Chapter 356| History Never Truly Passes. It Merely Bides Its Time To Strike Back.

Dull yellowish light slipped through the cracks of the barred windows, slicing through the pitch-black darkness inside the stuffy iron carriage.

Time shifted from afternoon toward evening. The rhythm of the train crushing the rails rumbled rhythmically. Clack... clack... clack... The air inside the steel cabin felt cold yet suffocating, thick with the scent of rust, coal residue, and lubricant.

Roland leaned against the hard wooden bench. His dark blue diplomatic coat was slightly wrinkled, but his black hair remained neatly combed. The man closed one eye, half-resting, letting his ears catch every shifting sound.

Beside him, Selene sat with an unyielding posture. The sea-blue robes of the Water Arcanum wrapped her body gracefully. The Arcanum Master stared at the steel wall with a slightly furrowed brow. The air in this place was completely void. There was not a single drop of natural mana particles she could sense.

Roland opened his eyes, glanced at Selene, then carved a faint smile.

In his heart, he was relieved the woman had made the right decision that morning. Selene had firmly ordered her ten Luminara guard knights to remain on standby aboard the NRS Orion. She refused to give the Iron Empire even the slightest opening to feel provoked.

On the opposite bench, the Northreach formation appeared vastly more rigid.

Riven loomed like a stone statue cloaked in a black Wolf mantle. His giant arms were crossed over his chest, and his pair of gray eyes locked onto the iron door at the end of the carriage. Captain Thorne sat not far from him, on standby with a rigid posture. The veteran officer had delegated absolute command of the ship to Borch before they disembarked at the port earlier.

"Tch, this treatment is completely inefficient," Rumina murmured, breaking the silence. Her fingers were tightly intertwined on the lap of her gray gown. "We are an official delegation, yet they pack and ship us like crates of ammunition."

"Hah, at least ammunition crates don’t have to smell the soldiers’ socks from the next carriage, Rumina," Roland joked casually, rolling his stiff shoulders.

Rumina only let out a soft snort, refusing to be amused.

Beside Rumina, Rianor leaned his body forward. The scientist’s face had regained its color, no longer as pale as a corpse from seasickness. His thin glasses reflected the light of the steam bulbs. The Arcanotech Bracer on his left arm glowed a dim blue. Whirrr...

"Hmm... based on geographical calculations, this is highly unusual," Rianor said quietly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the iron table. "The speed of this locomotive is no more than forty kilometers per hour. Based on our travel time from the port... the capital of this empire is located very, very close to the coast."

Roland raised an eyebrow. "Wait, aren’t capitals usually built deep inland for security?"

"Not if you are a nation fueled by militaristic paranoia, Roland." Rianor adjusted his glasses. "They deliberately concentrated their government and industry near the military port. The goal is pure efficiency: cutting down logistics lines and enabling large-scale troop mobilization to the ocean within a matter of hours. This isn’t just city planning. This is the layout of a colossal fortress."

SCREEEECH!!

The high-pitched squeal of metal was deafening. The carriage violently shuddered as the locomotive’s hydraulic brakes were forcibly engaged.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" a soldier roared roughly from behind the door.

The iron train came to a halt. Hot steam violently hissed from the gaps in the wheels. Hsssh!

CLANG! The heavy mechanical locks turned. The steel door was pulled open. The brighter light of the steam lamps invaded aggressively, blinding their eyes.

"Get out. Now," commanded the gray-coated soldier.

The Northreach delegation stepped out. The moment Rianor’s shoes touched the ground, his eyes immediately swept the surroundings.

This was no marble-platformed station. This was an industrial cathedral. Its arched roof loomed over colossal, oil-slicked steel pillars. The platform they stood on was purely composed of thick black iron plates that clanged loudly beneath their footsteps. Giant steam lamps swung slowly, carving out long, terrifying shadows.

At the end of the platform, Commander Varus—who had apparently ridden in the front locomotive—walked briskly toward a man standing and waiting in the middle of the station.

