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

​The white marble bridge arched gracefully over a crystal-clear stream. Beneath it, schools of silver-scaled fish swam in tandem, reflecting the golden shimmer of the afternoon sun. Yet, this visual tranquility was marred by Rianor’s carriage creeping agonizingly across it.

​Creeeak... creeeak...

​The worn wooden wheels let out long, protesting groans as they ground against the bridge’s masonry. Its severely caved-in roof cast a grotesque shadow, like the shattered jaw of a monster, upon the water’s surface.

​Whitebridge Village welcomed them on the other side.

​Houses built of white limestone and red terracotta roofs stood in immaculate rows along the main thoroughfare. A symbol of the seven-rayed rising sun was perfectly carved into every lintel—not as mere ostentatious decor, but as an absolute reminder that the Goddess’s eyes watched every inch of life within. The cobblestone streets were terrifyingly clean. There wasn’t a single scrap of waste, no murky puddles, let alone a speck of mud. As the sun began to dip, magical light orbs flared to life atop short iron posts, casting a brilliant golden hue, ready to banish the night.

​The villagers turned in unison as the foreign carriage rolled past.

​They smiled. All of them. Simultaneously. And that was precisely what made the hairs on the back of Roland’s neck stand on end.

​”Fascinating smiles,” Roland whispered, leaning closer to Rianor. ”Far too friendly to be genuine. Exactly like the smile of a sly merchant offering cheap silk while hiding the tears in the folds.”

​Rianor didn’t reply. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were busy dissecting the architectural layout of the village. Every house shared the exact same vertical proportions. The pitch of every roof was identical down to the precise degree. It was too uniform, too precise for a village that had grown naturally. This was the result of extreme social engineering.

​”Do you think they’re smiling because they’re genuinely happy to welcome guests, or because a suffocating doctrine forces them to always paste a smile on for strangers?” Roland pressed, his eyes tracking an old woman who smiled warmly while clutching a broom.

​”Probability suggests a combination of both.”

​”Ugh, that answer doesn’t make me feel any better.”

​The Sunny Rest stood solidly in the center of the village. The two-story inn displayed a signboard of a smiling sun—an expression that somehow felt perfectly representative of this village’s false face. The owner, a plump, middle-aged woman named Lena, greeted them with the exact same smile: friendly, warm, yet somehow triggering Roland’s warning instincts.

​”You’ve traveled from afar, gentlemen?” Lena greeted softly, leading Rianor and Roland to a solid wooden table near the window.

​”From Eastmarch,” Roland answered smoothly. ”We’re a merchant caravan.”

​”Merchants?” Lena shifted her gaze out the window, staring at their carriage parked in the courtyard. The crumpled roof and the blackened, rotting rear panel stood out like a sore thumb. ”That is... a very ’interesting’ carriage design. What befell you?”

​”We were ambushed by a pack of wyverns in the mountain pass, Madam.”

​”Ah.” Lena nodded sympathetically, though entirely unsurprised. ”The outer mountains have not yet been fully blessed. But why did you choose that route? The main winding road is much safer beneath the Goddess’s protection.”

​”We intended to take a shortcut.”

​”The shortcuts of the faithless often lead to dead ends, sir.” Lena’s smile didn’t falter a single millimeter as she delivered the sharp reprimand. ”How many rooms will you require?”

​”Three. And please prepare meals for six.”

​Lena stated her price. Roland—who had spent over a decade honing his skills as a diplomat and market negotiator—reflexively opened his mouth to haggle. However, the words died in his throat when he noticed a micro-shift in Lena’s expression. The woman’s smile remained pasted on, but the look in her eyes instantly iced over, turning as hard as quartz.

​”We do not haggle in this village, sir,” Lena said. Her tone was still polite, but possessed an undeniable, iron-clad firmness. ”The price I stated is a fair one. To haggle over one’s livelihood is to doubt the measure of the Goddess’s blessing.”

