Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution

By midday, the faint glare of the sun pierced through the overcast sky.

Inside a cramped cabin, Rianor Sudrath leaned back against a wooden desk. His gray eyes stared through thin spectacles at a wide parchment spread before him. His face still bore the pale traces of seasickness, and his black hair was slightly disheveled.

On the desk lay a map of the Iron Empire’s military port.

With a quill, Rianor added a new stroke in the southwest corner: Worker settlement.

"Hmm..." Rianor murmured softly.

One crucial fact was becoming increasingly evident. There were no mana sensors. No magic traps. A military facility of this magnitude was purely driven by steam pressure, mechanics, and an absolute reliance on human eyes.

Rianor flipped open a leather-bound journal and jotted down a single deduction:

Their massive strength lies in mechanical control and steam pressure. However, their greatest weakness is their visual dependency.

Clank.

The man snapped his journal shut, slowly massaging his temples as the circuits on his arm let out a faint hum.

"Today... is going to be a very long day."

Out on the main deck of the NRS Orion, the air was suffocatingly thick, stinging with the stench of burning coal and hot iron.

Roland stood near the railing. His dark blue diplomatic coat fluttered gently in the sea breeze. His black hair was meticulously combed, while his gray eyes calmly swept over the activity on the rusted dock.

Step. Step.

The heavy thud of combat boots approached. Captain Thorne, clad in his dark blue military uniform, took up a position beside the diplomat.

"Morning report, Prince Roland," Thorne stated firmly. "The two 120mm mana-cannons at the bow are on neutral standby. The two aft cannons are still jammed from the Kraken attack, but the outsiders won’t notice a thing."

Thorne glanced toward his men. "The guard details have been split into three shifts. Not a single crew member is allowed to disembark without my direct orders."

Roland gave a slow nod. "Excellent, Captain. Keep it up. Do not let anyone retaliate to their provocative glares. We wait until their eyes grow tired of watching us."

"They won’t be getting tired anytime soon."

A deep baritone interrupted from the stairs. Riven Sudrath stepped up onto the deck.

His gigantic frame was draped in an intimidating black Wolf mantle. His jaw was rigidly set, radiating the high alert of an apex predator.

"Varus’s men are getting bolder," Riven reported coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Last night, a few soldiers tried to secretly scale our mooring chains. Borch drove them off with a warning shot from the mainmast."

Roland snapped his head over, a slight frown creasing his brow. "A warning shot? Tsk, that could easily be construed as a provocation, Riven."

"Look, they were climbing our hull in the dead of night without a signal flag," Riven shot back sharply. "Legally, that’s an absolute violation. A warning shot was the most polite response I could offer."

Thorne quickly intervened. "There were no casualties, Your Highness. Just a bluff aimed at the water. Varus didn’t return fire, either."

Roland let out a long sigh, returning his gaze to the line of enemy soldiers on the dock.

"Which means they’re still in observation mode, not execution," Roland murmured. "Varus is testing the limits of our patience. This is our chance to prove that we aren’t a threat."

Down on the lower deck, far from the eyes of the officers, the atmosphere was far grimmer.

A few off-duty soldiers gathered in a small mess hall. The cramped, metal-walled room was lit by only a single dim mana-lamp. The smell of salty beef broth and dry bread drifted faintly through the air.

The soldiers sat hunched over. Some merely rested their chins on their hands, while others cleaned their weapons in total silence. In the corner, a group of young recruits muttered in hushed tones as they split a ration of bread.

One of them groaned softly, half-whispering. "How long are they gonna keep us locked up in here? I’m sick of staring down the barrels of their rifles all morning."

Another soldier nearby let out a quiet snort, his eyes still focused on inspecting his gun barrel. "Until they get tired of holding us, or until our lords get a letter from the capital."

"I’d rather they just order us to charge," muttered another young man, resting his head against the metal wall. "Sitting around like this feels like cattle waiting for the slaughter."

Nobody laughed. Only the sound of boots scraping against the steel floorboards filled the silence.

