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

The two special ops units ahead were still moving rapidly, their footsteps virtually silent as they navigated the corridor leading toward the throne room. Borch tailed them from a safe distance, his lean frame blending seamlessly into the shadows cast by mossy stone pillars. Thorne remained three paces behind, short spear already drawn, his eyes locked onto the backs of their two targets.

The air in this passage was cold and damp. Only thin slivers of light seeped through the rocky fissures overhead, barely illuminating the rough outlines of the walls and the slick, moss-covered floor.

The tunnel broadened slightly up ahead. The two operatives paused for a split second, seemingly checking their route, before resuming their march at the same relentless pace.

Borch signaled with a flick of his chin—left for me, right for you. Thorne gave a single, silent nod, adjusting his grip on the spear.

They lunged forward simultaneously.

Borch burst from the shadows first, his dagger driving straight for the gap in the first operative’s collar armor. But his opponent reacted instantly, tilting his head just in time so Borch’s blade missed his flesh by an inch. The soldier counter-struck, throwing an armored elbow into Borch’s ribs.

Borch caught the blow with his left forearm. Pain instantly shot through his arm, forcing him back half a step. His opponent gave no quarter—drawing a short sword and aiming a low slash at Borch’s knees.

Borch leaped, twisting his body in midair as his dagger parried the hilt of the incoming sword. Steel clashed against steel, a sharp ring shattering the tunnel’s silence. In that split-second window, Borch spotted an opening—slashing the leather strap of the soldier’s knee guard.

The operative stumbled, his balance compromised for a brief moment. A brief moment was all Borch needed. He drove his blade straight through the gap in the soldier’s gorget, ending it then and there.

On the other side, Thorne spun his spear, slamming the butt into the small buckler on the second operative’s arm. The soldier was thrown back but stayed on his feet, immediately raising his sword to thrust at Thorne’s chest.

Thorne deflected the blade with the shaft of his spear, spun around, and drove a hard elbow into the operative’s temple. The soldier staggered but remained standing, still capable of fighting, trained well enough to raise his blade once more.

Thorne stepped in, delivering three rapid thrusts in succession. The opponent parried the first two, but the third pierced through the joint between his chest plate and abdomen. Blood splattered. The operative dropped to his knees before collapsing onto the cold stone floor.

Borch stood tall, heavy chest heaving, staring down at the two corpses on the ground.

”Four black-ops,” he said softly. ”Two here.”

Thorne nodded, catching his meaning instantly without needing further explanation. He wiped the head of his spear, his sharp eyes remaining fixed on the dark corridor.

Borch recalled the stone relief map they had studied the night before this operation began. There were faint, narrow lines on it—side tunnels and forks not even recorded on the old Dwarven maps. Two remaining black-ops operatives. Where had they gone?

He remembered the pitch-black fork they had passed earlier—the path they had skipped in order to pursue the two targets heading directly for the throne room.

The path leading straight to the command post.

Borch’s expression darkened. ”Master Rianor.”

Thorne didn’t ask a single question. He spun around immediately. The two broke into a sprint in the opposite direction, their pace far faster than when they were giving chase.

• • •

Inside the command post, the narrow obsidian-walled room had turned into an arena.

The first soldier unsheathed his blade completely. The steel gleamed faintly under the glow of the oil lamp.

Rianor’s mind raced. His magic needed a source of mana to replicate. The enemy standing before him possessed no magic to drain. The Bracer on his left arm was completely dead, useless scrap metal. The only remaining source of mana in the entire room was the pulsing, reddish-purple runes along the obsidian walls.

Those runes were just lighting. They couldn’t kill anyone on their own.

But sometimes, light and heat were more than enough.

Rianor raised his right hand. Faint circuits flickered at his fingertips—not from the dead Bracer, but from the Mirror Attribute still alive within him. He replicated a fraction of the wall runes’ frequency, channeling it into the flame of the oil lamp on the stone table.

The lamp’s flame flared violently, bursting into a blinding white flash that reflected off his cracked glasses, aiming straight for the first soldier’s eyes.

The soldier instinctively raised a hand, shielding his eyes as he stumbled back a step.

Rianor didn’t waste a second. He grabbed the wooden chair beside him and hurled it into the soldier’s chest. The chair shattered into splinters, sending the soldier stumbling backward against the obsidian wall.

The second soldier didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, thrusting his sword straight at Rianor’s gut.

Rianor pivoted as fast as his body allowed. The blade missed his waist by a fraction of an inch, close enough to tear his shirt. He grabbed the edge of the stone table, shoving it with all his strength toward the second soldier. The heavy table slid slowly, but it was enough to obstruct the attacker’s movement for a vital second, gouging the relief map resting on top.

The first soldier had already recovered, his eyes bloodshot with rage as he raised his blade and charged back without missing a beat.

Rianor snatched the oil lamp from the table. The scalding glass scorched his palm, but he had no time to wince. He smashed the lamp onto the floor right in front of the first soldier’s feet. Glass shattered, oil spilled, and a burst of flames spread across the stone, belching thin wisps of smoke.

