Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 60: The Grey Plague

Northern Border of Northreach – Marshfield Village. Midday – Overcast.

The sky over Marshfield was the color of a bruised lung—thick, heavy, and suffocatingly grey. It was a mirror to the faces of the villagers below, whose hope seemed to have withered along with the crops in the surrounding bogs.

Marshfield was once a peaceful, albeit damp, settlement known for exporting the finest freshwater fish to the southern provinces. Now, it had been transformed into a grim fortress of sickness. An emergency quarantine zone had been established, marked by a makeshift perimeter of sharpened wooden stakes and coils of barbed wire. Desolate yellow flags emblazoned with a black cross—the universal symbol for biological hazard in the Sudrath territories—flapped listlessly in the humid, salt-tinged wind.

A convoy of heavy military trucks, bearing the "Sudrath Tech" insignia, rumbled to a halt at the village’s main gate. These weren’t horse-drawn wagons; they were massive, mana-steam powered logistics haulers, their chimneys belching soot-tinted vapor into the already murky air.

General Riven Sudrath jumped down from the lead truck before it had even fully stopped. He wasn’t wearing his shimmering ceremonial plate armor today. Instead, he was clad in tactical field gear—a rugged, multi-layered leather vest reinforced with obsidian-glass plates, heavy cargo trousers, and combat boots caked in Northreach mud. His face was obscured by a thick charcoal-filter mask, leaving only his sharp, predatory eyes visible. He looked less like a noble general and more like a high-stakes mercenary.

"Reporting, General!" Captain Garrick intercepted him at the gate, offering a crisp salute that felt out of place in such a dismal setting. "The area is fully sterilized as per your orders. No one enters, and absolutely no one leaves. But... the situation is deteriorating, Sir. Panic is spreading faster than the fever. They think we’ve locked them in here to burn the village to the ground."

"Calm them down, Garrick," Riven ordered, his voice muffled but carrying its usual booming authority. "Tell them help has arrived. We are here to save lives, not to clean up a graveyard. If anyone tries to incite a riot, detain them, but do not—I repeat, do not—use lethal force unless absolutely necessary."

From the second truck, the medical contingent disembarked.

At their head was Doctor Elena. She looked entirely different from the elegant woman Riven had taken to dinner just days ago. She wore a heavy, rubberized protective suit that crinkled with every movement, long surgical gloves, and thick glass goggles that hid the exhaustion already beginning to weigh on her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a severe, practical bun. She didn’t carry a lady’s fan or a purse; she carried a reinforced medical chest that looked heavy enough to challenge a soldier.

"General," Elena called out, her voice sharp and professional. She marched past Riven without a hint of hesitation or social nicety. "Set up the triage tents in the central square. I need a clear separation between the symptomatic—those with grey skin—and the mildly symptomatic who only have fevers. All local water sources must be sealed immediately. We use the clean tanks from the trucks only."

"Understood, Doctor!" Riven signaled to his men, his voice echoing through the quiet streets. "You heard the Lady! Move! Assemble the tents! Get the water filtration units online! Garrick, take a squad and start moving the heavy medicine crates!"

Riven, the "War Lion" who had shattered the Iron Empire’s formations, found himself busy lifting tent poles and hauling heavy crates of mana-serum. He didn’t mind. In this war against an invisible enemy, he was merely a foot soldier under Elena’s command.

The Main Medical Tent – One Hour Later.

The atmosphere inside the large canvas structure was suffocating. The air was thick with the smell of vinegar, antiseptic, and the sweet, sickly scent of decay.

Dozens of villagers lay on folding cots, their conditions varying from miserable to nightmarish. The "Grey Fever" was a terrifying sight to behold. It wasn’t just a rash; the victims’ skin was slowly losing its elasticity, turning a dull, slate-grey color and hardening into a texture reminiscent of cold stone. Their joints were locked in agonizing positions as the calcification reached their tendons. They groaned in low, rhythmic pulses of pain, sounding more like grinding rocks than human voices.

Riven stood at the entrance of the tent, watching the scene. For the first time in a long time, he felt a chilling sense of helplessness. If the enemy were a battalion of Orcs, he could cleave them. If it were a fortress, he could level it. But how do you fight a shadow that kills from the inside?

He watched Elena work.

She moved with a frantic yet calculated grace from one cot to the next. She injected serums, checked pulses with practiced fingers, and cleaned weeping sores. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes behind her goggles, but her hands remained as stable as a master clockmaker’s.

"Stay with me, Sir," Elena whispered softly to an elderly man whose hands had already turned to solid, grey marble. "This will sting, but it’s going to slow the hardening. Just breathe."

Riven was mesmerized. The woman who had been so fierce and demanding during their dinner was now a beacon of mercy for these forgotten people. She wasn’t just a doctor; she was a shield.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted outside the tent. The sound of shouting and the clatter of tools hit the canvas walls.

"LET US OUT!"

"THEY’RE GOING TO LEAVE US TO DIE IN THIS HOLE!"

"BREAK THE BARRICADES! WE HAVE TO REACH THE NEXT TOWN!"

A group of panicked young men, driven to the brink of insanity by fear, were attempting to storm the military cordon. They were armed with rusted scythes, heavy pickaxes, and wooden pitchforks. Irrationality had taken hold; in their eyes, the soldiers weren’t protectors, but jailers waiting for them to rot.

"Get back!" the Sudrath soldiers shouted, their rifles leveled but their triggers hesitant. They were trained to kill monsters and invaders, not desperate farmers.

