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

​The morning of the third day crept into the warehouse exactly as the previous two had. Silent, biting cold, and entirely devoid of news.

​Roland was already standing by the window again.

​But this morning, there was a subtle shift in his posture. The bags under his eyes were no longer charcoal-black. The line of his shoulders wasn’t as stiff as a wooden board. Last night, the man had finally slept.

​Adul sat with his knees pulled up on his wooden crate. His fingers gently massaged his kneecaps, which were beginning to form dry, itchy scabs. ”Lord Roland... it’s the third day today, you know.”

​”I know, Adul.”

​”If, say... if they don’t show up... do we have a backup plan?”

​Roland didn’t answer. He didn’t budge from his spot overlooking the street. It wasn’t because his mind was blank without a solution. It was because the contingency plan in his head was far too bloody to vocalize.

​In the opposite corner, Eva—who had been leaning against the wall with her eyes closed—finally broke her silence. Haaah. ”What if they simply decided not to come?”

​”They will come,” Roland answered softly.

​”You can’t guarantee that a hundred percent.”

​”No.” Roland finally turned his head slowly, meeting Eva’s eyes. ”But I choose to believe they will. Because if I don’t, I will rot and go insane in this warehouse.”

​Eva fell silent. She didn’t argue back, but her tense jaw relaxed slightly. She didn’t push it because she knew Roland’s sanity was the only anchor holding them all together right now.

​Far away, deep in the underground labyrinth of Magniora Tower...

​The air was suffocating, reeking of iron rust and dried blood. Rianor Sudrath still sat shackled to the same stone chair.

​The burn wound on his left arm had begun to scab over severely. The skin that had blistered from Pyrrhus’s magic had now turned into a blackened crust that pulsed with agonizing pain every time he drew a breath. Throb. No doctor came to clean it. No one cared if it became infected.

​Two days had passed without a single additional interrogation. Pyrrhus hadn’t shown his face again. Let alone Selene.

​But Rianor didn’t waste his time wallowing in despair.

​Clack. Clack.

​Every time the heavy thud of guard boots echoed down the corridor—a twice-daily routine to deliver stale bread and unfiltered water—Rianor’s brain spun like a tactical recording machine.

​He scanned everything.

​Their uniforms: Standard grey robes with a silver sun emblem on the left arm. Identical to border outpost grunts. Weapons: Standard-issue steel short swords. No traces of magical circuit engravings on the hilts. Body language: They opened the door, shoved the tray onto the floor roughly, avoided eye contact entirely, and rushed out.

​”They aren’t elite Church units,” Rianor murmured inwardly, the corner of his lips twitching faintly. ”Just low-ranking grunts. Good.”

​Not only that, Rianor had calculated the precise spatial dimensions. Distance from the door to his stone chair: exactly four adult paces. The number of chain loops on his wrists: three layers, thick steel. The interval between guard shifts: tracking the rhythm of the paired footsteps out there, he calculated the exact timing to be every four hours.

​It must be the third day by now, he thought, staring straight at the damp stone wall. Roland must have already made a move.

​He had no idea what insane plan his brother was weaving out there. But he knew one absolute truth: Roland would never sit idle. He would never wait for a miracle. And he would never surrender.

​For Rianor, simply acknowledging that fact... was reason enough to stay alive.

​By afternoon in the warehouse hideout, the tension reached a boiling point.

​Adul had stopped massaging his knees. Naya had stopped running the whetstone over her daggers. Even Eva was fully on her feet. Everyone was waiting. Choked by anticipation.

​Roland remained perfectly still by the window.

​Then... Knock. Knock.

​Two taps on the wood. The exact same rhythm as three nights ago. Peculiar, yet soft.

​Shing! Dom’s hand was already gripping the hilt of his greatsword, darting toward the door before Roland could even turn around.

​But Roland immediately raised one hand in the air. A silent command: Stand down.

​The door creaked open.

​The young boy had returned. The child courier of the Pagan Order. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, yet his gaze remained as sharp as a dagger. There was no friendly, childlike smile. No pleasantries.

​”Granny Morwen wants me to fetch you,” the boy stated flatly. ”Follow me. Alone.”

​Roland gave a firm nod. ”I am ready.”

​Dom immediately stepped forward, blocking the doorway with his massive frame. ”My Lord—”

​”Dom.” Roland turned slightly, staring directly into his protector’s eyes. ”I will return safely. Just like that night.”

​Dom didn’t reply to that. His jaw clenched so tight the veins in his neck popped, yet... he took one step back. Giving way. Obedient.

​Roland pulled his tattered cloak tight, trailing behind the boy into the shadows of dusk. Click. The warehouse door shut firmly behind him.

​The secret nest beneath the abandoned bakery hadn’t changed.

​The scent of damp dust and stale melted wax hung in the air. This time, however, the chalk-stained man was absent. The vigilant teenage girl was nowhere to be seen in the corner.

