Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 134: [133] Early action as a Superhero (5)

Chapter 134: [133] Early action as a Superhero (5)

Unlike Ren—who held back, managing his repulsor to avoid lethal force—Fujisawa stepped out from behind a scorched metal box, his eyes stripped of hesitation. The moment one of his former comrades emerged from behind the barricade, Fujisawa’s weapon was already raised and fired. One shot. Directly to the head. The body dropped without a sound. No warning, no mercy.

The ex-comrade collapsed onto the dusty ground, blood seeping into the dry sand. Fujisawa didn’t flinch. No time for regrets. No room for doubts. Here, nostalgia was a burden—and even the smallest hesitation could make a bullet fly before the mind even reacted.

He moved fast, hugging the scorched barricade wall. In his grip was a modified assault rifle, its barrel still warm. His footfalls were silent, precise—as if he were a seasoned wolf familiar with every inch of this terrain. Among the twisted container wreckage, he spotted two soldiers speaking into a radio.

"West sector is—"

Brrt.

A crisp shot pierced the first soldier’s helmet. The second hadn’t even turned around before Fujisawa ducked, shifted position, and emerged on the left side, firing again.

Tap.

Two bodies now lay lifeless on the concrete.

Beads of sweat formed on his temple—not from fear, but because his body recognized how much heavier this battlefield was. Not just because the enemy was more advanced, but because his foes here... were once his brothers-in-arms.

"Don’t think. Survive first. Fight later." David’s voice echoed in his mind, from their trapped days in Fallujah. Ironic. The man who once saved him... was now the one forcing him to kill his own.

An explosion echoed in the distance. That had to be Ren.

Fujisawa snapped his gaze toward the flame burst at the main generator. His face blurred into focus, but his heart raced.

The kid made it.

[Fujisawa Ossan! Eastern route is clear. But they’re bringing in reinforcements from the south.] Kiriya’s voice came crisp over his earcom.

"Redirect their positions to Ren’s armor. I’ll hold north flank," he replied swiftly, scanning for shadows in the corridor.

Three silhouettes appeared—two ahead, one behind. They wore no Ares insignia, but Fujisawa recognized their stride. Pursuit unit. Soldiers trained like he had: merciless hunters.

He reloaded with practiced speed. No space left for morality on this ground. Fujisawa vaulted off the container, shooting the first soldier. Replies came instantly—bullets pinged off the armor beside him.

He zig-zagged, dropped to a crouch, sliding over sandy dust, and fired into an exposed flank. One went down.

The second rushed him with a combat knife. Fujisawa tossed his empty mag aside, baited the man, then kicked him hard in the knee—followed by a crushing strike to the throat.

Hand trembling, breath ragged—but his eyes stayed cold.

Blood slicked his combat uniform—streaming from shoulder to back, partly his own, partly not. The kind that comes from irreversible decisions.

He stood amid the rubble and smoke, chest heaving, but posture steely. Faint twilight dust stirred, painting his face in shadows of flame and grit. No hesitations. No mercy. Just the last pieces of honor he could cling to—with violence.

Three more Ares soldiers skulked out from the barricade. They recognized him—a flicker of horror and awe crossed their faces before they leveled rifles.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots rang out.

Fujisawa didn’t dodge. He advanced—left step, right step—movements more shadow than man, dancing with death.

The first bullet missed. The second struck his armor, knocking him off balance. But before the third could fire, he was already at point-blank range with the shooter.

His left hand slammed into the muzzle, twisting the rifle away, then his right elbow struck the enemy’s jaw with full force. A crack echoed as the soldier’s helmet flew off. In less than a second, Fujisawa drew the knife from his side and plunged it beneath the ribcage—swift, precise, lethal.

The second soldier tried to back away and fire again.

Too late.

Fujisawa pivoted, hurling the knife. It spun through the air and struck the man’s throat perfectly.

He fell, his hand trembling violently before going still.

