Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 55: The Awkward General

Capital City of Sol-Regis – Royal Military Hospital. T-Minus 2 Days Before the Inauguration.

If there was one place in the world that Sir Riven Sudrath loathed more than a muddy, blood-soaked battlefield or a trench filled with toxic gas, it was a hospital.

To Riven, the battlefield was honest. You knew where the blade was coming from; you could hear the roar of the engine and the whistle of the arrow. But a hospital? It was a place of sterile, creeping terror. The sharp, overwhelming scent of antiseptic and alcohol bit at his nostrils, a smell that reminded him of death far more than the copper tang of blood ever did. The walls were a pale, sickly white that seemed designed to drain the color from a man’s face, and the silence—broken only by the occasional groan of a wounded soldier or the soft patter of nurses’ shoes—was unnerving.

And then, there were the needles.

Riven stood in the main lobby of the Royal Military Hospital, his massive frame looking entirely out of place amidst the fragile, clinical surroundings. He was dressed in his formal daily service uniform rather than his heavy battle plate. Without the armor, his sheer physicality was even more imposing. His chest was broad enough to block out the light of the hallway, and his biceps strained against the seams of his crisp uniform sleeves as if they were begging to rip through the fabric.

Every nurse, orderly, and patient who passed by couldn’t help but stare. They looked at him with a volatile mixture of awe, reverence, and primal fear.

"Is that him? The Northern Lion?" a young cadet whispered, leaning against a crutch.

"I heard he snapped the neck of an Iron Empire Golem with his bare hands while his armor was melting," another replied in a hushed, terrified tone.

"Don’t look him in the eye. They say his gaze alone can cause a man’s heart to stop from sheer pressure."

"Dammit," Riven muttered under his breath, his voice like a low-frequency growl. "Why do I have to undergo a medical clearance? I’m perfectly healthy. I can lift a fully grown horse with one hand and sprint five kilometers in full gear without breaking a sweat."

Beside him, Captain Garrick—recently promoted to the position of General’s Aide-de-camp—clutched a wooden clipboard to his chest. He looked remarkably composed compared to his agitated commanding officer.

"Standard Palace protocol, General," Garrick said, his voice laced with a subtle, mischievous amusement. "Before the King officially inaugurates you as the ’Protector of the North,’ the Royal Council requires medical evidence that you are neither carrying a contagious plague nor suffering from mental instability. Given your track record of... aggressive problem-solving, I suppose they were particularly concerned about the second point."

"Watch it, Rick," Riven snorted, though his eyes remained fixed on the door of the examination wing as if it were a dragon’s den. "Let’s just get this over with. The sooner we leave this place, the sooner I can find a decent plate of satay in the city market. I can still smell the bleach on my skin."

They walked through the corridors toward the VIP General Poly. Ordinarily, military doctors would tremble at the sight of a high-ranking officer, especially one with Riven’s reputation. They would usually sign the papers, offer a quick salute, and send the General on his way without a second glance. Riven was counting on that. A quick signature, a stamp of approval, and a swift exit.

He reached the door of the examination room and, out of habit, gave it a firm kick. It wasn’t intended to be violent, but the sheer strength of his leg sent the door swinging open with a resounding BANG! against the inner wall.

"Alright, Doc, where are the papers? I’ll sign them now so we can both get on with our—"

Riven’s words died in his throat.

Behind the mahogany desk, there was no balding, elderly military doctor with a trembling hand. Instead, he found himself staring at a young woman, likely in her late twenties. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled back into a high, practical bun that didn’t have a single strand out of place. A pair of thin, gold-rimmed spectacles sat perched on the bridge of her straight, elegant nose, and she wore a white doctor’s coat that was so pristine it made the hospital walls look dingy.

She didn’t even look up as Riven burst in. She was focused on writing in a medical ledger, the scratching of her fountain pen the only sound in the room.

"Knock before entering," she said, her voice cool and sharp as a scalpel. "Basic etiquette. Or did they forget to teach you manners in the North along with how to open a door properly?"

Riven blinked, his mouth slightly agape. "Huh?"

The woman finally looked up. Her eyes were a striking, piercing leaf-green, framed by the sharp lenses of her glasses. She stared Riven down with a level of clinical detachment that was utterly fearless. To her, he wasn’t a war hero or a legendary general; he was just a disruptive element in her workspace.