​Roland snapped his jaw shut. Gulp. ”Of course. Forgive my insolence. The price is... perfectly fair.”

​The radiant warmth returned to Lena’s face as quickly as flipping a coin. ”Excellent. I shall prepare your rooms and a warm meal shortly.”

​As soon as Lena’s back disappeared behind the kitchen’s swinging doors, Roland immediately leaned toward Rianor. ”Good grief. I nearly got myself hauled before a religious inquisition just for trying to bargain down a room rate.”

​”Nearly, but you survived,” Rianor noted flatly, opening his notebook.

​”Thanks to my impeccable survival instincts.”

​That afternoon, while Naya and Orva stayed behind to help a local carpenter assess the carriage’s damage, Rianor and Roland walked through the village.

​Whitebridge was not large. There were a hundred houses at most, scattered along the main road that stretched from the marble bridge in the north to a small shrine in the south. Yet, its level of order was profoundly unnatural. Not a single house protruded further into the street than its neighbor. There was no peeling paint. Not even a wooden fence leaned a single centimeter out of alignment. It was as if an invisible hand had taken a giant ruler to the town, ensuring no citizen dared to deviate from the standard line.

​Roland kept a close eye on the residents. They all exchanged smiles. But strangely, no one argued in the market. There was no raucous laughter spilling from the tavern. No exasperated mothers shouting for their children to come inside. Everyone spoke in flat, measured tones—making the entire village feel like a giant, open-air library under the afternoon sky.

​”Hah... do you see that, Brother?” Roland whispered, nudging Rianor’s arm.

​”See what?”

​”That.” Roland pointed with his chin toward a young mother in front of the bakery.

​Her little boy, no older than five, had just pursed his lips and whistled to a passing bird. The mother instantly crouched down, gripped the boy’s shoulders hard, and whispered in a voice far too soft for a scolding: ”Don’t whistle, sweetie. Whistling summons the demon spirits from the north. The Pastor himself said so.”

​The little boy nodded immediately in absolute obedience. He stopped whistling. He didn’t cry, let alone argue.

​Roland shuddered slightly, looking at Rianor. ”I swear, I don’t know if that’s incredibly effective parenting or just terrifying indoctrination.”

​”That purely depends on which side you benefit from,” Rianor answered analytically.

​As they crossed the small village square, they spotted a frail old man sitting alone on a stone bench. In his lap rested a thick tome with a white leather cover, embossed with the rising sun. He was reading it in a hushed voice, almost like whispering an incantation—not for others to hear, but for himself. The wrinkles around his lips moved constantly, spelling out every word.

​Driven by his diplomatic curiosity, Roland approached. ”Excuse me, old man. Apologies for the interruption, but what book are you reading?”

​The old man looked up slowly. His eyes were pale blue, almost as transparent as the midday sky. ”Lux Aeterna, young man. The Eternal Light.”

​”Do you read it every afternoon?”

​”At every turning of the day. This is the very air we the faithful breathe.” The old man offered the village’s signature smile. ”You clearly aren’t from around here, are you?”

​”That’s right. We are travelers from the north.”

​”The north... so very far from the light.” The old man stared intently at Roland. His smile didn’t fade, but his gaze sharpened like a blade. ”Tread carefully here, young man. Because in this land... not every smiling lip is your friend.”

​Before Roland could respond to the cryptic advice, the old man had already bowed his head again, his lips returning to their silent chanting of holy verses.

​Night crept in. The six of them gathered in the dining room of The Sunny Rest.

​Lena served a large bowl of thick vegetable soup with a clear broth, accompanied by slices of toasted rye—an incredibly simple dish, yet warm enough to soothe stomachs that had been protesting since morning. Dom, Naya, Orva, and Adul took up a defensive formation at the adjacent table, while Rianor and Roland conversed quietly in a corner booth near the hearth.

​”What’s the estimated time for the carriage repairs, Orva?” Rianor asked as he tore his bread.

