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

The Iron Empire retreated from the valley before the sun climbed too high. Their supply lines were crushed, their formations shattered. All that remained were broken ranks fleeing back toward the ridge—the only place they still considered safe.

The command tent. Grigori’s last remaining sanctuary.

The morning fog was thinning, but the air remained thick, heavy with lingering smoke from the valley below. Rianor had marked this exact location on his map even before the battle began. He gave no order to rest, despite knowing his troops were exhausted and wounded. Opportunities like this didn’t come twice.

The Dwarven forces moved out once more. The same three units—Riven taking point with the Golem, Borch and Thorne on the left flank, Naya and Dom on the right. This time, they marched on the ridge, where the gray canvas of the Iron Empire’s command tent still stood behind wooden barricades and sandbags. Back at the makeshift command post, Rianor watched from a distance.

The chill of the morning wind bit through the gaps in the canvas. Inside the tent, Grigori ran a rapid headcount in his mind. The remnants of his army—those who could still stand—numbered no more than three hundred. The rest had been scattered since the logistics route was severed last night, or left behind in the valley alongside the dead.

Three hundred men and three light artillery units that hadn’t fired a single shot. Not the kind of numbers to inspire confidence after the slaughter they just witnessed in the valley.

Adrian stood beside him, his face paler than ever, his hands subconsciously wringing the edge of his uniform. The distant blare of a war horn sounded again, much closer than he’d hoped.

Grigori stepped out of the tent. The thinning fog offered just enough visibility to see three Dwarven formations advancing from three directions at once—a mirror image of the valley ambush. Only this time, there was nowhere left to retreat.

He barked the order to ready the artillery.

Three units rolled into position, their steel wheels groaning against the rocky soil, metallic muzzles taking aim at the fog concealing the approaching enemy.

It was the only card he had left to play.

Up on the left cliff, Borch was already back on one knee, his Gauss Rifle raised. The sniper scope emitted a faint green glow through the dispersing mist. A few paces away, Dom mirrored his stance, holding the same weapon with cold precision.

Borch held his breath.

”Left,” Borch muttered.

”Right,” Dom replied, not taking his eye off the scope.

Two shots tore through the air almost simultaneously. The left artillery unit detonated first, followed by a secondary explosion from the right just a fraction of a second later. Plumes of black smoke billowed from the twisted metal wreckage.

The third artillery crew managed to get a shot off before their turn came. A projectile streaked across the battlefield, slamming into the dirt a few meters ahead of Riven’s vanguard.

The blast kicked up a storm of rock and dust. Several Dwarven warriors were knocked off their feet by the shockwave, but the formation held strong.

Riven raised his axe and bellowed the charge. The Obsidian Golem surged forward, the ground quaking beneath its massive strides, volcanic ash erupting from every footprint it left behind.

The Golem crashed into the main barricade without shedding an ounce of momentum. Sandbags blew apart in every direction, and wooden beams snapped like dry twigs under its sheer weight. Riven charged through the breach, his axe whirling, cleaving two soldiers before they could even raise their weapons.

It was their second clash of the morning, yet his arms showed zero signs of fatigue.

Above, the two Wyverns swooped low, bathing the remaining logistics tents in fire, incinerating whatever hadn’t been salvaged. From the right flank, the two Basilisks slithered in, their corrosive venom melting the armor of anyone foolish enough to get close, leaving thin trails of noxious smoke in their wake. The Magma Crawler erupted from the earth right in the middle of the surviving enemy ranks, its serrated jaws tearing through flesh and metal indiscriminately.

Naya weaved through the chaos like a shadow, her daggers exploiting the gaps in every suit of armor she passed. Thorne spearheaded the left flank’s assault, a single sweep of his spear dropping two soldiers at once. From the cliffs above, Borch and Dom provided relentless cover fire, picking off anyone who tried to rally the broken lines.

The barricades collapsed completely, their support beams snapping and crashing into the dirt. The surviving Iron Empire soldiers broke into a disorganized retreat. Stripped of direction and command, some even threw down their weapons just to run faster.

Grigori stood before the ruins of his own tent, watching his entire camp fall apart in a matter of minutes that felt like an eternity.

Adrian spoke beside him, his voice trembling. “We have to fall back.”

Grigori didn’t answer.

He stared out at the battlefield that had been utterly overrun. The Dwarves had boxed them in from three sides. Wyverns circled the skies. Basilisks and the Crawler prowled the ground. Two unseen snipers still locked down the cliffs.

He had seen enough death in his lifetime. He wasn’t going to add to the body count for absolutely no reason.