"I said, knock," she repeated, her gaze narrowing. "Do you think this is a stable?"

Garrick, standing just behind Riven, bit his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. "You’re dead meat, Boss," he whispered, just loud enough for Riven to hear.

Riven, his pride pricked by the sudden dismissal, puffed out his chest, his military aura flaring instinctively. "I am General Riven Sudrath. The future Protector of the North. I am a very busy man, Doctor. So if we could just expedite the paperwork—"

"I don’t care if you’re a General or the King himself," she interrupted, her voice gaining an edge of authority that rivaled his own. She stood up slowly, reaching for a stethoscope hanging around her neck. "In this room, you are merely a patient. And I am Doctor Elena, Head of this Clinic. Now, sit down. Or I will have the security guards drag you out for obstructing medical procedures. Your choice."

Riven was stunned.

Never in his life—outside of his mother, Duchess Aurelia, and his sister Rhea—had a woman dared to cut him off, let alone threaten him. And yet, strangely, his heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the usual surge of adrenaline he felt before a fight; it was a jolt of genuine, confused shock.

Feeling uncharacteristically small, Riven sat down on the patient’s chair. The wooden seat creaked ominously, feeling far too narrow for his massive frame.

"Remove your shirt," Elena commanded flatly.

"What?! Right here?" Riven instinctively crossed his arms over his chest, his face heating up. "Doc, we just met. At least buy me a drink first..."

Elena let out a long, weary sigh, massaging the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses. "The shirt, General. I need to examine your heart and lungs. Don’t be so full of yourself. I’ve seen enough male torsos to last three lifetimes; yours is just another set of muscles and skin."

Riven’s face turned a deep, burning crimson—luckily, his tanned skin masked the worst of the blush. With stiff, awkward movements, he began to unbutton his uniform shirt.

As the fabric fell away, it revealed a torso that was a living map of violence and resilience. His muscles were corded and dense, like bundles of steel cable, but they were covered in a network of jagged scars—mementos from the Morvath War, the mutant city, and years of brutal training. It was a sight that usually made women gasp or faint.

Elena? She didn’t even flinch. She approached him with the cold stethoscope in hand.

"Breathe," she said, pressing the metal disc against his chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Riven’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Your resting heart rate is remarkably high," Elena murmured, her green eyes looking up at him over the rims of her glasses. "Are you nervous, General?"

"No! Who’s nervous?!" Riven blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "It’s... it’s the caffeine. Had a strong cup of coffee this morning. Too much mana-sugar."

"Inhale," she ordered, ignoring his excuse. She moved to his back, her slender, cool fingers grazing the rough, scarred skin of his shoulders.

Riven held his breath. Up close, he could smell her. Beneath the sharp scent of antiseptic, there was a faint, delicate aroma of lavender clinging to her hair. It was a calming, feminine scent that felt completely alien in this cold, white room. It made his head spin more than a blow to the jaw.

"Lungs are clear. Blood pressure is within normal limits," Elena said, returning to her desk and setting the stethoscope down. "Now, for the final part of the general exam. The blood test. Roll up your sleeve."

Riven’s eyes widened in genuine horror.

"A... blood test? With a needle?"

"Yes. Unless you’ve developed a way to teleport your blood into a vial, we’re doing it the old-fashioned way." Elena began preparing a 5cc syringe, the silver needle gleaming wickedly under the magical lights.

"I don’t think that’s necessary, Doc. My blood is... uh... sacred. It shouldn’t be spilled needlessly," Riven said, his legs already tensing as he prepared to bolt for the door.

"Sit!" Elena barked.

Her "Doctor’s Aura" exploded. It was a terrifying, focused pressure that could make the most rebellious patient sit still. Even Riven, who had stared down an army of mutants, found himself glued to the chair.

"Fine... but be gentle," Riven squeaked, turning his face toward the wall and squeezing his eyes shut. The War Lion of the North, the man who had butchered thousands of enemies, was now trembling because of a tiny piece of sharpened steel.

Cess.

"Done," Elena said.

Riven opened one eye tentatively. "Wait? That’s it? It didn’t even hurt."

