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

Several hours passed, and the western tunnel finally quieted down.

Not dead silent, mind you. The clashing of steel could still be heard, though far less frequently than before. The remaining Iron Empire soldiers trickled in one or two at a time, and every time they did, they were dispatched before they could even draw near. Two Dwarves at the front line rotated shifts to hold them off, giving the others a chance to catch their breath.

Riven stood amid the ruins of the stone bridge, his runed axe gripped tight in his right hand. The glowing red blade shone dimmer than it had this morning. The bandages on his left arm were tattered and soaked a deep, dark crimson with a mixture of dried and fresh blood. The black Wolf cloak draped over his shoulders was caked in volcanic dust. The air here was sweltering, thick with the pungent stench of sulfur rising from the lava chasm.

Behind him, the twenty Dwarven warriors remained standing in a tight phalanx. Their armor was dented and their breathing heavy, but not a single one gave an inch.

Riven stared across the chasm.

The remnants of the Iron Empire’s 1st and 2nd Divisions stood in disciplined ranks along the opposite edge. They didn’t attack. Nor did they fall back any further. They simply stood there, as if waiting for something.

Riven furrowed his brow. Having spent years on the battlefield, he knew the difference between a defeated army and one executing a retreat. This wasn’t a rout. This was an order.

Grigori had pulled them back. Which meant there was another, far more critical objective elsewhere.

The realization left an uneasy pit in his stomach. He hadn’t received a single update from the command post since the fighting began. No couriers, no signals, nothing.

He turned toward the Dwarven ranks and called out to the youngest among them—a youth with a thin beard and a pale face, though not severely injured.

”You. Sprint to the command post. Check on the situation there.”

The young Dwarf offered a swift bow with his arm pressed across his chest, then bolted down the corridor without asking a single question.

Riven turned his gaze back across the chasm. The Iron Empire forces still stood there, motionless.

He waited, each passing second feeling longer than the last.

• • •

Inside the command post, the atmosphere was quiet and cramped. The oil lamp had burned out. Deep reddish-purple runes along the obsidian walls pulsed softly, providing the room’s sole source of light.

Rianor stood before the stone table, staring down at the relief map spread across it. His cracked glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, his dark hair was a disheveled mess, and his gray shirt was soiled with dust and soot. His left arm hung limp, burdened by the completely dead Bracer. The slash across his right arm had stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed with a sharp sting.

Borch stood near the entrance, his dagger already sheathed. Thorne leaned against the opposite wall, his short spear resting beside him.

”We can’t contact Yara, sir,” Borch spoke up at last.

”I know,” Rianor replied.

”Dispatching a courier to the capital will take days.”

”I know.”

Thorne crossed his arms. “Then we can’t just sit here idle. Staying on the defensive means waiting for Grigori to send his next wave.”

Rianor didn’t answer immediately. He stared down at the map, running through every single possibility in his head. Holding out meant a slow defeat. Attacking Grigori head-on was impossible with their current numbers. Calling for reinforcements was out of the question with no active lines. He tapped the map softly with his right index finger. Twice.

Then he stopped.

He raised his right hand and pressed his finger onto a specific point on the map. “I don’t need Yara for everything. I have the data myself.”

Borch knit his brows. “From where?”

”The data was stored before this Bracer died.” Rianor shot a fleeting glance at his left arm. “Back in the capital, before everything broke down, I managed to scan the Iron Empire’s logistical network. Supply routes, warehouses, supply posts, steam train routes. Not the entire system, but more than enough.”

He slid his finger along the map, tracing a long line behind the Iron Empire’s defensive perimeter. Several small markings lined the route—warehouses and supply depots he remembered clearly.

”Grigori’s four divisions need food, ammunition, and supplies. If we sever this route, they’ll starve.”

”A strike on their rear,” Borch said.

”Yes. But I won’t be going. I’m no fighter.” Rianor looked at both of them. “You two are.”

Thorne took half a step forward. “The plan makes sense. But what about you, sir?”

”I’ll stay at the command post.” Rianor pressed his right palm flat against the stone floor, pausing for a moment. “I can still read the vibrations through the stone. It’s not as precise as the Bracer, but it’s enough to alert me if anyone approaches.”

Borch stared at him for a long moment. “That’s suicide.”

”It is,” Rianor admitted without hesitation. “But if everyone leaves, Grigori could dispatch a small squad and overrun this post. Without it, we’re blind. Besides, I already have a contingency if they show up.”

Thorne gave a subtle nod, accepting the logic.

Borch offered no further argument. He simply checked his dagger, ensuring the blade drew smoothly from its sheath.

”This is a suicidal mission,” Rianor repeated, his voice dropping slightly. “But if you succeed, Grigori’s army starves.”

Borch and Thorne began making their preparations. Thorne checked the straps of his armor and the tip of his short spear, while Borch straightened his black coat and tightened his belt. Neither spoke a word. There was nothing left to say.

