Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 105: [104] The Raid (5)

Chapter 105: [104] The Raid (5)

Ren rose slowly beside Derek, the Mark II armor creaking gently, releasing bursts of steam from glowing blue vents. His eyes scanned the room once more, locking onto the Janissary soldiers still standing on high alert.

But then his gaze stopped—at the far end of the hall stood an old woman cloaked in deep purple robes. Her wrinkled hands clutched the Marbel Emerald, a green orb pulsing faintly, as if responding to Ren’s presence.

Her eyes widened when she saw the Mark II’s chest plate, which had partially opened. Embedded inside was another glowing stone—the Rune Stone of Endurance, resting in the core of the armor like a second heart.

"That Rune Stone..." the healer whispered, her voice trembling. "How... how did that stone end up with you?"

Ren turned to her casually and pointed to himself with a thumb. "Oh, this thing?" He tapped his chest plate twice. "Got it from a mystical roadside rock shop. Was on sale. Special day."

The woman narrowed her eyes. Her face tensed, as if Ren’s words had struck a secret long buried.

"You were never supposed to have that..." she muttered, like a broken mantra. Her voice changed—it no longer carried ancient authority, but confusion.

Ren didn’t flinch. Instead, he crossed his arms, the servos groaning in protest. "Alright, stop right there. One—who are you? And two—why do you sound like a theater club moderator who just lost the final script?"

He tapped the glowing stone on his chest. "This stone? A... let’s call them a friend gave it to me. Someone who trusted me with their life. But you? You’re eyeing it like an ex seeing her engagement ring on someone else’s finger."

There was a brief silence. The Janissary soldiers remained frozen, statues waiting for orders. Behind Ren, Derek could barely believe what he was hearing.

Then the old woman began to move. She pulled back her hood and shed the robe draped around her body. The rune’s light reflected off skin no longer wrinkled.

A younger woman emerged, as if the old form was merely an illusion. Her hair was tied in twin-tails, her face beautiful with a magical aura, and her outfit... looked like a fusion between a witch festival and top-tier cosplay.

Ren blinked twice, then raised a finger. "Okay... so you’re Miss Tsundere. Noted."

"I’m not a tsundere!" she snapped, her voice pitching an octave higher.

Ren pointed with two fingers. "See? Only a tsundere reacts like that."

"Say what you want. It’ll be easier if you just hand over the stone," she said, stepping forward. Her sweet smile didn’t hide the threat in her eyes.

Ren rolled his eyes. "So let me get this straight—you show up, demand something that isn’t yours, reveal your identity with an anime transformation... and expect a Christmas gift? You think this is a freaking idol stage?"

Then his tone shifted, eyes narrowing. "Wait... Khan has one of these stones in his arm. You’re after that one too, huh? So this whole coup—Takwin, everything—was you. Are you also behind the Yordan Kingdom’s attack on Alfheimr?"

Her body stiffened. A flicker of rage—and surprise—crossed her face. That was answer enough.

"Aha! Jackpot," Ren said, pointing smugly. "If this were a game, you just got flagged as a hidden boss. And spoiler alert: they rarely get happy endings."

Without warning, she raised her hand. Runes formed in the air, glowing red before exploding into light. The Janissary soldiers immediately stood tall, their eyes turning lifeless and white.

"Oh great..." Ren took a step back, activating his left-hand shield. "Mind control. Haven’t seen this one in a while. Let me guess—you’re gonna say ’eliminate him’ in that classic evil echo?"

She raised one finger, pointing straight at Ren. "Eliminate him."

Ren glanced at Derek. "See? Classic. I know these tropes too well."

The Janissary charged all at once, their metal-clad boots pounding the stone floor like a marching army of destruction. But Ren had already deployed two shoulder launchers and drawn his plasma sword from his waist.

He let out a long sigh. "Alright... party time."

With her command, the Janissary rushed like war machines. No battle cries, no emotion—just the rhythm of killing.

Ren stepped back twice, pivoting left while raising his right arm. From his wrists, dual plasma blades ignited—glowing a hot blue, hot enough to slice through steel.

The first attack came from the side—a Janissary swung a massive sword horizontally. Ren ducked, pivoted on his heel, and slashed across the enemy’s knee joint, severing it clean. The soldier collapsed like a chopped tree.

Another leapt from the throne table, spear aimed straight for Ren’s head. But Ren raised his left arm, forming a split-second energy shield and deflecting the strike sideways.

He countered with a shoulder thruster burst, ramming the enemy mid-torso and sending him flying into a pillar, cracking it on impact.

Two more enemies flanked him. Ren spun midair with the help of his vector jets, stabbed one with his arm blade, and kicked the other straight into the ceiling.

His body moved like a living missile—using weight, momentum, and surgical angles to dominate the confined throne room. Every movement was deliberate, a lethal dance in a battlefield of death.

But the enemies kept coming. Three Janissary formed a triangle formation and struck simultaneously—one from below, one from the front, and one from above with a short dagger.

Ren jumped backward—intentionally. As he landed, he fired a stun grenade at their feet. The flash-bang hit all three, scrambling their sensors and throwing off their rhythm.

"You guys are tough... Shame you’re being controlled by a cosplay sadist," Ren muttered as he turned and slashed at a soldier trying to rise again.

One Janissary crept up silently from behind. But the Mark II’s sensors flared red on the HUD. Ren spun like a top and cleaved off the attacker’s arm in one clean strike.

There was no blood, just the crunch of armor and shriek of shearing metal. These soldiers were strong—but they were no match for the reaction time and precision of Ren’s combat system.

