Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 102: [101] The Raid (2)

Chapter 102: [101] The Raid (2)

As Denon’s dagger clattered to the stone floor, Velghan stepped forward to finish the resistance once and for all. But in the next second, he felt something off—an unnatural silence. Too perfect.

He turned, instincts sharpened by hundreds of battles kicking in. But there was no one behind him. The corridor was empty. No footsteps. No shifting shadows. Not even breathing.

Velghan’s brow furrowed. This wasn’t a simple mistake. Something was here. Something even his honed senses couldn’t catch under normal circumstances.

"Tsk," he muttered, then spoke louder. "So... you really do exist."

He took a half-step back, lowering his center of gravity. His eyes scanned every corner of the hallway, watching for glints of light, micro-movements, or subtle temperature shifts.

"Even among the upper echelon of warriors like myself," he continued, "your kind is considered a myth."

A voice answered from the darkness—flat, yet laced with a smirk. "A myth? Please. You just weren’t allowed to know. But a few in Samsara... they know we’re real."

From the shadows, a figure cloaked in black emerged, moving so softly not even the dust stirred. Their face was covered, only piercing eyes visible—sharp, unblinking.

"Hassasin..." Velghan whispered, raising his dagger slowly. "So you’re working with these mercenaries too?"

"This is the Sultan’s order," the figure replied.

In a blink, the Hassasin vanished—not running, not leaping—just... gone, like mist.

Velghan spun instantly, blocking behind him just in time. A thin blade scraped against his own, the clash a quiet but razor-sharp sound.

The fight began—silent, fast, and brutal. No yelling, no loud footsteps. Only short breaths and the whisper of air moved by precise strikes.

Velghan attacked with military efficiency—short swings, elbow jabs, solid footwork. But every strike hit empty space. The Hassasin was always a second ahead.

A thrust came from the left. Velghan ducked. But from below, a follow-up strike slammed into his stomach. He staggered but didn’t fall.

"What the hell?" he hissed. "You call that bastard with tainted blood a Sultan?"

"Yeah. We judge not by the purity of blood," came the voice from behind him. "We judge by credibility."

Velghan spun, sweeping his leg behind him. But like trying to kick smoke, the enemy was gone before the motion finished.

A sharp cut opened on his left shoulder. Blood seeped out—warm and slow. Deep enough to sting... but not deep enough to drop him.

He clenched his teeth, steadying his breath through the pain. Ahead, the shadow began to take shape again, half-visible beneath the flickering chandelier light.

"Hah," Velghan scoffed. "Credibility. Fine... he’s fast, precise, disciplined."

He flexed his wrist, tightening his grip on his blood-streaked dagger. "But he still lacks the most important trait... pure blood."

From the dark, a short laugh echoed—dry and mocking. "Old fools. Even after all this, you cling to lineage like it matters."

Velghan narrowed his eyes. That voice... it was too familiar. Not like the usual flat, mechanical tone Hassasins used.

He stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he tried to pierce the shadows and reveal the face beneath the mask. "Who are you really?"

The figure didn’t answer at first. Slowly, he pulled back the black cloth covering his face, revealing a sharp jawline, an old scar on his cheek... and a pair of piercing gray eyes.

Velghan froze. His breath caught in his chest like he’d just seen a ghost from the battlefield. "...Arash?"

"It’s been a while, Velghan," Arash said calmly. "Still stiff as ever, I see."

Velghan instinctively took half a step back. This wasn’t just some elite enemy. This was his old rival—a fellow warrior from three major operations who had disappeared, presumed dead.

"You..." Velghan whispered, voice heavy with shock and barely restrained fury. "You vanished after the ’Black Sand’ op... They said you were killed. And now you show up on the traitors’ side?"

Arash stood tall, arms folded beneath his cloak as the corridor’s air gently fluttered his robes. His gaze was cold, but carried the signature calm of a seasoned killer.

"I didn’t die," he replied casually, as if it weren’t some earth-shattering truth. "And honestly... I never planned to die in that mission."

Velghan’s fist clenched, his dagger trembling in his grip. "Then why disappear? Why not return to base? To our squad?"

"Because that was never truly my place," Arash said evenly. "That whole operation... ’Black Sand’ wasn’t a test of victory. It was my graduation."

Velghan tilted his head, his expression now a mix of fury and confusion. "Graduation? What the hell are you saying, you bastard!?"