• • •

The Iron Empire’s command tent stood on the ridge of the Eastern Mountains, right outside the cavern entrance. Its dark gray canvas billowed softly in the biting wind. Inside, a portable stove belched thin trails of smoke, while an oil lamp resting on a steel folding table cast a dim yellow glow across the interior.

General Grigori stood before a topographical map. His left hand—a prosthetic made of cold, black iron fitted twenty years ago—tapped rhythmically against the paper.

A scout had just departed after delivering a report. Its contents were brief and grim. Now, only Grigori and the Crown Prince remained inside.

Across the table, Adrian Velthorne stood clad in an immaculate, dark blue uniform free of dirt. His dark blonde hair was neatly styled, his icy blue eyes sharp, yet his youthful face looked noticeably pale.

”Two divisions have retreated from the western tunnel, General,” Adrian reported. “The special unit has not returned. We failed.”

Grigori gazed at him calmly. “We did not fail. We merely lost a portion of our assets.”

Adrian could barely keep his voice under control. “Two divisions were decimated. The special unit was completely wiped out. That is not ‘a portion of our assets.’”

Grigori took no offense. He tapped the map once more, harder this time.

”The Dwarves have held out for over three hundred years. I never expected to breach their city overnight.” His voice was flat, patient. “What I have been doing from the very beginning is draining their resources.”

Adrian fell silent, waiting.

”Every Dwarf that dies, every weapon that shatters, every bridge that collapses—it all erodes their strength. They may win tonight, but they cannot win forever.”

Grigori straightened his back and looked Adrian dead in the eye.

”Deploy the final force. Not to break into the city, but simply to ensure the Dwarves have no room to breathe. No time to repair anything. No time to plan their next move.”

”What if the Dwarves have reserves we don’t know about?” Adrian asked, his voice noticeably quieter.

”Every fortress has reserves,” Grigori replied. “All that matters is that their reserves run dry before my troops do.”

Adrian stared at him for a long moment. There were countless points he wanted to argue, but he realized his grasp of warfare paled in comparison to the man standing before him.

”Very well, General. I’ll make the preparations.”

Grigori gave a single nod. He turned his attention back down to the map, as if the conversation was already concluded and required no further thought.

Outside the tent, a short horn call echoed from the distance. The final wave of troops began to gather.

• • •

The thin-bearded Dwarven warrior finally made his way back to the western tunnel. He was gasping for air, his knees trembling. Halting before Riven, he offered a swift bow with his arm pressed against his chest.

”The command post is secure, sir. Master Rianor is safe. Master Borch and Master Thorne are with him.”

Riven gave a subtle nod. A fraction of the weight on his shoulders lifted, though not much.

”Did you see him yourself?”

”Yes, sir. Master Rianor only sustained a minor scratch on his arm. Nothing serious.”

Riven scoffed softly. A scratch on the arm meant Rianor had been forced to fight. The kid was no warrior, which meant things must have turned dire at some point.

He turned back toward the opposite side of the chasm. The remnants of the 1st and 2nd Divisions were still standing there. Unmoving. Unattacking.

”Grigori still has troops left,” he muttered.

The red-bearded warrior with the scarred cheek nodded beside him. “What are we waiting for, sir?”

Riven raised his axe. The runes along the blade burned softly, but stayed lit.

”Wait until they move. The moment they step forward, make sure they regret it.”

• • •

Rianor stared toward the doorway of the command post.

The vibrations traveling through the floor changed.

They didn’t originate from the western tunnel. Nor from the side passage. These tremors were coming from outside—from the surface. A massive, disciplined, heavy march of boots, so intense that even the stones along the ceiling of the command post vibrated softly.

Borch glanced toward the entrance. Thorne raised his short spear from the wall.

”They’re coming,” Rianor said.

”How many?” Borch asked.

”A lot.”

Thorne locked eyes with Rianor. “Are you certain you want to stay here?”

Rianor glanced down at the map once more. The supply route markings remained intact, untouched. “I have a plan. If they breach this room, I’ll escape through a route they’ll never find.”

He raised his head to look at both of them.

”Go now. If you succeed, this war ends before sunrise.”

Borch and Thorne exchanged a brief look. No further words were needed. The two bolted out the doorway, vanishing into the side tunnel leading behind the Iron Empire’s lines.

The sound of their footsteps rapidly receded into the distance before fading entirely.

Rianor pressed his palm back against the floor. The tremors from above grew sharper. This was no mere scouting squad or small strike force like he had envisioned. The cadence was far too dense. This was a massive army—and they were marching at a grueling pace.

Rianor stood alone in the cramped room. The relief map before him. The extinguished oil lamp. The obsidian walls pulsing softly.

Outside, the marching footsteps of thousands drew closer by the second.

Rianor clenched his bleeding right fist.

”Let’s see,” he muttered softly, “who reaches the end first.”