Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 136: WINGS OF STEEL AND AWAKENED HOPES

Chapter 136: Chapter 136: WINGS OF STEEL AND AWAKENED HOPES

​The rhythmic thundering of sledgehammers and the high-pitched whine of automated lathes had become the new heartbeat of Iron Hearth. Inside the heavily fortified walls of Alpha Workshop—a restricted zone accessible only to the inner circle of House Sudrath—the air was a thick, cloying mixture of hot oil, ozone, and the acrid scent of human sweat. Rianor Sudrath had not slept in thirty-six hours. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites traced with jagged red veins, yet his fingers continued to dance across the drafting table with a frantic, rhythmic grace.

​Mountains of blueprints, stained with graphite and grease, threatened to bury him. But Rianor didn’t care. His world had shrunk to the tip of his pencil and the skeletal structure standing in the center of the bay.

​Before him was a metallic frame of such an unorthodox shape that it defied everything known to the engineers of this world. It wasn’t the boxy, heavy chassis of a tank, nor was it the streamlined hull of a high-speed steam locomotive. It was slender, with a long, tapering boom at the rear and a massive, centralized axle mounted on top that looked like a windmill misplaced on a metallic insect.

​"Rianor, I’ve stared at these sketches a hundred times, and my logic still screams at me to reject it," Hektor muttered, wiping a thick smear of black lubricant from his jaw. The former Lord of Northveil looked haggard, his brow furrowed as he circled the machine. "You’re telling me this thing will lift vertically? Without the broad wings of a bird? In terms of traditional aerodynamics, it’s absolute madness."

​Rianor didn’t stop his sketching. His pencil scratched against the paper with a feverish intensity. "Tradition is a luxury we burned at the gates of Northveil, Hektor. The principle here isn’t about gliding through the air like a crow; it’s about moving the air itself. These blades on top—we’ll call it the Main Rotor—will spin at such high velocities that they create a pressure differential. That differential generates lift. It doesn’t need to move forward to go up."

​Hektor rubbed his stubble, trying to visualize the physics in his head. "Fine. Let’s say it lifts. But Newton’s Third Law... every action has an equal and opposite reaction. If that top rotor spins clockwise, the body of this contraption is going to spin wildly in the opposite direction the moment it leaves the ground. It’ll be a metallic top, not a weapon."

​Rianor offered a thin, exhausted smile—a rare flicker of pride on his weary face. "That is the purpose of the Tail Rotor," he said, pointing to the smaller assembly at the end of the tail boom. "It provides lateral thrust to counteract the torque from the main rotor. It’s a delicate, constant dance between mechanics and physics. A balance of power."

​Arvid, who had been focused on a series of glowing mana-crystal vials in a corner of the workshop, approached with a concerned expression. He held a small multimeter-like device that hummed with magical energy.

​"Mechanically, your logic holds water, Rianor. But our internal mana-combustion engines are fickle beasts," Arvid warned. "They aren’t stable enough to maintain the constant, unwavering RPM you’re demanding. Even a slight fluctuation in mana flow, and this thing becomes a multi-ton rock falling from the sky."

​Rianor finally set his pencil down and looked at his brother. "That’s exactly why I need your expertise, Arvid. I don’t want this engine to rely solely on raw, explosive mana bursts. I need you to weave a ’Frequency Stabilization Array’ directly into the fuel system. I want the magic to act as a governor—an automated regulator. If the pressure drops, the array must pull from the mana reserves instantly to compensate. The magic is the nervous system; the engine is the muscle."

​Arvid peered into the guts of the prototype, labeled the Sudrath Griffin-01. He looked at the intricate weave of wires and mana-pipes. "An ambitious marriage of sorcery and steam. But the weight, Rianor... this steel chassis is far too heavy for the lift you’re projecting."

