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

The stone corridor swallowed their footsteps in silence.

No words were exchanged. There was only the echoing thud of boots against stone and the hiss of sulfurous steam creeping through the cracks in the walls. Crimson runes lining the tunnel to the underground city pulsed steadily, guiding their path. Riven took the lead, his black Wolf cloak draped over his shoulders. The bandages on his left arm had dried into a crusty, dark-brown hue.

His eyes stared straight ahead. Hollow.

It wasn’t regret weighing heavy on his chest. He knew damn well that what just happened wasn’t a mistake. Yet, something felt unfinished—something lingering in the air ever since that massive body was swallowed by the lava. Riven hated loose ends.

Behind him, Rianor limped along. His left arm hung limp, the completely dead Arcanotech Bracer dangling like useless scrap metal. His finely cracked glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t even bother pushing them back up.

Borch and Thorne brought up the rear, maintaining a tight formation with unwavering vigilance, even though the battle was already won.

The narrow tunnel gradually widened, opening up into the tiered stone settlements of the underground city. Dwarven civilians stood along the streets, watching the group pass in dead silence. A few bowed their heads in respect. Others just stared with unreadable eyes—an equal, heavy mix of terror and hope.

A young dwarven child—one of those Yara had rescued a while back—gave a tiny wave from behind his mother’s skirt.

Riven didn’t wave back. But the corner of his lips twitched upward, barely visible, before hardening into a stoic line once more.

They pressed on, passing through a stone gate carved with reddish-gold circuits, heading straight for the throne room.

The runes etched into the obsidian walls pulsed faintly as they entered, casting a warm glow that was a far cry from the sinister, dark-red glare of Grendel’s Fortress. The Dwarven King sat on his stone throne, looking entirely older than the last time Riven had seen him. His gray beard, braided with bronze rings, drooped wearily. A white-runed warhammer leaned against the side of the throne, untouched since it was returned.

Two royal guards stood flanking the throne, bowing their heads in respect as Riven’s party walked in.

Riven stopped dead in the center of the hall. Rianor, Borch, and Thorne stood silently a few paces behind him.

”Grendel has fallen,” Riven stated, his tone flat and to the point.

The Dwarven King didn’t answer right away. His faded red eyes locked onto Riven, searching for the slightest crack in those words—a lie, a hint of doubt, anything he could latch onto. He found nothing.

The King finally gave a slow nod.

”Grendel didn’t die by your hand,” he muttered, speaking more to himself than to Riven. “That’s for the best.”

Riven didn’t ask what he meant. He let the words hang in the air, syncing with the slow pulse of the runes.

”How long have you been holding out?” Riven finally asked, breaking the silence.

The Dwarven King stared at the obsidian wall, as if he could see right through it into the past.

”Three hundred and twelve years,” he answered heavily. “Ever since the first strike. The stench of gunpowder, molten metal, and my people’s blood soaking into this very stone.” His hands clenched over the throne’s armrests. “Three hundred and twelve years we’ve held them off at the eastern gates.”

Rianor logged that number in his head. Three hundred and twelve years was a hell of a long time for any nation to endure a siege that never truly ended.

”Why is the Iron Empire so hell-bent on conquering your territory?” Rianor asked, his voice calm and analytical.

The Dwarven King turned to him, sizing him up for a moment—taking in the dead Bracer on his left arm, the cracked glasses, and the pale yet sharp face. Then, he let out a short, bitter laugh.

”You’re a scientist,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

”I need data,” Rianor replied flatly.

The King nodded, appreciating the brutal simplicity of the answer. He rose from his throne—slowly, as if every movement taxed his ancient joints—and walked over to a stone map carved into the side wall.

”Three reasons,” he said, pointing to the map one by one. “First, resources.” His finger stopped at a dark spot beneath the eastern mountains. “Adamantite deposits. Ancestral Ironstone. There isn’t a richer mine on this entire continent.”

He shifted his hand to the runic carvings at the edge of the map.

”Second, runes. Our ancestral tech. The Iron Empire has machines, they have steel, they have gunpowder. But they can’t replicate this.” He tapped his own chest, right where reddish-gold runes pulsed sluggishly beneath his skin. “And they despise what they cannot possess.”

