Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 103: [102] The Raid (3)

Chapter 103: [102] The Raid (3)

Velghan remained frozen in a half-kneeling position, his breathing still uneven. His eyes followed Arash’s back as he walked away, the assassin’s long shadow stretching beneath the corridor’s dim light.

But the look in Velghan’s eyes had changed. There was no admiration left from the past—only a seething, uncontrollable hatred. His left hand slipped into a hidden pocket beneath his bloodstained coat.

He pulled out a small glass vial, old and oddly shaped—like a petrified drop of water, filled with a swirling liquid of shifting colors, as if it were alive.

The vial came from a mysterious source: the palace’s physician. A frail old woman in faded purple robes, who had appeared out of nowhere with no known background, yet somehow earned Malik’s full trust.

No one knew where she came from, or what her true intentions were. But one thing was certain—she was the one who planted ambition in Malik’s heart... and supplied potions no known medicine could explain.

Velghan stared at the vial for a moment. His hand trembled—not from doubt, but from knowing this was no ordinary concoction. This... was his final gamble.

In one swift motion, he uncorked the bottle and drank it all. The liquid tasted bitter, then scorched down his throat like liquid fire.

His body instantly convulsed, then locked up. His nerves flared, his breath caught, and every wound on his body throbbed violently, as if ignited from the inside.

His muscles tightened, his eyes turned blood red. A low growl rumbled from his chest, and the blood that had been dripping from his wounds... began to reverse, pulling back into his body.

---

Meanwhile, Arash had returned to the main corridor. He walked swiftly but calmly, sliding his daggers back into their sheaths and keeping his eyes fixed forward. When he reached the Sultan’s chamber doors, he found them already open.

Inside, Denon and his team were tearing the room apart. Drawers, walls, the floor—even the carpets were being lifted and checked. Yet their expressions told the story: nothing.

When Denon saw Arash enter, he stepped over quickly, his face weary but still holding a trace of hope. "There’s nothing here..."

Arash scanned the room. "You searched it all?"

"Yeah," Denon sighed. "Even our theft specialist couldn’t find anything suspicious. No gaps, no hidden levers, no airflow behind the walls."

Arash’s eyes locked onto the large painting on the back wall. He stepped up and examined it briefly, then gave a small nod. "So... it really isn’t here."

Denon lowered his head. "Unless the Sultan kept it on him—and he’s not in this room—we may be looking in the wrong place."

"In that case," Arash said, turning around, "let’s regroup with the others in the throne room. If it’s not hidden... then it might be on display."

Denon nodded slowly. "Yeah... let’s just hope we’re not too late."

Arash gave a simple nod and turned to exit the opulent chamber. The corridor outside seemed calm, but something in the air had shifted—like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

As Denon and his squad followed Arash out of the chamber, they all froze in unison.

At the far end of the corridor stood a figure—one that had no right to still be standing.

The shape was large, taller than a normal man. Its silhouette still resembled a human body, but the skin was now a glossy, grayish color, like wet steel.

Its eyes glowed red, faint like embers still burning in dying coals. Black veins slithered along its neck and arms, moving slowly, like living serpents.

"What... is that?" one of the Band of Massiah whispered, his voice barely audible.

The creature walked slowly toward them, each step heavy and deliberate. The floor trembled softly under its weight, as if its body was gaining mass with every movement.

Arash narrowed his eyes, focusing, trying to see through the warped features of its face—but the scar on its jaw and the way it stood made everything clear.

"Velghan..." he muttered. What confirmed it was the remnants of his clothing still clinging to the transformed body.

The creature—Velghan—let out a low hiss, its voice a mix of a dying man’s rasp and a beast’s growl. "Arash..."

Denon stepped back reflexively, hand gripping his weapon. "He’s... no longer human..."

"He did something to himself," Arash replied, voice calm but sharp. "How desperate are you?"

Velghan lunged. His body shot forward like a bullet, the walls of the corridor cracking wherever he made contact. His strength had exploded—this was no longer a man empowered, but a biological weapon unleashed.

Arash dove aside, narrowly dodging the initial strike. Velghan’s fist smashed into the wall, sending debris flying and shaking the floor beneath them.

Denon’s squad scattered, trying to form up—but two of them were thrown back by the sheer force of Velghan’s motion. One slammed into the wall and didn’t get back up.

Arash had no time to warn them. He slashed with his twin daggers, aiming for Velghan’s side—but the creature’s skin was now like bone.

The blades struck with a sound like metal against stone. Velghan turned and swung a hammer-like arm toward Arash.

