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

​The grand audience chamber of the Magniora Tower trembled violently.

​The air inside the marble hall felt as if it were boiling with echoed fury.

​”YOU FILTHY, SACRILEGIOUS FIENDS!!”

​Five Archbishops bolted up from their grand seats in perfect unison. Their pristine white robes billowed wildly—not from any draft in the room, but from the sheer, explosive pressure of the mana surging within their bodies.

​Lethal Circle 6 magic instantly flared to life above their palms. Blazing orange infernos. High-pressure cyclones. Blinding flashes of holy light. Two of the bishops had already stepped forward, fully prepared to obliterate the two filthy intruders who had just breached their sacred sanctum.

​Roland didn’t retreat a single inch. Nor did his hand drift to the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

​Instead, the diplomat raised both his empty hands into the air. Open, devoid of any threat. ”We came here purely to converse. Not to spill blood.”

​Ptooey! ”Not a single syllable needs to be discussed with demon slaves like you!” The first Archbishop—a stout man with a beard as white as cotton—slammed the base of his golden staff against the marble floor. CLANG! The sharp metallic ring echoed menacingly. ”You don’t even have the right to breathe the air in this holy chamber!”

​”My name is Roland Sudrath. Son of King Lucian Sudrath of Northreach,” Roland stated. His voice was remarkably calm, yet the articulation of every syllable struck their eardrums with undeniable clarity. ”And the man beside me is my older brother, Rianor Sudrath. We are the princes of the kingdom... that just annihilated the Aethelgard coalition army.”

​Silence.

​The grand chamber fell dead silent. An awkwardly heavy demise of sound.

​The elderly Archbishops exchanged wary glances. The raging fire and blinding light above their palms were still active—yet, for some inexplicable reason, not a single one dared to unleash them.

​”What kind of utter nonsense is this,” hissed the second Archbishop, a gaunt man with sunken, cynical eyes. ”Northreach is nothing but a patch of impoverished, grass-eating duchy in the north. There is no way they could—”

​”I’m sure you men in this room have already received the intelligence reports, haven’t you?” Roland cut in coldly, a mocking smirk carving his lips. ”Aethelgard deployed 45,000 infantrymen. Highgarden lent 5,000 elite cavalry. Meanwhile, the Church of Aethelgard—under the direct command of your colleague, Archbishop Alexander—sent 3,200 holy Paladins. A total of 53,200 soldiers.”

​Roland paused, letting the sheer magnitude of the numbers hang suffocatingly in the air.

​”And every single one of them... was wiped off the map.”

​The stout Archbishop’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. Gulp.

​”I was on that battlefield. My brother was there leading the charge as well,” Roland continued sharply. ”We did not come to this room as beggars pleading for mercy. We came as victors demanding answers.”

​The third Archbishop—the oldest among them, with thinning white hair and a face as flat as stone—finally spoke. His tone was quiet, yet it pierced like an ice needle. ”Let us assume your fairytale is true... then why drag your feet all the way to our Capital? Do you plan to conquer Luminara as well?”

​”No. I came here purely because the Church has branded us as ’demons’ for years.” Roland stared straight into the oldest Archbishop’s eyes. ”You labeled our technology as heresy. You brainwashed the entire world into believing that Northreach is a den of darkness. And tonight, I want to know... upon what factual basis did you do so?”

​”Upon the word of the Lux Aeterna!” The first Archbishop slammed his fist onto the table once more. BAM! ”The Codex Maleficarum states it clearly! A civilization that deviates without the flow of mana is the incarnation of demons! They forge filthy machines because their bodies were cursed by the Goddess!”

​”Heh. In that case... take a very good look at this curse.”

​Rianor stepped forward, pulling even with Roland. Riiip. The man violently tore off the remaining sleeve of his left coat.

​Instantly, the pungent stench of charred meat, oozing pus, and blistered skin flooded the chamber. The Archbishops reflexively covered their noses with silk handkerchiefs. Rianor’s left arm was a blackened, pulverized ruin—the lingering aftermath of Pyrrhus’s brutal torture in Magniora’s underground dungeons.

​”You brand me a cruel demon.” Rianor met the faces of each Archbishop with a murderous, gray glare. He raised his ruined left arm. ”Look at this burn. Who roasted my flesh? Was it a demon from hell? Or was it your own vaunted Arcanum Master?”

​Rianor let the sarcastic question slap them across the face.

​”I was tortured like an animal right beneath the floors of this very building. With the blessing and direct orders of everyone in this room.” Rianor let out a cynical scoff. ”And now... you stand arrogantly before me, calling my body filthy, while the ones gleefully roasting human flesh are your own ’holy’ men. Isn’t that a staggeringly hilarious comedy?”

