Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 91: Celebration Under the Rain of Fire

Chapter 91: Chapter 91: Celebration Under the Rain of Fire

Northreach City Center (Iron Heart). 11:45 PM.

If one were to stand in the central plaza of Northreach that night, they would never have suspected that a mere forty kilometers to the north, thousands of lives were being wagered in a violent downpour of lead and concentrated mana-lasers. Here, within the pulsating heart of the Sudrath territory, the market districts and the grand avenues were still bathed in the artificial, incandescent glow of Magitech streetlamps—a soft, cerulean luminescence that turned the cobblestones into a stage for a dreamlike revelry.

The orchestral symphony from the festival’s main stage continued to resonate, their crescendos carrying the triumphant melodies of House Sudrath’s historical victories. Civilians danced in rhythmic synchronization, merchants peddled glass-spun candies that shimmered like jewels under the mana-lights, and children ran through the crowds with laughter that felt disturbingly honest. To the uninitiated, the distant, muffled thuds echoing from the coastline were merely part of the "Grand Pyrotechnic Display" promised by the Duke.

This was a dangerous form of soft power—a calculated manipulation of reality. Lucian had deliberately maintained the facade of the festival to ensure the public morale did not hemorrhage into chaos. It was a crisis management strategy he had imported from his past life as a CEO on Earth: public tranquility was a commodity, even if that tranquility was entirely manufactured. Order was an asset, and in this moment, the illusion of safety was the only thing preventing a city-wide collapse into primal panic.

However, beneath this veneer of jubilation, a silent exodus was underway. City police officers, disguised in civilian attire, moved through the crowds like shadows, guiding groups of citizens toward the reinforced entrances of Sector B Bunkers under the pretense of "exclusive Sudrath family gift distributions." The machinery of survival was moving in the dark, hidden behind the velvet curtains of the festival.

The Needle Tower (Needle Tower).

"Rianor... listen to me..."

The voice was a fragile thread, nearly drowned out by the agonizing hum of radar processors working at three hundred percent capacity. Rianor Sudrath stood frozen at his command console, his fingers hovering over a keyboard he no longer knew how to use. Before him, Elara was no longer the defiant, vibrant sorceress who commanded the elements. Her body had gone limp, held upright only by Rianor’s trembling arms.

A sickening crimson had begun to seep from the corners of Elara’s eyes—a thick, dark red that stood in horrific contrast to her deathly pale skin. Then it came from her nose, then her ears. The backlash of Totem Magic was not a burden designed for the human frame; it was a tectonic pressure that threatened to shatter the very soul of the caster.

"Do not speak, Elara! Not now! Save your strength!" Rianor’s roar was a mixture of command and raw desperation. He turned his head sharply toward Count Hektor, the city’s lead engineer who usually spent his days scoffing at the unpredictability of magic. "HEKTOR! THE MANA-STABILIZER FLUID! NOW!"

Hektor, usually a man of rigid protocols and mechanical skepticism, could only offer a frantic, terrified nod before sprinting toward the medical logistics vault. The sight of the genius Rianor in such a state of emotional disintegration was enough to move even his stone-cold heart.

On the primary tactical monitor, the projection of Elara’s Totem Magic still flickered over the sea. A monolithic Barong Totem—carved with mystical, traditional patterns that were both ancient and terrifying—stood with its maw wide open. The Iron Empire’s purple Railgun energy, a force capable of incinerating an entire city district, was being sucked into the Barong’s gullet as if it were nothing more than a stray spark in a vacuum.

VREEEEEETTTTT!

The sound of the energy friction was a high-frequency scream that threatened to burst the eardrums of everyone in the tower. Every joule of energy the Totem consumed sent a destructive vibration through the neural link, directly into Elara’s nervous system.

"Rianor... forgive me," Elara whispered, her fingers—cold and slick with her own blood—touching his cheek, leaving a macabre stain on his skin. "I... I don’t think I can accompany you to see... the finished, prosperous Northreach... but it must... it must survive..."

"NO! Elara, you are my fiancée! You were never meant to be a casualty of this war! Do not apologize!" Rianor roared, his voice cracking. For the first time in his existence, the cold, military logic that had defined him collapsed. The architect of the North’s defense was gone, replaced by a man watching his entire universe crumble in his arms.

The moment the Railgun’s energy was fully neutralized, the Barong Totem erupted into a blinding cloud of violet particles. Elara slumped fully into Rianor’s chest, her breathing shallow and ragged before her eyes finally drifted shut. Rianor’s heart felt as though it had been carved out of his chest with a dull blade.

"Elara? Elara! Speak to me!"

"Sir Rianor!" Count Hektor’s voice returned, but he wasn’t carrying the stabilizers. Instead, he carried the news of an impending catastrophe. "The Needle Tower is fracturing! The foundation cannot withstand the resonance of that Totem’s detonation! Our radar is dead! We are blind!"