​"We’re not using raw steel for the main body," Rianor corrected, his voice firm. "Roney just finished the first batch of the duralumin alloy in the foundry sector. It’s a composite—lightweight, but with a tensile strength that rivals carbon steel. We aren’t building a flying tank, Arvid. We’re building a sky predator. Fast, agile, and terrifying."

​Rianor then gestured toward a much larger, bulkier frame sitting under a tarp in the far corner. "And that... that is the Sudrath Carrier-01. A sky-truck. Capable of dropping ten paratroopers directly behind the Iron Empire’s lines."

​Hektor shook his head, caught between awe and cold dread. "If this works... if you actually make these lebah-lebah (bees) fly... every strategy the Iron Empire has ever devised becomes obsolete. They have their massive, lumbering dreadnoughts, but we will have swarms of death that they can’t even see coming."

​The Training Grounds, Iron Hearth Castle.

​Ting! CTANG!

​The sharp, rhythmic clashing of iron-reinforced wooden swords echoed across the courtyard. Raphael Sudrath was a blur of movement, his strikes aggressive and impulsive, fueled by a teenager’s raw energy and a simmering, unvented anger. He lunged forward, his blade whistling through the air, trying to break through his opponent’s guard.

​But his opponent, Prince Caelus, was the image of absolute stillness. He didn’t meet Raphael’s aggression with force; he met it with precision. With minimal movement—a slight tilt of the head, a flick of the wrist—Caelus parried every blow, his calm demeanor only serving to fuel Raphael’s frustration.

​"Too many openings, Raphael!" General Riven’s voice boomed from the sidelines. The legendary general sat in a wooden chair, his leg still encased in a complex mechanical brace that hissed slightly when he moved. But his eyes remained as sharp as they were on the battlefield. "Use your brain, not just your emotions. Do you think the enemy will wait for you to finish your battle cry?"

​Raphael huffed, sweat pouring down his face and stinging his eyes. "Caelus is too slippery! It’s like fighting a shadow!"

​Caelus opened his mouth to offer a witty retort, but his movements suddenly froze. His gaze drifted past Raphael, toward the side gate that led to the city’s central hospital.

​There, a young nurse in a white uniform was running—not with the frantic pace of panic, but with a speed driven by sheer, unadulterated joy. Her face was bright, a stark, beautiful contrast to the grim, war-torn atmosphere that had gripped the city for months.

​Thump.

​Caelus’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that nurse—she was one of Dr. Elena’s primary assistants assigned to the VIP ward. Without a word of explanation, Caelus let his practice sword slip from his fingers. The heavy wood clattered against the stone floor, the sound echoing sharply.

​"Hey! Caelus? The duel isn’t over!" Raphael shouted, confused and panting.

​But Caelus didn’t hear him. His vision blurred as tears began to well in his eyes. He didn’t wait for permission. He turned and sprinted toward the hospital, his steps stumbling at first under the weight of his emotions, but his speed never wavering.

​Riven watched Caelus’s retreating figure, his gaze deep and knowing. He let out a long, heavy breath—a sound of a thousand burdens being lifted. A rare, genuine smile touched his rugged, scarred face.

​"She’s awake..." Riven murmured softly to himself.

​"Huh? Who’s awake, Brother Riven?" Raphael asked, still holding his sword with a bewildered, innocent expression.

​Riven looked at his youngest brother. "Your sister, Raphael. Raveena has finally opened her eyes."

​The words hit Raphael like a physical blow. He froze, but unlike Caelus, he didn’t run. Instead, he slowly lowered his head, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.

​"That’s good..." he whispered, his voice trembling. "In that case... I have to train even harder. I don’t want her to wake up just to see me as weak as I was when she fell. I won’t let her down again."

​Riven felt a swell of pride for the boy. "A wise choice, Raphael. Continue. I’ll be right here."

​Duke Lucian’s Study.

