathetic.”

​Roland followed him down, buttoning his wool jacket tight against his neck. ”Tsk, we haven’t even been on the ground for a minute, and you’re already trying to audit someone’s mine?”

​”I’m simply stating technical facts, Roland.”

​”Hmm, what a delightful hobby,” Roland deadpanned, adjusting his collar.

​A sturdy man in dark mining robes approached. His face was as hard as carved stone, but his eyes radiated respect. His hair was cropped short, and an old scar faintly divided his left cheek.

​”Welcome to Qaqortoq, Lord Rianor, Lord Roland.” The man bowed briefly but firmly. ”I am Josef, the trusted guard of Viscount Roderick Qan. He begs your forgiveness for not being able to welcome you personally—he is currently deep within the mine, supervising the excavation of a new crystal vein.”

​”Are there serious complications?” Rianor asked, his eyes narrowing as he watched the distant activity.

​”The new vein is quite deep, My Lord. The Viscount wants to ensure the safety supports are perfectly installed before the miners push further.” Josef turned toward the street outside the station, which was beginning to bustle. ”However, he has prepared everything: a carriage, supplies, and the latest route maps. If you are willing, let me escort you to the guesthouse to rest for a moment.”

​Roland nodded slowly. ”Thank you, Josef. Our stomachs do need filling before this long journey.”

​Josef led the group through the streets of Qaqortoq. Here, the asphalt of Iron Hearth was an unknown luxury—there was only packed earth with deep wagon ruts. Small crystal fragments buried in the dirt glittered between the stones, looking like unfortunate stars that had fallen and been trampled upon.

​The houses along the road were made of roughly cut mountain stone. Their roofs were low and flat, intentionally designed to dampen the fury of mountain winds. Stone chimneys puffed out thin white smoke—a small sign that the inhabitants were battling the cold before their hearths. Scritch, scratch... the sound of mining carts being pushed manually by workers mingled with the steam of breath escaping their mouths.

​Miners in dull robes occasionally turned their heads, casting brief, curious glances at the foreign group before returning to their pickaxes and shovels. In Qaqortoq, time was crystal, and crystal did not mine itself.

​The Viscount’s guesthouse sat at the end of the main road, a solid two-story stone building with small windows to minimize the intake of cold air. The interior was modest: roughly polished pine floors, a long table still showing the original wood grain, and a massive, glowing fireplace. There were no fancy crystal lamps; only rows of thick candles cast a dim yellow light across the room. On the wall, an old map of Qaqortoq hung with ink beginning to fade at the edges.

​Food was already laid out on the table: steaming mutton soup, dense black rye bread, local cheese with a sharp aroma, and a large pot of herbal tea. The scent of pine and ginger immediately filled their senses as they sat.

​”Well, it’s no Bjorn’s Nasi Padang,” Roland murmured, pulling out a chair. ”But the aroma is appetizing enough.”

​Rianor sat opposite him, immediately tearing into the rye bread. ”Bjorn’s is too spicy for my taste.”

​”Hah, all food tastes spicy to you.”

​”That’s because my tongue still functions normally, Roland. You’re the one who ruined your taste buds with piles of sambal.”

​Roland smirked mischievously. ”Speaking of Bjorn’s, you won’t believe who I ran into there yesterday afternoon.”

​Rianor stopped chewing, his eyes fixing on Roland with a look that said ’go on.’

​”Raphael.”

​”Raphael?” Rianor frowned. ”At Bjorn’s?”

​”With a girl. Her name is Elodie, a classmate if I’m not mistaken. They walked in together, sat with bashful faces—we even shared a table for a moment.” Roland sipped his herbal tea, his grin widening. ”Raphael—your little brother who once almost burned down the dormitory because his emotions boiled over—now sits quietly treating a girl to a meal at the most elite restaurant.”

​Rianor raised his eyebrows high. ”Raphael? You’re sure you didn’t missee?”

​”I was sitting right in front of him, Rianor. His face turned the color of a tomato when I teased him a bit.”

​”Hmm... remarkable.”

​”That’s your only comment?”

​”I’m still trying to process this information in my brain.”

​At a separate table by the window, Dom, Naya, Orva, and Adul ate their meal in silence. Dom remained as he always was—quiet and efficient. Naya and Orva occasionally whispered while pointing at the route map on the table. Meanwhile, Adul appeared busy tinkering with his communication box. His fingers tapped the metal surface with a nervous rhythm—tap, tap, tap.

​”The signal in this eastern mountain area is extremely unstable, My Lord,” Adul reported, his voice trembling slightly. ”But I can still lock onto the Iron Hearth frequency. I’ll try sending a test signal once more before we officially move out.”

​”Go ahead, Adul,” Roland replied calmly. ”Ensure the communication lines are clear. I don’t want us flying blind once we enter Eastmarch territory.”

​Adul nodded quickly, immersing himself back into the tangle of wires and signal-boosting crystals.

​Rianor turned his gaze to the window. The crystal dust outside was still floating, glittering like snow that had lost its way in the wrong season. ”They could truly increase mining yields by twenty percent if that ventilation was fixed,” he murmured softly, more to himself.

​Roland set his spoon down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ”Do you want me to leave a note for Roderick? ’Advice from a passing traveler: fix your ventilation. Sincerely, Rianor Sudrath.’”

​”Hmm, good idea.”

​”Eh? I was joking, Rianor!”

​”I wasn’t.”