At the end of the table, a veteran infantryman with a burn scar on his temple looked at them all before setting down his tin cup. "You kids are young. You’re still terrified of dying. That’s completely normal. But remember... as long as we’re still standing on this ship, we haven’t lost yet."

His words hung in the air without a reply. Silence.

However, the look in those young soldiers’ eyes slowly began to shift—not exactly into bravery, but into a stubborn refusal to break.

Clang! Crash!

In another corner of the Iron Empire, far from the freezing docks, the air was thick with the clash of metal and scorching bursts of steam.

A woman wiped her forehead with the back of her thick leather-gloved hand. The young woman wore a gray work apron stained heavily with grease. Her black hair was tied up high, framing a pale face smeared with soot. Her hands were covered in scrapes—the telltale signs of grueling labor at the naval yard.

Her dark brown eyes were focused on dismantling a steam pipe valve for a small patrol boat. The sound of hammers slamming against iron dominated the low-ceilinged room.

"Did you hear the news last night, Yara?"

Olek, her stout, dull-bearded coworker, tossed a wrench onto the workbench. Clatter!

"Some Southern soldier fired a warning shot at our patrol forces," Olek said, wiping his hands on a filthy rag. "Hah, looks like those folks from Northreach aren’t a bunch of cowards after all."

Yara’s hands stopped moving. "If they’re really that dangerous, why is their ship just being held at the dock? Why not just sink them right then and there?"

Olek shrugged. "The higher-ups want their tech. An ironclad with no smokestacks? That ghost ship could be the blueprint for a brand-new weapon."

Yara fell silent. Her mind began to once again question the doctrine of hatred that had been shoved down her throat since childhood.

Southerners are monsters. Southerners are ruthless witches and warlocks. But if they really were monsters, why didn’t they attack when they were completely surrounded?

"A long time ago... back before war became the only language we speak..."

A raspy voice echoed from the corner of the room. Olaf, a frail old worker with thinning white hair, limped over to them carrying a rusted copper pipe.

"A ship from the south used to come bearing wheat," Olaf continued softly, his eyes wandering back to the past. "We traded with them. The skies weren’t as black as this, and the sea wasn’t nearly this filthy."

Yara looked at the old man. "Then... why did it all change, Gramps?"

Olaf gave a bitter smile. "Because we were taught how to hate, kid. Not because we ever remembered the reason why."

The workshop suddenly went dead silent. There was only the hiss of steam escaping from the cracked pipes. Olek let out a rough grunt and went back to work, utterly unable to argue.

Inside the private delegation cabin, the atmosphere was slightly warmer.

Rumina sat at a small desk littered with accounting notes. Her eyes remained glued to a string of numbers estimating the ship’s damages.

Selene stepped inside, carrying two cups of tea from the Northreach supplies.

"I just finished checking on the Luminara guards. They... are still far too on edge," Selene whispered as she placed a cup next to Rumina.

Rumina glanced at the cup for a second. Then, a bit awkwardly, she accepted it. "Warm tea. Not bad."

"But you looked incredibly stressed just a moment ago," Selene observed.

Rumina stopped writing. Her fingertips lightly traced the edge of the paper. "I am the Head Treasurer. When the ship was nearly dragged down by a sea monster, I realized one thing... I can only calculate the risks, I can’t actually stop them."

Selene offered a small smile. "That isn’t a weakness. It is precisely because you understand those risks that the decision-makers are able to move forward safely."

"These numbers are incredibly dry, Selene." Rumina leaned back in her chair. "But for some reason... tonight, these numbers feel much more alive."

Selene took a sip of her tea. "Perhaps that is because you are now right in the middle of them, rather than just reading about them from behind a desk."

Silence.

Two women from two entirely different worlds gazed out at the ocean through the glass window.

Down in the lower deck equipment room, far from the eyes on the dock, Roland met with Borch beneath the dim blue glow of a mana-lamp.

"What’s the verdict on your surveillance, Borch?" Roland asked in a half-whisper.

