Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 137: HORIZONS AT THE LEVER’S END

​Morning in Iron Hearth no longer began with the gentle chirping of birds or the soft rustle of leaves. Instead, the South Paddock—a vast, open expanse of reinforced concrete and gravel usually reserved for the rumbling treads of Titan-class tanks—was now filled with a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek. It wasn’t the roar of a biological beast, but the agonizing scream of mana-turbines being pushed to their absolute rotational limits.

​In the center of the field, the Sudrath Griffin-01 stood with a predatory poise. Its duralumin chassis, polished to a dull silver sheen, caught the pale rays of the morning sun. The massive overhead rotor blades remained still for now, but the mana-steam engine mounted along its spine hissed and groaned, venting plumes of white vapor that signaled the internal pressure had reached its critical operational threshold.

​"Captain Thorne, tell me you actually read the manual last night," Rianor said, standing beside the open cockpit door. He held a clipboard tight against his chest, his eyes scanning the flickering telemetry graphs on his portable monitor.

​Thorne, clad in a thick, flight-hardened leather jacket and a safety helmet engraved with protective runes, took a deep, shuddering breath. The battle-hardened veteran looked uncharacteristically pale. "I read it ten times, Master Rianor. But I’ll be honest—holding this lever feels more terrifying than facing an entire division of Aethelgard knights on an open field."

​"Fear is good. It means your survival instincts are still functioning," Rianor said, offering a firm, reassuring pat on Thorne’s shoulder. "Now, get in. Remember, this isn’t a horse. You can’t just yank the reins whenever you feel like it. Every movement must be fluid—as delicate as if you were touching a sensitive mana-circuit."

​Thorne climbed into the cramped, claustrophobic cockpit. Before him, there was no steering wheel or tiller like those found in tanks or civilian vehicles. Instead, he faced a complex array of controls: a vertical lever to his left called the Collective, and a joystick-like handle between his knees known as the Cyclic. At his feet sat a pair of pedals designed to control the orientation of the tail.

​What drew the eye most was the Sudrath Crystal Instrument Panel. In place of traditional mechanical clockwork gears, Thorne was faced with rows of glowing mana-crystals. A series of sapphire-blue crystals indicated steam pressure; emerald-green ones monitored the stability of the rotor RPM; and a large, pulsing amethyst functioned as the altimeter—measuring altitude based on the thinning atmospheric mana pressure.

​"Listen closely, Thorne," Rianor leaned into the cockpit, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "I’m going to explain the most important thing you need to know if this engine dies in the air. We call it Autorotation. Imagine dropping a winged maple seed. It doesn’t fall like a rock, does it? It spins, using the airflow from below to slow its descent."

​Thorne narrowed his eyes, trying to grasp the concept. "So, if the engine fails, the wind from our fall will spin the blades for us?"

​"Exactly," Rianor confirmed. "If that happens, you have to pitch the blades to keep that rotation going. It’s your natural parachute. But for today, let’s pray we don’t have to rely on botanical analogies."

​Rianor stepped back, signaling toward the improvised observation tower where Arvid and Hektor stood ready.

​"Initiate the Frequency Stabilization Array!" Arvid’s voice boomed from the distance, his magic staff raised high.

​WHIRRRRRRR!

​The sound of the engine suddenly shifted from a whine to a deafening roar. The main blades of the Griffin-01 began to turn—slowly at first, then accelerating with terrifying speed until they became a translucent blur. A localized hurricane of dust and gravel erupted around the paddock, forcing the onlookers to shield their eyes.

​Inside the cockpit, Thorne felt his entire world begin to vibrate. Every bone in his body hummed in sympathy with the machinery. As the RPM reached Ground Idle, a nauseating sensation bloomed in his gut. The horizon seemed to shift, even though he hadn’t moved an inch.

​"Thorne, pull the Collective lever... slowly!" Rianor’s voice crackled through the Vibro-Comm earpiece.

​Thorne gripped the left-hand lever. He pulled it upward, a mere fraction of an inch at a time. Mechanically, the pitch of the rotor blades shifted, biting into the air with newfound hunger. Suddenly, the Griffin-01 felt weightless. The heavy struts groaned, and the wheels began to lift from the concrete.

​"I’m... I’m floating?" Thorne whispered, his voice caught between terror and exhilaration.

​The joy lasted exactly two seconds. As the helicopter reached an altitude of one meter, the body of the craft began to spin violently to the right, threatening to turn the cockpit into a centrifuge.

​"Torque! Left pedal, Thorne! Use the pedal!" Rianor’s command was sharp.

​In a blind panic, Thorne slammed his foot onto the left pedal. The tail rotor responded, its thrust fighting against the massive rotational force of the main blades. The helicopter bucked and shuddered, the tips of the main blades dangerously close to clipping the ground. Thorne felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his temples. The vertical G-forces and the erratic spinning made his head throb, his brain feeling like it had been left on the ground while his body ascended.

