I Became a Witch and Started an Industrial Revolution

Mitia arrived at the manor gates to hand over the supplies to the caravan when the sound of thundering hooves rolled closer from afar.

It gradually became clear that it was a cavalry unit of unknown size.

The caravan guards were so startled that they scrambled in chaos, clucking and barking like startled chickens and dogs.

After a long moment of panic, they barely managed to form a simple defensive line.

By then, the nearest riders were less than a hundred meters away.

A flicker of disdain flashed faintly in Mitia’s eyes.

She turned to the pale-faced caravan leader and explained, “It’s fine. This is the cavalry guard of our territory. I transferred them over to escort this batch of grain.”

The obese caravan leader forced a smile at her words.

“That’s good, that’s good...”

He pulled out a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead.

While they spoke, the cavalry slowly came to a halt, forming a neat formation.

Then, in unison, they dismounted and knelt respectfully on one knee:

“Lady Mitia!”

There were not many of them—only twenty in total.

Yet the collective roar of those twenty men drowned out all other noise, and the sheer pressure of their presence instantly subdued the restless caravan guards.

The commander, Graf, witnessed this scene.

A glint of scorn flickered beneath the weight of his heavy helmet.

Aside from numbers, these hundreds of men were worthless—if he brought his riders against them, he could slaughter the lot in minutes.

At Mitia’s signal, Graf and his men remounted and began to take over the grain convoy.

Behind them, a company of infantry was still on the way.

The Uruk Knight Guard numbered only fifty in total.

That was the greatest wealth Ackerman had left behind for them.

Over the years, nearly all the money the Astal Family had earned had been poured into these fifty men.

Their armor and mounts were forged from materials with magic-resistant properties, granting them resilience even against mage regiments, who would rather avoid a direct clash.

Every knight was a subject of the Astal domain, their loyalty unquestionable.

This was Mitia’s trump card.

Bidding farewell to the caravan that had fled in such haste it could almost be called a rout, Mitia led the convoy into the city under the protection of her heavy cavalry.

Inside the carriage, she gazed out at the wide stretches of cracked farmland passing by with the carriage’s movement, and sighed inwardly.

“Milady, what’s wrong? You don’t look very happy.”

The voice was tender and youthful.

It belonged to the girl kneeling beside her—a maid three years younger than Mitia, who had just turned thirteen.

She was Anna, the daughter of Anje, her mother’s personal maid.

Anje had been Eliza’s close friend.

After Eliza became a marquis’s wife, she had kept Anje by her side.

Now, her daughter served as Mitia’s little maid.

Mitia glanced at the girl and did not conceal her thoughts.

“I think relying on the heavens for food won’t work. Most of the time, even filling one’s belly becomes a luxury.”

Anna blinked her wide eyes, full of puzzlement.

Farming had always depended on the weather since ancient times—she had never thought there was a problem with it.

Still, she replied,

“Milady is right!”

Observing the scenery outside, Mitia couldn’t help but smile faintly.

Turning back to the little girl sitting so upright and prim, she reached out and pinched her cheek.

“You don’t even understand, and yet you say I’m right.”

Anna rubbed her tingling face and whispered, “I didn’t really understand, but I believe Milady will find a way. Mother told me that Milady is the future of the Astal territory, so everything Milady says must be right!”

Mitia smiled without giving a clear answer.

There were ways, of course.

But they were all too distant to resolve the urgent crisis before her.

For now, all she could do was maintain stability and plan for change in the future.

Besides being the eldest daughter of the Astal Family, she was also a transmigrator.

Since crossing into this world and living up until now, she had managed to piece together the basics of its workings.

This was a magical world where many races coexisted.

The overall living standard was roughly equivalent to the medieval era of Blue Star, the world she had come from.

Noble lords, foreign churches—everything one would expect was present.

With magic in their hands, however, their strength far surpassed that of Blue Star’s people of the same era.

Because magical talent could be inherited by bloodline, ancestry was far more powerful here than on Blue Star.

One’s birth practically determined their entire life.

A rare few with extraordinary talent would quickly be absorbed and assimilated into the nobility.

As a witch, Mitia was born with perfect control over magic.

Since awakening, her magical power had been growing rapidly, advancing a minor rank nearly every month.

Now, if she exerted her full strength, she could annihilate an army of hundreds in a single strike.

Do not underestimate mere hundreds of people—those were men who had taken over twenty years to reach maturity.

How many could she slaughter so easily?

She had personally experienced the terrifying might of this power.

In a society where magic stood at the peak, unarmed commoners had no future.

Oh, except perhaps as slaves.

That was their future.

There were exceptions, of course.

Mitia’s family was one.

Theirs was the model story of commoners rising up.

Their rise had begun with her grandfather, Ackerman Astal.

Ackerman had, over two generations, built the Astal Family from nothing into a wealthy, powerful, and loyal stronghold.

That was the miracle he had forged.

Of course, that miracle was also the root that ultimately led him to death...

Still, the old man had left behind a vast estate for her, the transmigrator.

As the future lord of the kingdom’s borderlands, she now stood at the pinnacle herself.

“Lady Mitia, we’ve arrived.”

“Mm...”

Mitia nodded and moved to step down from the carriage through its wooden door.

Beside her, Anna whispered, “Milady, shall I carry the young master instead?”

Mitia lowered her head at Anna’s words and looked at her sleeping little brother, so quiet and well-behaved.

Her lips curved slightly.

“Forget it. He’s not fussing, I’ll carry him myself.”

Anna did not understand why her lady insisted on carrying the boy even when leaving home, but she dared not ask.

She only followed closely, watching carefully at her side.

As they stepped out of the carriage and passed beyond the soundproofing spell inscribed upon it, a surge of noise crashed over them from all directions.

Immediately after, a mass of refugees swarmed forward.

These people had not eaten in days.

Starving eyes gleamed green, and upon seeing the grain, they cared for nothing else—only to rush forward and shove anything edible into their mouths.

Mitia did not shout empty words.

Instead, she directed the infantry stationed around the convoy to quickly separate the crowd and set up cauldrons for cooking porridge.

The refugees, on the verge of frenzy, calmed down somewhat when confronted with the cold gleam of drawn weapons.

They stood by anxiously, waiting.

Mitia had already instructed beforehand: when adding rice, they must also add an equal amount of soil.

There was not enough grain otherwise—this was the only way.

She had condensed this soil herself with magic, removing impurities as much as she could.

It had no nutrition at all, but at least it would not kill anyone.

The refugees saw what the soldiers were doing, but none objected.

They only wanted food.

It did not matter what it was.

Together with several junior mages, she helped control the fire and water.

Soon, the thick porridge began to emit the faint aroma of rice, stirring another commotion.

Graf, clad in full armor, stood on a platform and shouted loudly, “Line up! Women and children first! Anyone who causes trouble or cuts in line will not eat! Do not worry—there is enough for everyone!”

The crowd grew restless at his fierce appearance, but soon a narrow passage opened up.

Women and children, who had been squeezed to the back, finally had the chance to come to the front.

With hope in sight, life returned to their faces.

Yet in comparison to the vast mass of refugees numbering over ten thousand, this group of fewer than a hundred women and children was but a drop in the ocean.

Those who had not come forward—Mitia did not dare think about their fate.

She lowered her eyes, unwilling to look, and only tried to ladle more rice into the bowls of those who had.