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

Rianor pushed himself off the stone wall.

The tremors from the explosions had subsided. The retreat horn from the Iron Empire’s command tent still rang in his ears, but he pushed it aside for now. He turned toward the corridor leading to the throne room, took a deep breath, and walked.

His steps were a limping drag, but his eyes remained razor-sharp.

The obsidian corridor ahead pulsed softly with reddish-purple runes, syncing with his decelerating heartbeat. The sweltering heat from the magma river below still clung to the air, laced with the faint stench of sulfur. His black hair was a disheveled mess, matted flat with dried sweat.

His cracked glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t bother adjusting them. His gray shirt was caked in volcanic dust and soot. His left arm hung completely limp, burdened by the dead Arcanotech Bracer, while the scabbed gash on his right arm throbbed sharply with every few steps.

Dwarven warriors began emerging from cover, slowly returning to their guard posts. Their faces were etched with sheer exhaustion, their heavy armor dented and battered. A few offered subtle, respectful nods as Rianor passed by. The chaotic din of battle from the western tunnel had ceased entirely. All that remained was the low, distant rumble of magma churning far beneath the city.

Rianor counted his steps silently—an old habit to keep his mind sharp when his body threatened to give out.

He passed several soldiers propping their wounded comrades against the corridor walls, applying makeshift bandages. No one stopped to ask him questions. They all knew exactly where he was headed.

He arrived before the massive stone doors, intricately carved with reddish-gold circuits. Two of the King’s royal guards stood post. Their faded red eyes scanned his bleeding arm, the dead Bracer, the cracked glasses. Neither said a word. They simply pushed the heavy doors open.

• • •

The throne room was far quieter than Rianor remembered.

Towering obsidian walls stretched upward, adorned with reddish-gold runes that pulsed softly across their surface. Beside the stone throne rested a white-runed warhammer, untouched since gods knew when.

The Dwarven King sat upon his throne, his stout frame slightly hunched. His gray beard, braided with bronze rings, rested heavily against his chest. His faded red eyes stared blankly ahead.

Roland stood beside the throne. His white shirt was smeared with dirt; his diplomatic robes had been discarded long ago. His dark hair was a bit disheveled, but his gray eyes remained cool and utterly calm.

In the corner of the room, Naya stood in silence, her hand resting near the hilt of the dagger at her waist, her short black hair a messy tangle. On the opposite side, Dom stood rigid, his eyes sweeping the room relentlessly, as if fully expecting another threat to burst through the doors.

The Dwarven King raised his head as Rianor stepped inside. His gaze trailed over Rianor’s wounded arm, down to the dead Bracer, up to the cracked glasses, and finally locked onto his face.

”You’re still breathing,” the King noted, his voice heavy and grating like stone.

”I am,” Rianor replied, stopping dead in the center of the hall. “And I brought a report.”

• • •

”The Iron Empire’s supply lines are severed,” Rianor stated flatly. “Three coordinates. The fuel reserves, the munitions depot, the supply cache. All turned to ash.”

He didn’t skip a beat. “Their forces initiated a retreat the second the explosions hit. The retreat horn blew from their command tent. The remnants of the 1st and 2nd Divisions pulled back from the chasm edge. The surviving troops of the 3rd and 4th Divisions trapped in the western tunnel are dropping their weapons.”

Silence crept into the grand hall. Only the rhythmic pulse of the wall runes continued, as if time marched on despite everyone in the room holding their breath.

The Dwarven King said nothing. His massive hands gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He stared at Rianor for a long time, digging for a lie on that pale face, searching for a flicker of doubt in those eyes. He found neither.

Then, he laughed. A short, bitter sound—the laugh of a man who had lived far too long to believe in miracles.

”Twenty warriors,” the King rasped. “Twenty Dwarven warriors held off an Iron Empire army thousands deep.”

”Not just held them off,” Rianor corrected. “We crippled their logistics. Without a supply chain, those four divisions will starve in a matter of days.”

The Dwarven King shook his head slowly, as if unable to trust his own ears. He had defended these mountains for three hundred and twelve years. He had buried two sons, three grandsons, and more warriors than he could ever count. And now, the young man standing before him, armed with four operatives and a twenty-man phalanx, had forced the mighty Iron Empire into a full retreat overnight.

Beside the throne, Roland offered a faint smile. A rare sight these days.

”My family has always been a little crazy,” Roland mused. “But we get results.”

The Dwarven King looked at Roland, held his gaze for a second, then turned back to Rianor.

”So what’s our next move?” the King asked.

• • •

”A counter-offensive,” Rianor answered without a shred of hesitation.

The Dwarven King froze.

”This is the perfect window to wipe them out, before they can re-establish their supply lines,” Rianor pressed.

The Dwarven King stared at him for a long moment. Then, his gaze drifted to the warhammer resting beside his throne. His aged fingers twitched, lightly brushing against the time-worn wooden haft.

”Do you know how many times I’ve heard those exact words?” he said softly. “Every single time, we marched out. And every single time, we lost more. Warriors. Sons. Grandsons.” He let out a heavy sigh. “A minor victory can easily turn into a massive trap. I’ve seen it happen. Countless times.”

