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

?The Dwarven underground city’s strategy room was vastly quieter than the throne room.

?A single slab of rough marble sat in the center, bearing a carved stone map—not parchment, but a thin slab of rock meticulously chipped into a topographical relief. The surrounding walls were covered in deep purple runes that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heartbeat.

?Rianor Sudrath stood hunched over the table, his fingertips tracing every groove and ridge of the relief.

?His left arm still hung limp, the completely dead Arcanotech Bracer dangling like a piece of useless scrap metal. His finely cracked glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t bother fixing them. All his focus was anchored to the map.

?Three distinct points caught his eye.

?First, the western tunnel—a narrow chokepoint that would force a massive army to march single file; a natural bottleneck too good to pass up. Second, a lone stone bridge spanning an underground river of magma. Built by the Dwarven ancestors, it saw little use due to its distance from the main settlements—merely an alternate route to the surface. Third, the support pillars lining that tunnel; if shattered at the exact right stress points, they could collapse a section of the path without caving in the entire tunnel network.

?Rianor pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket, jotting down the three locations with his functioning right hand. His handwriting was neat albeit rushed, a chaotic string of numbers and symbols only he could decipher.

?If the Iron Empire sent a massive force, that western tunnel would act as a natural funnel. And a tight funnel could always be exploited.

?Heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway.

?Riven stepped in. The fresh bandages on his left arm were wrapped tighter than before, though they still clearly restricted his movement.

?”Got something?” Riven asked.

?”I do,” Rianor replied without looking up. ”We bait them into the western tunnel. Once their formation stretches out and half their forces cross that bridge, we blow it to hell.”

?Riven stepped closer, studying the stone relief. ”That cuts them right in half.”

?”Half trapped on the crumbled side of the bridge, the other half boxed into a narrow tunnel with no quick retreat,” Rianor continued. ”We don’t need to wipe out their entire army at once. We just need to render their numbers useless.”

?Riven gave a slow nod. A brief flash of approval crossed his eyes—the kind of recognition he rarely handed out.

?”What do you need?” Riven asked.

?”Dwarven warriors who know this terrain like the back of their hand. And the King’s permission to destroy that bridge.”

?”I’ll handle it,” Riven said, already turning back toward the door.

?Dozens of kilometers away, on the ridges of the Eastern Mountains, an Iron Empire command tent stood defiant against the evening wind.

?The dark gray canvas billowed softly. Inside, a steel folding table was buried under topographic maps and scout reports. A portable stove in the corner puffed out thin trails of smoke, while an oil lamp on the table cast a yellowish glow over General Grigori’s face.

?Grigori stood hunched over the table, his black iron left hand pointing at a single spot on the map—the narrow passage leading to the main cave entrance.

?That iron prosthetic was installed twenty years ago, a brutal souvenir from his very first campaign against the Dwarves. He never shared the details of that encounter with anyone, but every time his metal fingers grazed the map’s surface, he was reminded of the steep, bloody price paid for every inch of ground gained in these mountains.

?The tent flap flew open. Adrian Velthorne strode in, his posture rigid, his dark blue uniform still immaculately free of dirt.

?”Four divisions are ready, General,” Adrian reported. ”We can mobilize tonight.”

?Grigori didn’t answer right away. ”How wide is the western tunnel?”

?”Two meters,” Adrian replied. ”Maybe narrower in some spots.”

?”How long will it take four divisions to march through it?”

?Adrian calculated for a moment. ”Hours. Maybe half a day if we condense the formation.”

?”And in that time,” Grigori stated, ”the Dwarves could lay down as many traps as they damn well please. We are not charging that tunnel head-on.”

?Adrian’s jaw clenched. He wanted to argue, but bit his tongue.

?”We send a small unit first,” Grigori continued. ”Map out their inner defenses. Give it three days. Only then does the main division move.”

?”Three days is too long,” Adrian snapped, his voice rising. ”My father is waiting for a progress report.”

?”Your father can wait another three days,” Grigori replied flatly. ”I’ve lost far too many men in that tunnel from rushing in blind.”

?”How many?” Adrian asked, his tone softening slightly.

?”Enough to make me stop counting,” Grigori answered, without lifting his eyes from the map. ”The Dwarves have held these mountains for over three hundred years. They don’t need superior numbers to win. They just need us to be stupid enough to rush.”

?Adrian fell silent. Just before he turned to leave, he said, ”My father expects me to succeed here, General.”

?Grigori stared at him for a long moment. ”Returning with your head held high is far more important than returning quickly, Your Highness.”

