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

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​The boy moved at a blistering pace. His footsteps were practically soundless.

​Roland trailed exactly two paces behind. Close enough not to lose sight of the boy’s back in the pitch black, yet far enough not to trigger his defensive instincts.

​The narrow alleys of the Luminara Capital at night were a dead, suffocating labyrinth. The magical light crystals along the streetlamps were completely dead. Only the crescent moon in the sky offered a meager, silvery glow.

​The boy never looked back. He offered no pleasantries or explanations. He simply kept walking.

​Roland chose to remain mute as well. However, his eyes were working three times as hard. His brain mapped every corner, every visual marker, and every echoing sound.

​A wooden window with a shattered clay flowerpot. Turn left. An abandoned old well with a rusted iron bucket. Turn right. If a worst-case scenario erupted and he had to flee alone, he needed to know the exact route back.

​Their footsteps finally halted in front of an old, seemingly abandoned bakery. Its glass windows were crudely boarded up with rotting planks. There was no signboard. No signs of life. It was purely a dull, grey stone building identical to the dozens of other dead structures along this alleyway.

​Knock. Knock.

​The boy rapped on the thick wooden door with a peculiar rhythm. Two quick taps, a brief pause, followed by three slow knocks.

​Creak.

​The door cracked open just an inch. A pair of dark eyes peered suspiciously from within, scanning Roland’s figure beneath the shadow of his hood. A second later, the harsh scrape of an iron deadbolt sliding back echoed. The door swung wider.

​”Get in,” a voice hissed from the dark.

​The moment he crossed the threshold, Roland instantly knew this place hadn’t baked bread in a very long time.

​The massive wooden racks once used to rest dough had been shoved violently against the walls, leaving a narrow path that led straight to a descending flight of stone stairs. Roland followed the boy down, taking the steps one by one.

​The basement was decidedly cramped. Its stone walls were roughly hewn, lacking any plaster. The lighting was incredibly sparse—relying only on a few tallow candles that flickered nervously in the drafts.

​Inside the room, three people were already waiting.

​An elderly woman sat on a flimsy, simple wooden chair. Her hair was tied back loosely, with a few stray strands hanging over her wrinkled temples.

​The woman’s grey eyes looked world-weary. Her hands rested calmly on the lap of her worn cloak.

​Beside her chair stood a middle-aged man, his fingers stained white with chalk dust. Meanwhile, in the furthest corner, a teenage girl sat huddled, hugging her knees tightly. Her eyes were vigilant, yet entirely devoid of fear.

​These were not mercenaries. Nor were they cold-blooded assassins. They were purely ordinary, lower-class citizens.

​This place was clearly not a primary military headquarters for the Pagan Order—it was merely a small, grassroots contact cell.

​The boy who had acted as their guide stepped beside the old woman’s chair. ”He’s the one who carved the new symbol at the market this morning, Morwen.”

​The old woman, Morwen, looked up. She stared at Roland for a long time, as if trying to strip away the facade and peel back the motives hidden beneath his face. ”You... intentionally baited us?”

​Roland gave a slow nod, pulling his hood back just enough to reveal his forehead. ”Yes.”

​”Why?”

​”I have highly valuable intelligence. Concerning the Church’s movements, and what truly transpired behind the scenes at the Colosseum yesterday.”

​Morwen didn’t look impressed in the slightest. She merely let out a faint snort. ”We already know all the details. Ten anomalous demons. The emergence of a mysterious mage. Right down to the direct intervention of two Master Arcanum.”

​The old woman tapped the armrest of her chair slowly. ”We have eyes everywhere, young man. Even in the darkest corners.”

​Roland didn’t flinch. His stance remained rock solid. ”Then, do you also know the fate of the foreign youth who was captured after the incident?”

​”You mean the boy who wielded that bizarre magic?” Morwen stared at Roland more sharply. ”Yes, we know he was dragged to Magniora Tower. What of it?”

​”He... is my brother.”

​The movement of Morwen’s hand instantly froze.

​The chalk-stained man beside her reflexively took a half-step forward, while the teenage girl in the corner straightened her back. The atmosphere inside the room suddenly pulled as taut as a fully drawn bowstring.

​Morwen narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing every line on Roland’s face—searching for signs of deceit, a trap, or the typical nervousness displayed by Church spies.

​Yet Roland stood as still as a marble statue. His breathing was even. His shoulders relaxed. Not a single drop of cold sweat beaded on his temple.

​”Hmm... that is new information,” Morwen finally admitted, the tension in her shoulders loosening slightly.

​Roland had no intention of wasting time with pleasantries.

​”I am not asking your Order to storm the tower and rescue him,” Roland cut straight to the heart of the matter. ”I am only asking you to pass a critical message to your highest-ranking leaders.”

​Morwen leaned back against her chair. ”What message?”

​”The Church is hiding a colossal secret. Something that, if exposed, will shatter the very foundation of their power across this entire continent.”

​Roland leaned forward slightly. ”My brother holds the key to that secret. If you are willing to help me break him out of Magniora’s chains... he will open his mouth. He will broadcast that secret to the ears of every citizen in Luminara.”

​Morwen fell silent.

​The chalk-stained man beside her stared at Roland with a deeply furrowed brow, as if calculating the exact degree of the diplomat’s insanity. Silence reclaimed the room. Only the faint sizzle of melting wax dripping onto the wooden table could be heard.

