I Became a Witch and Started an Industrial Revolution

The first thing Mitia smells is smoke—wet coal and burning oil—before she realizes the fire is her own.

Dragged from another life into a realm ruled by spellcraft, he wakes in the body of a witch, branded as something dangerous and lesser in the same breath. Above him tower marble spires and silk-draped nobles who are born with wands in their fists and ownership stamped on their names. From cradle to grave, magic cushions their every step. Peasants bow, streets rot, and the only engines that ever turn are powered by blood oaths and fear.

Mitia remembers another kind of power: pressure building in a boiler, iron teeth biting into ore, wheels that don’t care about bloodlines. To him, magic isn’t a birthright; it’s a tool, same as a hammer, a lathe, a steam engine. And he is very good with tools.

So the witch starts small. A piston here, a rotating shaft there, spells threaded through steel and brass. Carriages that move without horses. Rifles that roar against shining barriers. Ironclad hulls that cut through seas once ruled only by leviathans and mage fleets.

The nobility call it heresy. The common folk call it hope.

Soon, dragon wings share the sky with shrieking metal eagles. Sorcerers on gilded towers trade blows with cannon fire. Tanks grind over sacred dueling grounds. And in the glow of a reactor that hums like a caged sun, Mitia makes a promise: he will wage the last war this world ever sees—and if someone must sit on the throne that rises from the ruins, it will be the one who taught mortals that their hands were never empty.