Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution

Chapter 289: 289| Fear Will Not Alter My Position In This Chair

​The first day crawled by without a single sliver of news.

​The condition of the old warehouse remained unchanged. In one corner, Adul sat massaging his knees, where the scrapes were just beginning to scab over. In another, Naya sharpened her daggers. Shhk... Shhk...

​Eva leaned her back against the freezing brick wall. Her eyes were shut tight, yet her steady, rhythmic breathing indicated she wasn’t sleeping at all. She was on high alert.

​Near the door hinges, Dom stood as still as a statue. His eyes monitored the quiet streets of the Capital like a temple guardian carved from stone.

​And Roland?

​The man was still standing by the window ledge. His position hadn’t shifted a single centimeter since last night. His gaze remained locked on Magniora Tower, looming arrogantly in the distance.

​"My Lord," Dom called out, breaking the silence. His deep voice sounded slightly raspy. "You need to sleep."

​"Later."

​"You have repeated the word ’later’ three times since dawn, My Lord."

​Roland didn’t reply. He merely shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. Dom let out a faint exhale through his nose. He didn’t press his master any further, but he also didn’t step away from his post. Standing. Waiting. Guarding.

​Far away, deep in the belly of Magniora Tower...

​Rianor Sudrath slowly opened his eyes.

​Clank. The sound of iron chains rattled as he tried to shift his weight.

​The cell he was confined in was a narrow cylinder. Its walls were made of solid black stone, entirely devoid of windows. The sole source of light was a single tallow candle melting lazily atop a rusted iron table.

​The air inside the cell was suffocatingly damp and bone-chilling. The scent was a putrid blend of dried blood, iron rust, and something much sharper and acrid.

​Clack... Creeeak. The thick iron door in front of him suddenly slid open.

​Even before the figure behind it stepped inside, a wave of blistering heat invaded the cell. The air, which had been damp and freezing a second ago, instantly turned bone-dry and scorched the skin.

​Pyrrhus. The Fire Arcanum Master.

​The man strode in, radiating an aura of absolute intimidation. His grand robes were a blazing crimson.

​Pyrrhus’s hair was pitch black, cropped short in a military buzz cut. His jawline was hard and arrogant. But the most striking feature was his eyes. They were a burning, reddish-orange.

​He paced in a slow circle around the shackled Rianor. Silent. Intimidating. Every step of his heavy boots left a faint trail of hot steam on the freezing stone floor.

​Rianor didn’t bother turning his neck to track Pyrrhus’s movements. He stared straight ahead, as if this lethal man were nothing more than a passing breeze.

​"I saw everything from the stands," Pyrrhus spoke, shattering the silence. His voice was hoarse and heavy, like grinding boulders. "At the Colosseum yesterday. You obliterated three anomalous demons. With a single barrage of attacks."

​Rianor remained mute. His face as flat as a wall.

​Pyrrhus stopped directly in front of Rianor. He looked down, scanning the prisoner from head to toe. "Honestly... I don’t know whether I should feel awe, or utter disgust toward you."

​"Suit yourself," Rianor replied flatly.

​Pyrrhus raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You aren’t trembling in fear?"

​"Fear will not alter my position in this chair."

​A brief silence. Then... Pyrrhus laughed. A single, short bark that sounded more like a wild hound. Hah! "Good. At least you aren’t wasting my precious time sobbing and begging for mercy," Pyrrhus smirked, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "Now, let’s begin. That device. Your gauntlet. Where did it come from?"

​"I assembled it myself."

​"You?" The burning eyes narrowed suspiciously. "A factionless mortal assembled a god-tier magical artifact capable of obliterating demons?"

​"I am a scientist, not a priest," Rianor answered calmly. "Creating tools from scratch is my job description."

​Pyrrhus snorted in annoyance. He leaned in, bringing his face mere inches away. The intense heat radiating from the Fire Master’s body made the air around Rianor’s face waver and distort, like a mirage in the middle of a desert.

​"Lying in this cell is a grave sin, boy."

​"I wouldn’t waste my breath lying to you."

​The two locked eyes. Two seconds. Three seconds. A highly hostile silence.

​Pyrrhus finally straightened his back. Slowly, he raised his right hand into the air. Whoosh! A cluster of flames suddenly bloomed above his palm.

​But this was no ordinary red fire. It was a tongue of bluish-white flame that hissed ravenously, burning at an incredibly extreme temperature, as if he had just plucked it from the core of a star.

​"The holy scriptures of the Church prophesied this long ago," Pyrrhus murmured, his eyes staring at the glowing flame in his hand with fanatic zeal. "Greedy mortals who turn away from the Goddess’s light. Humans who forge forbidden tools from the depths of darkness. Those who dare reject the blessing of natural mana and choose to crawl down the demonic path."

​Pyrrhus shifted his piercing glare to Rianor. "You are not the first to be named in the pages of that book, Heretic. And you... will certainly not be the last."

