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

Chapter 297: RETURN

​Thud. Cough!

​They dragged themselves out of the sewer’s maw in a wretched state.

​Rianor stumbled out first, his face inches from kissing the dirt. His legs, shackled to a stone chair for days, trembled violently, protesting his own body weight. The open air of the Capital welcomed them like uninvited guests—heavy with the stench of thick smoke, chalk dust, and the metallic tang of something burning.

​On the southern horizon, plumes of pitch-black smoke tainted the sky. Faintly, the clash of steel and hysterical screams echoed, a macabre choir straight from hell.

​”We need to get back to the warehouse. Move,” Roland ordered, wiping a mix of sweat and grime from his brow.

​Before he could even finish the sentence—

​WHOOSH!

​A massive crescent of wind cleaved down from above. Acting on pure instinct, Dom lunged, shoving Roland’s shoulder aside. BAM! The wind blade gouged the exact spot Roland had occupied a second ago, shattering the cobblestone into deadly shrapnel.

​”INTRUDERS! SURROUND THEM!”

​Five Church mages emerged from the ruins ahead, their gray robes billowing wildly. These weren’t steel-clad Paladins; they were a regular combat mage unit. Their formation was tight: two Fire Mages with hands glowing a volatile orange, one Wind Mage, an Earth Mage making the asphalt tremble, and a Lightning Mage with blue arcs dancing across his fingertips.

​They instantly boxed Roland’s team in from three sides.

​”Dom! Naya! Guard Rianor!” Roland pointed at his brother, who was still swaying, struggling to find his footing.

​Dom immediately ignited his Aura. Vwuum. A translucent gray mantle enveloped his massive muscles, the sheer density of it making the surrounding air vibrate. Beside him, Naya reflexively raised the barrel of her Gauss Rifle—but Roland shook his head sharply.

​”Hold. Not yet!”

​Taking the cue, Dom didn’t wait for a second order. He exploded forward, charging the closest Wind Mage.

​THWACK! A dense, Aura-clad fist connected flawlessly. The mage was launched into the air, his spine shattering the remnants of a stone wall upon impact.

​But the Lightning Mage on the right flank had already finished his chant. Bzzzt! A lethal bolt of bluish-white electricity surged forward. It wasn’t aimed at Dom, nor Naya. It was gunning straight for Rianor, the weakest and most defenseless among them.

​Without thinking, Roland tackled his brother, pinning him to the ground.

​CRACK! The lightning struck Roland’s left shoulder. An impossibly fierce, searing heat instantly spiderwebbed through him, shredding the nerves from his shoulder down to his fingertips. Roland let out a choked snarl, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack as a blinding wave of agony washed over him. The pungent stench of charred hair—his own—flooded his nostrils.

​”You—” Rianor’s gray eyes widened, staring at his smoking younger brother.

​”Shut up.” Roland forced himself up on one knee, residual static still smoking from his shoulder. ”Don’t die on me yet.”

​SWISH! THWIP!

​Two arrows cloaked in verdant Aura plummeted almost silently from the roof of a four-story building above them.

​The first Fire Mage instantly collapsed, his shoulder completely pierced. The second tried to dive away, but the follow-up arrow was blindingly faster, tearing right through the center of his chest. Thud. Both hit the ground, breathless.

​Roland glanced up. From the edge of the roof, Arcelia flashed a brief hand signal: Coast is clear.

​Roland almost carved a smile. Almost. ”That girl... she actually kept an eye on us.”

​Three mages remained—the wind user crawling back to his feet, the earth user cracking the asphalt, and the lightning user frantically weaving a new incantation. Dom had already lowered his stance, ready to sweep out the rest of the trash.

​But suddenly... the wind died.

​It didn’t just calm. Every current of air in the alley completely flatlined. Dust particles froze in mid-air. The chaotic din of the distant war was abruptly muffled, as if their ears had been stuffed with cotton.

​Then, a man strolled out from the shadow of an old bell tower.

​He wore the grand robes of deep emerald green. On his collar, a seven-rayed sun emblem gleamed with arrogant pride. His dark blonde hair was cut in a military crop, and his eyes... they were a dark, turbulent gray, like a cyclone ready to unleash its fury.

​The Wind Arcanum Master. Donar.

​The man didn’t utter a single word. He simply raised one hand.

​WHOOSH! A violent tornado materialized, encircling them—not to strike, but to imprison. A three-meter-high wall of razor-sharp gales spun madly, shredding the asphalt and sealing off every escape route.

