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

The white-runed warhammer smashed into the obsidian floor.

BOOOM!

Fissures spider-webbed from the point of impact, shattering the volcanic stone in a pattern that rapidly spread in all directions. The sheer concussion rocked the entire hall, momentarily silencing the roars of the monsters and the battle cries of the soldiers.

The Royal Army Commander strode in first, his stocky frame clad in immaculate, gleaming armor despite the dust of battle. Behind him, a long column of Dwarf soldiers flooded in, locked in a tight phalanx—dense, efficient, and flawlessly trained. The runes etched into their chestplates burned with a steady light, a stark contrast to the dying, erratic flicker of the dark red runes on Grendel’s grunts.

Riven stood dead center in the hall, his short sword still gripped tightly in his right hand. The bandages on his left arm were already soaked through with blood, dripping slowly onto the stone floor.

The remnants of Grendel’s forces froze for a split second at the sight of the royal battalion before they began to retreat, heavily cornered. The last surviving Wyvern dive-bombed low, trying to exploit the chaos. A royal soldier’s long spear met it dead in the chest—the beast was launched backward, crashing heavily against the floor.

A half-blind Basilisk sprayed a torrent of venom at the vanguard. The shield wall snapped shut in a fraction of a second, absorbing the corrosive blast without letting a single drop slip through.

The Royal Commander swung his hammer once more, this time smashing into a half-destroyed Obsidian Golem. The volcanic stone shattered into pieces, collapsing into a shapeless pile of rubble.

Grendel backed away through the ruins of his own forces. Cold sweat drenched his forehead. His eyes darted wildly, searching for a gap, hunting for a way out that no longer existed.

Riven stepped forward.

Grendel took a step back. Then another.

From behind a ruined pillar, Rianor looked up. His finely cracked lenses caught a micro-movement in the corner of the hall—Grendel slipping away from the fray, moving toward a narrow corridor on the right flank.

Rianor straightened up from behind his cover, his left arm throbbing with a dull ache as he moved.

That narrow corridor led to the fortress’s rear balcony—a precipice jutting directly over the lava crater. He remembered it from the topographical scan he had run before his Arcanotech Bracer completely died.

His eyes remained razor-sharp despite his physical exhaustion.

”Riven!” Rianor barked, his voice slicing through the din of battle. “Grendel—right corridor! Heading for the balcony!”

Riven halted for a fraction of a second. He shot a glance at Rianor, then snapped his gaze to the narrow passageway his brother had pointed out.

Grendel was already halfway there, his massive frame disappearing behind the stone archway.

Riven didn’t say a word.

He surged forward.

Grendel scrambled down the cramped tunnel, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

The wound in his gut—courtesy of Riven’s brutal knee strike—was bleeding profusely, leaving a trail of fresh blood on the stone floor behind him. Every step felt impossibly heavy. The steel armor that was usually his pride and joy now felt like a mountain of boulders crushing his back.

But he didn’t care.

Everything he had built over the years had been annihilated in a single night. Not because the Royal Army had suddenly showed up. Not because his beasts had been slaughtered one by one.

It was because of a single human.

Riven Sudrath.

Grendel hissed. The name tasted like ash on his tongue.

The narrow tunnel finally opened up to a stone balcony jutting out over the crater. The night sky swirled in a dreary gray above him, devoid of a single star. The red glow from the sea of lava below cast long, menacing shadows across the obsidian walls.

The searing wind slapped his face. The stench of sulfur burned his lungs.

Grendel came to a dead stop at the edge of the balcony.

Far below, the sea of magma boiled relentlessly. Bubbles of liquid fire popped, spitting crimson embers into the air. The blistering heat was palpable even from this altitude.

There was no way out.

Grendel turned around.

Riven was already standing at the threshold of the balcony. His short sword gripped in his right hand. The bandages on his left arm soaked in blood. Those gray eyes stared at Grendel devoid of any emotion—cold, hollow, like looking at something that was already over.

”There’s nowhere left to run,” Riven stated flatly.

Grendel laughed. A raspy, short chuckle dripping with bitterness.

”I’m not running,” he hissed. “I just needed some fresh air.”

He hoisted his colossal axe. The runes along its blade flared dimly, vastly weaker than before.

”I’ve still got a little gas left in the tank,” Grendel muttered. “Enough to send your head back to the King.”

Riven stepped forward.

Grendel swung his axe.

The strike was slow. Far too slow. The wound in his gut made every movement stiff and jagged, a mere shadow of the speed he once possessed.

Riven didn’t even need to dodge. He simply ducked a few inches. The blade of the axe swept over his shoulder, cleaving through empty air.

Riven stepped right into his guard.

His elbow drove flawlessly into Grendel’s jaw.

The massive Dwarf was launched backward, slamming hard against the low stone railing of the balcony. The masonry cracked instantly. A chunk of it broke away, tumbling down into the abyss below.

Grendel teetered on the edge of the precipice. One of his boots was already dangling over empty air.

Riven stood just two steps away, making no move to close the distance.

Grendel stared at him. Those red eyes still burned, but there was something different in them now. It was no longer wrath. It was no longer vengeance.

It was just sheer exhaustion.