​"Damn it... everything is spinning..." Thorne gritted his teeth, forcing his blurred vision to focus on the green crystals that were now flickering a warning red.

​"Do not succumb to the vertigo! Stabilize it!" Rianor ordered.

​Thorne took a jagged breath, forcing his consciousness to settle. He made a tiny, microscopic correction on the Cyclic joystick. Slowly, miraculously, the Griffin-01 began to calm its erratic dance. The multi-ton machine now hovered, suspended in the air at a height of three meters, defying every law of nature known to the people of Northreach.

​At the edge of the paddock, the crowd of Iron Hearth citizens—watching from behind the safety barriers—erupted into a chaotic cheer.

​"Look at that! An iron dragonfly! Master Rianor has created a giant iron dragonfly!" one laborer shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief.

​"It has no dragon wings, yet it stands still in the sky? What kind of sorcery is this?" another merchant asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and primal fear.

​Not far from the crowd, Duke Lucian Sudrath stood with his arms crossed, his silhouette imposing against the morning light. Beside him stood General Riven, leaning heavily on his mechanical cane. Both men watched the flight with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

​"Rianor is truly mad," Riven murmured, a grim, admiring smile tugging at his scarred lips. "If we had ten of those things at Northveil, those Junk-Cyborgs wouldn’t have even touched the city gates."

​Lucian nodded slowly. "This is more than a weapon, Riven. It is a declaration of sovereignty. We do not need the permission of the Sol-Regis to rule the skies."

​But in the middle of the triumph, a problem emerged. In the cockpit, the sapphire-blue crystal on Thorne’s panel suddenly dimmed, then began to vent a thin, acrid stream of smoke.

​"Master Rianor! Steam pressure in the secondary circuit is dropping fast! A steam piston appears to be seizing!" Thorne reported, his voice tight with panic.

​The helicopter suddenly pitched forward. Its lift diminished instantly. The Griffin-01 began a sickening freefall from its five-meter height.

​"Thorne! Drop the Collective completely! Maintain your rotor momentum!" Rianor shouted. "Do not panic!"

​Arvid, stationed in the tower, reacted with the speed of a seasoned mage. "Mail! Activate the emergency mana-dump valves in Sector C! Now!"

​Mail, a newly recruited technical assistant—a scrawny youth with thick spectacles—shakingly yanked the lever on the sub-control console. "Y-yes, Sir Arvid! Executing the dump!"

​BZZZT!

​A brilliant burst of azure mana erupted from the underside of the helicopter, creating a momentary cushion of repulsive energy that broke the Griffin-01’s fall. Thorne, utilizing the remaining momentum of the spinning blades, managed to level the aircraft just heartbeats before impact.

​THUD!

​The helicopter hit the ground hard. The landing struts shrieked under the strain, nearly buckling to the point of snapping, but the Griffin-01 remained upright. The engine sputtered and died, leaving only the sound of the slowing blades whistling through the air.

​A heavy silence fell over the paddock.

​The cockpit door creaked open. Thorne climbed out, his legs looking as stable as jelly. He pulled off his helmet, his face drenched in sweat, and immediately crouched on the ground, clutching his head as the world continued to tilt in his mind.

​"Are you alright, Captain?" Rianor ran toward him, his face filled with concern.

​Thorne looked up, his eyes bloodshot, yet a wild spark of triumph burned within them. "The vertigo... it’s like being spun in a barrel and tossed off a cliff, Master Rianor. But... by the Gods... that sensation... we were truly flying."

​Rianor let out a long sigh of relief as he knelt to inspect the scorched mana-circuits. "A failure in the steam-distribution valve. The alloy couldn’t handle the thermal load from Arvid’s array. But the control logic held. This simulation... I declare it a fundamental success."

​Hektor approached, grimacing as he inspected the bent landing gear. "Just a few structural reinforcements and a better cooling system. We can have it flight-ready again in two days."

​Lucian and Riven walked toward the machine, their presence commanding silence from the soldiers. The Duke traced the lines of the Griffin-01 with a thoughtful gaze. "Thorne, do you believe you can operate this in the chaos of real combat?"

​Thorne stood up, snapping a sharp military salute despite his trembling knees. "Give me a week of training, Lord Duke. I will ensure this ’Iron Dragonfly’ becomes a living nightmare for anyone who dares to set foot on Northreach soil."

​Riven patted Thorne’s shoulder with a chuckle. "Good man. But remember, Captain—don’t vomit in the cockpit. Rianor will skin you alive if you ruin his expensive upholstery."

​Laughter rippled through the soldiers, breaking the tension of the morning. Amidst the lingering smoke of the engine and the dust of the paddock, a new era for the Sudrath military had been born. In the skies of Iron Hearth, it was no longer just dragons that held dominion; it was wings of steel, born from the limitless ingenuity of man.

​Rianor looked toward the north, toward the occupied ruins of Northveil. "This is only the beginning, Iron Empire. We are coming from a place you cannot reach."