The first soldier pulled back, avoiding the flames licking at his greaves.

But the second soldier had already shoved the heavy stone table aside, clearing a path, advancing once more with far greater caution. Rianor backed away until his shoulders slammed against the obsidian wall. There was nowhere left to retreat.

He raised his right hand once more, attempting to replicate the runes’ frequency again. A second flash erupted, much weaker than the first. The soldier squinted for a brief instant but pressed on regardless, his blade lunging straight for Rianor’s chest.

Rianor parried with his right arm. The steel sliced through skin, drawing blood immediately—not fatal, but painful enough to make his whole arm throb violently. He spun around, driving his elbow hard into the soldier’s jaw. His opponent staggered, but stayed upright.

The first soldier had stomped out the small fire around his boots, stepping forward once more with blade raised.

Rianor was cornered. Two seasoned killers stood before him. His right hand was bleeding. The Bracer on his left arm remained dead. His ability to siphon light from the runes grew weaker with every attempt, like a dry well.

There was still one wooden chair in the corner. There was still the relief map on the displaced table. There was still his own mind.

Time kept ticking, and none of it felt like enough.

The first soldier raised his blade once more. The second stepped forward from the other flank, closing the pincer.

Rianor clenched his bleeding right fist.

Then the curtain at the entrance burst open.

Borch barged in first, dagger gripped tight in his right hand, his long black coat coated in tunnel dust. Thorne followed right on his heels, short spear raised, his sharp eyes scanning the room in a fraction of a second.

The two black-ops soldiers spun around, startled by their sudden arrival.

Borch gave them no time to react. His dagger darted out, piercing the first soldier’s neck from the side. The man collapsed instantly without even raising his blade.

Thorne charged the second soldier, slamming the point of his spear into the target’s chest plate with full force. The soldier was hurled backward, losing his balance, and Thorne’s swift second thrust finished him on the spot.

Silence descended upon the room once more, broken only by Rianor’s ragged breathing and the thin trail of smoke rising from the extinguished oil lamp.

”You’re late,” Rianor said, his voice carrying more exhaustion than anger.

Borch offered no reply. He simply conducted a swift check on the two bodies on the floor to ensure neither would rise again.

Thorne turned toward Rianor. ”Are you alright, sir?”

Rianor looked down at his bleeding right forearm. ”Just a scratch.”

Thorne nodded, then resumed his guard stance near the doorway, spear still held at the ready.

Rianor straightened up, locking eyes with Borch. ”The King?”

”The operatives targeting His Majesty have been eliminated, sir,” Borch replied with a slight bow.

• • •

Rianor stepped back over to the stone table, which had been pushed out of position. The relief map atop it was still intact, save for a minor scratch along one corner. He ran his finger along the main tunnel’s line, ignoring the stinging cut on his right forearm.

The tremors from the western tunnel were still pulsing through the floor—their rhythm steady and unceasing.

”Riven is still holding,” Rianor said.

Borch glanced toward the doorway. ”Should we reinforce him?”

Rianor shook his head. ”Riven can hold. We have a bigger problem.” He pointed to a spot on the map. ”Grigori is still outside. His four divisions aren’t wiped out yet. The special ops unit failed, but he still has a full army at his disposal.”

Thorne stepped closer, lowering his spear. ”What is your plan?”

Rianor stared at the ancient map longer than usual, recalculating every variable in his head. Grigori was no ordinary commander.

”We can’t win by staying on the defensive,” Rianor said finally. ”We have to launch a counter-offensive. But not directly at Grigori.”

Borch furrowed his brow. ”Then where?”

”Their supply lines.” Rianor pointed to another location on the map, far behind the Iron Empire’s defensive perimeter. ”If we sever their logistics, those four divisions won’t last long, no matter how powerful they are right now.”

Thorne nodded slowly. ”A strike on their rear.”

”Precisely.”

But that strategy required something Rianor currently lacked: someone who truly knew the Iron Empire’s supply routes inside and out, not just rough guesses from an ancient Dwarven map.

The only person with that level of detailed knowledge was Yara.

And Yara was currently in the Iron Empire’s capital, far from here, accompanying Rumina at the clandestine ward along with Selene and Lieur.

Rianor couldn’t simply invoke her name and expect everything to fall into place. The Bracer on his left arm had been dead for a while. The communication channel he usually relied on to contact Yara was completely severed, leaving him with zero options.

He fell silent for a moment. He had no immediate answer for this hurdle.

Borch stared at him. ”What now?”

”I need time,” Rianor replied.

”We don’t have much time, sir,” Thorne said, his tone calm yet distinctly firm.

”I know.”

Rianor gazed down at the relief map once more. Riven was still holding the western tunnel. Grigori was waiting outside with his remaining forces. And Yara, the sole key to his next move, was far away in the enemy capital, completely beyond his reach.

”We have to find a way,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else in the room.