Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 99: [98] Talking about the past (2)

Chapter 99: [98] Talking about the past (2)

In the middle of the growing crowd, Malik stepped confidently onto the podium that had been prepared in the center of Samsara’s town square. The chimes of the city’s bell tower rang in succession, marking that the hour of judgment had come.

Malik stood tall, his black robe fluttering in the evening breeze. Around him, hundreds of eyes watched—some with admiration, others with fear hidden behind their cheers.

He raised his right hand high, calling for silence. The cheering slowly faded, replaced by the restless murmurs of a people waiting for their ruler’s speech.

"I know..." Malik began, his voice deep and controlled. "Many of you don’t like me. I know exactly what my reputation is."

He stepped forward once, locking eyes with the crowd as if piercing into their hearts. "Directly, I took the throne through rebellion. And to some of you, I may appear to be a dictator."

"But listen to me carefully." His voice rose, echoing through every corner of the square. "I’m not standing here to be liked. I’m standing because I see what you cannot see."

He paused for a moment, gazing at the faces that now waited silently. "Soon, a war involving not just a continent—but perhaps the entire world—will erupt."

"You must have heard the rumors," he continued, his eyes scanning westward. "About the heroes from another world... summoned far in the west?"

Malik clenched his fist, then pointed to his chest. "I tell you... I believe it. I was in that city when the summoning took place!"

A few curious cheers erupted, filled with growing interest. Malik continued without giving space for doubt.

"That’s why," he said, lowering his voice into a deadly whisper, "I started thinking... what are the western kingdoms really planning with those people of immense power?"

"War against the Demon King?" He laughed shortly, cynically. "That’s just their excuse. What they truly want is territorial expansion and absolute control over this continent!"

Shouts of support began rising from the crowd. Fear and fervor churned together, twisted into strategy through his speech.

"My fellow countrymen!" Malik shouted louder. "Open your eyes! We cannot sit idly and stay blind. If we remain passive, then this land we take pride in will fall into their hands!"

"Rise and resist!" His cry shattered the air, met with a wave of cheers. "Rise as our ancestors once rose against the demon race long ago!"

Then Malik slowly turned. His eyes fixed on Princess Diana, who had just been brought onto the stage by two Janissary Hamzat soldiers. Iron chains bound her wrists, but her head was held high, her gaze proud.

"Look at her!" Malik raised his hand toward her. "Even if we are family... if it’s for the people and the land of Samsara, I am willing to behead my own aunt!"

The crowd fell silent for a moment. Malik’s words struck hard at morality and noble bloodlines. Yet in that silence, he raised his chin higher, displaying his unwavering resolve.

"For one great step, I am willing to sacrifice the closest things in my life!" he cried with emotion. "Because I love Samsara—more than anyone else!"

Princess Diana stood on the wooden stage, her body upright despite the iron chains binding her wrists and ankles. Her eyes looked at Malik, full of pain—not from fear of death, but from sorrow at seeing truth buried beneath lies dressed as righteousness.

"You are blinded..." her voice was soft, but firm. She stepped forward once, even as her chains groaned with the sound of old iron. "What you’re hearing isn’t truth, but fear wrapped in rhetoric!"

Some among the crowd looked shaken, especially the older ones who had lived through the previous Sultan’s reign. But Diana’s voice was quickly drowned out by waves of shouting from the front rows, where Malik’s fanatics raised their fists high.

"He talks about heroes from another world," Diana continued, her tone urgent, nearly desperate. "But what proof is there that they’re our enemies? Is their crime simply being strong? Didn’t our ancestors once say that strength is a test, not a reason to kill?"

The crowd didn’t answer, but murmurs began to rise. Malik remained silent, standing beside the gallows pole, as if allowing Diana to speak only so she could be buried beneath the crowd’s eventual rejection.

"And now he’s using that fear to twist everything!" Princess Diana shouted, her voice rising, echoing against the stone walls of the city and the execution platform.Her eyes scanned the silent crowd, trying to reach the conscience of those still capable of thought.

But before that silence could turn into doubt, a voice from the middle of the crowd pierced forward like an arrow. A tall man wearing the tattered clothes of a desert merchant stepped forward. "But the Sultan speaks the truth!" he shouted boldly. "I am a traveler and a merchant, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes—western kingdoms are gathering vast armies!"

The crowd started to stir again. Whispers spread like wildfire through dry fields. People turned to one another, trying to gauge whether the news could be trusted—or feared for being too plausible.

"The rumors about war aren’t nonsense," the man continued, his voice full of conviction. "Heroes from another world do exist. I am a traveler and merchant, and I’ve seen with my own eyes that many western kingdoms are assembling armies, and the rumors of war are indeed true!"

