I Became a Witch and Started an Industrial Revolution

“Natalie, I heard your brother, Prince Curtis, is coming back.”

Veronica stood on the balcony watering the flowers, casually chatting with Natalie, who was spacing out nearby.

Natalie snapped back to her senses and responded, “Mm… When I received the letter, he should have already set off for a week.”

Veronica put down the watering can. “They shouldn’t come back, not at a time like this.”

Natalie pouted. “Why? Don’t all of you think we can win? Just like that blond freak—he even went off to join the rebels, how infuriating!”

She angrily squeezed the doll in her arms. Veronica couldn’t help but laugh softly when she heard that. “What he did was indeed rash, but it was his personal choice. I can’t really comment on it.”

Natalie looked somewhat confused. “Tell me, do you think the same way? Has my father really done that poorly? Why are there so many people opposing him?”

Veronica sat down beside Natalie and smiled. “People? It’s interesting to hear that word come from your mouth. Looks like I’ve influenced you after all~”

“Perhaps your father didn’t do that badly—at least in the eyes of his core supporters. But those ‘people’ who are now resisting him never once enjoyed his mercy from the very beginning.”

“Look at these flowers. Do you know what they represent?”

Natalie looked up at the delicate, blooming flowers on the balcony and asked in confusion, “Flowers are just for display. What could they represent?”

Veronica stood up, picked one, and handed it to Natalie.

“In our Alliance, different flowers carry different meanings. But they all share one universal interpretation—no matter the flower, it can represent democracy, equality, and fraternity.”

“You know, equality grants fairness and justice. And love is a bond between people that can neither be severed nor untied.”

“The current Roshek Tsardom does not have these three things, but tomorrow it might. Sooner or later, it will—because flowers forever bloom, and fairness always exists.”

“I remember when we first met, I asked you—if the Kingdom were invaded, would they raise their weapons to protect those who once beat them? Now, the answer seems to have been revealed.”

On the bustling streets of the Royal Capital, large numbers of children of wealthy farmers, merchants, even small estate owners and minor nobles—the core populace of the Tsardom—gathered together.

“Our future! Lies in the hands of the greatest generation. My friends, that is you!”

The youths below burst into loud cheers. “Yes!!!”

The man stood atop the hastily constructed platform, speaking with passionate fervor. “Then go and fight! Any hesitation or doubt is betrayal to the nation! For the Emperor! For the Heavenly God! For the Motherland!”

A unified roar erupted from below: “For the Emperor! For the Heavenly God! For the Motherland!”

Seated in the attic, the Tsar turned his head to glance at the fanatical youths, nodded in satisfaction, and lifted the glass of red wine on the table, draining it in one gulp.

‘Gulp, gulp… ugh.’

The murky, greenish coolant of a Maxim heavy machine gun flowed down from the corner of Orba’s filthy mouth. He greedily gulped several mouthfuls before barely suppressing the burning thirst within him.

When they had marched from the Imperial Capital in neat formation, shouting slogans in their uniforms toward the Krichenev Defensive Line, the constant rain of artillery shells from the sky had, every moment, crushed the spirits of people like Orba—extinguishing the heroic dreams in their hearts.

So this was what it meant to be struck by a shell—your body would shatter into a mist of blood. When a bullet hit the head, the skull would split into several pieces.

There were no warhorses here like they had imagined, no towering mechanical bodies, not even proper shelter. The only things they had were a flintlock rifle that could explode at any moment, along with a pouch of bullets and gunpowder.

The gunpowder had to be kept against the chest, otherwise it would lose its potency if soaked by the filthy water in the trenches.

Ever since the port supply line had been cut off, the proportion of food and drinking water in the rear supplies had continuously decreased. In contrast, all kinds of black powder rifles and explosive packs developed by the Tsarist Nation itself had increased significantly.

Previously, when the supply transit station was captured by the rebels, it had severed the Tsarist Nation’s main artery. Most of the Alliance weapons had been seized by the resistance forces, and under high-intensity combat, they were quickly exhausted, forcing them to bring out the stockpiled old flintlock rifles as an emergency measure.

It wasn’t just the frontlines—food supply for ordinary civilians had also entered wartime rationing.

Four years of stalemate warfare had already nearly drained the Tsarist Nation’s accumulated reserves. The seamless transition into a rebel uprising afterward gave them no chance to recover.

Four consecutive years of heavy loss of able-bodied laborers had left farmland abandoned and harvests reduced. Meat, vegetables, and fruits were luxuries beyond imagination. Aside from weapons and ammunition being sufficiently supplied, there was practically nothing to eat.

Krichenev Defensive Line—less than three hundred kilometers from the Imperial Capital of Vyatletsk. Three-fifths of the rebel forces were concentrated here, along with more than two-thirds of their heavy weapons reserves.

With the launch of the rebels’ Operation Whiplash, after consecutively breaking through Uyanchi and Reza and surrounding Mitoten Port, even the supply lines from the Alliance direction had been cut off and intercepted, further worsening the situation within the Tsarist Nation.

This infuriated the Tsar, prompting him to abandon the previous defensive strategy and shift to an offensive assault, determined to completely reopen the transport lines and reclaim the supplies.

“Get up! Soldiers!”

Under the officers’ urging, young soldiers like Orba were driven out of the underground barracks like rats, bending as they moved toward the trench ladders.

“Do you want to be branded as cowards and traitors to the nation at a critical moment, or do you want to become heroes?!”

“Fix bayonets! All units, charge!!!”

“Move! Move! Charge forward!”

Under the relentless shouting of officers, waves of soldiers climbed out of the trenches and, numbly braving the storm of bullets and shells, began their desperate charge. From time to time, soldiers were blown apart by artillery or shot dead by stray bullets.

After the Tsar reacted and shifted to an offensive strategy, the resistance forces immediately increased the density of their firepower, attempting to completely trap and annihilate the Tsarist army.

It didn’t matter if there wasn’t enough artillery ammunition—Legion Commander Cassius had devised a type of cannon made simply from black powder charges and iron barrels. Ammunition supply was absolutely guaranteed.

And although the firing range was relatively short, its destructive power against enemies seemed even greater than that of a 75mm field gun. Even if a mechanical body wasn’t damaged from a direct hit, the operator inside would be killed by the shock.

“Advance! Advance! Advance!”

Behind Orba, the continuous roars of officers shouting through amplifiers echoed, while the surroundings trembled with constant explosions.

Half-crouching as he moved forward, Orba saw a Saint Tsar Tank rumbling past him. He hurriedly took cover behind it.

The tank pressed forward through the hail of machine-gun fire, sparks flying off its steel plates, yet nothing could stop its advance. Mechanical soldiers moved past him, continuously launching explosive magic toward the enemy positions.

Through the smoke blanketing the battlefield, faintly visible were soldiers set ablaze by magic, their screams mixing with the thunder of explosions.

Suddenly, the tank in front of Orba lurched downward, the entire vehicle sinking into a trench pit, as numerous ignited explosive packs came flying in from all directions.