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

​A thin veil of mist crawled low, shrouding the Eastmarch grasslands as dawn greeted the second day of their journey. Roland woke up feeling remarkably lighter. It seemed yesterday’s exhaustion had forced him into a restorative slumber, or perhaps his body was finally acclimating to the constant jolting of the carriage. On the other side of the camp, Rianor had been sitting upright since before the first light of day, poring over his maps under the dim glow of a small lantern.

​”Do you ever actually sleep?” Roland asked, crawling out of the tent. He rubbed his bleary eyes, his hair standing up in every possible direction.

​Rianor didn’t look up. His fingers traced the faded lines on the old parchment. ”I sleep. Just not for long.”

​”Tsk, that’s not sleep. That’s just ’standby mode’ for machines.” Roland spat to clear the bitter morning taste from his mouth.

​Around them, the camp was already a hive of activity. Creak... snap... Dom was tightening the saddle girths with steady, practiced pulls. Naya and Orva folded the tents with an efficiency that was clearly second nature. Meanwhile, Adul—who looked far more relaxed today—was preoccupied with his flickering communication box.

​”Signal’s stable this morning, My Lord,” Adul reported enthusiastically. ”The test signal to Iron Hearth was sent, and the acknowledgment came back clean.”

​”Good. Send our current coordinates.”

​”On it, My Lord.”

​Roland took a sip of warm herbal tea from his metal mug. The liquid burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat. He looked toward the eastern horizon, where faint outlines began to break the dominance of the grassy plains. A cluster of jagged rooftops peeked through the distance.

​”Is that a town?”

​Rianor folded his map with a crisp, rustling sound. ”Should be. If my calculations are correct, we’ve officially crossed into Eastmarch territory.”

​The town was far from grand. Its cobblestone streets were uneven, worn smooth by decades of cart wheels and heavy footsteps. Low-roofed stone houses huddled together, their chimneys puffing out plumes of gray smoke into the morning sky. This wasn’t Qaqortoq with its bustling trade, nor was it a suffocating mining town. This was a transit hub—a place where travelers shed their weariness and filled their bellies before continuing the long haul south.

​The morning market in the square began to pulse with life. The scent of fresh bread from the kilns mingled with the aroma of damp earth and woven textiles. However, Roland’s attention was drawn to a two-story building at the corner of the square. Built of gray stone, its weathered wooden sign featured peeling paint and the symbol of crossed swords.

​The Adventurers’ Guild.

​Directly across from it sat a shop with dust-coated glass displays showcasing small bottles of vibrant liquids. A crooked signboard hung precariously, its name nearly illegible.

​”Hikarizawa,” Rianor murmured softly.

​”You’ve been here?” Roland turned, his eyebrow arched.

​”Not physically. But Elara once told me about this place.”

​Roland eyed the closed guild doors. ”You coming in?”

​Rianor was already turning toward the shop across the street. ”I’ll head over there. Give me an hour. We’ll meet back at the carriage.”

​Roland nodded. He signaled his team. ”Naya, Adul, with me. Dom, Orva—stick with Rianor.”

​Creeeeeak...

​The guild door opened with a long, piercing groan. Inside, the scent of old wood clashed with spilled ale and something resembling sweat and candle wax. The interior was dim. Several tables were occupied by figures in tattered cloaks, their weapons leaning against their chairs. In a corner, a massive man snored loudly, his head buried in his arms on the table.

​The receptionist—a woman with short blonde hair and a thin scar cutting through her left eyebrow—looked up. She sized Roland up from head to toe before glancing at the two guards behind him.

​”Merchant?” she asked curtly. Her tone was flat, radiating chronic boredom.

​”Something like that,” Roland replied with a polished, diplomatic smile. ”Passing through on our way south. I need some intel. Regarding Luminara.”

​”Information has a price tag here.”

​”I’m familiar with the rules.”

​Roland placed several silver coins on the scarred wooden counter. The receptionist eyed them for a moment, then sighed softly. ”Take a seat. I’ll call someone who knows things.”

​Roland chose a table near the window. Naya leaned against the wall in a vigilant stance, while Adul sat beside Roland, clutching his bag. Before long, a man in a tattered brown robe approached. His hair had gone white and his face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s.

​”Heard you’re digging for dirt on Luminara,” the man said, sitting down uninvited.

​Roland slid an additional gold coin across the table. Clink. ”The Holy City. Who’s really pulling the strings? And how do they treat outsiders?”

