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

The stone bridge trembled faintly beneath Riven’s boots.

Far below, a boiling sea of magma violently spat out molten bubbles the size of human heads. The blistering heat slapped him across the face, scorching his throat with every breath he took. A pungent stench of sulfur choked the air, mingling with the black smoke billowing from the jagged crevices.

Riven marched forward without a shred of hesitation. The bandages on his left arm—concealing the deep gouges of a Wyvern’s claw—were soaked in sweat, but he couldn’t care less. His cold gray eyes were deadlocked on a single point across the chasm: the gates of Grendel’s Fortress.

The obsidian walls loomed in the dark, reflecting the crimson glow of the runic veins pulsing across their surface. A massive gateway of black steel plates stood firm, flanked by two towering watchtowers that pierced sharply into the sulfur-choked sky.

Rianor walked in step on his left flank. His thin glasses glinted, reflecting the violent flashes of lava. The Arcanotech Bracer on his arm flickered weakly, its neon-blue circuits dying out in emergency mode.

Borch and Thorne trailed right behind them, as silent as two formless shadows.

Riven halted at the end of the bridge.

”Report,” he ordered curtly.

Rianor narrowed his eyes, scanning the fortress through the lenses of his glasses synced to the Bracer. ”Two guards at the gate. Heavy armor, double-bitted axes. Three rune-gunners in the towers—one on the left, two on the right.”

”Bracer’s power?”

”Eight percent.” Rianor stared down at his own arm, his flat tone failing to mask the bitter reality. ”Enough for one inverse resonance blast. Single use, then it’s completely dead.”

Riven fell silent for a second. The fiery reflection of the lava danced in his pupils.

”Use it on the gate,” he decided. ”We need a fast entry, not an elegant one.”

Rianor gave a brief nod.

”Borch, Thorne.” Riven turned his head without shifting his tone. ”Take out the tower gunners. I’ll draw the aggro of the gate guards. Rianor, you breach the moment I give the signal.”

”Lethal?” Thorne asked, his voice as sharp and disciplined as always.

”Incapacitate,” Riven corrected firmly. ”No kills. They’re just grunts ordered to stand there.”

Borch didn’t reply. He simply vanished—literally disappeared, as if the shadows of the bridge had swallowed him whole. Thorne darted to the right flank, his movements executing with soundless precision.

Riven took a deep breath, letting the sulfur sting his lungs.

”We level it,” he murmured, before surging forward.

The first orange projectile shot out from the left tower, tearing through the scorching air with a sharp hiss.

Riven simply tilted his torso, letting the shot graze a hair’s breadth past his cheek. He didn’t slow down. Instead, his pace accelerated, his boots hammering the stone bridge like a charging war elephant.

The two gate guards lunged simultaneously, their double-bitted axes raised high.

Riven parried the first strike with his bandaged arm—his muscles hardening to absorb the metallic impact. His other hand snatched the collar of the second guard’s armor, slamming him ruthlessly onto the stone floor. The guard’s helm cracked, and he went limp instantly.

The first guard swung again, wildly this time. Riven ducked, pivoting on his heel, and drove his elbow straight into the enemy’s ribs. A sickening crunch echoed from beneath the steel plate. The guard crumbled with a groan, knocked out cold.

Up in the left tower, a shadow shifted.

Borch materialized right behind the first rune-gunner, his arm snaking quickly around the Dwarf’s neck. One precise squeeze to the carotid, and the gunner dropped limply to the floor without a single scream.

In the right tower, Thorne had already arrived. His execution was clinical—one solid strike to the nape, and the second gunner collapsed.

The third gunner—the last one standing—saw his opening. He aimed his barrel directly at Riven’s exposed back on the bridge, his finger squeezing the runic trigger.

CLANG!

A dagger shot out from the darkness, striking the muzzle of the rune-gun a fraction of a second before it could fire. A burst of crimson energy violently backfired, spewing smoke into the air. The weapon shattered right in the stunned gunner’s hands.

Borch stood at the edge of his tower, his arm still raised from the throw.

”Clear,” he muttered softly, his voice barely carrying over the roaring lava.

Rianor was already kneeling in front of the gate, his left palm pressed flat against the black steel plates. The blue circuits on his Bracer flared brightly for a second, scanning the metallic structure as streams of light rapidly branched out across the gate’s surface.

”Fall back,” he stated simply.

Riven took two steps back. Rianor closed his eyes.

”Inverse resonance—active.”

BOOOM!

A shockwave of blue energy blasted out from within the steel plates, aggressively reversing the molecular binding of the metal itself. Fissures spider-webbed at lightning speed, shattering the colossal gate from the inside out.

CRACK!

The gate split cleanly in two, collapsing outward with a deafening crash that shook the very foundations of the bridge.

The blue glow on Rianor’s Bracer died completely. The pulsing circuits turned dull and lifeless, utterly drained of power.

