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

​”What could possibly be larger than thousands of iron soldiers pounding at our mountain gates?!”

​The sharp bark from the Dwarven elder still echoed, bouncing off the black volcanic walls of the Stone Council Chamber. Searing heat surged from the blue forge fire behind the dais, as if boiling in tandem with their fury.

​Every pair of glowing red eyes remained locked onto the single bound man standing in the center of the hall.

​Roland Sudrath didn’t budge an inch.

​The young diplomat’s hands were still bound in coarse leather knots. His dark blue coat was grime-stained and torn. Yet his gray eyes burned as cold as the glacial winds of the Eastern Mountains.

​A suffocating silence hung in the air for several seconds. Roland intentionally let it linger.

​Then, the corner of his lips tugged upward into a faint smirk.

​It wasn’t a smile begging for mercy, but the subtle sneer of a noble watching a child whine over a broken toy.

​”Hmm. Thousands of iron soldiers?” Roland repeated in a low voice that cut through the underlying tension. ”You consider that a grand war? Tsk. You and the Iron Empire are merely throwing stones on a chessboard whose edges have already caught fire.”

​”Shut your mouth, human!”

​SCRAPE!

​The one-eyed elder on the far left bolted upright. He shoved his marble chair back violently, producing a bone-chilling screech. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table.

​”You stand at the very heart of our civilization, yet you dare spit on the honor of our war?!”

​”Honor won’t save your necks from what’s crawling out of the Gate on the southern continent,” Roland countered brutally, his gray gaze unflinching. ”I’m offering you the truth. If you’re too blind to see it, feel free to die clinging to your pride.”

​The elders growled in unison. The Dwarven guards surrounding the hall instinctively tightened their grips on their axe handles, the veins in their necks bulging tight.

​Beside Roland, Rianor adjusted his glasses with the tip of his index finger. His analytical mind had already deduced where this was heading. Roland’s diplomacy had successfully rattled them, but without concrete proof, his words would be dismissed as an empty bluff.

​”Allow me to provide a demonstration,” Rianor cut in flatly.

​He stepped forward, bypassing Roland. Every pair of crimson eyes instantly swung to the man in the dirty gray shirt.

​Rianor slowly raised his left arm.

​”Don’t do anything foolish, human!” barked the Dwarven guard captain on the right flank, his iron hammer raised in warning.

​Rianor ignored the warning, casually rotating his wrist.

​Bzzzt!

​The Adamantite circuitry on the Arcanotech Bracer strapped to his arm flared to life. A neon-blue glow sliced through the ambient orange and blue light in the chamber as a high-frequency hum vibrated through the air.

​Rianor intended to project holographic visual data regarding the mana anomalies near the southern Gate—data recorded directly through his scanner.

​Yet in this subterranean depth, completely isolated from outside technology, crackling blue light and metallic humming meant only one thing to the stone guardians.

​”WEAPON!” shouted a guard in the front line. ”He’s activating dark magic!”

​”Stop them!” ordered the one-eyed elder, pointing a rigid finger.

​Chaos erupted in a split second.

​Four heavily armored Dwarven guards charged from the left. Their iron boots slammed against the marble floor in a deathly rhythm. The lead guard lunged forward, swinging an orange-runed axe straight for Rianor’s neck.

​The Dwarven King atop the central dais didn’t raise a hand to intervene. His aging eyes merely narrowed, weighing the situation in hesitation.

​The axe blade sliced through the air, venting a wave of searing heat.

​But before the iron could graze Rianor’s skin, a massive shadow cut through the space between them.

​CLANG!

​It wasn’t the sound of metal striking metal, but the harsh friction of calloused skin grabbing a wooden shaft.

​Riven Sudrath was already standing between Rianor and the attacker. The Grand General’s left hand struck like lightning, catching the haft directly beneath the blade—locking the wooden shaft in an iron grip.

​The attacking Dwarf’s eyes widened in shock. His swing ground to a dead halt, as if his weapon had struck a mountain cliff.

​Without a single flicker of emotion on his executioner’s face, Riven twisted the Dwarf’s wrist outward.

​CRACK!

​The sickening pop of a forced joint rang out. The Dwarf let out a muffled groan, his grip on the axe instantly slackening.

​In the exact same breath, Riven’s right knee snapped upward, driving into the guard’s solar plexus.

​THUD!

​The stocky warrior doubled over and collapsed to the floor, wheezing for air.

​”DON’T KILL!” Roland barked above the din. ”Subdue them!”

​Riven didn’t even reach for the shortsword at his waist.