Borch unrolled a small piece of paper containing a rough sketch of the docks, guard posts, and patrol routes. "They patrol in three shifts. The blind spot is on the western side of the watchtower. If things go south, we can punch a hole straight through there."

Roland studied the sketch intently. "Keep this hidden. Make absolutely sure no one realizes we’re mapping out their own home."

"They think we’re locked inside a cage." Borch folded the sketch back up. "When in reality, we’re just studying the bars."

"Good." Roland flashed a thin smile. "Keep observing. But don’t take any unnecessary risks."

"The Ghost Squad never takes unnecessary risks." Borch turned and walked away.

Roland remained standing in place, his eyes staring into the dark shadows of the port. This war was going to start with a tiny map and a whole lot of patience.

Near the border between the military dock and the worker settlement, a ten-year-old boy slipped through a gap in the rusted iron fence. His face was smeared with coal dust.

The boy ran closer toward the chain-locked hull of the NRS Orion. Fascinated by the ship’s bizarre material, he tossed a single pebble at it.

Clack.

The pebble bounced weakly off the mana-plated steel hull.

However, that tiny sound triggered a wildly overblown reaction. A patrolling Iron Empire soldier in a gray coat instantly spun around, lunged forward, and grabbed the boy by the collar of his shirt!

"You filthy little rat!" he barked harshly, raising the stock of his steam-rifle to strike.

From up on the ship’s deck, Dalon witnessed the entire scene. His young blood instantly boiled.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!" Dalon yelled at the top of his lungs. "He’s just a kid! Don’t you dare hurt him!"

Clack-clack!

Dalon’s shout triggered a massive chain reaction. Three Iron Empire soldiers on the dock instantly pivoted, aiming the muzzles of their long-barreled steam-rifles straight up at the ship!

The atmosphere suddenly froze in the sparking tension of an armed standoff.

"Lower your weapons!" Thorne ordered sharply, suppressing the panic among his men.

Roland acted the fastest.

Without a second of hesitation, the diplomat strode down the metal boarding bridge toward the iron dock. He raised both of his empty hands, displaying his open palms to the enemy.

From behind the barricade, Commander Varus emerged with heavy footsteps. The burn scar on his left neck looked as gruesome as ever. His hand rested threateningly on the hilt of his shortsword.

"What seems to be the problem here, Southerner?" Varus hissed coldly.

Roland met Varus’s gaze with absolute calm, then glanced at the shivering child currently trapped in the soldier’s grip.

"The boy was merely curious, Commander Varus," Roland said, his tone gentle yet incredibly compelling. "He threw a pebble at our ship, not at the Iron Empire’s pride. There is absolutely no need for blood to be spilled this afternoon."

Varus stared into Roland’s gray eyes for several seconds, searching for the slightest crack of fear. Nothing.

Hmph.

Varus let out a harsh grunt. He walked over to the boy and lightly smacked the back of his head. "Toss this little rat off the docks."

The boy was released and immediately sprinted away, sobbing in terror.

In the distance, standing behind the district’s boundary fence, Yara stood frozen as she witnessed the entire ordeal. Her brown eyes remained locked on Roland’s calm face.

There was no aggression. No wicked magic. Just a highly dignified man who stepped in to protect an enemy child.

"Southerners..." Yara murmured softly, holding her breath. "...they aren’t anything like the stories we were told."

For the female mechanic, that brief, fleeting moment had planted a seed of doubt that could never be uprooted again.

That night, the giant steam lamps cast a pale yellow glow that pierced through the thick port fog.

Inside a small, tin-roofed house in the worker district, Yara sat brooding by the window. Through the frosted glass, she stared at the towering silhouette of the foreign vessel in the distance.

With trembling hands, Yara opened the drawer of her wooden desk. She pulled out a simple iron chain necklace—a keepsake from her father who had died in the war.

She clutched the necklace tightly against her chest. The doctrine of hatred that had governed her entire life was beginning to crack, all because of a tiny incident that afternoon.

"I have to know the truth..." Yara whispered, breaking the silence of the night.