The young woman—the healer who had now revealed her true form—raised her hand and reinforced her magic. Glowing red runes spiraled around her body, and the previously downed Janissary rose once again.

Ren glanced over his shoulder and muttered, "Okay, now they’re magic zombies. Great. What’s next? Dragons crawling out of the toilet?"

Then the last two Janissary charged at him from both sides. Ren crossed his plasma blades, catching both of their swords, and activated the shock generator embedded in his chest core.

An electromagnetic pulse burst outward, destabilizing the two attackers. Ren grabbed one by the head and slammed its helmet into the hard floor, the impact echoing like a thunderclap.

The second enemy slashed at him, but Ren dropped one of his blades, caught the Janissary’s sword mid-swing, and bent it with servo-enhanced strength until it snapped. He then shoved the body into the wall and shot it point-blank.

Now only Ren’s footsteps echoed through the room. He stood still, breathing steadily behind his helmet, steam rising from his body, the armor etched with slashes and machine blood.

Ren turned to face the witch, saying, "Okay, you’re all alone now. So, are we gonna have a nice little chat... or should I send you headfirst into a dimensional void?"

Derek, still slumped at the edge of the room, was in absolute awe. He had just watched Ren take down an entire squad of elite Janissary with movements so precise and agile it made the heavy armor look like a second skin.

Cold sweat trickled down his neck—not from fear, but from the realization that behind Ren’s sarcastic, easygoing tone was a fighter far beyond anything human.

In the dead silence of the scorched, metal-scented throne room, the witch—no longer hiding behind her illusion—stared at Ren with eyes sharp as blades. "What kind of armor is that?" she asked, her voice low but cutting.

Ren casually raised his left hand. From his palm, a blue light spiraled outward like a mechanical heartbeat. "Well," he said with a relaxed shrug, "just a little toy I put together myself. But let’s change the subject, shall we?"

He raised an eyebrow behind the helmet and aimed his right hand at her.

"Who are you, really?" he asked—his tone flat, but the weight in his voice enough to stop anyone dead in their tracks.

---

underway. Khan, with wolf-like ears and burning golden eyes, stood within a spiraling storm of sand summoned by magic wind.

Opposite him, Malik towered in his massive sand-titan form, fused with buildings and earth. His body wasn’t just sand—it was structure, debris, and weaponry embedded into his very frame.

Malik slammed his colossal arm into the ground, unleashing a wave of sand that surged across the pavement like a tsunami. Khan leapt aside, landing lightly, then swept his hand toward the incoming sand.

The sand froze in midair, suspended as if time itself held its breath. Then, with a sharp flick of his fingers, Khan reversed the flow. The sand compressed into long spears and shot toward the sand giant’s legs.

The spears struck with meteoric force, piercing Malik’s joints like a rain of blades. A cracking sound echoed as grains scattered everywhere—but only for a moment.

Malik’s body reformed instantly, regenerating the damage with flashes of raw energy. The process was fast—far too fast—like destruction had been built into his design.

Khan grimaced, eyes narrowing. "You’ve gotten better at controlling this," he muttered, stepping back as dense sand spun up into a protective ring around him.

"I’m better... than you, Farid," Malik spat, thrusting his hand forward. The ground beneath Khan suddenly turned to living mud, threatening to swallow him whole.

Khan jumped just in time, twisting midair. Sand surged beneath his feet, lifting and propelling him to the side to evade the follow-up attack.

Malik formed a second giant arm—this one rougher, shaped like a collapsed pillar. He swung it toward Khan with a destructive force that shook the entire square.

Khan crossed his arms as a curved sand barrier rose to absorb the impact. The clash shattered nearby stone, filling the air with dust and debris.

Through the haze, Khan launched himself like a bullet. The sand formed twin glowing blades around him, which he aimed at Malik’s torso, murmuring a focused chant—not out of rage, but precision.

The scythes tore through Malik’s swirling form, opening a rift. But it sealed almost immediately. Khan’s strike had damaged—but not destroyed.

Malik laughed, and the earth around him began to rise—chunks of broken buildings, statues, fallen pillars—then hurled them like toys in every direction.

Khan raised his hand skyward, forming a massive horizontal sand shield to deflect the incoming barrage. Each impact rattled his arms and back, but he held.

Then, Malik slammed his massive palm into the ground, sending seismic shockwaves through the city. Cracks spiderwebbed outward, and buildings on the outskirts began to crumble.

Khan dropped to one knee, placing his palm on the ground, drawing power from deep within the earth. Sand erupted from the fractures, cloaking his body like a flowing mantle, then solidifying into lightweight armor across his frame.

With renewed speed, Khan charged Malik’s leg, wielding dual sand-forged spears. He struck the same points repeatedly—joints, pivot spots, the core of balance.

Malik howled—a guttural roar that echoed with chest-tightening frequency. He pulled back a step, the titan’s form staggering for the first time in the battle.

"Don’t get cocky, Farid!" Malik snarled, then drew energy from deep underground. Hundreds of sand spikes launched like bullets in every direction.

Khan spun, the sand around him forming layered rings of defense. He braced against the storm of projectiles, then stomped the ground—sending a pulse through the sand that knocked every spike off-course.

From behind the smoke and rubble, Khan emerged once more. His eyes glowed, his breath ragged—but his stance was firm. He advanced, slowly but surely.

The fight wasn’t over. But for the first time, Malik stepped back—not from weakness... but from hesitation.

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