​Only Morwen. Alone, sitting in her wooden chair like a queen of the underworld.

​”Our supreme leader has read your insane message,” Morwen fired point-blank, dispensing with any polite greetings.

​Roland didn’t respond. He stood tall. He didn’t seek a chair, nor did he return the greeting. He waited, letting his diplomatic instincts take the wheel.

​”He wishes to meet you in person.”

​That sentence was the oasis Roland had been waiting for these past three days and nights. But his face remained as flat as a brick wall. He didn’t carve a smile. He didn’t let out a dramatic sigh of relief. He merely offered a small, elegant nod.

​”However, before I tell you where to point your feet,” Morwen continued, leaning her frail body forward, ”our leader wants one assurance.”

​”And what is that?”

​”Why should we risk our lives to trust you? You are an outsider. You have absolutely no part in our Order’s blood-soaked struggle. In our eyes, you are just a frantic little brother trying to save his sibling.”

​Roland met that sharp, elderly gaze without blinking. ”That is entirely true, Madam. I do intend to save my brother. But... I did not come empty-handed. I bring the key to a victory you do not possess.”

​”Yes, you babbled about that the other day. ’Information on the Church’s weakness,’ you said.” Morwen snorted, leaning back against her chair. ”Yet you haven’t leaked a single drop of this so-called intelligence.”

​”Because intel of that caliber will only be delivered directly into the ears of your leader,” Roland answered. His voice was calm, yet carried a heavy, non-negotiable weight. ”Not to you. Not because I doubt your loyalty, but because in the world of espionage... the fewer heads that know, the longer you all live.”

​Morwen fell silent. The old woman stared deeply at Roland. Searching for a crack of panic. Roland let her. He stood as unyielding as a cliff of ice.

​Then, Morwen let out a long sigh. Haaah. ”Our leader suspected you would give exactly that stubborn response.”

​”He is wise.”

​”He always acts with that degree of foresight.” Morwen slowly rose from her creaking chair. ”Tomorrow morning. I will send someone to guide you south. It’s about a half-day’s journey. Toward the Ghost Town.”

​Roland frowned faintly. ”Ghost Town?”

​”A dead, abandoned mining district near the borders. That is where our primary headquarters is located.” Morwen looked at Roland with a gaze that was difficult to translate. A warning, mixed with a trace of pity. ”This is no tea party invitation, young man. If you fail to convince our leader there... you will never see the sunrise again.”

​”I understand that perfectly.”

​”Do not bring your entourage. That will only bait the Church’s hounds. Bring only those who are willing to die with you.”

​”I already know exactly who I am bringing.”

​Morwen gave a satisfied nod. ”In that case, go home. Tomorrow morning, when the sun rises, my courier will knock on your warehouse door. Follow him. Do not ask questions. Do not stray from the path.”

​Roland offered a respectful bow, then turned back toward the stone stairs. On the second step, his foot suddenly paused.

​”Madam Morwen.”

​”What now?”

​”Thank you.”

​The old woman didn’t acknowledge the gratitude in the slightest. However, right as Roland’s silhouette vanished at the top of the stairs... the wrinkled corners of Morwen’s lips curved upward.

​A remarkably thin smile. Almost invisible.

​Roland returned to the warehouse hideout.

​”Tomorrow morning. We move half a day southward. Myself, Dom, and Naya.” Roland stared straight at the boy on the wooden crate. ”Adul and Eva. You two stay here.”

​Adul nearly jumped out of his skin. ”Huh?! B-But Lord Roland—”

​”You are our external emergency contingency, Adul,” Roland cut in firmly, silencing the boy’s protest. ”If something goes terribly wrong—if the three of us do not return to this warehouse within three days—you are the one who must send the signal to Northreach. You are the only one who knows how to operate the communication cipher on that device. This is not a trivial task, Adul.”

​Adul was instantly silenced. His mouth clamped shut. He swallowed hard, looking at the dead-serious faces around him, before finally sitting back down with slumped shoulders. ”I-I... I understand, My Lord.”

​”Good.”

​The final night before their departure was spent in silent preparation.

​Dom inspected the edge of his greatsword with a hollow stare. Shhk. Naya sorted and recounted her stockpile of poisoned arrows. Eva sat hugging her knees in the corner, her eyes pinned to the flickering candle flame swaying in the draft.

​Roland stood before his broken window once more. But tonight, he was no longer glaring at Magniora Tower. His gaze had shifted far to the southern horizon. Toward the rendezvous point that would dictate his brother’s fate tomorrow.

​”Ghost Town...” he murmured softly, like a chant.

​Dom—who had finished preparing his blade and was now standing beside his master—turned his head slightly. ”Are you... nervous about facing them tomorrow, My Lord?”

​Roland was quiet for a long time.

​”No,” Roland answered softly. Then he added a pause. ”...Maybe.”