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

Chapter 291: 291| This Wasn’t Merely A Base For An Extremist Militia. This Was An Entire, Functioning Civilization Hiding From The Rot Of The Church’s Regime.

​The morning of their departure arrived devoid of sunlight.

​The sky over the Luminara Capital was smothered by thick, grey clouds, as if the world itself dreaded witnessing the events that would unfold today. Outside the freezing old warehouse, the child courier was already standing by. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his tattered cloak. His face was nearly expressionless, staring at the wooden door with a gaze as flat as a brick wall.

​Click. The door opened.

​Roland stepped out first. Right behind him, Dom followed soundlessly. The giant carried a long canvas bundle strapped tightly to his back—their meticulously wrapped Gauss Rifle, the ultimate trump card that could absolutely not fall into enemy hands.

​Roland patted the inside pocket of his coat. Tap. The crystal tablet and mana compass were still resting safely inside.

​"Follow me. Keep your questions to yourself. Do not stray from the path," the boy instructed coldly.

​Roland glanced back. At the threshold of the warehouse, Adul and Eva stood to see them off.

​"Remember, three days," Roland said, locking eyes with Adul. "If we do not return here, send the signal to the North immediately."

​Adul swallowed hard. Gulp. "M-My Lord... please be careful."

​Roland didn’t reply. He turned on his heel, matching his stride to the shadow of the small courier moving southward.

​The streets of the Capital felt significantly more lifeless than usual that morning.

​Perhaps it was the gloomy, overcast sky. Perhaps the trauma of the demonic assault at the Colosseum had deeply rooted itself in the citizens’ bones. Or perhaps... it was because the frequency of the Church’s knight patrols had skyrocketed absurdly. Grey-robed guards stood in tight formations at every intersection, scanning the faces of pedestrians with deeply suspicious glares.

​However, this child courier knew exactly how to play hide-and-seek with death.

​He didn’t lead them down the main thoroughfares. He also avoided the narrow alleys that Roland had already memorized. The boy guided them through rat runs behind the markets, along the beds of dried-up stone aqueducts, cutting through tall grass in the backyards of abandoned buildings.

​Every turn felt random and dizzying, but... the boy’s pace never slowed with hesitation. His feet moved with the absolute precision of someone who had crawled through these paths a hundred times before.

​Behind Roland, Dom walked while monitoring their blind spots. One hand hovered constantly near the hilt of his greatsword, while his left hand gripped the canvas strap of the Gauss Rifle to muffle any shifting noises. On the left flank, Naya was tasked with scanning the rooftops, vacant windows, and any suspicious shadows.

​Silent. Only the sound of their boots scraping the dirt could be heard. Scuff... Scuff...

​Half an hour later, they finally broke out of the city’s labyrinth.

​The towering outer wall of the Capital stood before them—but it wasn’t the grand, silver-plated main gate they were heading toward. It was a narrow, moss-covered crevice wedged between two ancient, long-abandoned watchtowers.

​The courier slipped through the gap without hesitation. Roland and the others followed.

​And the moment they stepped out of that crevice... the landscape before them inverted one hundred and eighty degrees.

​The Capital, with its pristine white marble, evaporated. Stretching before them was a vast expanse of a rocky desert. The cracked earth was bone-dry. Jagged bedrock jutted out sharply. A barren wind howled, carrying eye-stinging dust. Whoosh.

​Far on the edge of the horizon, the pitch-black silhouettes of a towering mountain range rose like a colossal wall dividing the world. The World’s End Mountains. The southernmost border. The very epicenter from which yesterday’s demons had been spewed forth.

​"This is the direct route to Geisterstadt," the courier suddenly announced, breaking the silence he had maintained since their departure.

​Roland turned his head. "Geisterstadt?"

​"Ghost Town. That’s its real name. The city elites call it that because no sane person dares to live so close to a demon nest. Except us."

​The boy had no intention of elaborating further. He resumed his march, pushing through the desert wind.

​Roland, who was usually economical with his words, decided to throw out one question. "Do you have a name?"

​The boy didn’t answer immediately. His pace remained constant. The desert wind whipped fiercely at his tangled brown hair.

​"Raiden."

​One word. No additional explanations. No ’you can call me’ attached. Purely a name tossed out to make Roland stop asking.

​Roland shut his mouth.

​The trek consumed nearly half a day.

​As noon approached, the topography of the land gradually shifted. The sandy desert and jagged rocks gave way to harder, blackened earth.

​Clack. Roland’s boot stepped on something hard. The remnants of a minecart rail. The iron was heavily corroded, partially buried by sand, with its wooden ties rotting away.

​On either side of the path, the skeletal frames of buildings began to appear. Not intact structures. Just the ruins of rubble. Severely cracked stone walls. Roofs that had caved inward. Glassless windows gaping vacantly.

​Then, they finally saw its true form.

​Geisterstadt.

​The city sprawled silently before them—vastly more massive than Roland had imagined. Hundreds of industrial stone buildings lined the area. A large portion had indeed been leveled to the ground, but several factories and what looked like a town hall still stood tall, albeit fragile. The minecart tracks crisscrossed between the buildings like veins that had long been severed. Colossal chimneys that once belched industrial smoke now stood dead and mute.

​The dusty wind sweeping through the gaps in the ruins created a soft, whistling echo, sounding like hundreds of whispering ghosts. Ssshhh...

​But... this city was not entirely dead.

​Even from this distance, Roland’s sharp eyes caught thin plumes of smoke rising from several smaller chimneys. Footprints on the dusty ground were overlapping yet orderly—a sign the routes were routinely traversed.

​In front of the city’s entrance—which consisted merely of two cracked stone pillars devoid of a gate—stood three human figures.