​Inside the room filled with the scent of aged oak and old parchment, Lucian was hunched over a logistics map with Aurelia. The stress of the past few months had etched new lines onto Lucian’s face, making him look years older. Aurelia stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, providing the silent, unwavering support that kept the ’Old Lion’ from crumbling.

​BANG!

​The heavy doors swung open without a knock. The nurse burst in, her chest heaving as she struggled for breath. "Lord Duke... My Lady Duchess..."

​Lucian stood up instantly, his hand instinctively reaching for the magitech pistol at his hip. "Report! Is it an infiltration? Sabotage?"

​"No, My Lord!" the nurse cried out, wiping away tears of happiness. "Lady Raveena... Lady Raveena is awake! She’s opened her eyes!"

​Aurelia’s hand flew to her mouth, her knees nearly giving out as a sob escaped her throat. Lucian felt a strange weakness in his own legs, a sensation he hadn’t felt in decades. He quickly rounded the desk and pulled his wife into a firm embrace.

​"Come, Aurelia," Lucian’s voice cracked with emotion. "We go. Now."

​Without a second’s delay, the rulers of Northreach hurried out, their footsteps echoing through the halls as they headed for the carriage waiting in the courtyard.

​Iron Hearth City Hospital, VIP Ward.

​Caelus was the first to arrive. He ignored the medical protocols, the protests of the staff, and the hushed atmosphere of the ward. He burst into Room One. There, bathed in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the clean windows, was the girl with the raven-black hair. She was sitting up, propped against a mound of white pillows. Her face was still deathly pale, her eyes sunken and weary, but they were open. And they were looking at him.

​"Caelus...?" Her voice was thin, a fragile whisper that barely carried across the room.

​Caelus stopped in the doorway, his breath hitching in his chest. Seeing her actually looking at him, seeing the life back in those eyes, shattered his last remaining mental defenses. He walked toward her, and without hesitation, he pulled her into a desperate embrace. He held her with terrifying care, as if she were made of the finest porcelain that might shatter if he squeezed too hard.

​"You’re back... you’re really back, Raveena," Caelus sobbed into her shoulder, his tears soaking into her hospital gown.

​Raveena remained still for a moment, her senses slowly returning. She could feel the erratic, frantic pounding of Caelus’s heart against her chest. She leaned her head against him, feeling a deep sense of comfort, yet also a chilling void.

​"Caelus... why can’t I feel the mana around us?" she asked, her voice trembling with a hint of fear. "The air... this room... it feels so quiet. So empty."

​Caelus pulled back slightly, looking into her dimmed eyes. He forced a smile, though his heart was breaking. "Don’t worry about that right now, Raveena. You’ve just woken up from a long sleep. Focus on recovering your strength. Everything else can wait."

​"But... Northveil?" she asked, her gaze searching his for the truth. "Did we hold? Where is Brother Riven? Where is Rianor?"

​Caelus took a breath, shielding her from the harsh reality for just a moment longer. "Everything is secure. Northreach still stands. Riven is training the men, and Rianor... well, you know him. He’s currently fighting with his crazy machines in the workshop."

​"Thank the heavens..." Raveena let out a long sigh of relief, leaning back into the pillows. "I feel so incredibly tired... but I’m glad it’s you I see first."

​Just then, the door swung wide. Lucian and Aurelia rushed in.

​"Raveena!" Aurelia cried, immediately taking Caelus’s place by the bed as the prince stepped back and offered a respectful bow.

​Lucian stood at the foot of the bed, his sharp, predatory eyes softening with an overwhelming sense of fatherly love. He looked at his youngest daughter, the girl who had sacrificed everything for the survival of their house.

​"Welcome back, my daughter," Lucian said, his deep voice thick with a tenderness he rarely showed.

​Raveena offered a weak, tired smile to her parents. In the midst of the emotional reunion, far off in the industrial sector of the city, the distant roar of Rianor’s prototype helicopter engine broke the silence of the night—a thunderous promise that the Sudrath family would never let their own suffer in silence again.