Finally, his finger traced the fault lines of the mountain range that sprawled across the map like veins of stone.

”Third, absolute dominance. As long as we stand, the Iron Empire cannot claim rule over this entire continent. We are a thorn in their side. And they don’t take kindly to those who refuse to kneel.”

Rianor nodded slowly, grasping the implications in a heartbeat. This wasn’t just a border skirmish. This was a war of total subjugation. Whoever controlled these mountains controlled the eastern passage of the continent. And the Iron Empire wouldn’t stop until there was no one left to challenge them.

The Dwarven King returned to his throne, sitting down heavily. “There’s one more thing you need to know,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, turning significantly colder.

”Grigori,” he continued. “An old general. His left arm was replaced with iron after his first campaign against us, twenty years ago. He’s led three major incursions into this territory. Never quite managed to breach the city, but never truly retreated, either.” The King’s jaw clenched. “He is patient. And that kind of patience is far more lethal than mere rage.”

”What’s forcing his hand to move faster now,” the Dwarven King added, “is the Crown Prince. Adrian Velthorne. Young. Ambitious. Desperate to prove himself a worthy heir to the throne.” He scoffed. “Those two are responsible for every drop of blood spilled on this soil for the past two decades.”

Riven listened without a word, but the fury that hadn’t entirely burned out since the lava balcony now found two new names to latch onto.

From the corner of the hall, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed.

Roland stepped forward. His white shirt was still stained with dust and soot; his diplomatic robes had been discarded since their previous audience. His hair was slightly disheveled, but his posture remained impeccably straight—radiating a calculated poise that never faltered, even as the wound on his shoulder throbbed silently.

”Your Majesty has options,” Roland said, stopping right in front of the throne and meeting the Dwarven King’s gaze without flinching. “Revenge is one of them.”

The Dwarven King raised a brow, waiting.

”But revenge will bleed your resources dry,” Roland continued calmly. “More of your people will die. And in the end, the Iron Empire will just come back—larger, and much angrier.”

”I already know that,” the Dwarven King growled, his voice heavy with ancient anger.

”I know you know,” Roland replied, undeterred. “I also know you had no other choice. Until now.”

The King’s faded red eyes narrowed in suspicion.

”Before we talk peace with anyone,” Roland went on, “we have to eliminate the ones spearheading this siege. Grigori and Adrian.”

”You want to take them on?” the Dwarven King asked, his tone hovering somewhere between a challenge and sheer disbelief.

”We will take them on,” Roland corrected firmly. “After that, we talk peace. With the Emperor himself. You, us, and the entire Dwarven Kingdom, sitting at the same table.”

The Dwarven King stared at Roland for a long time. A silent war waged behind his elderly eyes—a clash between long-extinguished hope and decades of deep-rooted paranoia.

”You’re completely out of your mind,” he finally muttered.

Roland offered a faint smile. “I’m a diplomat.”

The Dwarven King let out a long, heavy exhale. It looked as though his body aged another decade in that single breath.

”If you fail,” he said quietly, “what happens to my people?”

”If we fail,” Roland replied without a heartbeat of hesitation, “we die alongside you.”

The Dwarven King stared at him again, digging for a lie beneath those words just as he had done with Riven minutes ago.

All he found was absolute conviction.

”Very well,” he finally spoke, his voice grating like stone slowly cracking apart. “We face this together.”

Riven stared out of the hall, gazing toward the pitch-black tunnels stretching far beyond these obsidian walls. He knew the next battle was waiting out there—something bigger than Grendel, much more lethal, carrying new names he had to memorize before he erased them from existence.

But for the first time since the night Rumina was tortured, he felt like the path they were walking was finally taking shape.

Riven clenched his fist. The bandages on his left arm throbbed with a sharp pain, a visceral reminder of everything he had endured to reach this point—Rumina’s suffering, Grendel vanishing into the molten lava, and now, two fresh names just waiting to be hunted down.

Behind him, Rianor was already running new calculations in his head. Borch and Thorne stood in absolute silence; they didn’t need words to know that the next phase was about to begin.