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

​The Sanctum checkpoint was nothing more than a squat, single-story stone building hunkered down just inside the city gates. No windows to allow for air circulation. No sacred ornaments. There was only a heavy teak door left wide open, and three grey-robed shrine guards inside—one assigned to frisking, one standing watch with a hand on his sword hilt, and one busy scribbling on a wooden table scarred by thousands of dagger gouges.

​Roland stepped into the stuffy room, which reeked of aged parchment and cold sweat, with his posture as calm as still water. Behind him, Rianor, Dom, Naya, Orva, and Adul followed closely, each hoisting or dragging their luggage from the carriage.

​The guard in charge of inspection—a stocky man with a thin beard and eyes that had spent too much time peeling back the lies of travelers—immediately pointed his chin toward the long table in the center of the room.

​”Pile all your belongings. On the table. Now.”

​Roland gave a subtle nod to his party. Thud... scrape... One by one, they deposited their items. Bundles of rough-spun clothing. Copper pots and cooking utensils. Coils of hemp rope. Dom’s standard steel sword. Naya’s wooden bow. Orva’s throwing axe. Visually, everything appeared as innocent as the standard inventory of a wandering merchant caravan.

​The bearded guard drew Dom’s sword from its scabbard. Shing. He weighed the sharp blade, squinted, then shoved it back into the scabbard with a rough shove. ”Why carry heavy weaponry like this?”

​”Standard protection for the lawless roads, sir,” Roland replied with a polite smile. ”Merchants transporting cargo always need the means to ward off bandits or wild beasts.”

​The guard merely grunted. He turned his gaze to Naya’s bow. ”And this toy?”

​”For hunting. We have to save our coin by eating game we catch in the forests.”

​The guard tossed the bow to the side. His rough hands began rummaging through the next pile until his fingers brushed against a hard, cold surface hidden within the folds of cloth. He pulled it out.

​”What is this?”

​Roland held his breath—only for a fraction of a second, a micro-pause masked by his practiced smile. ”Ah, that is just our ledger tablet.”

​It was Rianor’s crystal tablet. The flat, black plate shimmered dimly under the pale glow of the holy light orbs on the ceiling. The guard flipped it over with furrowed brows, staring at its obsidian-dark surface.

​”Ledger? What material is this made of?”

​”Natural crystal,” Roland answered smoothly, not blinking. ”Merchants in Eastmarch now use crystal tablets to carve their bookkeeping. It’s far tidier and safer than paper.” Roland chuckled softly. ”We aren’t fans of parchment. It tears too easily in the rain.”

​Tap, tap. The guard rapped on the tablet’s screen with his thumbnail. Fortunately, the system was in sleep mode. There was no light reaction whatsoever. The guard tossed it back with a careless flick. ”Proceed.”

​The next target was the Mana Glove. The guard lifted it into the air—a heavy metal gauntlet with a complex structure of micro-hinges at every finger joint. ”And this metal piece?”

​”It’s a mechanical hand guard,” Roland answered instantly. ”My brother works with high-heat metals. He’s a blacksmith at a forge.”

​The guard turned a suspicious gaze toward Rianor. Rianor met that stare with an expression as flat as a plaster wall.

​”You’re a blacksmith?” the guard asked.

​”Yes,” Rianor answered, a single syllable.

​The guard stared at Rianor’s hands—his eyes wild, searching for callouses or burn scars. But Rianor wore standard leather gloves that masked his skin, and fortunately, the guard lacked the initiative to order him to remove them. The black Mana Glove was tossed back onto the table.

​The mana fluctuation gauge was pulled out next. A small metal box adorned with indicator needles and rows of strange numerical digits on its surface.

​”And what is this strange box?” The guard gave a cynical snort.

​”That is a weather gauge, sir,” Roland didn’t allow a sliver of silence to take root. ”Very useful for predicting the direction of the rain. Merchants like us need to know exactly when a storm is coming so we can find shelter and protect our wares.”

​”Oh? How does this dead object measure the weather?”

​”The indicator needle is sensitive to changes in air humidity. The more humid and heavy the air, the more the needle shifts to the left.” Roland pointed calmly toward the mana gauge needle, which was currently detecting nothing. ”See? Now it’s resting on the right. That means the air is dry. A good sign for the journey.”

​The guard wrinkled his nose. He didn’t fully believe the convoluted technical explanation, but his brain was too lazy to investigate such trivialities. He pushed the device aside and reached for the next object.

​The ancient mana compass.

​”What is this one?”

​”A wind direction pointer. A mandatory item for long journeys. The needle always points toward...” Roland’s voice suddenly hitched in his throat.

​The compass needle was moving. It vibrated delicately on its own, slowly rotating to point straight south—responding to the dense mana pull emanating from the heart of Sanctum.

​The guard’s eyes widened. ”Wait. Why is the needle moving on its own without being touched?”

​Roland’s mind spun millions of times per second. ”That is because... of prayer, sir.”

​”Eh? Due to prayer?”

​”Correct.” Roland bowed his head in a pious gesture. ”We always bless it with holy prayer every morning at a shrine before our carriage wheels start to turn. The needle vibrates and moves because it is drawn by the blessing. The Goddess herself guides the direction of our path away from peril.”

​The guard froze, staring at the compass, then at Roland’s face, which radiated ’faith’ of the highest caliber. The guard couldn’t argue. How could you dare dispute the concept of ”the Goddess’s blessing” inside these city walls without being branded a heretic? With movements that were now far more cautious—bordering on respectful—he placed the compass back down.