Princess Diana fell silent for a moment. Her breath caught, not from fear, but from a sharp pang of realization: the narrative had already sunk too deep. She looked at the man, then shifted her gaze to Malik, who still stood calmly at the edge of the stage.

And there, in the crowd’s rising roar, Malik looked back at her. His smile was small, cold, and meaningful. He didn’t say a word—but in his eyes, Diana read everything: that man was planted. This narrative was orchestrated.

Princess Diana clenched her teeth, trying to contain the boiling fury in her chest. She knew this game. She knew how one voice, placed at the right moment, could move a thousand minds.

"I don’t deny the possibility of danger beyond," Diana shouted, trying to hold ground even as her rhetoric began to sink. "But do we throw away our values and compassion just because we’re afraid? Is that what you’ve inherited from our ancestors?"

But her voice no longer carried the same strength as before. Like a wave crashing before reaching the reef, her words began to lose their weight in the face of a mass opinion that was growing stronger in one direction.

"If we justify every action in the name of ’necessity,’" she continued, "then nothing is sacred anymore! Today it’s me... tomorrow it could be you!"

But the faces before her looked uncertain, and many of them bowed their heads, unable to meet her gaze. They were no longer citizens listening to an argument. They were now a crowd stripped of doubt by the promise of a ’strong leader.’

A shout rang out from the front rows, "Sultan Malik saved us! He knows what we don’t!" That cry triggered a new wave of supporters raising their hands and chanting Malik’s name again and again.

Princess Diana turned to the sky, now darkening as if mourning with her. The hope in her eyes slowly faded. What she saw before her was no longer an enemy... but her own people, blinded by a perfectly crafted narrative.

Malik stepped forward calmly. He no longer needed to speak, because he knew: he had won the most important thing in the world—opinion.

Diana shook her head slowly. "Samsara... it shouldn’t have come to this," she whispered, only to herself. She wasn’t afraid of dying, but her heart was breaking as she witnessed the nation she protected become a stage for falsehood.

One by one, voices cried out "Hang her! Hang her!" louder than before. The chant was no longer a command... it was a conviction.

And in the middle of that maelstrom, Princess Diana stood like the last pillar of a past that refused to fall. But in her heart, she knew—there was nothing left that could stop the tide shaped by lies and fear.

Two Janissary Hamzat guards stepped forward, their movements heavy but certain. With practiced motions, they forced Diana onto the trapdoor of the gallows. Her face remained calm, though her eyes carried an unspoken sorrow.

The rough rope was looped around her neck. Cold, heavy, and offering no room for hope. She looked up toward the overcast sky—as if asking, not for a miracle, but for one last act of courage from anyone who still had a heart.

"O Great God..." she whispered in her heart. "If not for me... then protect the people of Samsara from this path of ruin. Don’t let them worship a tyrant just because they’re afraid."

Malik raised his hand high, ready to give the signal. The crowd held its breath. Those seconds stretched long, as if even time itself was reluctant to witness the injustice about to unfold.

"Now!" Malik shouted.

One of the guards yanked the execution lever with all his strength. But strangely, it didn’t budge. He tried again—this time with his partner. Their muscles tensed, faces growing confused, but the mechanism stayed locked in place.

Malik frowned. "What are you doing!? Pull the lever!"

Then the sand around the stage began to tremble. Fine grains crept through the cracks in the wooden floor, rising into the air, swirling into a small vortex that wrapped around the gallows mechanism. The plank beneath Princess Diana’s feet didn’t drop—because it was being held by a force stronger than any machinery.

"Sand..." Malik muttered, his eyes widening. "No... it can’t be—"

"Ha!" Malik burst out, a thin laugh escaping his lips. "So you’ve finally come, Farid!"

He turned quickly, trying to scan the crowd for whoever was manipulating the sand. But he didn’t need to search long—because the figure he had called by that old name stepped forward with steady resolve.

Khan, or Farid, walked slowly through the crowd, which parted like the sea before a storm. His body stood tall, a deep blue turban tied around his head, and his eyes locked onto the execution stage. There was no hesitation in his stride.

A few elite Janissary guards moved to intercept, but Khan simply raised one hand. The sand beneath their feet erupted, wrapping around their bodies like hellish roots rising from the earth. They were flung aside, one by one, before they could even raise a weapon.

Khan climbed onto the stage in silence. The wind caught his cloak, letting it flutter lightly, while the grains of sand danced around him—circling him like ancestral spirits risen from the dust.