Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 155: GARRICK’S FURY (1)

​Three days after Lucian left Sol-Regis, the main workshop of Sudrath Tech in Iron Hearth remained alive twenty-four hours a day. But this morning, the atmosphere was different. Rianor arrived with a light step, fresh eyes, and a thin smile he couldn’t hide.

​Arvid, who was already at the drafting table, raised an eyebrow. "You look... refreshed."

​"I slept last night," Rianor replied lightheartedly, picking up a missile sketch from the stack of papers. "Elara forced me. She said, ’A genius brain is useless if your eyes are sunken like a corpse.’" He mimicked Elara’s voice with a slight exaggeration.

​Hektor Torricelli, who had just entered through the back door, chuckled. "A good wife. Or fiancée. Or whatever she is now."

​"Fiancée." Rianor smiled—a warm smile that rarely appeared on his face. "And she will be my wife after we take back Northveil."

​Arvid and Hektor exchanged a look. They knew how heavy the burden was on the shoulders of the twenty-six-year-old man. But today, for the first time in weeks, Rianor looked like a normal human being.

​"Alright." Rianor tapped the table, returning the focus to technical matters. "We have two weeks. Let’s make Garrick’s Fury fly."

​Hektor frowned. "Garrick’s Fury?"

​"The code name." Rianor unrolled a large sheet of paper, revealing a detailed sketch of a two-meter-long missile with fins at the end. "Officially, this is the Remote-Guided Projectile Type 1—RG-1. But internally, we call it Garrick’s Fury. To honor..." He paused for a moment. "To honor the commander who fell at Northveil."

​Arvid nodded slowly. "Garrick would certainly appreciate it."

​"He would say, ’Why did you make such an expensive weapon? You’d be better off buying me a drink.’" Hektor mimicked Garrick’s voice with his characteristic accent.

​The three of them laughed—a warm laugh in the midst of the busy weapons factory. A laugh that had rarely been heard since the fall of Northveil.

​Outside the workshop, the sun began to rise. The sound of hammers, the hiss of steam, and the sparks of welding already filled the Iron Hearth industrial area. But in another corner of the city, a different sound began to be heard.

​"Stop it! Stop the destruction of nature in the name of technology!"

​"Sudrath goes against the will of God!"

​A group of citizens gathered in the city square. Crude banners reading "Save God’s Creation" and "Stop the Demonic Knowledge" fluttered among the crowd. Their numbers continued to grow—dozens, then expanding into hundreds.

​Father Geryon stood at the front, his black robes billowing even though there was no wind. His eyes radiated a burning fanaticism. The middle-aged man with a neatly shaved head and a wooden cross around his neck was the leader of a small religious faction that had been vocal in opposing Sudrath’s technology. But today, he wasn’t just vocal—he was leading.

​"They will blow up our land! Ruin the mountains, destroy the forests, in the name of what? In the name of revenge!" his voice echoed in the square. "You see for yourselves—those machines, those flying irons, they are all an insult to the Light God! Our holy scriptures! Demonic Knowledge will bring destruction!"

​A middle-aged woman in the front row shouted, "But they protect us from the Iron Empire, Father!"

​Father Geryon stared at her sharply. "Iron Empire? They are nothing more than animals with iron! But look at what Sudrath does—they use the same iron, then call it progress! They imitate the enemy! They betray the essence of our humanity!"

​The crowd began to rumble. Some agreed, some doubted, some just joined in out of curiosity. But among them, there were those who did not join the shouting—they only observed. Taking notes. Memorizing the faces of the provocateurs.

​In the workshop, Rianor was not at all disturbed by the hustle and bustle in the city. He was too focused on the vehicle in front of him.

​A large truck stood in the middle of the assembly area. Not an ordinary truck—its body was reinforced with Duralumin steel plates, its wheels specifically designed for snowy terrain with wide treads and anti-slip chains. On its rear bed, four launch tubes towered vertically like giant fingers ready to point to the sky.

​"This is it." Rianor patted the side of the truck proudly. "Garrick’s Fury—the vehicle version. Technically, this enters the Cavalry unit. Leofric will oversee its operations, but the crew will be from the best personnel we have."