​The old man pocketed the coin with a swift, fluid motion. ”Luminara is led by the Holy Maiden. She’s young, but don’t be fooled. Her authority can silence even the most stubborn elders. The people around her... that’s the real problem. The Council of Elders, the Paladins, and the Inquisitors. They are far more dangerous than the Maiden herself.”

​”And for those of us just passing through?”

​”Depends. If you’re just there for trade, they’ll only watch you with suspicion. But start talking theology or using magic that doesn’t fit their doctrine... you might end up in a dungeon that hasn’t seen sunlight in centuries.”

​Roland tapped his finger on the table, processing the information. ”What about the road conditions ahead?”

​”Safe enough. There’s a forest to the east that occasionally spits out monsters, but as long as you stick to the main path, you’ll be fine.” The old man stared intently at Roland. ”You aren’t exactly a ’common’ merchant, are you?”

​”Just a very cautious one,” Roland replied calmly.

​The conversation was shattered by the harsh scrape of a chair against the floorboards from the table behind them. Sreeeeeek!

​The chatter in the room died instantly. A mountain of a man stood up—broad-shouldered, arms as thick as a normal man’s thigh, with a raw, diagonal scar on his right cheek. He looked heavily intoxicated, his breath reeking of cheap ale.

​”Hey.” His voice was deep and raspy. ”You. The outsider.”

​Roland turned slowly. He didn’t stand, nor did he show a flicker of fear. His calm only served to heighten the tension in the room.

​”Can I help you?” Roland asked coolly.

​”You think you can just waltz in here with your fancy clothes and gold, and everyone’s gonna lick your boots?” The man stomped forward, the nearby tables rattling as he passed. ”You rich city types are all the same. Flashing coin, then leaving without a damn thought for us.”

​”I have no ill intent. I am simply seeking information.”

​”Hah! Information?” The man snorted, ale dripping from his matted beard. ”Here’s some info for you: I don’t like your face.”

​His massive hand shot out like a bolt, grabbing Roland’s lapels and hoisting him up until Roland’s toes barely touched the floor. Naya, silent until now, shifted her weight slightly. She didn’t move yet. Her eyes were fixed on Roland, waiting for the signal.

​”I’m not looking for trouble,” Roland said, his voice remaining stable despite his collar being pulled taut. ”I’m just passing through.”

​”Too late. Trouble found you.”

​Roland didn’t resist physically. Instead, he met the drunkard’s gaze with a chillingly flat expression. ”I won’t fight you.”

​One subtle blink. That was all it took.

​Whoosh!

​Naya moved like a shadow. No sound, no verbal warning. Her hand caught the giant’s wrist, twisting it at an anatomically impossible angle. The man roared in pain as his grip on Roland snapped. Before he could swing his free fist, Naya’s index and middle fingers had already slammed into a nerve point at the base of his neck.

​Thud!

​The giant collapsed to his knees, one side of his body instantly paralyzed. His eyes widened, his mouth agape but silent.

​”Quiet,” Naya whispered. Her voice was low, carrying a threat colder than a blade’s edge.

​Two other adventurers at the back table stood up, hands reaching for their sword hilts. ”Let him go!”

​Naya didn’t flinch. She was already calculating the distance and angles if the two attacked. Adul had retreated to a safe corner, his hand hovering over the communication device at his waist, ready to call for backup from the carriage.

​But before blood could be spilled—

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​Rhythmic footsteps echoed from the wooden stairs in the corner. Each step seemed to add a suffocating weight to the room’s atmosphere.

​The adventurers who were about to charge froze in their tracks. The aura inside the guild shifted drastically—it felt heavy, like water slowly rising to drown out their breath. This wasn’t just physical intimidation. This was the pressure of someone intimately familiar with blood and death.

​A man descended the stairs calmly. He wasn’t particularly large or tall, but his presence made the entire room feel small. Several adventurers lowered their heads, unable to meet his gaze.

​The Hikarizawa Guild Master.

​He walked past the tables, his boots coming to a halt directly in front of Roland. Roland sat back down, composed, despite his slightly wrinkled suit.

​”You,” the Guild Master’s voice was gravelly, like two massive stones grinding together. ”You come to my guild. You bring high-class shadows. You start a ruckus. And yet you sit there as if this were nothing more than afternoon tea?”

​Roland straightened his collar with a calm, microscopic movement. He then raised both hands, palms open. ”I only came for information. No other intentions.”

​”You could have gotten your info without making my men kiss the floor.”