Rianor stood up, staring at his arm that was now nothing more than a useless slab of dead metal. He made no comment. He merely let out a short sigh and marched forward with the rest.

The fortress courtyard sprawled wide open beyond the ruined gates.

Rianor stepped inside right behind Riven, his eyes rapidly sweeping the perimeter despite his dead Bracer. High obsidian walls boxed in the courtyard, leading to a single, towering main hall door at the far end—a massive steel entrance etched with dark red runes.

Dozens of Dwarf soldiers were stationed there, their heavy armor gleaming under the distant glow of the lava. Their faded red eyes snapped simultaneously toward the newly breached gates.

”INTRUDERS!” one of them roared, hoisting his runic axe high.

Rianor ran the numbers instantly. ”Over twenty,” he muttered to Riven. ”No monsters in sight. They might be in the rear pens, or Grendel specifically chose not to deploy them.”

Riven gave a curt nod, already organizing their formation without needing to waste breath.

”Thorne, right flank. Borch, left flank.” He shot a quick glance at his younger brother. ”Rianor, hunt down their defense circuits. Disable any traps you find.”

”Understood.”

Riven surged forward without waiting for another word.

Total chaos erupted in a matter of seconds.

The first soldier charged, swinging his axe with all his might. Riven caught the haft mid-air, pivoted, and slammed the Dwarf into the ground with enough force to crack the paving stones. The second and third soldiers followed—both ended up eating dirt in two simultaneous, fluid motions.

Borch swept through the left flank like a ghost refusing to be seen. Soldiers dropped one after another without ever realizing where the strikes came from. Thorne on the right fought with ironclad discipline—every blow was calculated, every step efficient, wasting absolutely zero movement.

Rianor sprinted along the wall, breaking away from the brawl. His eyes scanned the obsidian surface, hunting for anomalies invisible to the layman’s eye.

He found it—a small, hidden panel concealed within the wall’s carvings, practically blending into the rock.

His fingers worked swiftly to pry off the cover, tracing the web of pulsing red runic wires underneath. Deprived of his Bracer’s power, he relied purely on his intellect and raw instinct—severing one connection, then another.

The crimson glow on the right side of the courtyard dimmed, then died out completely.

A second later, the grinding of heavy machinery beneath the stone floor ground to a halt. The hidden traps had been neutralized. In the distance, the second watchtower went dark, its circuits successfully severed from the main power source.

Rianor gave Riven a sharp hand signal. ”Right lane is clear.”

Riven shifted to the right without hesitation. The largest Dwarf in their ranks lunged at him, a heavy axe raised for a lethal strike.

Riven took a half-step back, feigning intimidation—pure bait. The Dwarf committed to a full swing, losing his balance for a fraction of a second.

Riven hooked his arm, driving the giant’s body into the ground with a sickening thud that sent tremors through the courtyard.

One by one, over twenty Dwarf soldiers fell against the obsidian earth. The few who remained standing backed away in terror, scrambling toward the main hall’s steel doors and vanishing inside.

The courtyard fell deathly silent, filled only by quiet groans and the drifting sulfurous smoke.

Riven strode toward the doors of the main hall.

The massive steel doors were already thrown wide open—whether busted open by the fleeing soldiers or intentionally unlocked from the inside. Rianor, Borch, and Thorne trailed right behind him, their steps slowing the moment they crossed the threshold.

The grand hall stretched massively before them. Obsidian walls towered up into an obscured ceiling, crawling with dark red runes that pulsed slowly like the heartbeat of a titan. At the far end of the room, a rough-hewn stone throne stood in absolute silence.

And standing directly in front of it, waiting all alone.

Grendel.

His towering frame neared two meters, shoulders as broad as the gates they had just demolished. His heavy steel armor was etched with dark red runes that synced with his very breathing. His gray beard was roughly braided, hanging down to his chestplate. In his hands, a colossal battle axe was gripped tightly, its blade violently radiating a blazing crimson aura.

His burning red eyes locked straight onto Riven—without an ounce of fear, without a sliver of hesitation.

”Fall back,” Grendel commanded the remaining soldiers cowering in the corners of the hall, his baritone voice booming heavily. ”This is my own battle.”

The soldiers didn’t dare argue. They melted into the back corridors without looking back.

Riven halted dead in the center of the hall. Rianor, Borch, and Thorne stood perfectly still a few paces behind him, none of them stepping any further.

Riven clenched his left fist. His right hand clamped onto the hilt of the short sword at his hip, drawing it slowly until the sharp hiss of steel leaving its sheath echoed through the room.

Grendel hoisted his colossal axe high. The runes along its blade flared blindingly bright, casting a blood-red light across the obsidian walls of the hall.

”You came all this way just to die here, Human,” Grendel growled low.

Riven didn’t answer.

He simply took one step forward—slow, calm, completely consumed by an unadulterated wrath that had been held back for far too long.

The duel had begun.