Elena flinched as a heavy rock struck the side of the tent, her concentration wavering for a split second as she held a delicate needle.

Riven’s eyes narrowed into slits. This was his domain now.

He stepped out of the tent, his massive frame instantly casting a shadow over the rioting crowd. He didn’t draw his sword, but the sheer weight of his presence was enough to make the front line of villagers stumble back.

"STOP!"

Riven’s shout was a physical force, a thunderous roar that seemed to drown out the impending storm in the sky.

The villagers froze. They looked up at the masked giant, seeing a man whose aura radiated a promise of violence so absolute it felt like a cold blade against their throats.

"Where do you think you’re going?!" Riven barked, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "You’re sick! If you break this line, you carry this death to the next village. To your cousins in the south. To the families in the capital. Do you want to be remembered as the men who murdered half the kingdom?!"

"But we’re scared, General!" one youth cried out, his scythe trembling. "That woman in there... she’s injecting poison! Uncle Sam’s skin is turning to rock even faster!"

"It’s medicine, you fool!" Riven took a heavy step forward, the mud splashing beneath his boots. "That doctor in there is risking her life every second she breathes this air to save your pathetic souls. She could be sitting in a luxury salon in the capital, drinking tea and counting gold, but she chose to come here! To this mud! To this plague! She is fighting for you, and you repay her with rocks?!"

Riven pointed a gloved finger at the medical tent.

"Anyone who interferes with her work... anyone who so much as raises a finger against my medical team... will answer to me personally. Do you understand?! I will not have my people’s hard work spat upon by cowards!"

Riven unleashed a pulse of his Killing Intent. It wasn’t magic, but a psychological pressure honed through a hundred massacres. The villagers shivered, their irrational fire extinguished by a far more primal fear. They dropped their tools into the mud, one by one.

"Disperse. Get back into the triage lines. Do not make me come out here again," Riven commanded coldly.

The crowd retreated like a receding tide, returning to their assigned areas with bowed heads.

From the slit in the tent flap, Elena had seen it all. She watched Riven’s broad back, a wall of muscle and resolve standing between her and the chaos. For the first time, she truly understood why he was called the "Protector of the North." He wasn’t just a man of war; he was a foundation. He was the gravity that held the world together when it tried to fly apart.

Nightfall – Outside the Medical Tent.

A cold, thin rain began to fall, turning the village square into a soup of grey mud.

Elena stepped out of the tent, pulling off her goggles and peeling back her mask. Her face was deathly pale from exhaustion, and deep, dark circles had formed beneath her eyes. Her hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the tremors of overused muscles.

Riven, who had been sitting by a low-burning campfire near the perimeter, stood up instantly. He walked over, offering a dented tin mug filled with steaming coffee—standard military rations, black and bitter.

"Drink, El. It’s still hot."

Elena took the mug, her fingers brushing against his. "Thank you, Riv."

She sat down on a fallen log, taking a long, slow sip of the scalpel-sharp coffee. The heat seemed to bring a little color back to her cheeks. Riven sat beside her, maintaining a respectful, silent distance.

"How are... the patients?" Riven asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Elena let out a heavy, weary sigh that seemed to drain the last of her energy. "Stable, for now. The anti-inflammatory serums are working to slow the dermal hardening, but... this isn’t a natural virus, Riven. It doesn’t follow the laws of biology I studied in the capital."

"What do you mean?"

"Viruses usually spread through the air or direct fluid contact. But the pattern here is wrong. Only adults are being affected. The children are perfectly healthy. And every single patient I’ve examined has the same tiny puncture wound—either on their ankles or their forearms."

Elena stared into the flickering orange flames of the campfire.

"This isn’t an act of nature. It’s a Toxin."

"A toxin?" Riven straightened his back, his military instincts snapping into high gear.

"Yes. A potent neurotoxin that triggers rapid calcification of the soft tissue. And a toxin this refined, this specific... usually comes from a single source."

"...A monster," Riven finished for her.

Riven stood up. The weariness in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, focused intensity of a hunter who had finally found a trail.

"If this is a monster’s venom, then medicine is only a temporary fix. We’re just putting a bandage on a geyser. We have to find the source and kill it."

Riven turned his gaze toward the Black Marsh that stretched out to the north of the village—a place of sunken trees, toxic mists, and shadows that never seemed to move.

"And as luck would have it... killing monsters is exactly what I was built for."

Elena looked up at Riven. She offered him a thin, tired smile—a look of genuine trust that hit him harder than any physical blow. Earlier that day, Riven had been in awe of her. Tonight, it was Elena who felt a profound sense of safety because of him.

"Riven," Elena called out as he began to walk away.

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. Don’t let whatever is out there get its teeth into you. I’m a doctor, not a stonemason. I don’t know how to fix a stone General."

Riven smirked behind his mask, a flash of his old confidence returning.

"Don’t worry, Doc. My skin is tougher than any rock in this swamp."

Riven spun around, his voice barking out orders to the darkness.

"Garrick! Wake up Alpha Team! I want high-caliber rifles and armor-piercing rounds! We’re going on a hunt!"

"Yes, General!"

That night, their partnership was truly forged in the crucible of crisis. Elena fought with needles and trembling, exhausted hands, desperately pulling lives back from the brink of oblivion. Meanwhile, Riven fought with bullets and relentless courage, hunting the source of destruction before it could claim another soul.

In this harsh, unforgiving world, they were no longer just a general and a doctor. They were two halves of a whole—the shield that protected and the sword that struck—completing each other in a way that words like "couple" could never fully capture.

The hunt for the Grey Stalker had begun.