​The first Archbishop opened his mouth, his lips trembling to hurl a curse—but not a single letter came out.

​Rianor didn’t care. His right hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a circular crystal tablet. He placed the device onto the marble table, tapping its crystal screen twice.

​Beep. Vwuum!

​A beam of blue light projected upward, rendering a three-dimensional hologram right in the center of the round table. The Archbishops reflexively recoiled in horror, their eyes widening at the sight of technology utterly devoid of mana fluctuations.

​A middle-aged man manifested within the hologram. His face was hardened, his body heavily modified with mechanical implants. The ancient Orion. The Pilot of Legion Prime.

​”I am... Orion. Pilot of Legion Prime. This is my final testimonial log...”

​The ancient pilot’s voice sounded incredibly raspy, slightly grating due to the static distortion of the obsolete recording. Yet, the weight of regret bridging thousands of years felt overwhelmingly potent.

​”In the past, we humans were not blessed with mana. But when the demonic monster invasion first poured through the southern borders... not a single one of your magic spells could stop them.” The voice in the recording let out a deeply exhausted sigh.

​”It was them... your grand ancestors... who came to us on their knees, weeping and begging. Begging us, the mana-less humans, for salvation. ’Save us,’ your ancestors wailed. And as fellow humans... we saved you.”

​The blue projection shifted.

​The visual displayed rows of scientists—men and women in white coats—assembling colossal steel components in an advanced laboratory. Then the transition jumped to epic combat footage. The colossal mecha, Legion Prime, firing massive Gauss rounds and slaughtering thousands of dark monsters.

​”We sacrificed our bodies. We drove the demons back to hell. We saved this world. And after that long, endless night was over... your holy ancestors stabbed us in the back right in the middle of our victory banquet.”

​The final scene of the hologram made the blood in the chamber run cold.

​It was footage of a barbaric massacre. Scientists in white coats were butchered without mercy by glowing, holy knights. The volunteers of Project Legion were burned alive. The surviving women and children ran in tears, desperately fleeing far to the north.

​Bzt. The blue projection flickered and died. Gone.

​A suffocating silence slowly crept in, swallowing the audience chamber whole.

​”This is the history your ancestors deliberately burned to ash,” Rianor hissed, his voice as cold as a northern glacier. ”This is the truth from the very people you curse as demons. They sacrificed their lives to save your ancestors. And your ancestors repaid them with mass genocide. The only filthy, sacrilegious thing in this room isn’t the technology on this table... it is the rotten history you worship every single day.”

​”LIES!!”

​The first Archbishop finally found his voice. His face was as red as a boiled crab. ”That is purely a fabricated illusion! Anyone wielding dark magic could conjure fake shadows like that!”

​”Then what about this?!” Roland barked back, jabbing a finger hard toward Rianor’s ruined arm. ”Is this a visual fabrication too?! Was the barbaric torture inflicted by your Arcanum Master in the dungeons below just a mere illusion as well?!”

​The Archbishop stammered. Cold sweat dripped from his temple.

​”You don’t have to force yourselves to believe this machine’s projection,” Roland continued, raising his volume so it echoed through the hall. ”Believe what is happening right outside your windows. My brother was tortured like a beast by the Church. I nearly died in the Colosseum—not because of demons, but because you refused to save your own citizens!”

​Roland glared sharply at the elderly Archbishops, one by one.

​”And look out there! To the south! The forces of the Heretic Order—the very people you curse every day as blasphemers—are out there spilling their blood to hold back the demons!”

​Roland took a deep breath. Locking in his diplomatic checkmate.

​”You are not defending faith at all. You are only defending your thrones of power.”

​”INSOLENT BRAT!! SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!!”

​The first Archbishop roared hysterically. He raised his palm. A massive fireball violently expanded from his fingers. His ancient face wrinkled with pure hatred. ”I refuse to taint my ears with this venomous blasphemy for even a second l—”

​”I will hear them out.”

​The voice wasn’t loud at all. There was no shouting, let alone cursing.

​Yet, with just that single sentence... the temperature inside the chamber plummeted completely. It froze. An absolute authority that suffocated all forms of magic instantly.

​Holy Maiden Anneliese stood up slowly from her throne.

​Her white silk gown fluttered gently. Her long silver hair reflected the glow of the chandelier’s candles. Her pale blue eyes weren’t looking at Roland—they were staring blankly at the exact spot where the hologram projection had just played.

​”Your Eminence... you must not believe the whispers of dem—”

​”I never said I believed them, Archbishop.” Anneliese descended the steps of her throne. Her bare feet moved as lightly as feathers, practically soundless. ”I said... I will hear them out.”