He took a deep breath, then stepped away from the ruined tent.

His black iron left arm hung limply at his side. His right hand was empty; there were no weapons left to draw.

Riven stood at the front, his axe still dripping with blood. Borch and Thorne emerged from the left. Naya and Dom from the right. Atop a boulder not far from the carnage, Rianor stood watching, the morning light reflecting off his cracked glasses.

Grigori lifted his chin, locking eyes with Rianor.

Rianor stepped down from the boulder. His pace was calm, even as his right arm throbbed faintly. He stopped a few paces away from the old commander.

”Surrender,” he said.

Grigori stared at him for a long moment, then let out a short, bitter laugh.

”And why exactly should I believe you’ll honor any terms after this?” he asked.

”Your supplies are gone. Your artillery is scrap. Your army has routed to the last man.” Rianor didn’t blink. “You have no reason left to fight, and I have no reason to lie.”

Grigori studied him intensely, searching the young man’s face for any hint of hesitation. He found none.

His iron left hand clenched into a fist for a brief second, as if some lingering part of him still wanted to fight to the bitter end. Then, his mechanical fingers relaxed.

”Stand down,” he said quietly.

Adrian’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to protest, a look of sheer disbelief plastered on his face as if just waking up to reality. But Grigori cut him off, his tone steady. “It’s over, Prince Adrian. We are still alive. That is more than enough for one day.”

Riven gave a curt nod.

Two Dwarven warriors stepped forward, binding Grigori and Adrian’s wrists with rune-etched chains. The chains pulsed faintly the moment they locked, as if adjusting to the size of their captives’ wrists.

Grigori didn’t offer a shred of resistance. Adrian opened his mouth to speak again, but a single sharp look from Grigori made him snap it shut.

”Take them to the throne room,” Rianor ordered.

He watched Grigori’s back as the commander was marched away. The battle was won. But he knew the hardest part was just beginning.

Capturing a commander was easy. Deciding what to do with him was the real challenge.

The Dwarven guards escorted their two high-profile prisoners through the winding corridors of the underground city. They passed tiered stone settlements that were beginning to bustle with life again, small markets cautiously opening after a total lockdown the night before, and suspension bridges that creaked softly over the rivers of molten lava flowing deep below.

Dwarven civilians lined the streets, staring with unreadable expressions. Some clenched their fists so hard their knuckles turned white. Others simply lowered their heads, as if unable to bear the sight any longer. A few spat on the stone floor right as Grigori walked past.

Grigori walked with his back perfectly straight, his head held high, never once looking down—even when a few small stones were hurled at his feet from the crowd. Adrian trailed behind him, his steps far more hesitant, his eyes darting nervously at the hostile faces closing in around them.

It was the very first time he had truly seen the people he had only ever known through casualty reports.

The throne room was waiting for them when they arrived.

Towering obsidian walls dominated the hall, reddish-gold runes pulsing faintly along their surface, syncing with the heartbeats of everyone standing inside. The white-runed warhammer still rested beside the stone throne. The Dwarf King sat there, his stout figure slightly hunched, bronze rings braiding his gray beard, his faded red eyes staring straight ahead.

Rianor stood off to the side, near Roland. Riven positioned himself not too far away, his axe wiped clean, though his left arm was still bound in the same fresh bandages.

Borch and Thorne stood on the opposite side, still dusted from their descent down the cliffs. Naya and Dom stood quietly by the entrance, as untalkative as ever.

Grigori and Adrian were forced to stand before the throne, their hands still bound by the glowing rune chains.

The Dwarf King stared at them for a long time. His gaze swept over Grigori’s hardened, scarred face before shifting to Adrian’s youthful, pale complexion. No one spoke a word for a long, heavy moment.

Outside the throne room doors, the Dwarven citizens began to mass. An old Dwarf at the front of the mob—his left arm missing at the elbow—raised his good hand and screamed. The exact words were muffled from inside the hall, but the tone was unmistakable.

Others joined in. The voices echoed off the obsidian walls, bouncing and stacking on top of one another, morphing into a swelling tidal wave of pure rage.

The Dwarf King looked at Grigori, then looked toward his screaming people at the threshold.

He knew the judgment he was about to pass was no longer just about himself. Three hundred and twelve years of war had forged his people’s desires long before he could even open his mouth.

For a split second, the throne room felt quieter than ever. Rianor glanced over at Roland.

Roland took a half-step forward but hadn’t yet spoken. His eyes darted from the Dwarf King, to Grigori, and finally to the massive doors where the uproar was steadily growing.

Outside, the citizens’ roars only grew louder.