Northreach – Main Square. One Month After the Victory.
The setting sun gradually dipped below the western horizon, bathing the Aethelgard sky in a dramatic sweep of orange and violet. The winter wind, which usually bit to the bone, felt kinder tonight—or perhaps it was simply the collective euphoria of the townsfolk.
Sir Riven stood tall on the main balcony of Iron Hearth Castle. He took a slow sip of red wine—premium vintage from the Marquess's seized cellars this time, no longer the rotgut they once endured—as he let the breeze play with his loose silk shirt. His wounds had healed completely, leaving behind permanent scars that only served to sharpen the masculine lines of his tanned skin.
His gaze swept downward. The view was no longer a squalid village mired in mud and the stench of horse manure.
The main artery of Northreach now stretched out in a smooth, unyielding line of pitch-black asphalt. This ambitious project had been labored over day and night by thousands of Red Skull prisoners under the watchful metallic gaze of Captain Garrick. Horse-drawn carriages now glided along without a single jar or jolt, creating a new, rhythmic harmony. Along the road, five-meter-tall metallic pillars stood like sentinels, crowned with crystal orbs.
"It's time, Brother," a voice whispered from his side.
Sir Rianor stepped forward, looking sharp in a pristine white lab coat and new spectacles with flawless, clear lenses. He held a silver pocket watch, his thumb tracing the metal surface in a steady rhythm.
"Three... two... one... Power on."
The moment the last sliver of sunlight vanished from the horizon.
CLICK. HUMMM...
A low-frequency vibration rippled from the Central Power Station built into the side of the castle. Mana, converted into electrical energy, surged through the network of underground cables.
POP. POP. POP.
One by one, the glass orbs along the street ignited simultaneously. A steady, warm amber glow flooded Northreach's main thoroughfare. This wasn't the wild, flickering dance of torchlight, nor was it the dim, inconsistent hum of standard magic. This was the powerful radiance of incandescent light, strong enough to pierce the thickest night fog.
A roar of approval erupted from thousands of villagers below. Children ran playfully, chasing their own shadows under the glare of the lamps. Street vendors immediately reignited their stalls, extending the economic pulse of the market far beyond its usual hours—a phenomenon never before seen in the history of the continent.
"Hmph... The City of Lights," Riven murmured, a proud smirk tugging at his lips. "Rianor, you're absolutely insane. You actually brought the vibe of a metropolis to this fantasy world."
Rianor chuckled softly, wiping his lenses with a clean cloth. "This is just the beginning. Next year, I plan to install electric trams. No more villagers complaining about sore feet when they have to reach the far fields."
The balcony door creaked open. Duke Lucian appeared, looking a decade younger than he had months ago.
"Come inside, boys. Your mother's starting to nag. The oxtail soup will be stone cold if you keep daydreaming out here."
Main Dining Hall – Iron Hearth Castle.
The long oak dining table was laden with mouthwatering dishes. There were no remnants of watery gruel or rock-hard bread. Tonight, the rich, aromatic spice of Oxtail Soup—a secret recipe from their home world that Aurelia had taught the castle chefs—filled the room. Beside it, glistening Honey Roasted Chicken and fresh vegetables sautéed from Rianor's chemical-fertilizer test plots sat in tempting heaps.
The atmosphere was boisterous. Roland, who had just arrived from the Capital carrying the King's decree, sat theatrically beside Rhea.
"Gods, you should have seen it," Roland said, carving into his chicken with flourish. "When I played Varg's voice recording in the middle of the court, Morvath's face went as pale as a corpse soaked in formaldehyde! I had to fight to keep a straight face in front of the High Justice!"
Roland mimicked Morvath's slack-jawed expression, causing Rhea to choke on her drink from laughing too hard.
"And what's the old man's fate?" Raveena asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Life imprisonment in the Black Tower," Roland answered with satisfaction. He took an elegant sip of his wine. "His titles are stripped. The entire Southern Mine is now one hundred percent House Sudrath's. Legal, legitimate, and best of all... tax-free for five years!"
"YES!" Duchess Aurelia cheered from the end of the table. She slammed her financial ledger shut with a resounding thud. "Tax-free! Those are the most beautiful words I've ever heard!"
"Aurelia, eat first. Save the books for later," Lucian chided gently, scooping warm rice onto his wife's plate.
On the other side of the table, Rumina and Rianor remained inseparable from their technical talk.
"Brother, if we fit the Titan with a turbocharger, wouldn't the acceleration be insane?"
"Hmm... not yet, Rumina. I'm not sure the chassis can handle the high-frequency vibrations. Unless we swap the entire suspension for an active hydraulic system..."
"Hey! No engine talk at the dinner table!" Riven interrupted, flicking a small chicken bone at Rianor with pinpoint accuracy. "My brain's starting to smoke just listening to you."
Raphael, the youngest and usually the quietest, looked around the table with an emotional gaze. He saw his siblings laughing freely, his parents looking genuinely happy, and Grimm standing in the corner with a faint, satisfied smile.
"We won, didn't we, Brother?" Raphael asked Riven softly.
Riven stopped mid-bite. He looked at his younger brother, then surveyed the entire family. Three months ago, they had woken up in these alien bodies under the shadow of a death sentence. Today, they were the wealthiest and most feared rulers of the North.
"Yeah, Raphael," Riven ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "We won. At least for today."
Duke Lucian raised his crystal glass high. "To House Sudrath," the Duke's voice trembled slightly with emotion. "A family that refused to bow to fate. Who changed the world with an iron fist and a mind of steel!"
"TO SUDRATH!" they roared in unison, the clink of glasses filling the warm, brilliantly lit room.
They felt safe. They felt they had conquered destiny. But they had forgotten one absolute law of nature: a light that burns too bright in the dark will always attract predators from the distance.
The Imperial Palace, Iron Empire – Western Ostrara.
Thousands of kilometers from Northreach, the atmosphere was starkly different. The room was vast but dark, filled with the hiss of steam pipes and the rhythmic thrum of industrial machinery. On the wall, a gargantuan map of the world was spread wide.
A man sat in an iron chair facing a massive glass window. Beyond the glass, thousands of factory chimneys belched black soot into a leaden sky, and a military port was crowded with rows of ironclad warships.
A General entered in a hurry, dropping to one knee. "Your Imperial Majesty. The report from Colonel Varg... the mission was a total failure."
The man—Emperor Regulus Velthorne—did not turn around.
"Varg was a foolish pawn. I only hired him to test the depth of the waters on that continent."
"But there was a very interesting find, Your Majesty," the General handed over a silver document tube. "Our spies managed to obtain a rough sketch of the 'weapon' that decimated Varg's forces."
Emperor Regulus unfurled the parchment. A slightly blurred hand-drawing revealed a boxy, solid frame, iron treads, and a massive cannon muzzle.
The Titan MK-1.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed in the shadows. "This design..." he whispered, his fingers tracing the drawing of the treads. "This isn't low magic. This is the ancient technology of the Progenitors."
The Emperor rose. He was tall and imposing, with half his face obscured by a mechanical respirator that vented thin wisps of steam—a Steampunk Mask.
"A minor noble house on that primitive continent... managed to resurrect the technology we've been hunting for a hundred years?" The Emperor let out a low, distorted laugh. "Interesting. Very interesting."
He stepped toward the world map, picked up a chess piece shaped like a metal warship, and slammed it down directly on the northern point of the Aethelgard continent. Right on Northreach.
"General," the Emperor commanded with absolute, cold finality. "Ready the Seventh Fleet. And activate Project: Goliath."
"We will not be using mercenaries this time."
"This time... the Empire itself goes knocking on their door."