Varus delivered a stiff military salute, handing over a leather folder containing the prisoner documents. The man accepted it without looking, then gave a brief hand signal. Varus nodded, spun on his heels, and strode away, leaving the station area without looking back. The handover was complete.

The man who received the documents now stepped forward in a measured rhythm. He stopped exactly five paces in front of Roland’s group.

His physique was a stark contrast to the brutal Varus. He was tall, gaunt, with slightly stooped shoulders. His black hair, beginning to gray at the temples, was slicked flawlessly back. His face was stern with a hard jawline, yet his pair of old gray eyes radiated flashes of an extraordinarily analytical intellect.

He wore a knee-length gray coat. Black leather gloves wrapped his fingers. A functional short sword was sheathed at his left waist, right alongside a metal measuring stick and a cylindrical map tube.

"Welcome to the Iron Heart, Ladies and Gentlemen," he greeted flatly. His voice didn’t bark; rather, it was incredibly calm and meticulously arranged. "I am General Volkov. Head of the Strategy and Tactics Division, under the absolute command of Emperor Regulus."

Roland stepped forward to reply, but Volkov’s eyes immediately shifted. Ignoring the diplomat, he locked his gaze onto the giant figure in the back.

"Grand General Riven Sudrath." Volkov tilted his head. "It is an honor to look directly at the man whose sword strike held off our 2nd General at the border all those years ago. The calculations of your destructive power are still neatly stored within my tactical archives."

The muscles in Riven’s jaw tightened. The General returned the stare without blinking, radiating the pure dominance of an apex predator.

Volkov did not flinch. His gaze now shifted, sharpening on the bespectacled man beside Riven.

"And you... Rianor Sudrath." Volkov’s voice dropped an octave, sounding infinitely more lethal. "Your defensive tactical blueprints at Northveil that claimed the life of General Rudigor... I must admit, it was an incredibly cruel mathematical masterpiece."

The atmosphere on the iron platform plummeted to absolute zero.

Riven’s fingers reflexively shifted a few millimeters toward the hilt of his greatsword which... wasn’t there. Dozens of Iron Empire soldiers around the platform who caught the General’s hand movement simultaneously raised the muzzles of their steam rifles. Clack! Clack!

Roland swiftly took one decisive step, placing his body squarely between his family and Volkov.

"We came empty-handed and with peaceful intentions, General Volkov," Roland stated calmly yet packed with emphasis. "The past belongs to history. Today, we are here for the future."

Volkov stared at Roland for a moment. The gaunt man then lightly tapped the documents in his hand with his measuring stick. Tap.

"History never truly passes, Prince Roland. It merely bides its time to strike back," Volkov said coldly. He turned around. "Follow me. Your transport is already waiting."

They were escorted out of the station and onto the streets of the capital.

Outside, the evening sky was dimming. The city streets were phenomenally wide, paved with shiny black stone blocks damp from steam condensation. As far as the eye could see, there were only dull, gray-painted, box-like factory buildings. Hundreds of smokestacks spewed black clouds, blanketing the sky like a shroud.

On the sidewalks, workers hurried past. Their faces were smeared with soot, wearing ragged matching uniforms. Not a single one dared to look at the military procession.

The Northreach delegation was ordered to board the back of a massive steam truck. The bed was entirely enclosed by steel plates, leaving only a slit for a barred window. Two soldiers escorted them from the front cabin, and two others sat watching them in the back.

The truck’s steam engine roared heavily, tearing through the capital streets.

Roland sat near the window, observing the city through the narrow slit. The psychological pressure in the air was overwhelmingly massive. There was no laughter. No vibrant colors. Everyone moved in an obedient, cold, mechanical routine.

"The military ratio is completely illogical," Rumina whispered. Her eyes continuously scanned the streets. "At every intersection... there are always a minimum of four guard posts with static machine guns. They aren’t protecting the city from outside enemies, they are locking down their own population."

"A flawless tyranny," Selene murmured in concern, watching workers being herded by armed foremen. "They traded their freedom for machines."