​Arvid checked the launch system thoroughly. His usually calm eyes were now sharp, scrutinizing every connection, every valve, every pressure indicator. "Four missiles. Can be fired one by one with a three-second interval. The aiming system uses a combination of mana-gyroscopes and a magnetic compass. Travel distance..." He checked the notes on his crystal tablet. "Twenty-five point three kilometers. Enough to reach Northveil from a safe position outside their patrol range."

​"And we only have one unit." Hektor sighed, wiping his forehead which was starting to sweat even though the morning was still cold. "One unit to face the Dual Railgun that destroyed half of our city."

​Rianor stared at him. His eyes—the same eyes that used to stare at formulas and sketches for hours—now radiated a conviction that was hard to shake. "One unit is enough. Because we don’t need dozens of missiles. We only need one that is on target."

​He walked to the drafting table, pointing to a point on the sketch that had been revised dozens of times. "Their boiler. Not the cannon, not the barrel, not the personnel. The boiler and the accumulator. This is where the heart of the Dual Railgun beats. They heat the boiler for hours, storing pressure in a giant accumulator, then release it in one shot."

​Rianor’s finger moved to the connection point between the two circles he had drawn. "If we blow up this connection—right here—the steam pressure will be destroyed in an instant. They can’t fire. They can’t repair it within hours. They can only watch our troops advance without being able to do anything."

​Arvid finished his sentence in a low voice, "And our troops can advance without fear of being destroyed from ten kilometers away."

​Hektor was silent for a moment. Then he smiled—a rare smile from a stiff man who usually only focused on numbers and mechanics. "You know, Rianor? Sometimes I forget you’re just a normal human. But when you talk like that... it feels like your brain is running a few steps ahead of us."

​Rianor smiled thinly. "I am no more than you. I am just used to thinking about possibilities that others ignore."

​The sound of heavy footsteps was heard from the entrance. Everyone turned.

​Riven appeared in his combat uniform. His face was still a bit pale—the effects of the wounds from the battle with Martin still lingered, and occasionally he still coughed small coughs due to internal injuries. But his eyes, those eyes remained sharp. Sharp and full of determination.

​"Rianor." He approached, staring at the launcher truck. Silent for a moment. Then, "This is it?"

​"This is it." Rianor stared at his eldest brother. "Garrick’s Fury. To honor the fallen cavalry commander."

​Riven was silent. His fingers clenched. When he spoke, his voice was low—too low for a man as big as him. "Garrick died so we could live. So Father, you, Raveena, and the others could evacuate." He stared Rianor straight in the eye. "I was there. I saw how he and his men held out at the south gate, knowing they wouldn’t survive. I saw how their tanks exploded, one by one. But they didn’t retreat."

​Riven took a long breath. "Make sure this missile doesn’t miss."

​Rianor placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "I will check it a thousand times before we launch. And when it launches, I will pray—not to their God, but to Garrick’s soul—that this shot is on target."

​In the square, the situation began to heat up.

​"Destroy their shops!" shouted a young man in the front row.

​"They sell demonic goods!"

​A middle-aged man took a stone from the side of the road. Others followed. The first throw flew—aiming at the shop window that sold Sudrath mirrors and household products.

​But before the stone reached its target, a shadow darted.

​Cling!

​The stone shattered into pieces in the air, cut by something moving too fast to be seen. Instantly, other shadows appeared from among the crowd. Fast. Precise. Silent.

​In a matter of seconds, the main provocateurs were pinned to the ground. Their arms were twisted back, knees pressing on their backs. A short scream—then silence. The Nightshade Sentinels moved with terrifying efficiency. They did not speak. They only acted.

​The crowd froze. Those who were ready to throw, now their hands lowered slowly. Those who were shouting, now their mouths were shut tight.

​Ember stepped forward from among her personnel.

​The young woman was not tall. Not big. Not physically intimidating. But as she walked, the crowd split on its own. Not because they wanted to—but because their bodies moved automatically, responding to something that could not be explained.