Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 54: The Royal Academy

Capital City of Sol-Regis – Academy Main Gates. Midday – First Day of Orientation.

If Northreach was the gleaming beacon of the future, then the Capital of Sol-Regis was a magnificent yet dusty relic of the past. As the hired horse-drawn carriage rattled over the uneven cobblestones, Raphael Sudrath pressed his forehead against the cool glass window, his expression a mixture of boredom and growing irritability.

To any other teenager, the sight of towering white limestone arches and gold-leafed statues of ancient kings would have been a cause for awe. To Raphael, a boy raised amidst the rhythmic hum of Mana-turbines and the clean efficiency of the North, it looked like a city that had spent a millennium forgetting how to innovate.

"Look at those streetlights, Sis," Raphael muttered, pointing a gloved finger at the ornate iron poles passing by. "They’re still filling them with whale oil. I can smell the rancid fat even through the carriage doors. It’s disgusting. Why hasn’t the Royal Council approved the Mana-Grid proposal Rianor sent last year?" 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Raveena Sudrath, sixteen and radiating the effortless poise of a young Duchess, didn’t look up from the small ledger she was reviewing. "Because change is a threat, Raph. In this city, tradition is the currency of power. If the streetlights are bright and clean, the people might start asking why the laws are so dark and dusty. Watch your attitude today. Sol-Regis is a nest of vipers where they fight with whispers and ancient protocols as much as they do with magic."

Raphael sighed, tugging at the stiff collar of his black-and-red uniform. It was a masterpiece of Rumina’s craftsmanship—made from "Iron-Spider Silk." It was lighter than air, fire-resistant, and tough enough to deflect a grazing dagger. However, Raphael vividly remembered Rumina’s lecture when she handed it over:

"This silk costs 500 gold coins per meter to produce, Raph. If you get a single tear in this during a stupid playground fight, I’m deducting it from your allowance for the next three years. I’m an engineer, but I’m a treasurer first. Efficiency means not wasting my capital on your bruised ego."

Thinking of his older sister’s terrifying obsession with the family treasury made Raphael shudder more than the cold wind outside.

As the carriage finally pulled up to the main gate, the air became thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfumes and the sweat of hundreds of anxious young nobles. The Royal Academy was a sprawling fortress of white stone, its spires reaching for the clouds like jagged fingers. The gates were ten meters high, embossed with the Royal Dragon and the Sword—a silent reminder of who truly sat at the top of the food chain.

As Raphael and Raveena stepped down, the boisterous chatter of the crowd died down into a sea of hushed, hurried whispers.

"Is that them? The ’Rust-Lions’ from the North?"

"The boy is only fourteen, but look at that glare. He looks like his older brother, the one who leveled a whole province in a single night."

"And the sister... she looks like she could command an army just by blinking. Look at her cloak. Is that the rumored Northern tech-silk?"

Raphael ignored them, his jaw tight. He had inherited Riven’s predatory aura, a cold stillness that made people instinctively clear a path, but he masked it with the polite, empty smile Roland had drilled into him.

"The Magic Wing is to the left, Knight’s Wing to the right," Raveena said, stopping by the central fountain where the path split. She adjusted her telescopic staff—a sleek metal baton at her waist that could extend into a combat weapon with a single click. "Do not—I repeat, do not—punch any seniors until at least the second week, Raph. I don’t want to spend my first weekend filing disciplinary appeals."

"I make no promises if they touch my gear, Sis," Raphael teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He watched her walk away with the grace of a queen before turning toward the Knight’s Academy, unaware that a pair of cold, blue eyes was already tracking him from a balcony above.

The Knight’s Wing – The Social Order.

The Knight Academy was a realm of limestone and tradition, smelling of oiled leather, whetstones, and old sweat. Raphael navigated the hallways, noticing the rigid social divisions. Groups were formed not by talent, but by the richness of their capes and the number of generations their families had served the crown.

To these "Old Money" nobles, the Sudraths were nothing but wealthy upstarts who had bought their way into high society with "Northern trinkets." Raphael could feel their disdain, but his mind was elsewhere, occupied with the structural integrity of the building. He noticed cracks in the support pillars that would have given Rianor a heart attack and Rumina a reason to sue the contractor for embezzlement.

By the time the lunch bell rang, Raphael was starving. He headed toward the Main Canteen, not realizing he was walking straight into a den of wolves.

Main Academy Canteen – The Hierarchy of Tables.

The Academy Canteen resembled a five-star restaurant. Round tables draped in white linen filled the hall, and the menu featured delicacies from every corner of the kingdom. However, the most important part of the room was the seating chart.