Rianor adjusted his glasses, staring at the truck’s steel floor. "Not a single piece of infrastructure here utilizes a mana foundation. Hydraulics, steam lighting, station gears... this is the absolute pinnacle of pure mechanical civilization. Hatred toward magic has forced them to evolve radically."

Roland sighed. The Iron Empire wasn’t just a nation; it was a colossal, continental-scale military camp choked by an iron fist. And now, they were heading straight into its heart.

After twenty minutes of rattling, the steam truck finally stopped.

"Get out," the escort soldier ordered.

The moment Rianor stepped down, the architect looked up and instantly held his breath.

Before them loomed The Iron Citadel.

This was no beautifully carved palace. The Iron Citadel was a pure, pitch-black, monolithic box building of preposterous proportions. Its steel walls were completely flat, stripped of any ornaments. Watchtowers at every corner of the roof relentlessly swept the courtyard with giant spotlights.

VWUUUM... SCREEECH!

The ten-meter-high steel gates opened mechanically. The grinding of its ancient metal vibrated inside their chest cavities.

They were escorted inside. The air within was vastly more suffocating. The narrow, low-ceilinged corridors were lit only by dim yellow bulbs. The stench of lubricant and hot iron stung the nose.

Volkov led the way, taking them down into the prisoner wing in the underground block.

They were shoved into a six-by-six meter room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were entirely clad in thumb-thick steel plates. There were no soft beds. Only a single iron table welded to the floor, surrounded by wooden benches. A small, barred window near the ceiling served as the only ventilation. A solitary steam bulb hung desolately.

Volkov stood at the threshold, staring at them.

"You will be detained here until the Emperor decides whether you deserve a chance to speak, or are to be immediately sentenced to death," he stated flatly.

The strategy general tapped his stick against the steel doorframe. "Do not waste your energy searching for structural weaknesses, Rianor Sudrath. There are a hundred elite soldiers guarding this corridor every hour, and three layers of main mechanical gates above us. That toy bracer of yours won’t be able to hack gates that possess absolutely zero magic circuits."

"We have absolutely no intention of leaving this room, General Volkov," Roland replied with a diplomatic smile that refused to fade. "Please convey our respectful regards to your Emperor."

Volkov merely snorted condescendingly, then stepped backward.

SLAM!

The thick iron door was slammed shut. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Three massive mechanical locking slots were forcefully turned from the outside.

They were officially locked in.

Meanwhile, far away on the coast of the port that was slowly being swallowed by the night...

A cold fog crept in, blanketing the military dock. Behind the barbed wire fence, the dark hull of the NRS Orion stood mute, restrained by steel chains locking it to the mooring posts.

Yara stood alone outside the perimeter fence.

The young woman was still wearing her oil-stained gray apron. Her dirty gloves were tightly secured. The sea breeze froze her pale face, yet her brown eyes never strayed from the smokestack-less foreign ship.

Her mind was still invaded by the events from this morning. By the southern man in the blue coat. A calm gaze that didn’t radiate a killer’s aura in the slightest, but rather, human empathy.

Rustle.

A subtle movement on the deck of the NRS Orion jolted her from her thoughts.

From the shadows of the main tower, Naya emerged. The Ghost Squad member stood at the edge of the railing. Her short black hair fluttered in the wind. Naya’s dark eyes stared straight through the fog, meeting Yara’s gaze directly from afar.

Yara’s body reflexively tensed. Her heart raced wildly. Her survival instincts screamed that the assassin from the north was going to draw a dagger or aim at her.

However, Naya didn’t do anything.

The assassin merely stared at Yara for five full seconds. A vigilant gaze that was strangely devoid of bloodlust. Afterward, Naya spun her body silently, melting back into the shadows of the deck.

Yara exhaled the breath she had been holding hostage in her throat. She gripped the edge of her apron tightly.

"They..." Yara murmured hesitantly into the night wind, "...really aren’t monsters."