​Roland let out a short laugh, then his gaze shifted to the map beside his plate. A red ink line stretched from Qaqortoq, piercing through the Eastmarch border, then curving sharply south toward Luminara. ”Three weeks,” he murmured. ”Three weeks trapped in a horse carriage.”

​”Still much better than walking through the grasslands.”

​”That isn’t comforting at all, you know.”

​After finishing their meal, Josef was waiting in front of the guesthouse. Behind him stood a carriage—not a luxury cruiser with gold carvings, but a carriage of sturdy teak with a low roof. Its paint was beginning to peel in several spots, but its large, iron-reinforced wheels were designed to conquer the cruel, rocky roads. Four muscular black horses stood quietly, their breath puffing white steam into the cold air—Huff... huff...—while their manes appeared damp with dew.

​Two mounted guards were ready beside the carriage, wearing thick coats with fur collars covering their necks. Their weapons were tucked neatly at their waists, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice.

​”Everything is ready, My Lord,” Josef reported. ”Two drivers will take turns steering. Provisions are sufficient for one week—there will be a waypoint at the Eastmarch border to restock.”

​Roland observed the carriage for a moment, then looked at Josef. ”What is the condition of the path to the east?”

​”The main route is still relatively safe, My Lord. However, as you approach the border, the terrain becomes rockier. A small landslide remnant was cleared last week. There should be no significant obstacles.”

​”Thank you, Josef. Convey our gratitude to the Viscount.”

​”I shall, My Lord. May your journey meet no hindrance.”

​Rianor boarded the carriage first, followed by Roland. The space inside was ample for the two of them to sit facing each other. The wooden seats were lined with thick wool cloth to dampen the jolts. Outside, Naya and Orva leapt into their saddles, escorting the departure.

​Dom and Adul went straight to the driver’s seat. They would take turns steering throughout the journey.

​The iron wheels groaned as they met the stones of the road. From his small window, Rianor watched Qaqortoq slowly recede—the cold stone houses, the shrinking chimney smoke, and the miners who began to disappear behind the bend of the hill. Before them, the dense pine forest began to welcome them, its protruding roots gripping the earth like giant fingers. The wind blew harder from the mountains, carrying the scent of snow that had yet to fall.

​Rianor opened his crystal tablet, letting the blue light illuminate his face. Meanwhile, Roland simply leaned back, staring blankly out the window, toward Eastmarch, toward Luminara, and perhaps... toward something much further beyond.

​”Draconia is still very far away, Roland,” Rianor said suddenly without taking his eyes off his screen.

​Roland didn’t answer. He simply closed his eyes, letting the swaying of the carriage carry him further from home, toward the uncertainty that awaited on the eastern horizon.

​Far to the south—

​Highgarden Castle stood arrogantly atop the hill, its towers jutting sharply as if trying to stab the sky. From a distance, it looked like an eternal fortress—thick stone walls, solid black iron gates, and the Solari flag waving proudly at the highest peak. However, for anyone who had ever seen the shadow of Garrick’s Fury slice through the Northveil sky, they knew that no fortress was truly eternal.

​In his spacious study, Alistair Solari sat silently behind a black wood desk. A strategic map of Highgarden was spread before him. In the corner of the desk, a silver cup containing red wine was left to cool untouched. The large window behind him was slightly open, letting the morning wind in to play with the candle flames until they danced wildly.

​His fingers were just about to finish a line of text when the door was thrown open.

​Sir Romeni entered without knocking, his boots echoing loudly on the marble floor—Clack! Clack! In his hand, he gripped a letter with a conspicuous red wax seal: the crest of the howling Sudrath Wolf.

​”Your Highness.”

​Alistair did not immediately look up. He finished one last sentence calmly, set down his pen, and then turned. His cold eyes fixed on the red seal.

​”A letter from Northreach,” Romeni said. His voice was controlled, but his tightened jaw showed real tension.

​Alistair reached out without a word. Romeni handed it over with a stiff movement.

​Crack. The wolf seal split in two as Alistair opened it. He read the contents in silence. It took only a few seconds for him to digest the brief message.

​”Vacate this castle within twelve hours. This is the final warning. There will be no second warning.”

​There was no signature. Only the official Wolf stamp.

​Alistair refolded the letter very slowly. His hands did not shake. There was no explosion of rage, no shouting. However, his eyes changed—now sharper, colder, like a steel blade that had just been honed.

​”They think I will run like a rabbit?”

​Romeni remained silent, waiting for orders. He remembered the tragedy of Torshavn. He remembered the Gauss bullets that had shattered his best knights. He remembered the taste of blood in his mouth when facing Leofric. He knew this wasn’t a hollow bluff. However, he also knew his oath as a knight.

​Alistair placed the letter on the map of Highgarden, right in the center of the main fortress. His fingers tapped the table—Tap... tap... tap...

​”Summon all field commanders. I want every inch of the castle’s defenses re-examined. Ensure every cannon has ammunition, every archer has arrows in their quiver, and every knight is at their post.” Alistair fixed Romeni with a lethal stare. ”They want to give a warning? Let them come. Highgarden will never be empty as long as I still draw breath.”

​Romeni bowed deeply. ”Understood, Your Highness. I shall see to it immediately.”

​The door closed again with a heavy thud. Alistair returned to staring out the window, toward the north—toward Northreach, toward the enemy who had given him twelve hours of remaining time.

​He did not smile, but within his chest, a fire was beginning to burn through his patience.