Reborn as a Hated Noble Family, We Start an Industrial Revolution-Chapter 65: The Wedding (The Lion and The Doctor)

Chapter 65: Chapter 65: The Wedding (The Lion and The Doctor)
Iron Hearth Castle – Northreach City Square. Wedding Day – 09:00 AM.
The city of Northreach had ground to a halt. It wasn’t the silence of a siege or the stillness of a winter storm; it was the vibrant, chaotic standstill of a Great Feast.
The main boulevard, usually occupied by heavy steam-trucks and patrolling soldiers, was now covered in a seamless red carpet that stretched for nearly two kilometers—a feat of logistical madness personally ordered by Duchess Aurelia. Thousands of citizens lined the streets, dressed in their finest Sunday clothes, waving small silk flags embossed with the Golden Lion of Sudrath. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and celebratory mana-incense, making the entire city feel like it was breathing joy.
Inside the castle walls, however, the atmosphere was more tense than a frontline defense bunker during an artillery barrage.
The Groom’s Preparation Room.
Sir Riven Sudrath sat in a carved mahogany chair, his face a shade of deathly pale that made him look like he had been systematically drained by a vampire. He was clad in his High General’s Ceremonial Uniform—a suit of ivory-white fabric trimmed with intricate gold embroidery. A crimson sash ran across his broad chest, weighted down by a collection of medals that clinked with every involuntary tremor of his body.
He looked magnificent, like a legendary prince plucked from the pages of an epic poem. But his soul felt like it was currently being put through a meat grinder.
At his feet, a young woman with gold-rimmed glasses and a leather apron over her dress was crouching, a needle and thread clutched between her teeth. She looked less like a noble sister and more like a high-stress tailor.
"Brother, stay still!" Rumina Sudrath hissed, her words muffled by the thread. "Your legs are vibrating like a faulty piston! I’m trying to finish the hem of these trousers so they don’t drag! If I stab your calf with this needle, don’t you dare blame me!"
"Garrick..." Riven whispered, his voice cracking as he ignored his sister’s scolding. "Check my pulse. I think the engine is about to explode. I feel... lightheaded."
Captain Garrick, serving as the Best Man and looking uncharacteristically dapper in his own dress blues, took his commander’s wrist. "One hundred and forty beats per minute, Sir. Calm down. This is just a walk down the altar, not a march into a minefield."
"A minefield is safer, Rick!" Riven gasped, his eyes darting around the room. "If a mine explodes, I die instantly. It’s clean. But if I mess up my vows, if I stutter or trip in front of the entire kingdom... I’ll spend the rest of my life dying from the shame! I’ll be the General who fainted at his own wedding!"
"And if you do mess up," Rumina added, biting off the thread with a sharp snap and standing up, "I will be the one who kills you. Do you have any idea how much this gold thread costs? It was imported from the Draconian High Peaks. If you faint and get drool on this ivory silk, I’m deducting the cleaning fees from your salary for the next three years. Business is business, even at a wedding."
Rumina stood tall, adjusting Riven’s high collar with a firm, almost violent precision. As the family’s resident Engineer-turned-Treasurer, she ensured Riven’s appearance was calibrated to the millimeter.
The door swung open, and Roland Sudrath strolled in. He looked like the definition of "Capital Sophistication," wearing a charcoal tuxedo of his own design, his hair slicked back perfectly.
"Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!" Roland teased, leaning against the doorframe. "Are you ready, Brother? The procession is waiting, the King’s envoy is seated, and Father is already out there weeping into a silk handkerchief."
"Roland..." Riven turned to his younger brother with an expression of pure horror. "I can’t do it. My legs... they’ve turned into jelly. I think I’ve been poisoned."
Roland laughed, stepped forward, and delivered a sharp slap to Riven’s cheek. PLAK!
"Wake up, Brother!" Roland barked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You’re Riven Sudrath! The Bandung thug who became a transmigrated General! You faced an army of three thousand mercenaries without breaking a sweat, you broke a Basilisk’s neck with your bare hands! Are you really going to be defeated by a priest and a ring? Remember Elena! She’s waiting for you at the end of that aisle!"
At the mention of Elena’s name, Riven took a deep, shuddering breath. His chest expanded, and the trembling in his hands subsided just a fraction.
"Right. For Elena. For the satay dinner."
"And for my investment return," Rumina added, giving Riven a forceful shove toward the door. "Now march!"
The Northreach Cathedral – 10:30 AM.
The interior of the Cathedral was a masterpiece of stone and light. Rianor had installed automated mana-lamps that bathed the hall in a warm, ethereal golden glow. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies and high-grade incense.
On the left side: The Sudrath family and the military contingent—rows upon rows of muscle-bound soldiers in dress uniforms, most of whom were already dabbing their eyes with tissue.
