Northreach Town – Main Square. One Month After the War's Victory.
The twilight sun began to sink into the western horizon, painting the Aethelgard sky with hues of orange and purple. The winter wind, which usually bit to the bone, now felt warmer—not because of a change in weather, but because of the shift in the mood of the entire town.
Sir Riven stood on the balcony of Iron Hearth Castle, looking down. He held a glass of wine (high quality this time, not a cheap brew) and wore a loose silk shirt. His war wounds had fully healed, leaving behind scars that added a gallant edge to his tanned skin.
The view below was no longer the muddy, slummy village smelling of horse manure that they had first encountered when arriving in this world.
The main streets of Northreach were now a deep, smooth black.
Asphalt.
It had been laid by thousands of Red Skulls prisoners of war under the strict supervision of Captain Garrick. Wagons and carriages now glided smoothly without a single jolt.
Along those roads stood five-meter-tall metal poles with glass orbs at their tips.
"It's time, Brother," a voice said beside him.
Sir Rianor stepped forward. He wore a pristine white lab coat and new glasses with clear lenses. He held a mechanical pocket watch.
"Three... Two... One... Light it up."
Exactly as the sun vanished completely.
CLICK. HUMMM...
From the Central Power Station built beside the castle, Mana converted into electricity surged through underground cables.
One by one, the glass orbs on the street poles flickered to life.
POP. POP. POP.
A warm yellow glow flooded the main streets of Northreach.
It wasn't the flickering light of torches blown by the wind. It wasn't the dim glow of low-level magic.
This was the steady, brilliant light of incandescent bulbs.
From below, the cheers of thousands of villagers erupted. Children ran around, chasing their own shadows beneath the streetlights. Street vendors reopened their stalls, extending market hours into the night—something that had never happened in the economic history of this world.
"The City of Lights," Riven muttered, smiling with pride. "Nor, you're truly insane. You actually moved a piece of the modern world into a fantasy realm."
Rianor chuckled softly. "This is just the beginning, Brother. Next year, I want to install a Tram system. So the citizens don't get tired walking to the farmlands."
The balcony door opened. Duke Lucian appeared with a beaming face.
"Boys, come inside. Your mother is already nagging. The oxtail soup is going to get cold."
Castle Main Dining Room.
The long dining table was now crowded and overflowing with food.
There was no more watery porridge or hard bread.
Tonight's menu was Oxtail Soup (a signature recipe from their old world that Aurelia had taught the royal chefs), Honey Roasted Chicken, and fresh stir-fried vegetables from the first harvest using Rianor's chemical fertilizers.
The dinner atmosphere was boisterous.
Roland (who had just returned from the Capital with the King's decree) sat beside Rhea. He was recounting the courtroom drama with exaggerated flair.
"...And when I played Varg's voice recording, Morvath's face turned as pale as a corpse! I swear, I almost laughed right in front of the Chief Justice!" Roland recounted, mimicking Morvath's expression, making Rhea choke on her drink from laughing so hard.
"Then what happened to Morvath?" Raveena asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Life imprisonment in the Black Tower," Roland answered with satisfaction. "His titles were stripped. The Southern Mine is now 100% ours. Legal. Official. And tax-free for five years."
"EXCELLENT!" Duchess Aurelia shouted from the end of the table. She was busy calculating the financial ledgers with a wide grin. "Tax-free! That's Mother's favorite phrase!"
"Mom, put the books away and eat," Lucian gently scolded, scooping rice onto his wife's plate.
On the other side of the table, Rumina and Rianor were debating machinery.
"Brother, what if we install a Turbocharger on the Titan?"
"Don't, Rumi. The chassis can't handle the vibration. Unless we switch to a hydraulic suspension..."
"Hey! No talking shop at the dinner table!" Riven interrupted, tossing a chicken bone toward Rianor. "My brain is overheating just listening to you guys."
Raphael, the wise youngest, looked around the table. He saw his siblings laughing, his parents happy, and the loyal servant (Grimm) smiling thinly in the corner of the room.
"We won, didn't we, Brother?" Raphael asked Riven softly.
Riven stopped eating. He looked at his brother, then at his entire family.
Three months ago, they had woken up in these bodies under the threat of execution.
Today, they were the wealthiest and most feared rulers of the North.
"Yes, Raph," Riven ruffled his brother's hair. "We won. At least for today."
Duke Lucian raised his glass.
"To the Sudrath family," Lucian said, his voice trembling with emotion. "Who refused to give up. Who changed their destiny with iron fists and minds of steel."
"TO SUDRATH!" they all shouted in unison.
That night, their laughter echoed throughout the warm, brilliantly lit castle.
They felt safe. They felt as if the world was within their grasp.
However, they forgot one thing.
A bright light... only attracts larger predators from afar.
Iron Empire Imperial Palace – Western Continent (West Ostrara).
Thousands of Kilometers from Northreach.
The room was dark, filled with steam pipes and the persistent hiss of industrial machinery. On the wall, a vast map of the world was spread out.
A man sat in an iron chair facing a large window. Outside, thousands of factory chimneys belched black smoke into the sky, and a massive harbor was filled with Ironclads.
A General entered hurriedly and knelt.
"Your Majesty the Emperor. The report from Colonel Varg... is a total failure."
The man—Emperor Regulus Velthorne—did not turn around.
"Varg was a fool. I hired him only to test the waters."
"But there is something interesting, Your Majesty," the General handed over a document tube. "Our spies managed to obtain a crude sketch of the 'Weapon' that defeated Varg."
The Emperor unrolled the parchment.
It was a blurry hand-drawn image showing a boxy shape, iron treads, and a massive cannon.
The TITAN MK-1.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed.
"This design..." he whispered, his finger tracing the drawing of the treads.
"This isn't magic. This is Ancestor Technology."
The Emperor stood up. He was a massive man, half of his face covered by a mechanical breathing mask (Steampunk Mask).
"A small noble family on that primitive continent... managed to awaken the technology we have sought for a hundred years?"
The Emperor laughed. His voice was heavy and distorted by his mechanical mask.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
He walked toward the world map. He picked up a chess piece shaped like a Warship and slammed it onto the northern point of the Aethelgard continent. Right on the location of Northreach.
"General," the Emperor commanded.
"Prepare the 7th Fleet. And activate Project: Goliath."
"We will not hire mercenaries anymore."
"This time... the Empire itself will knock on their door."