​”The Heretic rats aren’t going anywhere today,” Donar’s voice echoed with sheer arrogance from beyond the vortex.

​Amidst the creeping despair, Noctis stepped forward.

​The assassin’s movements were remarkably relaxed, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. He stopped right at the edge of the raging tempest, his back to Roland.

​”Roland. Get Rianor out of here,” Noctis said lightly. ”Let me handle this pompous prick.”

​”Noctis, you’re crazy—”

​”I’ve been itching to see just how wide the gap is between my strength and an Arcanum Master’s.” Noctis threw a glance over his shoulder. The trademark mischievous smirk of a street rogue was plastered on his face. ”Heh. Besides, I don’t plan on dying today. Still too many beautiful girls on this continent I haven’t seen yet.”

​Roland hesitated for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening. Then, he gave a firm nod. ”Don’t you dare die.”

​”Not my style.”

​Without warning, Noctis melted perfectly into the shadows cast on the asphalt. No matter how formidable Donar’s storm wall was, it couldn’t trap something devoid of physical form. A second later, Noctis rematerialized outside the wind cage, standing casually face-to-face with the Arcanum Master.

​”Donar,” Noctis greeted, his tone friendly yet dripping with venom, like greeting an old friend. ”I heard you wiped the Ash Tribe village off the map?”

​Arcanum Master Donar narrowed his eyes sharply. ”Noctis. The Heretic Order’s pet shadow. The pest finally shows himself.”

​”I’ve been dying to collect the blood debt you owe that village.”

​”They rejected the Goddess’s light. Death was their purification.”

​”They just refused to bow to your church’s rotten taxes. There’s a difference,” Noctis hissed.

​Donar had no intention of arguing. He raised his hand high—and the death match between two monsters erupted.

​Noticing a lapse in Donar’s divided concentration, the storm wall faltered slightly. Roland didn’t waste the opening.

​”We move! BREAK THROUGH, NOW!”

​They sprinted, shattering the remnants of the wind. Behind them, a terrifying barrage of sonic booms detonated. BOOM! KABOOM! Building walls disintegrated, swept away by the storm and the clash of high-tier Auras. Noctis and Donar were tearing the Capital’s streets apart.

​Roland didn’t look back. Not even a glance.

​They dashed through streets that eerily seemed peaceful, even as the city’s southern gates were under heavy siege.

​Suddenly, from a crossroad, a Paladin patrol squad intercepted them. Three knights in pristine white armor.

​But Dom didn’t even tap the brakes.

​Instead, the giant lowered his shoulder and plowed forward like a runaway steel locomotive. CRASH! Dom’s massive frame collided head-on with the first Paladin, sending the knight launching into the air before he could even swing his light-blade.

​A sweeping kick from Dom sent the second Paladin slamming brutally into a marble wall. CRACK. Simultaneously, Naya blurred from a blind spot. Snikt! Her dagger slid smoothly into the thin gap between the third Paladin’s neck armor plates.

​All three dropped in three seconds. The group sprinted past them without losing an ounce of momentum.

​Far above, Arcelia continued to play guardian angel. Whenever a ranged threat approached—be it a mage squad or paladins—a streak of green arrow would plummet from the sky, precisely clearing their path. Swish. Thwip. The sniper worked in absolute silence.

​However, Rianor’s physique was hitting its limit. His breathing was dangerously erratic, wheezing like a severe asthmatic. His feet dragged against the asphalt, his vision swimming with dark spots.

​Dom glanced sideways. Without asking for permission, his massive arm hooked around Rianor’s waist, lifting and bearing half of his weight.

​”Let go, I don’t need—” Rianor hissed arrogantly.

​”Quiet,” Dom cut in, cold and sharp.

​Rianor was stunned. It was the first time in his life the giant bodyguard had ever snapped at him. Rianor clamped his mouth shut, letting Dom drag him through the chaos.

​They kept running.

​The old warehouse on the outskirts still stood intact.

​Its doors were shut tight. No signs of forced entry or damage. Roland stepped up, his left shoulder still throbbing painfully, and knocked on the wood.

​Silence.

​Then... Creak. The door cracked open just an inch. Adul’s round eyes peeked out warily from the darkness. A second later, those eyes blew wide open upon recognizing Roland’s face and the silhouette of Rianor supported by Dom.

​”LORD ROLAND! LORD RIANOR!!”

​The door was flung wide. Adul burst out, almost crashing into Roland’s chest. His hands were shaking violently, his eyes red and wet. ”I—I thought you two wouldn’t make it! I held onto the crystal! I got the signal to Northreach! I almost...”