?Adrian didn’t reply. He spun around and vanished into the darkness outside the tent.

?Grigori turned his gaze back to the map, his iron hand tapping a rhythmic beat against the paper. There was something different in the air tonight—something he hadn’t felt in his twenty years of waging war against the Dwarves.

?The underground city’s main courtyard was steeped in the sweltering heat radiating from the magma river far below.

?Obsidian walls towered on all sides, the deep purple runes pulsing steadily along their surfaces. Twenty elite Dwarven warriors stood in a flawless formation—clad in heavy armor, gripping runed axes and warhammers, their faded red eyes burning with sheer resolve.

?Riven stood before them, his black Wolf cloak draped over his shoulders.

?”You are not regular foot soldiers,” he began, his voice echoing across the courtyard. ”Your armor is thicker. Your weapons are heavier. And most importantly, you know this terrain better than anyone coming to breach it.”

?No one cheered. There was only an intense, listening silence.

?”We won’t be fighting them head-on,” Riven continued. ”We’re going to lead them on, trap them, and make them regret ever setting foot in that tunnel.”

?Borch stood near the back of the formation, his long black coat completely still. Beside him, Thorne stood tall, a dagger securely tucked into his waistband.

?”The King has given his blessing,” Riven went on. ”The stone bridge on the western route is cleared for demolition—as long as it doesn’t cave in the entire tunnel network.”

?A few Dwarven warriors exchanged glances, nodding slowly.

?”We aren’t winning this with numbers,” Riven stated firmly. ”We win this with our minds. And one of the best tactical minds I’ve ever known is drafting this plan right now.”

?Several warriors glanced toward the strategy room, where the purple light of the runes bled out from beneath the door.

?One of the vanguard warriors, a red-bearded Dwarf with a nasty scar across his cheek, raised a hand.

?”And if this plan fails?” he asked, his voice thick and gruff.

?”Then we fall back and draft plan B,” Riven answered without skipping a beat. ”But this plan will not fail. Not because I believe in luck. I believe in the man who made it.”

?The warrior nodded, lowering his hand.

?”Gear up,” Riven ordered, wrapping it up. ”They’ll be here in three days.”

?Adrian’s personal tent was significantly smaller than the command tent. It held nothing but a wooden crate acting as a chair, a thin cot in the corner, and a single small oil lamp sitting on the crate.

?Adrian sat alone, staring at his pristine sleeves, entirely devoid of dirt.

?He despised dust. He despised mud. He despised the stench of dirt and gun oil that clung to the uniforms of the other soldiers.

?But he despised failure far more.

?His father’s words rang in his head again. My father expects me to succeed.

?Emperor Regulus never praised him directly. There were only ever new targets, new expectations, and a cold gaze demanding more. Adrian needed to prove that he was more than just a crown prince warming a seat behind a desk waiting for the throne.

?His sisters had already cemented their own reputations. Katya managed the eastern industrial zones. Anastasia ran the empire’s entire intelligence network. Meanwhile, he—the Crown Prince, the rightful heir—was only just now being handed his first real field command.

?If he returned empty-handed, the entire royal court would remember him as the pampered prince who needed an old general to hold his hand.

?He pulled a worn, folded map from the inner pocket of his uniform and spread it out on his lap.

?His eyes traced the topographical lines with a sharp, analytical gaze—the exact same kind of gaze that, unbeknownst to him, Rianor had used while studying the stone map in the underground city.

?”Three days,” Adrian muttered to himself. ”I can wait three days.”

?He folded the map back up, tucked it neatly into his pocket, and lay back on the thin cot without closing his eyes.

?Back in the underground city’s strategy room, Rianor was still standing in front of the stone map, unmoving since Riven had left.

?Borch appeared silently in the doorway.

?”Sir, you haven’t slept,” Borch noted flatly.

?”Sleep is optional,” Rianor replied without looking back. ”Winning is not.”

?Borch didn’t comment. He just stood there, waiting.

?”Tomorrow,” Rianor instructed, ”you and Thorne are going to remap the western tunnel. Find every single point where a pillar can be blown without collapsing the whole damn network. I need a complete list before sunrise.”

?Borch gave a single nod, then vanished into the shadows of the corridor.

?Rianor locked his eyes back onto the map. One hand lightly tapped the cold stone surface.

?He ran the calculations in his head again—the distance of the western tunnel, the average marching speed of an army, the time needed to plant the explosives on the key pillars. All the variables pointed to the exact same conclusion: three days was the perfect amount of time. No more, no less.

?”Three days,” he murmured softly. ”More than enough time to dig their graves.”