​They looked nothing like knights in armor. They were purely ordinary street folk. Their clothes were patched together. Their weapons even more so—one gripped a blunt-tipped wooden spear, another held a rusted iron sword, and the last simply carried a piece of leftover industrial lead pipe.

​Yet, their postures were unyielding. Their eyes radiated the vigilance of desert wolves. It wasn’t the gaze of terrified men, but the stare of people prepared to die this very day.

​Raiden raised one hand, giving a specific hand signal.

​One of the patched guards gave a stiff nod. "Are you the promised guests?"

​"We are," Roland answered calmly.

​The guard scanned Roland from head to toe. His gaze shifted to Naya, and lingered for a long moment on Dom’s towering figure, specifically on the suspicious canvas bundle and his giant sword.

​Strangely, however, the guard didn’t demand they disarm. He merely gave a curt nod and stepped aside. "Proceed inside. Our leader is already awaiting your arrival."

​Roland stepped past the boundary pillars of Geisterstadt.

​And what welcomed him inside... completely shattered every logical calculation he had made.

​He had expected to be greeted by an underground rebel rat’s nest—a dark, piss-reeking den filled with drunk, armed thugs, suffocating beneath an aura of secrecy and militant fear.

​But what unfolded before his eyes was... a genuine city. Not just a dead town used as a hideout, but a breathing civilization.

​In the courtyard of a former mining warehouse to the left, a dozen small children sat in a neat circle on worn mats. A middle-aged woman patiently taught them how to spell. Tap. Tap. The sound of chalk scratching on a slate could be heard faintly, accompanied by the children’s voices reciting letters in unison.

​In the building to the right, a burly man shouted orders, training dozens of youths. They weren’t casting magic. They were wielding raw Aura. Red, blue, green—Aura glows that were still crude and wild. Yet, they trained with strict military discipline. Sweat drenched their foreheads beneath the scorching desert sun.

​Walking a bit further, across the cobblestone street, mothers were busy cooking over a row of open stone hearths. The savory aroma of real meat broth and warm, toasted rye bread wafted through the air, overpowering the smell of desert dust.

​One of the women stirring a pot of soup even turned and offered Roland a warm smile as he walked by. It wasn’t a cynical smirk. It wasn’t a fake smile born of fear. It was a genuinely neighborly smile.

​"This... is incredibly far from what I expected," Naya murmured unconsciously, blinking in disbelief.

​Dom didn’t utter a single word. But his eyes moved actively to every corner, scanning and assessing the threat level. He wasn’t looking for enemy combatants; he was trying to digest the bizarre social phenomenon unfolding before him.

​Raiden continued to guide them deeper into the city. They passed more and more people. Not a single one looked malnourished. There were no faces haunted by the paralyzing fear of demon attacks. They lived independently. They worked hard. They even laughed.

​In the midst of the ruins of a dead civilization, right under the nose of the demon-infested mountains, these outcasts had successfully rebuilt a life of their own.

​Suddenly, Morwen’s words from last night echoed in Roland’s head. ’Our leader suspected you would give exactly that stubborn response.’ Now, Roland began to understand. This wasn’t merely a base for an extremist militia. This was an entire, functioning civilization hiding from the rot of the Church’s regime.

​Raiden’s steps finally halted in front of the largest stone building in the center of the city. A former town hall, or perhaps an operational headquarters for the mines in the past. Its stone walls were still incredibly solid, though the paint had peeled away severely.

​Two men stood firmly guarding the main doors. Unlike the guards at the city gates, these two possessed a much calmer, proportional posture. Their bodily movements were highly efficient, characteristic of elite fighters. Their eyes scanned Roland with a sharp, tightly controlled interest.

​"Our supreme leader is waiting for you inside," Raiden said, pointing at the door. "Only you. Your two guards must wait out here."

​Dom immediately whipped his head to look at his master.

​Roland gave a slow nod. "Dom, Naya. Wait here. I won’t be long."

​Dom’s jaw clenched. His right hand squeezed the air in frustration, but he finally offered a stiff bow. "We will be on high alert out here, My Lord."

​Raiden gently pushed the double teak doors open. Creak... Roland stepped inside alone.

​The room behind the doors was tremendously vast, yet its contents were remarkably sparse.

​There was only a single, sturdy, long wooden table dominating the center of the room, surrounded by a few simple wooden chairs. Thick candles burned brightly in the four corners, providing a dim but adequate light.

​On the main wall hung a massive map of Luminara. It wasn’t an expensive, officially printed map belonging to the Church’s palace; it was hand-drawn. Its surface was covered in charcoal scribbles, red crosses, and lines depicting secret routes.

​There were absolutely no decorative ornaments. No statues of deities, no symbolic flags. It was purely a room designed for a single purpose: Strategic functionality.

​"Just wait in that chair," Raiden pointed to the nearest seat. "Our leader will enter shortly."

​After that, the boy promptly turned and left. Thud. The heavy door shut tight behind Roland.

​Now, he was truly alone.

​Roland didn’t sit down immediately. His diplomatic instincts forbade him from acting too relaxed in a wolf’s den. His eyes re-scanned the entire contents of the room. The giant map on the wall. The drippings of melted wax in the corner. The surface of the wooden table, worn smooth by the repeated friction of forearms.

​Everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were no visible traps. No killing intent.

​And yet... Roland’s instincts flared. There was something in this room. An anomaly in the air pressure, as if the room itself were staring back at him. The air around him suddenly felt slightly heavier in his lungs.

​Tap... Tap... Tap...

​The sound of incredibly calm footsteps echoed.

​Not from the direction of the main entrance. But from his left flank.

​A small wooden door that blended perfectly with the color of the wall—camouflaged so flawlessly that Roland hadn’t noticed it until now—creaked open. Someone had just stepped out of the shadows of that adjoining room.

​Roland slowly lifted his gaze.