Rianor didn’t answer. He simply held Elara against the cold floor, surrounded by advanced machinery that now looked like nothing more than expensive scrap metal. A poison of guilt began to circulate through his veins. He was the one who designed this defense. He was the one who had left a technical gap so wide that Elara had to fill it with her own life.

In that silence, the calm, calculated version of Rianor Sudrath died, and in its place, something far darker and hungrier for retribution began to stir.

The Frontline – The Shoreline Sands.

At the beach, a terrifying intermission had taken hold. The Iron Empire’s fleet on the horizon had gone silent. They, a civilization that prided themselves on the legacy of their ancestors’ technology, had just witnessed a display of magical defiance that defied all logical parameters. Their ultimate weapon had been swallowed by a "mouth of stone."

"They’ve stopped?" Thorne’s voice crackled over the radio, raspy with the grit of gunpowder and exhaustion.

Riven stood beside the blackened carcass of an Iron Walker he had just dismantled. He adjusted his breathing, his heavy armor a roadmap of bullet scores and scorch marks. "They haven’t stopped. They are recalibrating. Do not lower your guard for a single second!"

On the eastern flank, Prince Caelus dropped to one knee, his lungs burning. Before him, Raveena was working with surgical speed to repair the circuits of a ground transmission relay that had been fried by the Railgun’s static discharge. Beside him, Ramirez moved with an elegant, lethal grace, his blade carving through the remaining enemy infantry with the precision of an artist.

"Prince, you are bleeding," Raveena noted without looking up, her fingers weaving through silver wires with practiced ease.

Caelus looked at his arm, where a shard of shrapnel had torn through the fabric and skin. However, he offered a thin, predatory smile. A faint, golden aura began to radiate from his frame—not the flickering light of a standard knight, but a dense, suffocating brilliance. Imperial Radiance.

"Do not underestimate the lineage of Aethelgard, Lady Raveena. Go now—return to the bastion. Your place is with the cannons," Caelus commanded, his voice carrying a weight of authority that silenced any potential argument.

He stood tall, unsheathing his blade. The steel began to glow with the intensity of a dying star. "If your brother Riven fights like a monster, then allow me to fight like a protector."

Raveena offered a singular, sharp nod before sprinting toward the bastion where the Grimm’s Roar batteries stood in silent, lethal rows. Suddenly, Caelus moved. His velocity bypassed the threshold of human perception.

"Royal Art: Solar Thrust – Nova Burst!"

Caelus lanced toward a unit of Iron Empire infantry attempting to infiltrate through the shadows of the cliffside. His sword pierced the air, creating a localized explosion of thermal energy that liquefied the enemy’s steel armor in an instant. It wasn’t just physical strength; Caelus’s aura was incinerating the very oxygen in his radius. Riven, watching from a distance, narrowed his eyes.

"That pampered brat... it seems he actually has fangs," Riven muttered, a grunt of genuine respect.

Command Center – Iron Hearth Castle.

Duke Lucian stared at the flickering monitors before him. The report regarding Elara’s condition had arrived via a brief, clinical message from Operator Ben. His face remained an immovable mask of granite, but his hand, gripping the mahogany command staff, trembled with a microscopic tremor.

"Duke, the Needle Tower’s radar is offline. We are blind to the sea’s movements," Captain Thorne reported, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic anxiety.

Aurelia stood beside her husband, sensing the storm raging within his soul. As a former CEO, Lucian knew that sacrifice was a line item on the balance sheet of war. But as a father, he knew Rianor would never be the same again.

"Aurelia," Lucian’s voice was a low vibration. "Send word to the Grand Station. Terminate the festival. Now."

"But the panic, Lucian... the citizens will trample each other," Aurelia countered.

"Let them panic! Panic is a survival instinct. Better they be terrified and prepared than dead in their seats!" Lucian turned, his eyes burning with a lethal intensity. "Signal the reserve units. Activate the ’Scorched Earth’ protocol for Northveil City if the perimeter fails. If the Iron Empire wants to land, they will land on a bed of fire, not sand."

"What about Rianor?" Aurelia asked softly.

Lucian paused, his gaze drifting to the dark horizon. "Tell him... not to cry yet. Tell him to save his tears as fuel for the next war machine. We still have an empire to slaughter."

Just as the command was issued, a secondary alarm erupted across the command hub—not the siren for a naval assault, but a seismic vibration sensor.

"Duke! Something is moving beneath us!" Operator Ben screamed, his voice reaching a fever pitch. "This isn’t a geological event! These are massive boring machines! They aren’t just attacking from the sea... they’ve breached the city’s drainage systems!"

On the final functioning monitor, a visual feed from an underground security camera flickered to life: a massive, obsidian-black drill belonging to the Iron Empire had just torn through the reinforced walls of Sector B Bunker.

The very place where thousands of civilians were seeking sanctuary.

This war was no longer about who was more advanced. It was about who was more ruthless.