Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 152: THE LAIR OF THE OVERLORDS

​The iron-rimmed oak wheels of the carriage groaned rhythmically as they traversed the ancient cobblestone streets leading to the southern gates of the capital, Sol-Regis. Here, there were no steam engines whistling in the distance, no glow of mana-electric lamps lining the shoulders of the road, and no hum of maglev speed to shorten the journey. There was only the traditional swaying of a carriage pulled by four of the finest pedigree horses, escorted by twenty elite knights of House Sudrath clad in efficient, dark nylon-magitech armor that stood out like a sore thumb against the medieval backdrop.

​Inside the carriage’s opulent cabin, Lucian Sudrath stared out of the window. The lush, rolling green landscapes of Aethelgard’s Central Region were a stark, almost jarring contrast to the increasingly industrial skyline of Northreach. Here, time seemed to have frozen in a grand, stagnant Middle Age, oblivious to the technological revolution brewing in the North.

​"We have entered the direct jurisdiction of the Palace of Light, Master Duke," Thorne’s deep voice broke the brooding silence. The Infantry Captain sat upright across from Lucian, his right hand never straying far from the Sudrath Spear—a customized SIG MCX—strapped to his side.

​Borch, sitting beside Thorne, merely offered a curt nod. The leader of the Ghost Squad wore a camouflage cloak folded neatly over his lap, but his sharp eyes, hidden behind sensor-enhanced goggles, continuously scanned every corner of the streets through the narrow window slits. "Sentry tower presence has increased by twenty percent compared to our visit last year. They are on high alert, Master."

​Lucian let out a short, weary breath, leaning his back against the velvet cushions. "It’s to be expected. A prince of the realm is dead, and the father of the perpetrator is sitting in this very carriage. If they weren’t alert, I would find it an insult to our perceived threat level."

​Sanusi, the modern mind within Lucian, tried to map the volatile situation. This wasn’t just a corporate board meeting like the ones he used to chair on Earth. This was a gathering of Aethelgard’s apex predators. One misstep, one poorly timed word, and Northreach would be marked for a mass systematic purging.

​The massive gates of Sol-Regis, constructed from a formidable blend of white granite and marble, groaned open slowly. The gate guards, clad in shimmering silver plate armor—the elite Silver Eagle corps—immediately snapped their halberds into a rigid vertical position. As the carriage bearing the Wolf sigil of House Sudrath passed through, the captain of the guard offered a perfect military salute, fist clenched tight against the left breast.

​There was no obstruction. No petty insults from the lower ranks. In this world, the title of Duke was not a mere hollow ornament; it represented tangible, lethal military authority. The guards knew that the man inside this carriage held the keys to the North. Respecting Lucian was not an act of courtesy; it was an acknowledgment of raw power.

​"Stop here," Lucian commanded as the carriage reached the main courtyard of the Palace of Light.

​The moment the carriage door swung open, Nyx—the second-in-command of the Nightshade Sentinels who had been blending into the shadows of the cabin—slipped out soundlessly. Before Thorne or Borch could even blink, Nyx had vanished behind the towering marble pillars. Her predatory instincts were more than enough to turn her into a ghost in the very heart of the kingdom.

​Lucian stepped out, followed by Thorne and Borch, who walked exactly one pace behind him in a protective V-formation. Their presence was a visual clash: Lucian in his refined noble attire, flanked by two soldiers carrying weapons that looked like they belonged in a different century. They walked through the long, echoing corridors leading to the Hexagon Hall, the sacred site where the Annual Summit of Lords was held.

​The giant doors, ten meters high and crafted from gilded teakwood, opened slowly with the assistance of a hidden mana-mechanism. Inside, a perfectly hexagonal room greeted them. At the center of the chamber sat a massive round table with six high-backed chairs, each bearing a different symbol of ancestral power.

​The aura within the room was so thick and oppressive that the air itself felt difficult to inhale. This was an Aura Clash—the collision of the raw spiritual pressure exerted by rulers who had no intention of yielding an inch to one another.

​Lucian stepped in with a measured, calm gait. His leather boots thudded firmly against the polished alabaster floor. Thorne and Borch stood directly behind him, their eyes vigilant, maintaining the high etiquette required of knightly escorts.

​Three of the overlords had already arrived.