​A second Dwarf charged from the left, swinging a massive warhammer in a wide arc. Riven ducked with an agility impossible for a man of his stature, the hammer whistling inches above his head.

​Pivoting on his heel, Riven delivered a sweeping low kick to the enemy’s legs.

​CRASH!

​The second Dwarf hit the hard marble flat on his back.

​On the left flank of their formation, Captain Thorne moved like a phantom.

​Two short spears thrust toward him. Thorne didn’t retreat. His dark blue uniform blurred forward. His right hand deflected the shaft of the first spear while his left caught the second mid-air.

​Slinking through the gap in their guard, he drove his elbow directly into the first attacker’s jaw.

​CRACK!

​Jaw dislocated, the guard dropped like a stone.

​In the rear, Lieur cowered behind a small pillar, covering his head in sheer panic as his legs trembled violently.

​Selene, however, remained unfazed. Her sea-blue robes fluttered gently as a swell of mana radiated from her frame.

​The Water Arcanum Master raised a hand with effortless grace. Her pale blue eyes swept coldly over the encroaching wave of guards.

​The searing heat of the forge clashed with the pure energy emanating from her palm, condensing frost out of thin air within seconds.

​Sssssr...

​The once-scalding marble floor was instantly coated in a mirror-thin layer of treacherous ice. Three Dwarven guards charging with spears lost their footing instantly.

​THUD! SLIP!

​They skidded out of control, slamming into one another and sliding into a stone pillar like bowling pins.

​”Hmm. Efficient enough,” Rianor murmured, still standing calmly where he started.

​The bracer on his arm remained active. His gray eyes scanned the runic axe lying near his feet.

​His analytical mind overclocked beyond normal human limits. The orange runes on the blade pulsed: mana wavelengths, thermal frequency, conductive patterns.

​I can replicate this.

​Rianor dialed a module on his bracer.

​Bzzzt!

​The blue light on his arm flickered rapidly, processing the data before shifting to a reddish-orange hue—a perfect match for the Dwarven runes.

​Rianor raised his arm, aiming not at the guards, but at an unadorned stone support pillar on the right side of the chamber.

​”You take far too much pride in your magic,” Rianor said flatly.

​He unleashed the copied wave of energy.

​SWOOSH!

​An orange flash streaked forward like an artillery shell.

​BOOM!

​The impact fractured the colossal stone pillar, sending shards of granite shooting into the air. The two-meter-thick column fractured violently, spewing volcanic dust without collapsing completely.

​The shockwave blew back two Dwarves preparing to lunge at Rianor. They hit the floor, staring in wide-eyed horror at the spiderwebbing cracks in the stone.

​The entire hall froze in stunned, breathless silence.

​Ancestral Runic Magic... cast by a human? Without incantations, without a wand, using nothing more than a bizarre metallic device?

​”I don’t need your weapons to stop you,” Rianor continued, lowering his smoking arm. His cold gaze swept over the hesitant guards. ”If slaughter were our objective, this room would be carpeted with your corpses in thirty seconds.”

​The Dwarven guards exchanged hesitant glances, their weapons lowering an inch. The spectacled human’s claim was no empty boast. The dark-haired giant in their center hadn’t even drawn his sword.

​Yet, chaos always harbors unpredictable variables.

​Near the elders’ seating area at the edge of the hall, a little girl emerged from behind a corridor curtain. She was lost, her copper curls dusted in gray, looking no older than five. She sobbed softly, terrified by the violence breaking out around her.

​Fatally, she stood directly beneath the pillar Rianor had just blasted.

​Creak... crack...

​The vibrations from the clash widened the fracture. A chunk of stone weighing dozens of kilograms detached from the ceiling, plummeting straight toward the child.

​Behind a long table, Yara cowered in her grime-stained apron. She was no warrior; her heart threatened to burst from her chest. But when her eyes caught the weeping child and the shadow of falling rock, something within her ignited beyond fear.

​Without a second thought, Yara lunged forward.

​”LOOK OUT!” she screamed.

​She plunged into the danger zone, brushing past the spearpoint of a startled guard, sliding low across the marble floor, and scooping the tiny Dwarven girl into her arms.

​CRASH!

​The massive chunk shattered into pieces on the floor—right where the child had been standing a second prior. Flying stone splinters gouged Yara’s pale arm and tore through her clothing.

​Heaving for breath, Yara curled up, clutching the little girl tightly against her chest. The child sobbed harder, burying her face in Yara’s lap.

​The female mechanic looked up, her brown eyes glistening with tears as she glared at the stunned elders and guards.