His voice was subdued now, but it wasn’t the voice of a coward. It was the voice of a man who had shouldered too much, grown wise too painfully, and bled far too often.

Rianor felt the faint vibrations traveling through the stone floor beneath his boots. The Iron Empire forces were still moving on the surface—retreating, but not entirely gone. He waited a few seconds before speaking again, letting the King’s words settle in the air.

• • •

”I can’t promise you absolute victory,” Rianor finally said. “No one can.”

The Dwarven King raised his head, his faded red eyes locking straight onto Rianor, waiting for the punchline.

”But I can promise you one thing,” Rianor continued. “If we don’t strike them right now, they will return. With fresh supply lines, new divisions, and they won’t underestimate us a second time.”

The Dwarven King closed his eyes for a brief moment. His heavy breathing echoed clearly in the silent hall.

Roland stepped forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Rianor. His dirt-stained shirt and messy hair did nothing to diminish his presence—he stood tall, calculating, exuding the aura of a master diplomat who never truly clocked out, even in the heart of a war zone.

• • •

”You have witnessed far too many wars, Your Majesty,” Roland spoke, his tone perfectly measured. “Lost far too many of your kin. I understand that.”

The Dwarven King simply stared at him.

”But you aren’t fighting alone anymore,” Roland continued. “For three hundred years, the Dwarves held this line in total isolation. No one ever came to your aid.” He shot a brief glance at Rianor before turning back to the King. “Now, we are here. And we aren’t leaving until this is finished.”

”Can you promise me that?” the Dwarven King challenged, his tone caught somewhere between defiance and sheer desperation.

”Without a shadow of a doubt,” Roland replied smoothly. “We’ve faced the Iron Empire on the open seas, on land, in the sky, and deep within the Khanate. We are still standing. And we will keep standing, as long as there’s breath in our lungs.”

The King lowered his gaze to the fractured stone floor—a silent witness to three centuries of bloodshed. “I’m far too old to put my faith in promises.”

”I’m not asking you to believe in promises,” Roland countered. “I’m asking you to believe in results. Look at the board. Their logistics are ash. Their army is in retreat. Your warriors are still breathing.” He paused for a beat. “That isn’t a promise, Your Majesty. That is a fact.”

The Dwarven King fell silent for a long time. The wall runes pulsed sluggishly, the only motion in the room aside from the slow rise and fall of their chests.

Finally, he raised his head.

• • •

”Very well,” he declared. “We counter-attack.”

He straightened his back, completely ignoring the obvious pain the movement cost him.

”But on one condition,” he added, locking eyes with Rianor. “You and Roland lead the charge. My warriors and I will fight, but you call the shots. If we succeed, the glory is yours. But if we fail…” He paused, his voice turning deadly serious. “…the blood is on your hands.”

Rianor met his gaze unflinchingly. “Fair enough.”

The King gave a slow nod. “How much time do you need to draft a strategy?”

”Tonight,” Rianor answered instantly. “We march at dawn.” His mind was already calculating terrain routes and troop formations before the words even left his mouth.

Rianor glanced at the warhammer resting beside the throne. Still there, untouched, as if waiting to be claimed.

The Dwarven King looked from Rianor to Roland. The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to form a true smile.

• • •

The Dwarven King rose from his throne. His movements were slow, his aged body bearing the invisible weight of a collapsing kingdom. He grasped the haft of the white-runed warhammer, hoisted it up, and rested the heavy steel head casually against his shoulder.

”I’ll rally my warriors,” he said. “You finalize that plan.”

His posture was hunched, but the massive warhammer on his shoulder stood defiant. Reddish-gold runes inked into his thick arms and shoulders pulsed to life as he descended the throne’s steps, walking right past Rianor and Roland, heading straight for the exit.

At the threshold, he paused. He looked back over his shoulder.

”I’m going to pray,” he said, his voice softer than before. “For the first time in decades. I pray to the gods this decision doesn’t bury the rest of my people.”

He stepped out, and the heavy stone doors pulled shut behind him with a resonant thud.

Roland stared at the spot where the King had just stood, then turned to Rianor. “If this fails, he’s going to write us off as nothing but silver-tongued liars.”

”I know,” Rianor replied.

”And if we succeed?”

Rianor stared at the empty space beside the throne, where the heavy warhammer had rested just moments ago. The grand hall felt noticeably emptier without it.

”If we succeed,” Rianor said, “we secure a new ally. An ally who has spent three hundred years waiting for someone he could actually trust.”

Roland smirked. “You always have a knack for making suicide missions sound like a walk in the park.”

Rianor didn’t reply. He pivoted on his heel and strode toward the stone table in the corner, where the ancient relief map was spread out. A thin layer of dust still coated its edges. His finger traced the gouged marks along the cavern routes, instantly mapping out supply lines and tactical chokepoints he had long since memorized.

Behind him, Naya and Dom quietly slipped out of the room, acting on an unspoken command to secure the perimeter, leaving Roland alone to watch Rianor already losing himself in the tactical data.

At dawn, they march.