Arash leapt backward, one knee touching the ground. His breathing remained steady, but his eyes understood: this was no longer a man-to-man battle.

"You," he ordered quickly, "fall back to the stairwell. This thing’s mine."

Denon hesitated, but after seeing two of his men go down, he gave the signal. The others began retreating, while Arash stood alone in the corridor.

"Haaah... This is going to be a rough day," Arash muttered as he pulled his face covering back on. His black hood slid over his head, casting a dark shadow that once again erased his face from the world.

He drew a deep breath, readying himself for a battle that went beyond physical force. This was a duel of ideology, of buried history, and of pride long left unresolved.

---

On the other side of the palace, Derek and his group were approaching the throne room. The hallway they passed through was silent, broken only by the faint echoes of their footsteps on the marble floor.

The high ceiling, adorned with golden carvings, amplified every word and breath. It was as if the very room was witnessing their cautious approach.

The throne room doors creaked open slowly with the sound of ancient hinges, and what greeted them wasn’t a battalion—but utter silence. The room appeared empty—no guards, no Sultan, just a grand throne draped in red cloth.

"This place... is too quiet," murmured one of the warriors behind Derek, gripping his sword tighter.

Derek stepped into the center of the room, his eyes scanning every direction. "Search quickly. Focus on the walls and floor. The object might be hidden behind some mechanism."

They spread out, inspecting the carvings on the pillars, checking beneath the throne, and touching the metal ornaments that might conceal secret levers.

But before they could do much more, the massive door they had entered slammed shut behind them. The sound echoed like a hammer striking fate.

Suddenly, from behind pillars and walls, armed figures emerged. They wore distinctive uniforms: black armor, helmets with concave faceguards, and crescent moon emblems on their chests—Janissary Hamzat, the palace’s elite guard.

Derek immediately raised his hand. "Defensive formation!" he shouted. His warriors quickly regrouped into a circular stance, weapons drawn, eyes sharp.

From behind the throne, a figure emerged—different from the soldiers. An old woman, dressed in dark purple robes and a trailing scarf that brushed the floor. Her steps were slow, yet she radiated an eerie authority that made the air feel cold.

In her hand, she held a glowing green orb—the Emerald Marbel, a legendary artifact believed to be the source of Malik’s power. Its glow was unnatural, as if reflecting something from another dimension.

"Such trouble you’ve gone through to come here," the healer said in a raspy but clear voice, standing proudly among the Janissary. Her eyes narrowed, as if appraising a cockroach that had interrupted her ritual.

"You could’ve ignored it. But no, you chose to defy the current of fate," she continued, her tone like a soft death chant.

Derek stepped forward slowly, raising his sword level with his chest. His face was stern, eyes fixed on the pulsing green orb in her hand.

"Listen," he said steadily. "I’m here under my captain’s orders. If you don’t mind... hand over the Emerald."

The healer gave a short laugh—not one of amusement, but of disdain. "How shameless... asking for the key before even understanding the lock."

With a subtle, wrinkled gesture, the healer pointed forward. Instantly, the Janissary Hamzat moved as one—like the well-oiled gears of a war machine honed over years.

Two soldiers charged in from the right, moving like shadows. Derek twisted his body, blocking the first strike, but the second blow hit his stomach, forcing him back two steps.

"Defensive formation!" one of the Band of Massiah cried out. But his voice was drowned in the clash of steel and the first scream—from a comrade impaled on a spear to the left.

The Janissary struck with deadly rhythm—precise, swift, and merciless. They didn’t dance in battle. They calculated it like bloody arithmetic.

Two of Derek’s members leapt toward the pillars, trying to gain the high ground. But from above, metal arrows rained down, piercing their chests before they could land. Their bodies hit the marble with a dull thud.

Derek pushed forward toward the healer, trying to break through two Janissary. But a horizontal slash nearly took off his arm—he barely blocked it, teeth clenched against the pain.

"She’s beyond your reach," the healer said softly, her voice filling the entire room. The green orb glowed—and the floor beneath her began to crack, the fractures spreading like roots.

A small explosion from the floor forced all the warriors back. Meanwhile, four Janissary formed a human wall, shielding the healer from all sides.

Blood began to stain the room’s floor. One of Derek’s fighters collapsed, eyes wide open, his chest pierced clean through. No scream—just a limp fall like a puppet with cut strings.

"Don’t fall back!" Derek shouted, slashing forward to create an opening. But before he could step through, a metal shield smashed into his head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The scene descended into a one-sided slaughter. Though the Band of Massiah had trained hard, they were no match for the royal elite who lived and died to protect the Sultan’s bloodline.