The central dais was for Royalty.

The window tables were for High Nobles (Dukes and Marquesses).

The shadowed corners were for Low Nobles.

The commoner scholarship students? They were expected to eat in the gardens, invisible to the "pure-blooded."

Raphael collected his tray—a thick, seared steak and a fresh green salad. He saw an empty seat at a window table and headed toward it. As the son of a Duke, he was legally entitled to the spot.

He walked through the central aisle, his mind calculating the torque of a proper sword swing. He didn’t notice the intentional movement at the central royal table.

A leather boot was suddenly thrust into the aisle.

Raphael tripped. His reflexes, honed by years of being chased by Riven’s training golems, saved him from a face-plant. He executed a sharp, controlled roll and popped back onto his feet. But the momentum was too much for the soup bowl on his tray.

SPLASH.

A thick, greasy yellow potato soup drenched the front of his black uniform. The shimmering Iron-Spider Silk was now stained with a disgusting, fatty mess. 500 gold coins worth of fabric, ruined by a single kick.

A roar of mocking laughter erupted from the central table.

The culprit, Prince Caelus—the Seventh Prince of Aethelgard—sat back in his chair, a smug grin plastered across his golden-boy face. He was sixteen, the same age as Raveena, and he radiated the arrogance of a boy who had never known the word "consequence."

"Oops," Caelus drawled, his voice loud enough for the entire hall to hear. "You should use your eyes when you walk, Newbie. Or is your vision obscured by all that Northern gold your father supposedly hoards? It seems the Sudraths can buy machines, but they can’t buy basic coordination."

If this were Roland, he would have smiled and dismantled the Prince’s reputation with a few poisonous words. If it were Riven, he would have ignored the child. But this was Raphael. Fourteen years old, with the blood of a street fighter and the pride of a lion. He looked at the soup stain—and then he thought about Rumina’s reaction to the repair bill.

"What did you just say, you piece of sh*t?!"

Raphael didn’t just drop the tray; he slammed it onto the marble floor with a resounding CLANG! that silenced the entire room. The clinking of silverware stopped. No one had ever dared to use such language toward a member of the Royal family.

Caelus stopped laughing. His eyes narrowed into slits of cold, dangerous blue. "What was that, barbarian? You dare insult the Royal bloodline?"

"Royal blood or not, you’re the one in the wrong!" Raphael’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. The veins in his neck pulsed with fury. "Apologize now, or I’ll force that arrogant mouth of yours to say the words!"

"Interesting," Caelus smirked, stepping down from the dais. He was a trained swordsman, a prodigy of the Royal Guard. He saw Raphael not as a threat, but as a toy to be broken. "Try it then, Little Lion. Show me the ’ferocity’ of the mud."

Driven by pure rage, Raphael lunged. He threw a heavy right hook aimed straight for Caelus’s jaw—a move designed for street-level efficiency.

WUSH!

The punch hit nothing but empty air. Caelus was faster. He side-stepped with a dancer’s grace, his hand moving like a striking viper to catch Raphael’s wrist. With a sharp, practiced twist, he forced Raphael’s arm behind his back in a painful lock.

"ARGH!" Raphael groaned as his shoulder joint was pushed to its breaking point.

"Big heart, small power," Caelus whispered directly into Raphael’s ear.

THUD!

Caelus kicked the back of Raphael’s knee, forcing him to collapse into the pool of spilled soup. The cold liquid soaked into his trousers, but the coldness of the Prince’s boot on his face was worse. Caelus pressed Raphael’s head against the dirty marble, grinding his cheek into the grit.

"Let me go! Fight me fair, you coward!" Raphael roared, struggling violently, his face flushed with shame and fury. His pride was being pulverized under the Prince’s heel.

"You’re noisy," Caelus said, his voice dropping into a chilling monotone. "Maybe I should have your tongue removed as a lesson in etiquette. In this city, your Northern titles are just scrap metal. You are beneath me."

Raphael felt the grit of the floor against his teeth. He was about to spit on Caelus’s boot when a voice cut through the air, resonant and vibrating with authority.

"STOP IT!"

It wasn’t a shriek. It was a command.

From the crowd of stunned students, Raveena Sudrath stepped forward. She didn’t run in hysterics. She walked with her spine perfectly straight and her chin held high, despite the clear flicker of concern in her eyes. She stopped exactly three paces away from Caelus.

Instead of reaching for her telescopic staff, she gathered the fine fabric of her cloak and performed a Curtsy—the most elegant, flawless bow of a high-born lady, practiced a thousand times under their mother’s watchful eye.