Arash stepped forward slowly, his tone still calm. "I’m saying... I was a Hassasin all along, Velghan."

The words hit Velghan like a hammer to the chest. His eyes widened, his body tense, as if slashed by a truth he never saw coming.

Rage exploded in him like a broken dam. Strategy, caution, all of it disappeared—only one desire consumed him now: to kill Arash.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the long ceremonial sword mounted on the corridor wall. Metal screeched as he ripped it from its display, and his steps turned into a charge.

Arash exhaled softly and raised his dagger, meeting the full-force strike. The blades clashed—long sword against short—sending sparks flying in the air.

Velghan pushed hard, both hands gripping the hilt, trying to overpower Arash. Their faces were only inches apart, and in Velghan’s eyes, hatred burned like wildfire.

"Perfect," Velghan growled, jaw clenched tight. "Now I really want to kill you."

"Heh," Arash smirked, as if savoring the tension. "That’s what I wanted to hear."

With a sudden burst of force, Arash twisted his body, breaking contact and throwing Velghan off balance for a split second. He slipped to the side and slashed toward Velghan’s waist.

Velghan spun quickly, raising his sword to parry the blow. Another metallic clang rang out as the two fighters circled each other, probing for openings.

Their movements were like a dance—wild, yet disciplined. Arash focused on speed and precision, while Velghan relied on power and the raw experience of war.

Velghan struck relentlessly, swinging from all angles. Each attack came like a storm of steel, but Arash was always just half a beat faster—dodging, ducking, retreating with pinpoint control.

At one moment, Arash crouched low and swept at Velghan’s legs. But Velghan leapt, twisting mid-air, and brought his sword down like an axe as he landed.

Arash rolled to the side, sprang to his feet, and lashed out toward Velghan’s ribs with his dagger. Velghan pivoted, blocking the strike with the flat of his sword, locking them in another close-quarters deadlock.

Sweat began to roll down Velghan’s temple, dripping along his jaw. His breathing grew uneven, but his eyes still burned—fueled by fury and unyielding pride.

"You think speed justifies this betrayal?" he spat, voice trembling not with fear, but with wounded ego.

"I don’t need your justification," Arash replied flatly, his tone low but sharp enough to cut pride to ribbons. With a swift motion, he stepped back and reached for his belt.

A second dagger was now in his left hand. The two short blades seemed alive in his grip—glinting faintly, almost eager to taste flesh.

Arash began to move—not with beauty, but with deadly rhythm. Each motion was honed through discipline, experience, and combat instinct. He kept low, leapt, twisted, and struck from impossible angles.

Velghan held on, blocking, slashing, spinning his blade in a tight defensive arc. But Arash moved like a shadow on the edge of vision—too fast, too low, too high.

A quick stab from the right grazed Velghan’s abdomen. He stumbled back, parried a left-hand strike—but it was a feint. Arash’s right blade was already cutting toward his collarbone.

Velghan blocked, but his timing was off. The short blade slashed across his shoulder, and fresh blood soaked through his battle gear.

He staggered but refused to fall. Lifting his sword once more, he launched a vertical strike, swinging down with all his remaining strength.

Arash didn’t block it. He stepped forward into the strike’s arc. The blade missed just above his shoulder, and he countered with a crushing knee to Velghan’s ribs.

Velghan choked, pushed backward. He tried to recover his footing, but Arash gave him no time. With a single spin, both daggers crossed in an "X," slashing across the outside of Velghan’s thigh.

Velghan’s knees buckled. He dropped to one side, still gripping his sword, but his eyes had changed—not wild anymore, but shaken.

Arash approached, still calm, unrushed. Every step he took on the stone floor echoed like the final beats of a dying rhythm.

"Why aren’t you killing me?" Velghan murmured, blood dripping from his chin to the floor. "Isn’t this the ending you wanted?"

Arash stood before his former comrade, daggers crossed at his chest but unmoving. "I don’t know... maybe I just can’t bring myself to do it."

Velghan’s eyes widened, glaring back coldly. "You pity me!?"

Arash didn’t answer. He simply turned away, facing Denon—who was still unconscious, left behind as their fight had taken them too far from the others.

They didn’t have time to waste. The battle was over—for now—and they still needed to check the Sultan’s chamber for the Marbel Emerald.