Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 121: UNDER THE VERTICAL GAZE
The Skyward Gate was not merely an entrance; it was a gargantuan orifice carved directly into the heart of an ancient, dormant caldera. As the five-meter-thick stone slabs ground open with a thunderous roar that vibrated through the very marrow of their bones, a wave of intense, suffocating heat surged forward, assaulting the small group of humans.
Roland Sudrath was the first to cross the threshold, his stride unyielding. Behind him, Rumina, Captain Elian, and the five members of the Ghost Squad followed with a rigid, military discipline that bordered on the fanatical. Dom and his comrades wore masks of stoic indifference, even as every primitive survival instinct screamed in the back of their minds, warning them that they were walking directly into the lair of the ultimate apex predator.
They traversed a narrow bridge of obsidian stone, suspended precariously over a volcanic chasm. Far below, the floor of the crater pulsed with a sinister, orange-red glow from the molten magma that surged like a liquid heartbeat. At the far end of this bridge, the Throne Room of the Eternal Flame awaited.
The chamber was cavernous beyond comprehension. Its natural vaulted ceiling rose hundreds of meters into the darkness, adorned with crystalline stalactites that refracted the subterranean magma light into a dizzying, kaleidoscopic spectrum of colors. There were no pillars to support the massive roof; it was as if the mountain itself held its breath to create this hollowed sanctum.
At the furthest end of the hall, perched upon an elevated stone dais, sat an entity whose power was whispered to be capable of redrawing the continental maps in a single night.
The Dragon Emperor, Tharazion.
In his humanoid form, Tharazion stood nearly three meters tall, seated upon a throne carved from a single, monolithic block of obsidian. His skin was not the soft flesh of men but a layer of dense, ancient gold scales—a living armor forged by the gods themselves. He wore no crown; the spiraling, obsidian horns that grew from his brow were more than enough to signify his status as the absolute sovereign of the skies.
Yet, it was not his physical stature that exerted the most pressure; it was his aura.
The moment Roland crossed the hall’s threshold, the very air seemed to thicken and curdle. It felt as though gravity had suddenly doubled, pressing down on their shoulders with the weight of a mountain. This was Dragon Fear—a natural, psychic emission radiated by high-order dragons to instinctively subjugate any perceived inferior lifeform.
Captain Elian stumbled slightly, his knees buckling for a fraction of a second before he forced his body upright through sheer, agonizing willpower. The Ghost Squad members clenched their jaws so hard their teeth threatened to crack, cold sweat beginning to soak their under-armor beneath their cloaks. Rumina, despite lacking formal combat training, held her ground with a stubborn defiance, refusing to kneel before a creature that viewed her race as nothing more than transient pests.
Roland Sudrath, however, did not waver. He stood tall, his gaze fixed forward, as if the crushing pressure of thousands of years of draconic history was nothing more than a passing breeze. He had faced the economic monsters of Earth; he would not bow to the biological monsters of this world.
Princess Seraphina, walking beside them as their official escort, felt the escalating tension. She stole a fleeting, worried glance at Roland. Hold firm, Roland. My father is measuring the very soul of you, she thought, her fingers twitching at her side.
Before Roland could open his mouth to offer a formal diplomatic greeting, a voice shattered the heavy silence. It was young, sharp, and laced with an unfiltered, vitriolic contempt.
"Look at what Seraphina has brought before His Imperial Majesty. Dirt-rats who do not even know how to dress appropriately for the Sacred Hall." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢
From the right side of the throne, a young dragon-kin in humanoid form stepped forward. He possessed hair like a raging wildfire and copper-colored scales that traced his neck and forearms. His vertical, reptilian eyes burned with a pure, unadulterated hatred as they locked onto Roland.
This was Prince Ignis, the Emperor’s nephew and the vocal leader of the hardline conservative faction.
Ignis descended several steps of the dais, closing the distance until he stood only a few meters from Roland. He ignored the Duke entirely, instead focusing his gaze on the weapons held by Dom and the Ghost Squad—the Gauss Rifles slung across their chests.
Ignis let out a short, barking laugh—a mocking sound that echoed off the cavern walls. "And what is this? Strange metal sticks? Have humans become so desperate in their twilight years that they carry scrap metal as weapons? Where are the legendary blades forged by mountain dwarves? Where are the spears blessed by the high mages?"
He pointed at a Gauss Rifle with visible disgust. "This object looks fragile, soulless, and pathetic. Much like your entire race."
