Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 113: Clash of Two Principles

The snow descending upon Northveil no longer carried the pristine, cold touch of winter. It had been desecrated, transmuted into a gray sludge by the black soot of burning tenements and the thick, oily exhaust vomited by the steam-engines of the Iron Empire. Near the fractured remains of the Northern Bastion’s main gate, the air itself seemed to shudder. This vibration wasn’t merely the distant thunder of artillery; it was a localized distortion of reality caused by the presence of a gargantuan figure standing dead center in the middle of the cobblestone boulevard.

Sir Riven Sudrath struggled to regulate his breathing, each gasp drawing in the metallic tang of blood and ozone. His mechanical saw-axe hissed, the chain rotating slowly, flicking off droplets of dark, oily ichor from the Junk-Cyborgs he had just dismantled. His silver plate armor was a map of deep gouges and scorched impact marks, and his left shoulder had gone completely numb from a previous blow. Yet, his gaze remained as sharp as a predator’s, locked onto the figure before him.

The enemy was not a mindless machine. He was encased in heavy, matte-gray steam-armor, reinforced with overlapping plates of crude but impenetrable iron. Atop his back, a central chimney vented superheated white steam every time he shifted his weight. But the most terrifying aspect was the weapon he wielded: a gargantuan hammer, nearly the size of a man, equipped with high-pressure hydraulic pistons connected to its head.

The figure raised the visor of his iron helm, revealing the face of a middle-aged man with a jagged burn scar cutting across his left eye. His expression held no malice, only a cold, professional respect.

"I have watched you fight since the landings began, Sudrath Knight," the man’s voice was heavy, muffled by the constant hiss of steam from his suit. "There are few men on this continent capable of stalling my third heavy division with nothing but an axe and sheer grit."

Riven straightened his back, despite the sensation of a thousand needles stabbing his fractured ribs. "And I didn’t expect the Iron Empire still had people who knew how to speak, rather than just how to grind lives into the mud."

The man rested the head of his hammer on the ground, the weight creating a web of cracks in the stone. "My name is Martin. Commander of the Third Destruction Division of the Iron Empire. In my empire, we do not only value the machine, but the courage that drives it. You deserve a knight’s introduction before your end arrives."

"Riven Sudrath," Riven replied shortly. He adjusted his grip on the mechanical handle of his axe, his fingers slick with grime. "And this is not my end, Martin. This is merely the line where your advance will be broken."

Martin offered a thin, grim smile and slammed his visor shut. KLANK! "Then let us see if your flesh and blood can surpass my thousand bars of steam pressure!"

VROOOOOOOOM!

Martin’s hammer shrieked. The pistons in the hammer’s head exploded with maximum steam pressure as he swung it in a violent horizontal arc. Riven leaped backward instinctively, a heartbeat before the hammerhead pulverized the ground where he had been standing.

BOOM!

It wasn’t a mere impact; it was a kinetic explosion. The cobblestones were vaporized into dust and shrapnel, creating a crater half a meter deep. Riven didn’t wait. He lunged forward, activating the Rune Pulse on his axe. A brilliant blue luminescence flickered along the serrated teeth of the rotating chain.

SREEEEET!

Riven’s axe struck Martin’s shoulder plating. A shower of sparks erupted, blindingly bright against the gray twilight, but the blade did not bite deep. Martin’s steam-armor was coated in specialized junk-steel that had been reinforced ten-fold through alchemical tempering.

"Too light!" Martin roared. He pivoted his massive frame, using the momentum of his heavy hammer to strike at Riven’s side.

Riven hoisted the shaft of his axe to parry, but the force was monolithic. He was thrown five meters, rolling through the dirty snow, and coughed out a spray of blood.

"Brother! Do not take his attacks head-on!" Rianor’s voice echoed in Riven’s ear via the Vibro-Comm. The voice was raspy and weak, a clear sign of Rianor’s deteriorating condition at the Observation Building. "His armor mass is nearly three tons. Every time he swings that hammer, there is a zero-point-eight-second delay for the steam recharge in his back valves. That is your window!"

Riven pushed himself up, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Easier said than done, Rianor... the man is fast for a walking tank!"

Sector B – The Underground Bunkers.

Two kilometers away, beneath the tremors of the battlefield, Raphael Sudrath was facing a crisis of his own. The vibrations from the duel between Riven and Martin above were shaking the bunker, causing concrete dust to rain from the cracked ceiling.

"Raphael! The Gauss munitions for the frontline are completely depleted! The Ghost Squad is clicking empty!" Vance shouted, slamming an empty crate against the wall in frustration.

Prince Caelus, his royal garments now tattered and smeared with engine oil, approached Raphael. "We have thousands of steam-propelled shells from the enemy ships we seized at the docks, but the caliber is wrong for your rifles! Damn it, why does everything have to be so incompatible?!"

Ramirez, the ever-faithful adjutant, tried to steady Caelus while keeping a hand on his sword, his eyes darting toward the flickering mana-lights. "Prince, we have no time for complaints. If the ammunition doesn’t reach them, Riven will be surrounded by the cyborg infantry within the hour."

