Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 119: Arrival at the Gates of Draconia

​The valley that cleaved through the Alpen-Draconia Mountains knew nothing of mercy. The winds that howled through the jagged peaks did not merely carry the biting chill of the heights; they bore an ancient, primordial silence—a haunting warning to any soul brave enough to cross the threshold between the realm of men and the sovereign domain of the Dragon Clan. In this desolate expanse, the snow did not fall gently; it lashed against the earth, a testament to the honest and brutal laws of nature that governed these forgotten heights.

​The House Sudrath convoy moved in a formation that was as terrifying as it was magnificent. At the vanguard, a hundred elite Sudrath infantrymen marched in flawless, rhythmic synchronization. Their armor—a sophisticated blend of lightweight reinforced steel and magitech-nylon fibers—shimmered under the pale, dying light of a setting sun. Every soldier gripped a Magitech Spear MK-II, its tip pulsing with a faint, crystalline blue glow. This was the hum of a mana-condensation circuit, a silent promise that the energy held within could erupt into a devastating blast at a moment’s notice. The visors of their helmets hummed with activity, their Heads-Up Displays (HUD) flickering as they scanned the treacherous crevices for environmental hazards and life signs.

​Yet, the most lethal element of the convoy remained unseen to the naked eye. Dom and four other members of the Ghost Squad—the five finest marksmen in the Sudrath arsenal—had vanished into the steep, rocky slopes. They did not travel the main path; they were shadows clinging to the precipices, observing the world through thermal-sensitive scopes. Their fingers hovered expertly over the triggers of Gauss Rifles slung diagonally across their chests, ready to deliver silent death from above.

​The convoy ground to a halt before a gargantuan fissure known as the Dragon’s Fang Pass. Roland Sudrath stepped out of his carriage, his movements calm and deliberate. His attire remained immaculate, but a keen observer would have noticed the dried, brownish stains on the tips of his leather boots—the lingering remains of Prince Marcus’s blood.

​Following closely behind him, Rumina descended with a face that betrayed no emotion. She did not tremble. Once a simple art student, she had become a woman forged in the fires of industrial production and high explosives. The sight of the Silver Eagle knights’ corpses from their previous encounter had not traumatized her. What kept her silent was the memory of how Roland had executed the prince: without hesitation, without malice, and with a chilling, clinical efficiency that bordered on the divine.

​"This scent..."

​A heavy, guttural voice—vibrating like the grinding of tectonic plates—echoed from the darkness of the chasm.

​The air itself seemed to thicken as a figure stepped out from the gloom. He stood nearly three meters tall, his frame draped in deep crimson scales that covered his powerful arms and a portion of his neck. Massive wings were folded tightly against his back, and his eyes, possessing vertical yellow slits for pupils, looked down with predatory disdain at the human convoy before him. This was Ragon, the Commander of the Draconia Gate Guardians.

​Ragon inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the air. His semi-humanoid face contorted into a grimace of pure irritation. "Humans. Weak entities who drape themselves in steel toys and pretend to be giants. And this smell... the blood of your own kind. Truly disgusting."

​Roland stood his ground, his hands folded neatly behind his back. He made no move toward his weapon. He understood the nature of dragons perfectly: they were the pinnacle of the food chain, wrapped in an arrogance as high as the heavens. To threaten a dragon was the swiftest path to a shallow grave. To beg before one was the surest way to be crushed beneath their contempt.

​"The scent of this blood is the scent of justice restored, Sir," Roland replied. His voice was crystal clear, carrying the weight of a diplomatic authority he had meticulously honed since his days on Earth. "We come not as emissaries of the Aethelgard Kingdom, but as representatives of House Sudrath. A sovereign nation."

​Ragon snorted, a small plume of cinders escaping his nostrils. "Another human speaking of sovereignty. You are all the same. Weak, greedy, and capable of nothing but spoiling the natural order. Do you know, human? My son died at the hands of one of the Great Mages from your wretched kingdom. He only wished to soar above the clouds, yet they deemed him a threat and brought him down with that foul, corrupted magic."

​Roland tucked that information away in the recesses of his mind. Personal hatred. An old wound that Ragon could not avenge on his own. This was the opening Roland needed—the crack in the dragon’s indestructible pride.

​"If you seek the perpetrator, Commander, then the one you desire is likely among those I just executed in the Alpen Pass," Roland countered without so much as a blink. "The royal family of Aethelgard is an enemy to all who seek progress. Including us. We have come here to offer something those geriatric sorcerers cannot provide: an alliance based on true strength, not the parasitic magic that leeches the world’s vitality."

