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

​The icy chill of the volcanic stone vanished in an instant.

​Merely a dozen minutes after the Northreach delegation departed the throne room, the ambient temperature within the tunnel took a drastic turn. The air grew suffocatingly thick.

​The stone walls to their left and right radiated a stifling heat that seared their lungs. Reddish-gold runic veins along the ceiling pulsed with accelerating speed. No longer static, the light throbbed like the adrenaline-fueled heartbeat of a titan.

​Every breath grew increasingly labored. Oxygen turned sparse, overwhelmed by the pungent stench of sulfur.

​There was no denying it—they were being ushered deeper into the heart of an active volcano.

​Roland Sudrath led the way at the very front.

​Cold sweat beaded down the young man’s temples. His white shirt, grimy with limestone dust, clung uncomfortably to his skin. Stripped of his navy-blue diplomatic robes, he forced his posture upright to mask the stinging, rhythmic ache in his left shoulder.

​Roland picked up his pace, matching strides with the Dwarf guard to his right.

​”How much longer until we reach the eastern rift?” Roland asked flatly, his gray eyes piercing the tunnel’s gloom, demanding certainty from the dark.

​The guard clad in dull steel armor merely grunted in response.

​Shrugging his shoulder, he pulled away from Roland’s reach. ”Tsk. Humans talk too much,” he growled without turning his head.

​The silent snub made one thing crystal clear: they were following the King’s orders to guide them, but they were under no obligation to be pleasant.

​Roland took a long breath. Realizing that arguing was a waste of breath, he refocused his gaze straight ahead into the dimness.

​Behind him, Riven Sudrath marched with his head slightly stooped.

​For his massive frame, the narrow corridor was pure torture. The sleeves of his black military shirt were rolled high, exposing the heavy bandages on his left arm that concealed the deep gouges of a Wyvern’s claw.

​Sensing an anomaly in the structure of the tunnel ahead, Riven raised his hand, tapping two fingers in the air—a subtle tactical signal.

​”Borch,” Riven called out softly.

​From the shadows along the wall, Borch materialized without a sound. The Ghost Squad Commander’s long black coat rustled as softly as a breeze. The wolf crest tucked inside his lapel flickered briefly into view as he closed in.

​Behind him, Naya maintained a vigilant watch. The dark-eyed girl kept a safe distance, both daggers ready for a swift draw.

​”What’s the situation up ahead?” Riven whispered.

​Borch narrowed his eyes, peering through the gloom. ”Two chokepoints,” he answered coldly. ”Narrow, blind turns. Perfect ambush spots.”

​Riven set his jaw and gave a grim nod of agreement. ”Tsk. Clear them out before the main group moves through.”

​Borch gave a curt nod. Without wasting a single second, his form dissolved back into the shadows of the volcanic stone, slipping forward like a phantom.

​In the center of the formation, Rianor Sudrath marched with clockwork precision.

​He stared straight ahead through thin glasses that reflected the reddish glow of the walls. His black hair was a messy tuft, and his gray shirt was stained with soot.

​Yet his focus was completely unbothered by the rising heat. He looked down at the adamantite Arcanotech Bracer strapped to his left arm. The device pulsed with a faint blue light in emergency mode, concealing the scorched flesh left behind by Pyrrhus’s torture.

​Whirr...

​A subtle hum vibrated as the circuits scanned the structural integrity of the surrounding rock.

​Riven slowed his pace to match Rianor’s. He gave his brother’s shoulder a light pat. ”How much longer, Rianor?”

​Rianor read through streams of virtual data, calculating the variables of temperature and incline. ”Assuming our pace doesn’t drop... roughly two hours to reach the bottom of the gorge.”

​Suddenly, Rianor came to a halt.

​He raised his left arm, projecting the dim blue beam toward a narrow, moss-draped passage to their right.

​”There’s a shortcut to the right,” Rianor muttered, his eyes narrowing analytically behind his lenses. ”This path has a far more direct incline to our target coordinates. Why did the guards bypass it?”

​Riven squinted at the passage. ”A trap?”

​”My bracer circuits are picking up micro-fracture signatures,” Rianor explained, pointing to the structural patterns at the mouth of the tunnel. ”High collapse risk. Or worse... heavy pressure sensors buried beneath the rock.”

​Riven shook his head firmly. ”Tsk. Too risky. Stick to the guards’ route. We don’t know the lay of the land.”

​Right behind the two brothers, Yara forced her feet to keep moving.

​The young Iron Empire technician stumbled along with ragged breaths. Her gray apron was smeared with grease. Every time her sleeve brushed against her crudely bandaged right hand, she winced in agony.

​The intense heat caused her burns to blister and throb fiercely. The mechanical tool bag slung over her back felt like an anvil.

​Thud. Yara nearly tripped over a jagged rock.

​A hand moving with graceful poise caught her shoulder. Selene, the Envoy of Luminara, looked at the girl with eyes calm and deep as the sea.

​”Focus on your footing, Yara,” Selene whispered gently, yet with the underlying authority of a Master Arcanum. ”Take a deep breath.”

​”I-I’m sorry, Lady Selene... my hand...” Yara whimpered palely, almost losing her footing again.

​Selene lightly brushed the back of Yara’s injured hand without applying pressure. ”Hold on just a bit longer,” she reassured her. ”My water magic will cleanse and tend to it as soon as we step out of this stifling tunnel.”