​Anneliese stopped directly in front of Roland, closing the gap until she could examine the young man’s face up close. There was no burning anger in her eyes. Nor was there the gentle warmth expected of a holy goddess. There was only a profound, mystical tranquility whose intentions were impossible to read.

​”You bring a dangerously bold history, Roland Sudrath,” Anneliese spoke softly. Her breath carried the cold, crisp scent of lilies. ”You accuse our grand founders of being perpetrators of genocide. You label the very foundation of our dogma as a fairytale of lies.”

​”I bring only what is called the truth,” Roland replied without blinking, meeting the Holy Maiden’s gaze.

​”Truth?” Anneliese tilted her head slightly. ”Or is this simply your version of a truth?”

​”The only difference is, My Lady,” Roland scoffed softly, ”I stand here holding the evidence. While you... merely clutch an obsolete book written by hypocritical victors.”

​The first Archbishop growled again, unable to hold back any longer. He stepped forward, raising his staff. ”Your Eminence! This rat has crossed the line by insult—”

​”Silence.”

​Just one word. Spoken without even a glance in his direction.

​Instantly, the stout Archbishop froze where he stood, his mouth snapping shut as if his vocal cords had been forcibly severed. The fire in his palm died completely.

​Anneliese maintained her eye contact with Roland. ”Aethelgard suffered an absolute defeat at the hands of a small, isolated kingdom in the far north. That military fact is not something I can simply ignore. How could something so impossible occur? What secret makes your northern army so terrifying?”

​Anneliese paused. Her eyes flicked toward the crystal tablet on the marble table. ”Perhaps... that riddle has finally been answered. Through that alien artifact you brought.”

​”I am not forcing you to swallow this information whole right this second,” Roland said, lowering his tone into a more diplomatic cadence. ”I am only asking one thing. Start thinking... using your own logical reasoning.”

​Anneliese stared at the young man for a long time. ”The audacity in the way you speak... reminds me profoundly of someone I once knew in the past.”

​Before Roland could respond to the comparison, the main doors behind him slowly opened.

​Creak.

​The doors weren’t kicked open violently. They merely swung wide with the quiet groan of heavy hinges. Yet, every single head in the room reflexively snapped toward the source of the sound.

​Lobrecht walked in.

​His faded brown cloak was still dusted from his journey from the southern gates. His face was extraordinarily serene—as calm as a mountain lake at dawn. There was no weapon in his hands. No intimidating, murderous Aura overflowing from his body.

​And yet... this man’s very existence slammed into the atmosphere of the audience chamber far more brutally than a mana bomb detonation.

​”Y-YOU...!!”

​The first Archbishop choked on his own breath. His face, which had been as red as a boiled crab from anger just seconds ago, instantly plummeted to the color of a white burial shroud.

​The second Archbishop reflexively took a step back until he tripped over the leg of a chair. The third Archbishop—the oldest and calmest—now displayed a violent surge of emotion for the first time. His eyes bulged as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, his wrinkled fingers trembling uncontrollably as they gripped his golden staff.

​”This... this is impossible...” the fourth Archbishop whispered hoarsely, his legs shaking. ”Y-You should have died decades ago...”

​”Unfortunately, this body of mine still refuses to die,” Lobrecht replied casually, his tone flowing smoothly. ”And during my long exile... I finally found the pieces of history you have all been hiding.”

​Lobrecht didn’t pay the slightest attention to the horrified faces of the Archbishops. His brown eyes were locked entirely onto a single entity.

​Anneliese.

​The Holy Maiden stood frozen on the marble floor. Her hands, which were always elegantly folded over her stomach, were now visibly trembling. It was a subtle tremor, nearly invisible to the untrained eye. But Lobrecht caught that fragile detail flawlessly.

​The two of them stared at each other.

​There were no cheesy words like ”I missed you.” There were no cliché accusations like ”Why did you leave me?” There was only a profound, silent gaze bridging a chasm of decades. The gaze between two souls who had once been as close as two halves of the same coin... only to be cruelly torn apart by fate and ideology.

​Anneliese’s pale lips parted slightly. She wanted to say something. She wanted to spill everything. But her vocal cords were completely paralyzed.

​What could she possibly say? In front of the highest hierarchy of Church Archbishops? In front of a foreign prince who had just thrown down proof that the institution she led was a cabal of genocidal murderers?

​Lobrecht deeply understood the woman’s unbearable conflict. He wasn’t going to force her.

​Lobrecht simply offered her a smile.

​An incredibly serene smile. Filled with profound, deep understanding. The smile of a man with a heart like a morning lake, who didn’t need to bother stringing together empty words to convey the absolute depth of his feelings.