​”I didn’t start it. He was just... over-enthusiastic,” Roland replied lightheartedly.

​The Guild Master glanced at Naya, who was still pinning the giant. ”Release him.”

​Naya looked at Roland. A small nod. She let go. The giant slumped forward, gasping for air as he clutched his neck.

​”Get out,” the Guild Master barked at the man. ”You’ve brought enough shame to this place.”

​The drunkard scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door. The Guild Master turned back to Roland, his sharp, aging eyes dissecting every layer of the man before him.

​”Now tell me. Who are you really?”

​Roland offered a thin smile—the one he often used at the negotiating table. ”Just a merchant heading south. I’ve paid for my information, and I hope our business ends here.”

​Silence hung in the air. Finally, the Guild Master let out a low snort.

​”You got what you wanted. Now leave, before I change my mind.”

​Roland stood and gave a slight bow. ”Thank you for the hospitality.”

​”That wasn’t hospitality. That was tolerance.”

​Across the square, Rianor pushed open the door to the alchemist shop. It gave a faint, melodic creak.

​Instantly, the chaos of the market outside vanished, replaced by a silence filled only by the ticking of an old wall clock. High wooden shelves towered above him, packed with glass bottles containing various powders and liquids. The scent was dense: a mixture of lavender, sulfur, and the sharp sweetness of cinnamon.

​Behind the counter, an Elf woman was hunched over a thick tome. Her blonde hair was tied back loosely, and small spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. Her skin was pale—a trait of her race that rarely saw the sun. Her sharp eyes held secrets from a very long time ago.

​”Are you a merchant?” the elf asked without looking up.

​”A researcher.”

​The woman finally looked at Rianor over her glasses, gauging whether this young man was about to waste her time. ”Researchers usually don’t have money. They just browse and leave.”

​Rianor didn’t answer. He walked along the shelves, his fingers stopping at a bottle containing pale blue crystals. Mana Salt.

​He placed the bottle on the counter along with several silver coins. ”I’m buying.”

​The elf looked at the bottle, then at Rianor’s silver. The corner of her lip twitched upward. ”You know what this is?”

​”Mana Salt. Useful for stabilizing volatile mana reactions. It’s hard to find this level of purity elsewhere.”

​”Hmm... you really are a researcher.”

​The woman’s name was Mirren. Rumor had it the shop had stood for decades. Rianor didn’t care much for its history, but he caught the bitter edge in Mirren’s voice when she mentioned the Church’s ”extra taxes” on potions deemed ”unholy.”

​”They hate Nightshade,” Mirren muttered, pointing to a dark purple bottle. ”Call it a cursed plant. But they never complain when the anesthetic made from it saves their Paladins’ lives.”

​Rianor noted that in his mind. There was a hairline fracture between the people of Eastmarch and the Church’s authority. If this discontent was widespread, their journey to Luminara might have a crack they could exploit.

​As Rianor prepared to leave, the door opened. Two adventurers entered, their clothes caked in dust.

​”Mirren, you still got any healing potions?” asked the woman with a bow on her back.

​”Prices up again?” her companion, a swordsman, chimed in.

​”Price is the same. It’s the taxes that are insane,” Mirren replied sardonically.

​”Dammit,” the man grumbled. ”Back in the day... Elara could have closed this wound with a snap of her fingers. No expensive potions needed.”

​Rianor’s steps halted right at the threshold.

​His back stiffened for a heartbeat. That name—Elara—seemed to vibrate in the air.

​”Elara?” Mirren asked. ”The mage that used to be in your party?”

​”Yeah. But that was five or six years ago. Gods know where she is now.”

​Rianor didn’t turn back. He simply took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the sunlight. Dom was waiting for him outside.

​”My Lord?”

​”It’s nothing.” Rianor tucked the bottle of mana salt into his pocket. ”Back to the carriage.”

​An hour later, they reconvened at the carriage. Roland shared what he’d learned about the Holy Maiden and the strict surveillance in Luminara. Rianor, on the other hand, spoke of the growing resentment among the populace toward the Church’s taxes.

​”So, the Church’s influence here is beginning to wobble,” Roland concluded.

​”At least among the lower classes. We can use that.” Rianor climbed into the carriage.

​”Did you find anything else?” Roland asked, his eyes probing.

​Rianor stared out the window, watching the small town slowly shrink in the distance. ”Just a conversation that was buried long ago.”

​A very rare, faint smile touched the corner of Rianor’s lips, though no one noticed.