​Rumina stepped forward at Roland’s silent cue, carrying a leather case. Inside lay a Pure Mana Crystal Sample. She opened it slightly, allowing the stable, violet radiance of the crystal to illuminate the dim pass. This was the fruit of the Rianor Laboratory’s labor—energy that was clean, refined, and stripped of the chaotic residues that dragons so vehemently loathed.

​Ragon’s eyes narrowed. He could feel the resonance of the energy. Unlike the erratic, jagged mana used by human mages, the energy from this crystal felt... harmonious. Synergistic. Yet, his ego refused to yield so easily.

​"You bring glittering trinkets and expect us to cast wide the gates?" Ragon laughed, a harsh, mocking sound, though his gaze never left the violet glow. "Draconia has no need for human playthings. We possess physical might capable of grinding your entire line into dust with a single squeeze."

​"But you do not have a way to avenge your son without triggering a total war—one that your Emperor likely does not desire at this moment, do you?" Roland delivered the checkmate with a cold smile.

​The atmosphere turned frigid in an instant. Ragon growled, his dagger-like fangs bared in a silent threat. Automatically, the hundred Sudrath infantrymen lowered their spears to chest level, their movements a single, terrifying blur of discipline. Above on the cliffs, Dom had already centered his reticle on the soft scales beneath Ragon’s jaw.

​"Hold your positions!" Roland commanded through the Vibro-Comm, his eyes never leaving the dragon. The soldiers snapped back to an upright, statue-like stance instantly.

​Roland took a step forward, placing himself well within the dragon’s striking range—a calculated gamble of absolute confidence. "I know you want the Dragon Emperor to declare war. You want to see Aethelgard reduced to ash. But your Emperor is wise; he will not sacrifice the lives of his people merely for the vengeance of a single commander. However, House Sudrath... we are already at war with them. If you grant us passage, you are not merely helping the enemy of your enemy. You are paving the road for the destruction of those who slaughtered your kin."

​Ragon stared into Roland’s eyes for a long, agonizing minute. He searched for a flicker of fear, a tremor of doubt, but he found only his own reflection in Roland’s calm, steel-like gaze. The dragon then shifted his attention to the hundred soldiers behind Roland. He realized something unsettling. These humans did not smell of fear. They smelled of cold steel, rigid discipline, and a terrifyingly focused resolve.

​"You are different from the Aethelgard rats who usually crawl here to beg for scraps," Ragon muttered, his voice losing some of its sharp edge. "Your scent... it is not merely human. There is the smell of organized destruction clinging to you."

​"We call that the future, Sir," Roland replied thinly.

​Rumina, watching from the side, marveled at how expertly Roland manipulated the dragon’s legendary arrogance. He did not debase himself, nor did he offer a frontal challenge that would force Ragon to fight for his honor. Instead, he provided the dragon with a dignified exit—a way to satisfy his ego while serving his hidden agenda.

​"I do not have the authority to grant you a direct audience with the Emperor," Ragon finally said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble. "But Princess Seraphina is currently stationed at the lower border region. If you can convince her that you will not soil Draconia with your presence, then perhaps... just perhaps, you will not end up as a pile of ash at this gate."

​Ragon turned and slammed his massive tail against the stone wall. An ancient mechanism, powered by sheer weight and gravity, groaned into life. The gargantuan stone doors of the Dragon’s Fang Pass began to slide open, revealing a winding path that ascended toward a high plateau shrouded in thin, ethereal clouds.

​"Enter, humans," Ragon stepped aside, his yellow eyes still fixed on the bloodstain on Roland’s boot. "And pray that the blood you carry is enough to satisfy the thirst for honor in the Dragon Court."

​Roland gave a brief, respectful nod. "Thank you, Commander Ragon. And regarding your son... history will ensure that those who extinguished the light of youth will pay with eternal darkness."

​The Sudrath convoy surged forward once more. Dom and the Ghost Squad remained in their hidden perches, leaping from ledge to ledge with the aid of magitech grappling cables, ensuring no surprises followed them into the unknown territory.

​As they entered the shadowed tunnel of the gate, Rumina walked beside Roland. "You really know how to press the right buttons, don’t you?"

​Roland didn’t look back. His eyes were fixed on the distant volcanic peaks that had begun to vent wisps of gray smoke. "Diplomacy is not about who is right, Rumina. It is about providing your opponent with a reason to agree without losing their pride. Dragons are creatures that live and die for their dignity. If we take that from them, they will burn us. If we feed it, they will become the most loyal of allies."

​Ahead of them, the vast expanse of Draconia unfolded—a land untouched by the gears of the industrial revolution, where raw power remained the supreme law. But for Roland, this was merely another chessboard to be mastered, for the sake of Sudrath, and for the lives currently hanging in the balance on the burning shores of Northveil.