​In the Southeast chair sat Archbishop Alexander. He was an elderly figure in pristine white robes embroidered with pure gold thread. His face was a mask of serenity and divine compassion, yet deep within his clear blue eyes lay a terrifying, unyielding fanaticism. Behind him stood two Paladins in heavy plate armor that emitted a faint, holy radiance.

​In the South chair sat Grand Duke Alistair Solari. A giant of a man with skin bronzed by the harsh sun of Highgarden. His armor was a deep, weathered gold with rising sun motifs. His massive greatsword was leaned casually against his chair. Alistair glared at Lucian, his calloused hand tapping the table with a heavy, ominous rhythm. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

​In the East chair sat a woman who provided a sharp contrast to the masculine atmosphere of the room. Duchess Clarissa. She was an Elf, her pointed ears peeking slightly through her long, silver hair. Though she looked like a woman in her early twenties, her gaze held the weary wisdom of a thousand years. The air around her vibrated subtly due to the sheer density of the mana she possessed.

​"Duke Sudrath," Alexander spoke first. His voice was soft, yet it resonated with a terrifying spiritual authority. "It has been a long time since Northreach sent the scent of sulfur and grease into this hall."

​Lucian took his seat—the chair of the Northern Overlord. He placed both hands flat on the table. "The world is changing, Archbishop. The scent of incense and prayer might be enough to soothe a soul, but it is hardly enough to repel a concentrated invasion."

​Alistair Solari let out a short, dry grunt—a hollow laugh that rattled in his throat. "You always have a sharp tongue, Lucian. But I remind you, this chamber is a place for negotiation and statecraft, not for flaunting your new trinkets."

​Lucian met Alistair’s gaze with eyes like ice. "Those ’trinkets’ are the reason Highgarden can still plant its wheat without being raided by every maritime enemy of Aethelgard on the northern coast, Alistair. Remember that before you dismiss them so casually."

​The tension skyrocketed. Thorne and Borch instinctively adjusted their stances. Likewise, the Solari guards and Alexander’s Paladins shifted their weight. The diplomatic atmosphere was a powder keg, ready to ignite into a battlefield with a single misplaced word.

​"Enough," a melodious yet absolute voice commanded from the direction of Duchess Clarissa. She didn’t look up, her eyes remaining fixed on the center of the table. "We are not here to measure who has contributed more to the realm’s defense."

​A heavy silence smothered the room as Clarissa indirectly alluded to the elephant in the room: the death of Prince Marcus. Even the boisterous Alistair fell quiet.

​Suddenly, the side door of the hall swung open. A figure in grand royal robes entered with heavy, deliberate steps. King Edward IV. His face was haggard, the lines of worry around his eyes telling a tale of immense mental burden. He was flanked by an aged knight in plain black armor and a court wizard whose aura was every bit as dense as Clarissa’s.

​All the lords rose in a show of protocol, Lucian included.

​Edward walked toward his throne, the most magnificent of them all. The seat of the Western Overlord (Ironhold) beside him remained empty—a grim reminder of the fall of House Valerius—adding a somber weight to the assembly.

​"Be seated," Edward said as he reached his chair. His voice sounded raspy, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

​Edward looked at each of his oldest friends in turn, his gaze lingering significantly on Lucian. There was pain there, doubt, but also a hardened resolve in the King’s eyes.

​"This is a routine annual meeting," Edward opened the session. "However, I am certain you all know that there is nothing ’routine’ about our kingdom this year. We face threats from without that draw closer by the hour, and threats from within that tear at the very fabric of our unity."

​Edward picked up a scroll with a shattered wax seal—the official report of Marcus’s death. "Lucian, my old friend. Before we discuss the territorial reports, I need one thing from you. A truth that is not wrapped in layers of bureaucratic lies."

​Lucian met Edward’s gaze with unwavering calm. Thorne, standing behind him, could feel his own heart beating against his ribs. This was the moment where the fate of Northreach would be decided.

​"The truth is not always a pleasant thing to hear, Edward," Lucian replied. "But if that is what you ask for, then that is what you shall receive. Northreach never intended to kill your son. But Northreach will also not stand idly by while its neck is placed on the chopping block without a fight."

​Beyond the thick walls of the hall, Nyx, crawling along the rafters of the outer corridor, watched as Alistair Solari’s guard gave a secret signal to a passing palace servant. She realized instantly that this meeting was merely a grand distraction from something far more sinister being prepared by the Southern faction.