​”Why...” Yara’s voice trembled, raw with pure fury. ”Why are you killing each other in a place like this?! There are children here! If you want to wage war, take it to the surface! Don’t destroy your own home!”

​A heavy silence enveloped the council chamber.

​Only the girl’s quiet weeping and the roar of the forge flames broke the quiet. Several Dwarven soldiers slowly lowered their weapons. Their once-ferocious crimson eyes now shifted toward Yara in awkward hesitation. This human woman—a fragile creature devoid of armor or magic—had just risked her life for a child of their kind.

​The one-eyed elder who had incited the conflict fell silent, his jaw clenching tight.

​Sanity slowly returned to the room. Bloodshed seemed to have been averted.

​Until an ungodly detonation tore through the ceiling.

​BOOOOM!

​A massive explosion rocked the subterranean city. The tremor hit with such violence that Dwarven guards stumbled and fell to the floor. Thick volcanic dust rained down like an ash-gray blizzard.

​The crystal lanterns lining the hall flickered wildly before dying out completely.

​CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

​The rhythmic ringing of metal alarm gongs echoed frantically from the direction of the main settlement gates.

​Roland snapped his head up, his eyes narrowing through the dust veil. His officer instincts screamed. This wasn’t standard magical blast damage—it was an artificial seismic quake!

​”Rianor!” Roland called out sharply.

​Rianor was already scanning his bracer display, which flashed red erratically. ”Massive surface seismic activity. A massive metallic force is descending into the tunnels.”

​Before he could finish his sentence, the outer doors of the council chamber were violently breached.

​A Dwarven guard burst inside. His iron armor was badly dented at the shoulder, half his face charred black from severe burns. Fresh blood dripped from his temple as he fell to his knees before the King’s throne.

​”Y-Your Majesty!” the soldier wheezed, coughing up blood. ”The gap... the West Mine Gap collapsed! They’ve breached our second defensive wall!”

​”What?! Who?!” roared the Second Elder, his face turning pale.

​”T-The Iron Empire...” the soldier rasped hoarsely. ”Heavy armored troops... two full companies! They brought Steam-Tanks and Siege Cannons through the tunnels! They’re slaughtering everyone in the western sector!”

​Absolute panic erupted in the chamber.

​The one-eyed elder stumbled back, the silver axe in his hand suddenly useless. The guards who had surrounded the Northreach delegation exchanged horrified glances. The Iron Empire had found their secret city!

​Roland locked eyes with Rianor. A grim, shared realization passed between the brothers.

​”The western gap,” Roland whispered, his jaw clenching tight. ”That wasn’t our entry route.”

​”It’s the route they deliberately blasted open two days ago,” Rianor added, his voice ice-cold. ”This isn’t a search party from the military outpost, Roland. The outpost commander doesn’t have the authority or assets to mobilize two companies of Steam-Tanks.”

​”This is an execution,” Thorne muttered from behind, adjusting his grip on his dagger.

​The Iron Empire forces hadn’t come to rescue the Northreach delegation. They were here to purge the Dwarven civilization, and Roland’s group was merely collateral vermin caught in the nest.

​BOOOM!

​A second explosion detonated even closer. The left wall of the council chamber cracked, dropping marble slabs onto the floor. Faint screams of Dwarven civilians began echoing from the suspension bridges outside.

​Amidst the chaos, the Dwarven King—who had remained silent on his throne—slowly rose to his feet.

​His presence dominated the hall. The reddish-gold runes etched across his arms and shoulders glowed brighter, pulsing in sync with his heavy breathing. The King descended the marble steps, his right hand gripping the massive white-runed warhammer.

​His scarred, aging eyes shifted from the kneeling soldier to the terrified elders, and finally... locked onto Roland.

​The Dwarven King didn’t blame the diplomat. There was no petty anger in his eyes—only the crushing weight of a ruler watching his realm teeter on the brink of extinction.

​”Your bindings are broken, human,” the Dwarven King growled, his voice rising above the booming detonations outside. ”Prove your words now. Or the mountain above our heads will become the mass grave that unites our races.”

​Roland let the remains of the leather bindings slip off his wrists and drop to the stone floor. He glanced at Yara, who was still hugging the trembling Dwarven child, then turned to Riven and Thorne, who were already in combat stances.

​The clash of egos in the Stone Council Chamber was over—not brought about by a peaceful truce, but because a minor apocalypse had just broken down their front door.

​The fuse on both paths had burned out completely. And now, the rumble in the depths of the earth summoned them to a true battlefield.