On the right side: The medical team, the town’s elite, and the VIP guests—including a very uncomfortable Prince Caelus, who sat in the front row looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
The massive pipe organ—automated by Rianor’s mechanical gears—began to roar. TENG... TENG...
The main doors swung open. Riven walked in, flanked by Duke Lucian and Duchess Aurelia. Aurelia was in her element, smiling broadly and waving to the guests as if she were the one being crowned queen. Lucian, on the other hand, was doing his best to maintain his dignity while his face was flushed from crying.
Riven reached the altar. He stood there, rigid and unmoving, like a lightning rod waiting for a strike.
Then, the bride appeared.
Doctor Elena did not wear a dress with an excessive, impractical train. She walked with a grace that was both simple and breathtaking. Her gown was made of pure white Northern silk, tailored to flow elegantly with her every step, with delicate lace accents on the sleeves. Her hair was styled in a modern bun, adorned with fresh jasmine flowers—a specific request from Aurelia to ensure she carried a "heavenly scent." She still wore her glasses, for Riven had insisted that his favorite version of her was the brilliant doctor who looked at him with sharp, intelligent eyes.
As Riven watched her approach, the world seemed to stop rotating. Or perhaps the oxygen flow to his brain had simply ceased.
She’s too beautiful, Riven thought, his vision beginning to tunnel.
Elena reached the altar and offered him a soft, reassuring smile. "Breathe, General," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.
The ceremony began. The High Priest embarked on a long, poetic sermon about the sanctity of marriage, the union of souls, and the duty of the North. Riven could feel sweat beginning to pour down his back. The Magitech air-conditioning units Rianor had installed felt useless against the internal heat of his panic.
"And now," the Priest’s voice echoed through the silent hall. "Sir Riven Sudrath, do you take Elena to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, until death do you part?"
Every eye in the room was fixed on the General. The silence was deafening.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Riven opened his mouth to say the words "I do."
But the only thing that came out was a faint, choked squeak. "I... b... b..."
Riven’s eyes rolled back into his head. His 190-centimeter, muscle-bound frame began to tilt backward like a falling oak tree.
THUD!
The Great General of the North fainted. He collapsed directly onto Captain Garrick, who barely managed to catch the weight of his commanding officer.
"GENERAL DOWN!" Garrick shouted in a panic. "MEDICS! WE NEED A MEDIC!"
The cathedral erupted into chaos. Aurelia let out a hysterical shriek. "RIVEEEEEN! DON’T YOU DIE BEFORE THE PAPERS ARE SIGNED!"
Roland slapped his forehead with his palm. "Good gods, he’s actually done it. The family reputation is in tatters."
Elena, however, did not panic. She let out a weary sigh, hitched up her wedding gown slightly, and knelt beside her unconscious groom. She reached into her bouquet, pulled out a concealed vial of concentrated Ammonia, and held it directly under Riven’s nose.
SNIFF.
Riven’s eyes snapped open. He jolted upward, his arms swinging. "WHAT?! POISON GAS ATTACK?! AMBUSH?!"
"Wake up, darling," Elena said, her voice sweet yet carrying a terrifying medical authority. "We aren’t legally married yet. If you faint again, I’m administering a sedative via a very large needle, right here in front of the King’s envoy."
Riven looked at Elena’s face, then at the guests who were desperately trying to stifle their laughter. His face turned a shade of red that outdid Aurelia’s kebaya. He scrambled to his feet, standing at attention and offering a sharp military salute to the Priest.
"SIR! I DO! I VERY MUCH DO, SIR!" Riven roared at the top of his lungs.
The startled Priest jumped. "O-okay... then by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Riven looked at Elena. She stood on her tiptoes. Riven leaned down, his heart finally finding its rhythm, and kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made the crowd erupt into cheers.
"IT’S OFFICIAL!" Aurelia shouted the loudest, her voice echoing over the applause.
The Reception: The People’s Feast (Hajatan Style).
The celebration shifted to the City Square. This wasn’t a stiff, European-style sit-down dinner; this was a "Hajatan Indo" on a continental scale.
Dozens of colorful tents were lined up, and the air was a symphony of aromas: Beef Rendang made from high-grade monster cattle, skewers of Goat Satay, Zuppa Soup (Aurelia’s "modern" innovation), and massive bowls of iced fruit punch.
At the VIP entrance, Rumina sat behind a massive mahogany desk. She wasn’t dancing or socialising. She was performing her sacred duty as the Family Treasurer. In front of her was a reinforced iron box labeled: "CONTRIBUTION BOX."
Every noble who entered was subjected to Rumina’s icy, calculating stare.
"Baron Tyrell," Rumina said coldly, her pen poised over a ledger. "This envelope feels suspiciously light. Are you certain this is your final contribution? We are serving imported Draconian steak and vintage Sudrath wine, you know."