A strange, faint smile etched itself onto his bloody lips.

”You really are exactly what they say,” Grendel muttered hoarsely. “The undefeated general from the south. I thought it was just a children’s fairy tale.”

He paused for a second, his chest heaving.

”Turns out the fairy tale is true.”

He took one step back.

His foot, hovering over the edge, lost its footing entirely.

Riven reached out his hand. Not to catch him—he didn’t even know why. Maybe it was a reflex. Maybe it was a subconscious calculation his mind hadn’t even processed yet.

But his hand didn’t reach Grendel.

The massive body leaned back, plummeting into a free-fall toward the dark abyss of the crater. The colossal axe slipped from his grasp, tumbling end over end in the air before separating entirely from its master, vanishing into the gloom.

Riven stood at the edge of the balcony.

He stared down.

The sea of lava boiled at the bottom of the crater, its red glow blindingly bright. Liquid fire bubbled lazily, as if completely indifferent to what had just fallen into its lap.

There was no scream.

There was no sound of impact.

Only the hiss of magma swallowing everything whole in absolute silence.

Thorne was the first to arrive, the confiscated spear still gripped tightly in his hand. His expression was calm, though his eyes rapidly swept over the balcony—the shattered railing, the missing chunks of stone, and the silhouette of Riven standing dead still at the edge of the abyss.

Borch stepped up soundlessly behind him, his dagger already sheathed.

Rianor trailed in last, limping slightly, his left arm hanging limp at his side. His cracked lenses reflected the red glow of the crater below.

They halted a few paces behind Riven.

Down below, the main hall had begun to quiet down. The Royal Army was mopping up the last of Grendel’s grunts—some surrendered, others died at the ends of spears and hammers. The surviving beasts retreated into the dark corridors, hunted down by royal tamers dragging heavy runic chains.

The Royal Commander stood in the center of the hall, overseeing his men as they secured the prisoners.

Thorne broke the silence. “Grendel?”

Riven didn’t turn around. His eyes remained locked on the sea of lava below.

”He fell,” Riven answered shortly.

Thorne gave a slow nod, accepting the answer without further questions.

Borch remained silent. His eyes swept the edge of the balcony—the cracked masonry, the debris tumbling into the crater, and finally settling on Riven’s face. He didn’t ask. He simply stood there, quiet.

Rianor stared down at the magma, his eyes narrowing behind his cracked glasses. His mind raced relentlessly—calculating the temperature of the lava, the depth of the drop, the zero-percent probability of survival from that altitude. But he didn’t say a word, either.

There was no point.

Riven finally turned around. His face was as unreadable as stone. There was no sense of victory there. No satisfaction. No lingering wrath.

Only a strange, freezing, and hollow calm.

”Gather everyone,” he said quietly. “We’re leaving this place.”

The Royal Army operated with swift efficiency.

Grendel’s surrendered soldiers were rounded up in the corner of the hall, their wrists bound by pulsing runic chains. The surviving Wyverns and Basilisks were dragged back to temporary holding pens by the tamers. A critically injured Magma Crawler was left to die against the wall, its superheated rocky carapace slowly cooling into silence.

The Royal Commander approached Riven at the threshold of the main hall.

”We will hold the prisoners until further orders arrive,” the Commander stated, his voice heavy and formal. “The King is awaiting your report.”

”He’ll get it,” Riven replied curtly.

The Commander stared at Riven for a moment, as if wanting to say something more. But he didn’t. He merely gave a stiff bow—a highly unusual display of military respect from a veteran Dwarf to a human. Then he turned on his heel, returning to his battalion.

Riven strode out of the hall, stepping over the ruined remnants of the gates. Rianor, Borch, and Thorne followed closely behind him in silence.

The bridge of fire outside still spanned the chasm, the lava beneath it churning relentlessly. The night sky swirled in a dreary gray, devoid of stars, as if refusing to bear witness to what had just transpired.

Riven stopped at the edge of the bridge.

Rianor stood beside him, his left arm hanging dead, his useless Bracer attached like a hunk of scrap metal. His face was pale, but his eyes remained sharp.

”You’re not satisfied,” Rianor stated flatly.

Riven didn’t look at him. “I finished what needed to be finished.”

”You’re not satisfied,” Rianor repeated, a bit softer this time.

Riven stayed silent.

The scorching wind from the crater washed over their faces, carrying the stench of sulfur and smoke. In the distance, the muffled sounds of the Royal Army moving through the fortress echoed faintly, like ghosts from another world.

Riven finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

”Grendel didn’t deserve to die that quickly.” He let out a heavy sigh. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

Rianor didn’t reply.

Thorne and Borch stood in the rear, keeping their distance, giving them space. They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.

Riven took a deep breath, letting the sweltering air fill his lungs. He exhaled slowly, then stepped forward, crossing the bridge of fire and plunging back into the dark stone tunnels.

No one looked back.

The balcony remained behind, silent, with its shattered railing and the sea of lava boiling endlessly beneath it.

No corpse.

No axe.

No trace of the massive figure that had stood there moments ago.

Only a lingering emptiness, waiting to be filled—whether by closure, or by a mystery far deeper than the abyss itself.