"A body the size of a fortress, but the spirit of a cracker," Elena mocked, applying a small adhesive bandage to his arm with practiced ease.

She took the blood sample over to a magical analysis device in the corner. She fed the vial into a slot, and a series of blue runes began to pulse. A few seconds later, a thin strip of parchment printed with results slid out.

She read the paper. Her brow furrowed, her expression shifting from clinical indifference to genuine, simmering fury. She turned back to Riven, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"General," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "What exactly does your daily lunch menu consist of?"

"Uh... the usual. Home cooking," Riven answered honestly, confused by her tone. "Oxtail soup, goat curry, fried innards, plenty of coconut milk. My mother’s recipes are the best in the world. I could eat her Bandung-style cooking every day."

Elena walked toward him, holding the lab results like a death warrant.

"Well, whatever it is, your cholesterol is at 300. Your uric acid is on the brink of disaster. Your saturated fats are accumulating like silt in a river."

"Do you want to die young?!" Elena snapped, her voice rising. "Your heart might be strong now because of your physical training, but if you continue eating like a man on a suicide mission, your blood vessels are going to explode before you hit forty!"

Riven stared at her, completely floored. He had just been thoroughly scolded... for his diet?

"But... it tastes good, Doc."

"Starting today," Elena said, grabbing a prescription pad and writing with such force the pen almost tore the paper. "Strict diet. Minimal salt. No coconut milk. Absolutely no fried innards. You are to consume a high-fiber diet consisting primarily of steamed vegetables and lean proteins."

"Steamed vegetables?! That’s goat food!" Riven protested, his voice full of genuine grief for his lost curry.

Elena glared at him over her glasses, her aura so sharp it felt like a blade at his throat.

"Are you questioning a medical professional, General?"

Riven went silent.

He looked into her eyes. He saw the iron-willed firmness there, but beneath the fierce scolding, he saw something else—genuine concern. She didn’t care that he was a powerful military figure. She cared that he stayed alive. She was the only person who treated him as a human being who needed help, not a weapon of war.

Suddenly, a memory of his mother, Aurelia, screaming "Find a wife!" echoed in his head.

Riven looked at Elena. She was beautiful—infuriatingly so. She was intelligent, independent, and she was the only person with the guts to boss him around.

Dammit, Riven thought. Is this my type? A woman who can kill me with a glare and a diet plan?

"Doctor Elena," Riven called out, his voice suddenly dropping into a deeper, more "heroic" tone.

"What now? Take the prescription to the front pharmacy."

"Next week... after my inauguration... are you busy?"

Elena stopped writing. She looked at him, genuinely puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"I... uh..." Riven scratched the back of his neck, his face reddening again. "I’d like to invite you to dinner. For... uh... a diet consultation. Yes. A private, intensive diet consultation."

In the corner of the room, Garrick face-palmed. What kind of pathetic excuse is that, Boss?

Elena remained silent for a moment. She looked at the massive General in front of her, who was currently fidgeting like a schoolboy. She saw the ridiculous, earnest honesty in his eyes.

The corner of her lip quirked upward. Just a fraction.

"I do not provide consultations outside of office hours, General," Elena said, making Riven’s shoulders slump instantly.

"...However," she continued, capping her pen. "I do find myself hungry in the evenings. And I need to ensure that you don’t order a triple portion of goat curry the moment you leave my sight."

Riven’s eyes lit up. "So...?"

"Pick me up at seven o’clock. Do not be late. And for heaven’s sake, don’t wear your armor. You smell like iron and sweat."

Elena went back to her files. "Now, get out. I have a long line of patients."

Riven stood up with the energy of a man who had just won a war. He practically floated out of the room.

"Yes, Doc! Seven o’clock! I’ll be there!"

As soon as the door clicked shut, Riven leaned against the corridor wall, clutching his chest.

"Rick," Riven whispered to Garrick. "I think I’m actually having a heart attack this time."

"That’s not your heart, Boss," Garrick laughed, shaking his head. "That’s Cupid’s arrow. And it looks like it hit a vital organ."

Riven grinned widely.

The mission from Duchess Aurelia didn’t seem so impossible after all. Target locked.

Now, the only problem was: how do you go on a date without talking about tank warfare tactics?