The Baron broke into a cold sweat under the nineteen-year-old’s gaze, reached back into his pocket, and sheepishly added several more gold coins.
"Much better. Enjoy the feast," Rumina smiled, her eyes flickering with the glint of profit as she recorded the entry. "Profit margins... looking good," she murmured to herself.
On the main stage, Riven and Elena stood for hours, greeting thousands of well-wishers. Riven’s feet ached, and his jaw was cramping from the constant smiling, but his hand never left Elena’s.
Below the stage, another drama was unfolding.
Raphael Sudrath stood near the buffet line, a plate of satay in his hand. His eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd like a hawk—specifically, he was watching over his sister, Raveena.
Raveena looked stunning in a light blue party dress, chatting with her academy friends. Suddenly, Prince Caelus approached her, carrying a glass of red fruit punch.
"Lady Raveena," Caelus said, trying to look suave but failing to hide the nervousness caused by Raphael’s proximity. "A very... ’popular’ party. Unique."
"Thank you, Your Highness," Raveena offered a polite, distant smile.
"Would you honor me with a dance?" Caelus extended his hand.
Before Raveena could even open her mouth to reply, a satay fork slammed into the table inches from Caelus’s hand. TAK!
Caelus jumped back, startled. Raphael appeared beside his sister, his expression a mask of cold, fraternal protection.
"Apologies, Your Highness. My sister has a sudden leg cramp. She cannot dance tonight."
"Raphael..." Raveena hissed under her breath. "My legs are perfectly fine."
"They are hurting, Sister. You slipped earlier, remember?" Raphael’s gaze was a silent warning: Don’t let this vulture near you.
Caelus snorted in frustration. "You again, Little Sudrath. Do you intend to block a Prince?"
"I’m just protecting family assets," Raphael replied casually, taking a bite of his satay.
Meanwhile, Rhea was sitting on the roof of a guard post, avoiding the crowds and tearing into a roasted chicken leg. Roland, as usual, was in the VIP corner, busy lobbying the Ambassador of a neighboring kingdom.
"So, Mr. Ambassador, if we export this chemical fertilizer to your grain fields, I guarantee a three-hundred percent yield increase. Interested?"
Roland never took a day off, not even at his brother’s wedding.
The Wedding Night – The West Wing.
The party finally ended. A profound silence settled over the castle.
Riven and Elena entered the bridal suite, which Aurelia had decorated with "aggressive" enthusiasm. Rose petals covered every surface. Scented candles flickered in the dark. And on the bed, flower petals had been arranged to spell out a message in Bandung slang: "CETAK GOL!" (Score a Goal!).
Elena let out a soft laugh at the sight. "Your mother... she certainly has spirit."
Riven closed the door and locked it. His heart began to race again. "Sorry about the message. I’ll... I’ll clear it off."
He removed his ceremonial jacket, standing awkwardly in the center of the room. He was a General of war. He was a thirty-six-year-old man. But in his previous life, he was a lifelong bachelor. And in this life, he had been too busy fighting to learn the "finer points" of romance. His experience in this department was essentially zero.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed. She removed her earrings and then her glasses. Without the lenses, her gaze appeared softer, more vulnerable.
"Riven," Elena called. "Why are you standing there like a sentry?"
"I... I should probably shower first?" Riven stammered. "Make sure I don’t smell like satay and sweat."
"You smell fine," Elena said, patting the empty space beside her. "Come sit."
Riven sat down beside her. The bed was plush, but he sat as rigid as if he were being interrogated. They remained silent for a long moment.
"Sorry I fainted," Riven muttered, looking down at his hands. "Not exactly a heroic look for a General."
Elena smiled and rested her head on his broad shoulder. "Actually, it was the most charming part. A General who is feared by the entire continent faints because he’s marrying me. It means I’m more terrifying than any monster, doesn’t it?"
Riven turned to look at his wife. "Not terrifying, El. Just... precious. I was just terrified of ruining the most important moment of my life."
Elena reached up, her soft hand cupping his rough, scarred cheek. "You didn’t ruin anything. You’re perfect in all your awkwardness."
She leaned in closer. Riven’s heart rate spiked again.
"Your heart is at one hundred and fifty again," Elena whispered against his lips. "Do you need me to prescribe a sedative?"
"I don’t need medicine," Riven whispered back, his voice husky. His large hand slowly found its way to her waist. "I just need you."
He leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t the stiff, brief kiss from the altar. It was a deep, lingering kiss filled with gratitude and a promise for the future.
The candles flickered out one by one. That night, the Northern Lion didn’t roar; he found his peace in the arms of the only woman who truly knew the man behind the armor.
And outside the room, Duchess Aurelia stood in the hallway, crossing a name off her thick ledger with a satisfied smirk.
Project Mantu: Riven — SUCCESS.