​”Easy, Adul,” Roland placed his uninjured right hand on top of the boy’s head. ”We’re back.”

​Adul took a deep shuddering breath, choking on his own sobs. Then... his gaze fell on Rianor.

​The boy froze in sheer horror. His Lord Rianor’s face was a battered, swollen mess. His left arm was a pathetic, blistered ruin—charred black with edges of dead skin still oozing pus. His wrists were severely chafed from iron shackles. His temple was split open.

​”L-Lord Rianor...” Adul’s voice squeaked, barely audible. ”Those people... what did they do to you...”

​”Just an interrogation,” Rianor cut in, limping into the warehouse. His voice was incredibly hoarse, practically a whisper. ”Nothing of importance.”

​”Nothing of importance?!” Adul clenched his tiny fists tightly. The tears were cascading freely now. ”You were tortured to pieces and you say it’s nothing of importance?!”

​Rianor didn’t reply. He dragged his feet to the furthest corner of the warehouse, leaned his back against the brick wall, and let himself slide slowly down to the floor. His chest heaved, desperately hunting for oxygen.

​Adul quickly followed him. He dropped to his knees beside Rianor, still crying. Then... driven by a reckless wave of relief, Adul turned and hugged Roland, who had just walked in. It was a fleeting embrace before he quickly backed away, his face flushed red as he wiped his runny nose.

​”S-Sorry... I... I just—”

​Roland gave a faint smile, patting his shoulder. ”It’s fine.”

​In another dark corner... Eva stood completely petrified.

​The girl hadn’t moved an inch since the warehouse door opened. She made no sound. Didn’t run to welcome them. Her back was pressed rigidly against the wooden wall, both arms hanging stiffly like a mannequin with cut strings.

​Her eyes were dead-locked on Rianor.

​Staring at the gruesome burn on his arm. The bruised, swollen state of his usually haughty face. And the way he sat slumped in the corner, eyes closed tight, enduring the lingering torment.

​”Eva.”

​Rianor called out to her. Just one soft word. His eyes were still shut in exhaustion when he spoke her name.

​And at that exact second... Eva’s defensive walls—the tough street girl who refused to look weak, who hid her fragility—suddenly crumbled to absolute dust. Something shattered into pieces within her chest.

​Her tears spilled over. Drip... drip...

​She didn’t bother wiping them away. She didn’t care if she looked pathetic. Eva took a slow step forward. Her steps were terribly gentle and frail, as if terrified her footfalls would make Rianor turn to ash. She stopped right in front of him, looking down.

​”You... you came back,” Eva whispered, her voice violently trembling, swallowed by her sobs.

​Rianor slowly opened his eyes, meeting the girl’s gaze. ”I’m back.”

​Eva’s eyes lowered to his left arm. The blistering, rotting red skin. ”Who... who did that?”

​”The Fire Arcanum Master. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

​”IT DOESN’T MATTER?!” Eva’s voice spiked, a cracked shriek piercing the silence of the warehouse. It was a potent blend of burning anger, lacerating grief, and a suffocating relief. ”You were tortured half to death, and you tell me it doesn’t matter?!”

​Rianor stared intently at the angrily weeping girl. His expression remained as composed as ever.

​”I came home alive, Eva. That matters far more than my arm.”

​Eva lowered her head deeply. Tears fell in torrents, wetting the dirty tiles between their feet. ”I... I felt so utterly useless here,” Eva sobbed weakly. ”I just sat here. Couldn’t do a damn thing for you. Just waiting like an idiot... just waiting in terror.”

​Her tiny hands clenched tightly by her thighs. Her shoulders shook violently. She wasn’t crying out of weakness, but out of a frustration she couldn’t project onto the edge of a blade.

​”You waited for me,” Rianor’s voice flowed softly. Awfully raspy. Yet incredibly tender. ”That’s more than enough.”

​Eva slowly looked up. Tears were still flooding her messy face.

​Unconsciously... without the need for rational thought... the girl’s small hand reached down. Her fingers brushed against Rianor’s uninjured right hand. Eva grasped it. So gently, so incredibly carefully, as if she were holding the most fragile glass artifact in the world.

​And Rianor... didn’t pull his hand away.

​He let the warmth of Eva’s hand seep into his cold skin. The two of them fell into an intimate silence. Eva wept soundlessly, letting go of all her burdens, while Rianor gazed at her intently.

​No words. No interruptions.