Raphael stared at the archaic communication terminal linked to Rianor. "Brother Rianor! Can you hear me? We have a compatibility crisis. Their technology is based on steam and crude chemical combustion; ours is based on magnetic rails and mana-crystals. Can we utilize their projectiles?"

At the Observation Building, Rianor closed his eyes, forcing his overclocked brain to dissect the molecular structure of the enemy’s ammunition. Through his mental link to the radar sensors, he visualized the binary differences between the two technologies.

"Listen, Raphael... our technologies are fundamentally different. But their projectiles use a solid lead core coated in copper. It is conductive," Rianor’s voice was broken by static. "You have to dismantle the enemy’s shells manually. Take only the core, then fit them into our empty magnetic casings. Force the fit if you have to. It will ruin our rifle barrels after ten shots, but it’s the only way."

"Lily! Vance! You heard him! Round up every technician! Strip the enemy’s shells now!" Raphael commanded with a cold authority.

Caelus was stunned. "You... you’re telling them to dismantle live explosives manually? That could detonate in their hands!"

"If we don’t do it, we’ll all die without even having the chance to explode, Prince," Raphael replied coldly. "Pick up those pliers and help us, or you’re nothing but a decoration in this bunker!"

Caelus swallowed hard, then with trembling hands, he grabbed a workbench tool. For the first time in his pampered life, the Prince of Aethelgard performed manual labor for the survival of others.

The Surface – The Duel of Iron.

Back on the boulevard, the duel between Riven and Martin had reached its lethal zenith. Riven was a map of fresh wounds; a long gash lined his right arm, and he suspected at least two of his ribs were splintered. However, he had decoded Martin’s pattern.

Martin hoisted his hammer high, steam venting furiously from his back—a sign of a maximum-pressure strike. "Time for your rest, Riven Sudrath!"

The hammer descended with near-supersonic velocity. Riven didn’t jump back. Instead, he lunged forward, entering the inner arc of the swing where the hammer’s momentum had yet to reach its peak.

KLANK!

Riven allowed the shaft of Martin’s hammer to strike his shoulder—a painful, calculated sacrifice. His collarbone cracked under the weight, but he successfully brought his mechanical axe to bear against the open steam-valve on Martin’s back, which was currently venting heat.

"Now, Rianor!" Riven roared through the pain.

Rianor, from his distant tower, channeled a high-frequency interference pulse through the radar transmission, focusing it directly on Martin’s armor.

ZAP!

The interference caused the pressure sensors on Martin’s suit to glitch for half a second. The exhaust valve failed to close.

"What?!" Martin’s eyes widened as his HUD flashed a violent red.

Riven didn’t waste the opportunity. He engaged his axe’s engine to its absolute limit, the chain roaring like a predatory beast, and slammed it directly into the open steam valve.

CRAAAAACK!

The serrated teeth of the axe tore through the internal sirkuitry and high-pressure steam pipes within Martin’s suit. The pressure, having no escape route, began to swell dangerously within the back reservoir.

"Argh!" Martin tried to shake Riven off, but Riven held onto the handle with the last of his strength, using his body weight to ensure the axe remained lodged deep.

BOOOOOOM!

A massive steam explosion erupted. The blast wasn’t fire, but a violent release of pressure that shattered the back of Martin’s armor, catapulting him forward into the snow. Riven was thrown in the opposite direction, his axe shattered into a thousand pieces of scrap metal. He tumbled across the ground, falling unconscious as his body finally succumbed to the horrific trauma.

Martin struggled to rise, his armor now venting thick black smoke. Half of his face was visible through the shattered helm; he looked exhausted and broken, but he could still stand. He stared at Riven, who lay unmoving a few paces away.

"You truly are a madman, Sudrath..." Martin murmured. He reached for his hammer, which was now devoid of its steam power. But before he could take a single step toward the fallen knight, a rhythmic series of Gauss fire echoed from the distance.

PTUIZZT! PTUIZZT!

The modified projectiles from Raphael and Caelus struck the ground around Martin. Although the accuracy was poor due to the unstable barrels, the sheer volume of fire was enough to force Martin to retreat.

Borch and his Ghost Squad emerged from the fog, providing intense covering fire. "Secure Sir Riven! Move! Move!" Borch commanded.

Martin looked toward the harbor, where the massive silhouette of The Emperor was slowly advancing. He knew his mission had been stalled. "Withdraw! Heavy units, fall back! Let their wounds finish them."

As Martin’s forces retreated, Duke Lucian arrived in his armored SUV. He leaped out, his face a mask of agony, and ran toward his blood-soaked son.

"Riven! Hold on!" Lucian screamed, his voice cracking with emotion.

At the Observation Building, Rianor watched through the radar screen as Martin’s heat signature drifted away, but Riven’s vital signs flickered dangerously low. Rianor disconnected the coaxial cables from his arm and slumped back into his chair. Blood flowed freely from his nose and ears.

"Logistics delivered... Martin repelled... but the cost..." Rianor whispered before his consciousness finally faded into black.

Northveil had not fallen, but the dawn of that day felt darker than any night. The Sudraths had won the battle, but they had lost one of their greatest physical pillars. Amidst the falling snow, this war had just entered a much crueler Chapter.