​”The carpenter asked for two days, sir,” Orva reported from the next table. ”Might stretch to three. The entire rear panel has to be completely dismantled. That wyvern acid ate deeper into the wood fibers than it looked from the outside.”

​”We still have enough time.” Roland turned his attention to Lena, who was wiping a table across the room. ”Madam Lena, we plan to continue our journey further south. To the capital. Is the route safe for trade?”

​Lena paused her wiping and nodded slowly. ”The grand city in the south? In that case, you will need an official Travel Pass.”

​”A Travel Pass?” Roland’s brow furrowed.

​”From the village Pastor. Every foreigner intending to cross the inner borders to the capital is required to carry a church-sealed Pass. That is an absolute law.”

​”And where might we acquire this pass?”

​”You must see Pastor Elias. His shrine is at the southern end of the village,” Lena pointed out the window. ”But...” she suddenly trailed off.

​”But what, Madam?” Roland prodded.

​”Lately, inspections of foreigners have been doubly strict. Rumors are blowing in the wind that many spies from the north have infiltrated our lands to spread heresy and pollute the faith.” Lena looked between Roland and Rianor with a scrutinizing glare. ”The two of you aren’t demonic spies, are you?”

​Roland deployed his most convincing diplomatic smile without blinking an eye. ”Of course not, Madam. We are merely humble merchants trying to earn our daily bread.”

​”Of course.” Lena’s smile bloomed perfectly once more, though her eyes told a different story. ”Pastor Elias always prays at the shrine every morning. You can line up to see him tomorrow.”

​The night grew darker. Whitebridge Village was locked in absolute silence. Only the glow of the magical light orbs atop their posts continued to shine, entirely replacing the function of oil lamps, which were seemingly considered archaic in this region.

​Inside their cramped room, Roland sat restlessly on the edge of his straw mattress. ”Pastor Elias. Travel Pass. Tsk, why does my gut tell me this religious bureaucracy is going to be a nightmare?”

​”Because nothing is ever easy in a place of high fanaticism,” Rianor answered coldly. He stood leaning against the window frame, peering out at the street through a crack in the curtains. ”The people here have strict regulations for everything. And their regulations are dictated purely by religious dogma, not anchored in logic. That type of person is the most impossible opponent to persuade in a negotiation.”

​”Rare of you to underestimate my silver tongue, Brother.”

​”I am not underestimating you. I am warning you of the facts.”

​Roland offered a thin smile. ”Alright. Warning received.”

​Creak.

​The bedroom door opened suddenly without a knock. Dom stepped in like a shadow, his face rigid. ”My Lords. There are eyes watching our inn.”

​Roland stood up immediately. ”Border guards?”

​”No. Just an ordinary civilian. A bearded man. He’s been standing like a statue in the corner of the alley across the street since dusk. Unarmed, unmoving. Just standing there, watching this window.”

​”Is he planning to report us to the shrine?”

​”Not yet,” Dom answered. ”Perhaps he’s just passive intelligence. Or worse, he’s patiently waiting for us to trigger a mistake worthy of being reported and punished.”

​Rianor stared at the glow of the magical orbs outside. His face remained expressionless. ”Their surveillance mechanism is highly effective. Citizens don’t even need to bother reporting. They only need to stare, intimidating in silence, until panic causes the target to slip up and make a mistake on their own.”

​”Then what are our counter-orders?” Roland asked.

​”Simple,” Rianor turned away from the window. ”Give them absolutely zero room to witness a mistake.”

​Roland pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. ”Hah... incredibly helpful advice, truly.”

​Outside, Whitebridge Village slept soundly beneath the blinding glare of holy orbs. At the end of the road, the silhouette of the shrine and its bell tower stood tall against the sky—the place where Pastor Elias awaited them tomorrow.

​And across the street from the inn, a man in a simple night robe still stood frozen in the biting cold of the night wind.

​His eyes never blinked. Watching. Waiting for them to sin.