Seraphina attempted to intervene, her voice sharp. "Prince Ignis, these are guests for whom I have vouched. Insulting their armaments before they have spoken is beneath the dignity of our house."
"Dignity?" Ignis turned to Seraphina, his eyes narrowing. "Since when do we use human terms, Cousin? There is no honor for a parasitic race. Look at them. Physically frail, short-lived, and because they lack any natural power, they resort to stealing it from the earth. They burrow like vermin, taking what is not theirs, and creating... these toy sticks to feel powerful."
Ignis turned back to Roland, leaning in until the scorching heat of his breath fanned against Roland’s face.
"Tell me, weakling. Why should we, a race that has watched continents split and fuse again, waste even a heartbeat listening to the pleas of a creature that cannot even outlive a dragon’s nap?"
The pressure in the room reached its zenith. Every pair of vertical eyes—the elders standing in the shadows of the hall—were fixed on Roland. They waited for him to tremble, to beg for mercy, or at the very least, to show the flicker of fear that humans always displayed.
Roland took a slow, measured breath, stabilizing his heartbeat through sheer mental discipline. He stared directly into Ignis’s eyes, then shifted his gaze past the prince, looking directly at Emperor Tharazion, who remained an immobile statue upon his throne.
"Prince Ignis asks of ’legendary blades’ and ’blessed spears’," Roland’s voice was calm and resonant, somehow managing to slice through the thick atmospheric pressure without the need to shout. "It is a fascinating question. Because the answer to that very question explains exactly why I stand here today."
Roland took a single step forward, moving away from Ignis and positioning himself as the central figure in the hall.
"Those legendary blades have rusted, Prince. And those blessed spears have long since shattered. The human kingdoms you have known for centuries—those who worship the past and cling to the rotting remnants of ancient glory—are decaying from within."
Roland raised a hand slightly, an elegant rhetorical gesture. "You call us parasites because we ’burrow’. But we call it evolution. You view my guards’ weapons as toy sticks because they do not pulse with the erratic aura of ancient sorcery. But that is a failure of judgment common to those who have sat at the pinnacle of power for far too long."
"We, House Sudrath, did not come here as beggars. We did not come bearing dusty artifacts to impress you. We come as representatives of a new era. An era where power is no longer determined by the luck of one’s birth or the inheritance of a magic sword."
Roland looked back at Ignis with a thin, polite smile that carried a razor-sharp edge. "You boast of the dragon’s longevity, Prince. But sometimes, a life lived too long makes one’s eyes cataracts to the changes happening right under their snout. We may be short-lived, but it is for that very reason we move with urgency. We adapt. We overcome. And we create our own power, rather than merely inheriting it."
Ignis let out a low growl, his tail twitching beneath his cloak in a fit of suppressed rage. Roland’s words were not overtly aggressive, yet every sentence was a subtle slap to the draconic arrogance that mistook stagnation for superiority.
"Bold words for someone I could crush with a single finger," Ignis hissed.
"Courage without calculation is merely foolishness, Prince. And I assure you, I was a very meticulous accountant long before I became a diplomat," Roland countered instantly.
Suddenly, a dull thud echoed from the direction of the throne. It was the sound of Emperor Tharazion’s index finger tapping once against the obsidian armrest.
The sound wasn’t loud, but its effect was instantaneous. Ignis immediately retreated two steps and bowed his head, his arrogance evaporating in the presence of the ultimate sovereign. Silence reclaimed the hall, heavier and more profound than before.
Emperor Tharazion’s golden eyes, which had looked like calm pools of magma, slowly shifted down, focusing entirely on Roland Sudrath.
For the first time, the Emperor spoke. His voice did not thunder like lightning; it was deep and resonant, like the grinding of tectonic plates deep beneath the earth’s crust.
"You possess a sharp tongue, Human," Tharazion said slowly, each syllable weighing heavily in the air. "You stand before me without kneeling. You look into my eyes without fear. And you answer my nephew’s insults with a logic that is... intriguing."
The Emperor leaned forward slightly. The pressure of his aura condensed around Roland, a final trial to see if this human would crack under the sheer weight of his presence.
"But beautiful words do not buy allies in Draconia. And arrogance unsupported by tangible strength will only lead you to a swift end. You claim to represent a ’new era’. Prove to me why this era of yours deserves my attention, rather than being a mere momentary distraction on our borders."
Roland felt a single bead of cold sweat trace its way down his spine, but his face remained a mask of perfect composure. He knew he had passed the first trial: he had gained the Emperor’s interest. Now came the part where he had to deliver.