​Only one item remained at the bottom of the pile.

​Adul’s communication box.

​The guard’s large hand grabbed it. A solid wooden box with heavy metal hinges. ”Open it.”

​Gulp. Adul swallowed hard. His hands shook violently as he unlatched the box. Inside lay rows of crystal panels, tangles of micro-fiber cables, and an orderly arrangement of metal buttons. The most absurd technology the guard had ever seen.

​”What demon’s object is this?!” The guard’s voice boomed sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword hilt.

​Roland took a step forward, placing his body between the guard and Adul. ”It is just a musical instrument, sir.”

​”Huh?! What kind of musical instrument looks like this?”

​”One that is currently completely broken.” Roland pointed at Adul, who had turned deathly pale. ”My younger brother is a street musician and a repairman. He is trying to piece it back together.”

​Adul nodded jerkily at an unnatural speed. ”Y-yes, sir! T-the strings are all snapped. This... this is the tone tube housing.” Adul pointed at the crystal panel with a trembling index finger. ”And these cables are the tone board. And these buttons... t-these are the string tuners.”

​The guard squinted, peering closer. He tried to digest the young man’s nervous explanation. Those fine cables... perhaps they were indeed a special kind of string. The crystal panel... maybe it was a sound plate. The metal buttons... could indeed be tone tuners. The guard purely didn’t understand music; he only saw a pile of junk that had been dismantled, non-functional, and most importantly: it didn’t resemble a weapon.

​”Can this thing even make a sound?” he asked skeptically.

​”Later, sir,” Adul squeaked softly. ”Once the assembly is finished. Right now... it is purely broken scrap.”

​The guard snorted rudely. He slammed the wooden lid shut and pushed it aside. ”Keep your trash.”

​Roland exhaled a long breath through his teeth. Very softly, so his shoulders wouldn’t visibly sag in relief.

​Scritch... scritch... scritch...

​The sound of the quill pen scratching stopped. The recording guard, who had been sitting silently at the desk, finished his entry in a large ledger, then looked up to stare at them.

​”You are cleared for entry.”

​Roland bowed politely. ”Thank you very much, sir.”

​”But remember this well,” the recording guard looked each of them in the eyes with a cold glare. ”In Sanctum, you are never alone. Every move you make is watched. Every whispered conversation you have is heard. Every foreigner in this city is under the Goddess’s eye. If you dare to do anything that... isn’t clean...” The man didn’t bother finishing the sentence. The threat hung thick in the air.

​”We are just humble merchants,” Roland answered calmly. ”We have no intention of causing trouble.”

​”All sinners always say that,” the guard lowered his head back to his ledger. ”Until they finally shriek in the cleansing room.”

​Outside the stuffy checkpoint, the night air of Sanctum greeted them.

​Smooth but narrow cobblestone streets stretched out like a labyrinth, tightly flanked by looming grey stone walls. Magical light orbs began to cast a pale yellow hue on every post, signaling that the afternoon had been officially swallowed by night. The townspeople went about their business at an overly regulated pace—no one was running, no one was shouting. Groups of shrine guards patrolled stiffly at every intersection, their grey cloaks fluttering ominously.

​Roland rubbed his face, dropping his diplomatic mask. ”Hah... we made it through.”

​”Only for this time,” Rianor corrected without turning.

​”Ck, can you let me enjoy this small burst of victory, Brother?”

​”I am merely correcting the facts. This isn’t a victory. It is merely an intermission.”

​Roland massaged his temples in frustration. ”You truly have a natural talent for ruining the mood.”

​The group began to walk slowly toward the city center in search of an inn. Their carriage moved sluggishly behind them—its wooden wheels creaking to break the city’s silence, while its newly installed wooden roof still wafted the scent of fresh pine resin. Dom held the reins in front. Naya and Orva guarded them from both sides of the street. Adul walked while clutching his communication box tightly to his chest.

​”Your acting in there was pretty great, kid,” Naya broke the silence, glancing at Adul.

​”E-eh... m-me? I was just... terrified out of my mind until I shook.”

​”And it was that natural panic that made that muscle-bound guard believe you completely.”

​Adul didn’t reply. But for the first time since leaving their base, the timid youth’s face flushed with a hint of pride.

​They finally found an inn not far from the main square. The Silver Bell—a grand two-story building adorned with small silver bells at the entrance. The owner, a bald man with a smile stretched too wide, welcomed their arrival with excessive hospitality.

​”Ah! A merchant caravan? Coming from afar? Please, come in, come in! We still have a few comfortable rooms left. And we have warm soup. Very delicious soup!”

​Roland booked three rooms and paid the rent using silver Northreach coins—which, fortunately, he had exchanged for local currency while still in Whitebridge. The innkeeper accepted them without many questions.

​As they stepped up the wooden stairs toward their rooms, Roland suddenly stopped midway. ”Tomorrow morning, we must immediately see Pastor Marius. To handle the advanced Travel Pass.”

​Rianor stopped exactly one step below him. ”Do you feel ready?”

​Roland looked up, gazing toward the round window at the end of the second-floor corridor. Through the glass, high atop the city’s highest hill, the Cathedral of Sanctum loomed—its bell tower shimmering coldly under the moonlight, while its massive silver dome reflected light from dozens of holy orbs hovering around it.

​Roland swallowed hard. ”Of course not,” he answered honestly. ”But as you often say, Rianor... we’ve run out of options.”