​Rianor’s brain, which had been recording data the entire time, suddenly caught a glaringly misplaced puzzle piece in that sentence.

​"Named in a book?" Rianor murmured softly. His grey eyes narrowed. "That means... you high-ranking Church officials have never even seen a device like mine before. You are blindly placing your faith in ancient ink."

​Pyrrhus’s movement froze. The man glared sharply at Rianor.

​"You aren’t angry," Rianor continued, his tone carrying a hint of condescension. "You are purely terrified... of something whose true nature you have never even comprehended."

​The air in the cell suddenly froze amidst the blistering heat. The flame in Pyrrhus’s palm flickered wildly. His ego had just been struck a critical blow.

​A cruel smirk stretched across the Fire Master’s face. Not a warm smile, but a sadistic grin promising maximum agony. "You have a fascinating psyche, Little Rat."

​Pyrrhus stepped forward, closing the gap. His right hand, blazing with white-blue fire, was slowly brought toward Rianor’s shackled left arm. He didn’t touch the skin directly—he let it hover exactly two centimeters away.

​The extreme temperature went to work instantly. Sssshh...

​Rianor’s skin instantly turned a cooked red, then began to blister. The acrid stench of searing human flesh slowly filled the stuffy room.

​Beads of cold sweat the size of pearls broke out across Rianor’s forehead. His chest heaved rapidly. Yet, not a single scream escaped his lips. Rianor’s jaw locked tight. Grind. The green veins in his neck bulged severely as he endured the excruciating torture. He squinted, staring at the flame near his arm.

​Where a normal human would have passed out from the shock of the pain, Rianor’s brain went into overdrive.

​White fire frequency: 9.2 Hz. Combustion structure: Concentrated, highly exothermic. My body’s capacity cannot copy it right now. But I can log the raw data into my brain.

​"You’re quite stubborn, huh?" Pyrrhus hissed, seeing his captive refusing to scream. "That is a commendable trait. But in my room, every human eventually finds the absolute limit of their sanity."

​Pyrrhus pressed the flame a centimeter closer. Rianor’s breath nearly stopped.

​Clack. The cell door suddenly swung wide open.

​A freezing, icy chill immediately swept into the room, violently colliding with Pyrrhus’s heat. Selene stepped inside without a sound. Her blue robes contrasted sharply with the red glare of the room. Her face was as pale as marble, as emotionless as ever.

​"Pyrrhus. Stop. That is enough," Selene ordered coldly.

​Pyrrhus clicked his tongue in annoyance, not bothering to turn around. Tch. "I’m not done flaying him, Selene."

​"The Holy Maiden personally decreed that this young man be kept alive. And mentally intact." Selene added weight to her tone. "You can resume your arsonist hobbies later—after he recovers from my primary interrogation."

​Hearing the holy title invoked, Pyrrhus’s ego finally yielded. He shot Selene a glare from the corner of his eye, then looked at Rianor with a satisfied smirk. Whoosh. The fire in his palm extinguished instantly.

​"Our business is far from over, Heretic," he whispered.

​Pyrrhus turned and stomped out of the cell with heavy steps. The suffocating heat of the room was slowly sucked out with him. Selene cast a brief glance at Rianor—without a trace of hatred, but also without a sliver of sympathy—before turning to follow her colleague out.

​BAM! The iron door locked tight.

​Rianor was alone in the dark once more. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his left arm. The skin was severely blistered, colored a horrifying blackened red in several places. The pain throbbed deep into his bone marrow.

​But amidst that physical torment, the gears in his brain were spinning at breakneck speed.

​The Holy Maiden personally wants me alive.

​They are afraid because it was prophesied in a book, not because they have witnessed it directly.

​Rianor stared at the pitch-black wall of his cell. Slowly, amidst the agony tearing at his chest, the man pulled the corner of his lips up. A thin, lethal smile.

​Those two arrogant elites had just handed over top-tier intelligence entirely for free, driven by their own massive egos. And for a man like Rianor... that was more than enough to flip the entire chessboard.

​Night once again embraced the dilapidated warehouse on the city outskirts.

​Roland maintained his position. Leaning against the window frame.

​Dom stepped slowly from his guard post, standing tall beside his master. He didn’t speak much. He was simply present.

​"Dom."

​"Yes, My Lord."

​"Have you ever... felt so utterly powerless?" Roland murmured softly. His voice sounded fragile, far removed from his usual arrogant diplomat persona.

​Dom remained silent for a long time. His eyes gazed out over the expanse of rooftops below.

​"Every single day, Lord Roland," Dom finally answered, his voice deep and heavy. "That feeling comes every time I realize... there is someone I cannot protect with my own two hands."

​Roland didn’t reply. But slowly, the tension in his shoulders—though only dropping by a few millimeters—seemed to ease slightly. Not because he felt his problems were solved. But because tonight, he was reminded that he was not alone in bearing the weight of that frustration.