​”You are asking our Order to risk the lives of hundreds of our members,” Morwen said, her voice growing heavy, ”for a secret whose shape you cannot even explain right now.”

​”I am not asking you to blindly trust me.” Roland stared directly into Morwen’s grey eyes. ”I am merely asking you to pass it up the chain. Let your leaders... make the logical decision.”

​A long pause stretched between them. The air in the room felt incredibly oppressive—not due to the threat of weapons, but the clash of two egos meticulously calculating each other’s worth.

​Morwen finally let out a long exhale. ”Return to that market stall in three days. I will pass this insane message of yours up the ladder. That is the absolute limit of my authority right now.”

​”That is more than enough,” Roland replied calmly.

​”This boy will guide you back out to the main street.” Morwen pointed at the young boy with her chin. ”And remember this warning well, young man. Never attempt to tail us. Never try to find your way back to this place on your own.”

​Morwen fixed Roland with a chilling, threatening glare. ”If you break that rule... we will ensure this door never opens for you again. Ever.”

​”Understood,” Roland answered smoothly.

​He pulled his hood back up and turned toward the stone stairs, where the boy guide was already waiting in silence.

​At the mouth of a dark alley near the abandoned bakery, the boy stopped and pointed toward the brighter end of the street across the way. ”Just head straight from here. You’ll pop right out onto the main thoroughfare.”

​Without waiting for Roland’s reply, the boy turned around and vanished back into the darkness.

​Click... Thud.

​Roland heard the harsh sound of a door shutting, followed by the heavy scrape of a wooden barricade sliding into place from the inside. He now stood alone, the biting night wind of the Capital chilling his neck.

​Roland stared at the quiet alley for a moment. He deliberately memorized the coordinates of this location, mapping out the areas he needed to avoid so as not to trigger the Order’s suspicion.

​With unhurried steps, he began the walk back to their warehouse hideout.

​Creak.

​Before Roland’s hand even touched the handle of the old warehouse door, it was pulled open from the inside. Dom stood solidly in the doorway.

​”My Lord!” Adul instantly leaped up from his wooden crate. His panicked movement nearly caused him to trip over his own feet. ”A-Are you alright, Lord Roland?! They didn’t do anything bad to you, did they?!”

​”I’m safe,” Roland answered briefly, stepping into the dim warmth of the warehouse.

​Eva stood up from her dark corner, her eyes demanding answers. ”What was the result?”

​”They took the bait,” Roland said, shrugging off his tattered cloak. ”They agreed to pass the message to their top leadership. We have to wait here for three days.”

​Naya, who had been leaning against a wooden pillar, clicked her tongue softly. Tch. ”Three days? That’s an eternity in a situation this volatile, My Lord.”

​”We hold no other bargaining chips right now, Naya.”

​Adul wrung his hands anxiously. He swallowed hard. Gulp. ”M-My Lord... three days... what if inside there... Lord Rianor is tortured or... e-executed?”

​Roland looked straight at Adul. His gaze was no longer as cold as the night, but instead radiated a faint, psychological exhaustion.

​”Rianor will not die within these three days, Adul.”

​”H-how can you be so sure?”

​”Because the Church didn’t capture him to kill him,” Roland answered, his tone unwavering. ”They dragged him to Magniora because they are terrified out of their minds. And a terrified man... will never dare extinguish his only source of information before he gets the answers he desperately wants.”

​Adul was stunned by the logic. He slowly nodded, feeling a sliver of relief wash over him.

​Roland walked back toward the glassless window frame. He leaned his shoulder against it, his eyes once again locked onto the silhouette of Magniora Tower, rising silently beneath the moonlight.

​Dom stepped slowly, planting himself firmly beside Roland. He didn’t speak; he merely positioned his massive frame as a shield to block the cold drafts from hitting his master.

​”You really didn’t approve of me going to meet them alone earlier, did you, Dom?” Roland murmured without taking his eyes off the tower.

​Dom remained silent for a moment before answering in his deep rumble. ”I disapprove of many of the insane risks you take, My Lord. But... you remain our master.”

​The corner of Roland’s lips ticked upward slightly—a thin smile nearly invisible in the dead of night. ”Get some sleep, Dom. Starting tomorrow, the waiting game begins.”

​Meanwhile...

​Deep within the freezing labyrinth of Magniora Tower.

​Inside a windowless, circular stone cell illuminated only by a slowly melting tallow candle... Rianor furrowed his brow. His eyelids, which felt as heavy as lead, slowly fluttered open.

​He had no idea where he was. His entire body was tightly bound with freezing iron shackles to a thick stone chair fused to the floor. His Mana Glove was missing from his right hand.

​His head pounded with an excruciating migraine, throbbing painfully—the forceful side effect of channeling the Spectrum magic that had leeched every single drop of mana from his body until he was bone-dry.

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​Amidst the suffocating silence, Rianor faintly heard the echo of approaching footsteps.

​A tall shadow slowly manifested from the pitch-black darkness of the cell corridor. An unfamiliar baritone voice, yet carrying a chilling vibration that Rianor would remember for the rest of his life, hummed softly through the freezing air of the cell.

​”You are finally awake, young man. Excellent.”

​The footsteps stopped exactly at the edge of the candle’s halo of light.

​”We... have a great many fascinating things to discuss tonight.”