"Greetings, Your Royal Highness, Prince Caelus," Raveena’s voice was like cool water, a stark contrast to her brother’s fire.

Caelus was momentarily stunned. The sheer elegance of her movement made him instinctively loosen the pressure on Raphael’s head. He looked her up and down, noting the fierce, crimson intelligence in her eyes.

"You’re the older sister? Step aside, Lady Sudrath. This brother of yours is a mad dog that needs to be put in his place."

"You are correct, Your Highness," Raveena replied, her eyes locking onto his. There was no fear in her gaze, only a disconcerting, calm sincerity.

"My brother, Raphael, is indeed short-tempered. He acts on impulse and thinks later. It is his greatest flaw, and I sincerely apologize that his foolishness has soiled your boots and disturbed your lunch."

Raphael, still pinned to the floor, looked up in horror. "Sis! Why are you apologizing?! He’s the one who started it!"

"Silence, Raphael," Raveena cut him off, her voice soft but carrying an edge of steel that made him stop instantly.

Raveena turned her attention back to Caelus. This time, her stern expression softened. She offered him a smile. It wasn’t the fake, porcelain smile of a courtier, nor was it a smile born of fear. It was the warm, genuine smile of a sister who was tired of her brother’s antics but was asking for understanding. It was a smile that seemed to radiate light, settling the violent energy in the room.

"Please forgive his outbursts, Your Highness," Raveena said softly. "He is only fourteen, still learning the difficult art of self-control. As a wise senior and a prince... would you find it in your heart to let him go this once? We would be most grateful for your magnanimity."

Ba-dump.

Prince Caelus felt a strange, unfamiliar jolt in his chest. He was used to women who worshipped him, feared him, or tried to seduce him with calculated glances. But he had never met a woman who admitted a fault so elegantly, who defended her family without losing an ounce of dignity, and who smiled at him with such disarming warmth.

Slowly, Caelus withdrew his foot from Raphael’s back. The burning rage he had felt toward the boy evaporated, replaced by a nagging, ticklish curiosity about the girl standing before him.

"Very well," Caelus said, his voice suddenly dropping into a more refined, polite tone. "Since his sister has asked so graciously, I shall overlook this... lapse in judgment."

Raphael scrambled to his feet, dusting off his uniform with aggressive, jerky movements. He looked like a cornered wolf ready to bite. Raveena immediately grabbed his hand, her grip firm and unyielding, and bowed once more to Caelus.

"Thank you for your magnanimity, Your Highness. We shall take our leave."

As they walked away, Caelus stood still, watching Raveena’s retreating figure. The faint scent of her rose perfume lingered in the air, stirring a feeling he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to see that smile again. He wanted to hear that soft, steady voice directed at him.

He glanced at Raphael, who was being dragged away like a petulant child. A cunning, obsessive idea began to take root in his mind.

"Hey," Caelus whispered to his sycophants, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Starting tomorrow... make sure young Raphael’s life here is... ’interesting.’ Provoke him, bother him, make him lose his mind with anger."

"You want us to beat him up again, Your Highness?"

"No," Caelus stared at the canteen doors with an intense gaze. "Make him angry... so that his sister has to come and apologize to me again. I want to see that smile one more time."

The Academy Hallway – Aftermath.

In the quiet of the hallway, Raphael yanked his hand away from his sister, his face still flushed with shame. "Sis! Why did you do that?! Why did you bow to that bastard?! I could have taken him if he didn’t use that cheap footwork!"

Raveena stopped and sighed, reaching into her cloak to produce a clean handkerchief. She began wiping a smudge of sauce from her brother’s cheek.

"Raphael, you lost. That is a fact. You can’t fight a Prince with nothing but street punches and anger. You’re embarrassing General Riven’s name, and more importantly, you’re making Rumina’s ledger bleed. Do you have any idea how much she’ll charge us for the ’deep cleaning’ of this uniform?"

"But he insulted the North! He called us barbarians!"

"Let him call us whatever he wants," Raveena smiled thinly. "When you are stronger, when you can actually win, then you challenge him to an official duel. For now, go change your clothes. You smell like onions and defeat."

Raphael snorted, but he knew she was right. Today’s defeat had scorched his ego, but it had also lit a fire. He would become stronger—not for show, but to wipe that arrogant smirk off Prince Caelus’s face and prove that a Lion of the North never stays down.

Unknown to them, the seeds of a long, tumultuous drama at the Royal Academy had just been sown—and those seeds would not grow in peace.