​The silent promise behind that touch anchored the girl. Yara nodded firmly, her footsteps instantly growing steadier.

​Far below their coordinates, within the darker depths of the earth, Rumina Sudrath remained seated on the floor of her stone cell.

​Her breathing remained steady—a slow, deliberate rhythm she forced upon herself to trick the pain.

​Each time her lungs expanded, the lashes across her back flared anew, exacerbated by the throbbing ache in her right ribs.

​Leaning her head against the warm stone wall, Rumina’s mind drifted into the past.

​She recalled the Sudrath family’s impoverished days back on the snow-swept frontier. When she first arrived in this world, she had worked tirelessly as a technician under Rianor, doing whatever it took to secure a decent living.

​This searing heat is nothing compared to the bitter winter of the borderlands, she thought, refusing to break.

​To preserve her stamina, she had forced down a gulp of water and chewed through a softer piece of the hard bread, even as her raw throat felt like it was being sliced open. She would not allow herself to die a foolish death here.

​Clack.

​The grinding of stone hinges snapped her out of her reverie. The cell door slid open.

​A young Dwarf stepped inside hesitantly. His appearance stood in stark contrast to the three brutal soldiers from before. His gray beard was sparse, and his face was a picture of pure anxiety.

​His faded red eyes darted nervously toward the corridor, ensuring no superiors were watching.

​The Dwarf set down a steaming bowl of moss soup along with a much softer loaf of bread in front of Rumina.

​Yet he didn’t leave right away. He stood frozen, staring at Rumina’s wretched state with visible internal conflict. With trembling hands, he pointed at her, his eyes desperate for answers.

​”Are you... really an Iron Empire soldier?” he asked in broken, hesitant human speech, seeking confirmation.

​Rumina didn’t look away. She slowly raised her chin.

​Locking eyes with the young Dwarf, Rumina’s gray gaze turned razor-sharp, clear, and cold as ice. There was not a shred of deceit in her eyes.

​”I am the Grand Treasurer of Northreach,” Rumina declared with unwavering dignity. ”I was their prisoner. Just as you are their enemy, so am I.”

​The young Dwarf’s mental fortitude crumbled under her gaze. The undeniable truth struck his conscience hard. Overcome with shame, he bowed his head deeply, turned around, and rushed out.

​Click. The door slid shut tight once more.

​Rumina lowered her gaze toward the warm soup. A faint, subtle smile touched her pale lips.

​Two hours later, the end of the grueling tunnel finally came into view for Roland’s group.

​A blast of heat swept across their faces like the breath of an ancient dragon as they stepped out. The tunnel opened onto a natural stone balcony overhanging the cliff face.

​Roland came to a halt. His eyes widened.

​Beneath their feet, a titanic gorge split the earth wide open. Its basin was choked with a violent, churning river of molten lava, hurling embers and sparks high into the air.

​On the far side of the abyss, seamlessly carved into the black obsidian cliff face, stood the eastern border fortress—the lair of Commander Grendel.

​The fortress walls were etched with dark red runic veins pulsing with unspoken threat. Its watchtowers glowed with orange lights piercing through dense clouds of sulfurous smoke.

​The sole point of access was a solitary stone bridge spanning the expanse without a single handrail, suspended directly over the boiling lava crater.

​The two Dwarf guards halted right at the edge of the exit.

​”Our duty ends here,” one grunted stiffly, taking a slow step backward. ”We will not set foot on Grendel’s domain.”

​Riven stepped forward beside Roland. The General’s eyes scanned the narrow stone bridge with battle-honed precision.

​”Tsk. A suicide bridge,” Riven hissed sharply. ”Narrow layout. Zero cover. A single sniper could pick us off before we even reach the halfway mark.”

​On the other side, Rianor adjusted his glasses. His bracer chimed softly.

​”There’s a weak energy fluctuation in the runic circuits along the eastern wall,” Rianor reported, pointing toward the right sector. ”It’s a structural vulnerability. We could breach it if we had time for a stealth infiltration.”

​”We don’t have time,” Riven cut in, crossing his arms. ”Sneaking into a fully armed fortress is just asking to be slaughtered.”

​Roland stared silently at the burning bridge and the obsidian fortress beyond. His jaw clenched. His little sister was inside.

​The diplomat turned to his brothers, his gray eyes gleaming with unyielding resolve.

​”Then we go through the front door,” Roland decided with absolute finality.

​Riven froze, staring at his brother in utter disbelief. ”Huh? Are you out of your mind, Roland? Across that open bridge?”

​”I am a diplomat, Riven,” Roland answered calmly yet lethally. ”My job is to make people talk. Leave it to me to force Grendel to open those fortress doors and sit at the negotiating table.”

​Riven held his brother’s gaze for a long moment, searching for a trace of hesitation or fear. He found nothing but the signature steel resolve of the Sudrath bloodline.

​The Grand General finally let out a long sigh and chuckled softly. ”Tsk... You crazy bastard.”

​Borch, Naya, Dom, and Thorne tightened their grips on their respective weapons. Selene stood calmly behind them, while Yara readjusted her tool bag with what little strength she had left.

​They had reached the end of the road. Now, it was time to cross the bridge of fire into the rebel commander’s lair.