The third panic-stricken soldier dropped his weapon and tried to flee.

Fujisawa watched the man’s back for a moment... then drew his spare sidearm from his left thigh. Three shots rang out, each landing in the fleeing man’s back—and one final shot to the head as he collapsed.

Silence.

Except for distant explosions and the crackle of fire consuming the logistics vehicles.

Fujisawa stood center-field like a war god descended from the inferno. His spine rigid, body bloodied, and his eyes... no longer reflected humanity.

Senjō no Akuma.

Not an empty title. Not an exaggerated legend.

He was the demon.

He resumed his march along the camp perimeter. More units needed eliminating. More betrayals to uncover. His hand trembled—not from fear but because his body had reached its limits—yet his mind denied any thought of stopping.

He powered on his radio. His voice was thick, hoarse, but unwavering.

"Ren, north route is clear. I’m moving to control center now."

And with that, the war demon pressed forward—leaving behind trails of blood, dust, and the chilling whispers of enemies foolish enough to stand in his path.

---

Inside the command aircraft’s control room, the air felt heavier than usual. The glow from the monitors reflected off David’s face as he watched the footage replay over and over—each frame capturing the deaths of his men at the hands of a figure all too familiar. His sharp eyes followed every movement, every strike, every shot—and within them, he recognized the techniques he himself had once taught.

He let out a long, slow breath, as if trying to inhale the weight of all his past mistakes.

"He’s really back," he muttered quietly.

With a blank expression, he turned toward the metal locker at the back of the room. One by one, he pulled out his old combat gear—a scuffed kevlar vest, faded leather gloves, and an aging pistol stored in a velvet-lined case. As he strapped everything on, his hands were steady. But his eyes... had lost their conviction.

On the other side of the room, the man in glasses—the corporate sponsor behind this operation—was pacing, nearly ripping out his perfectly combed hair.

"Ten robots!? Are you kidding me!?" the man shouted, his face pale with panic. "Do you realize how much each unit costs? Billions of dollars! Gone!"

David didn’t answer. He zipped up his vest without flinching.

The businessman kept ranting, half hysterical. "I haven’t even had the chance to test the primary model—the one running my military-grade AI, Ultro! This was supposed to be a limited demonstration, a data-gathering op—not a goddamn warzone!"

David stayed silent, eyes fixed on the monitor replaying the last explosion of a tactical unit. "You’re not seeing it for what it is," he said coldly. "That’s not a robot. Its movements—too fluid, too natural. No algorithm lag, no AI delay. That’s a person."

The man’s eyes widened. "A person? You mean... someone inside that armor? Like—Iron Man?!"

David shrugged slightly. "How the hell should I know? Just speculation. But one thing’s for sure—the Demon is coming."

The words hit the room like thunder. Calmly, David grabbed his sidearm, holstered it, then slid a combat knife across his back. His movements were swift, trained, unshaken.

"Alright. Priority is client extraction," he said to the pilot crew. "We launch in thirty minutes."

"Good! Save me!" the man in glasses barked arrogantly. "That’s your job as a mercenary, isn’t it!?"

David turned halfway, eyes flat. "Of course. It’s protocol. But don’t forget... our agreement is mutual."

From the bottom drawer, he pulled out a small device—a remote detonator. He pointed to the back locker panel, where a magnetic bomb was fixed.

"If you back out... I’ll make sure only one of us gets on that plane alive."

The businessman gulped. "Fine... fine. You win. Get me out of here... and I’ll save your wife. Fair deal."

David smirked faintly and tapped into comms.

"All units. Hold perimeter in C formation. Target: subject Fujisawa. Do not give him an inch of breathing room."

---

Meanwhile, across the battlefield, Ren lay slumped amid twisted wreckage and scorched earth. His Techno Mark I armor no longer glowed—visor dark, internal systems silent, full shutdown mode. Inside the helmet, Ren sat hunched forward, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like he’d just escaped a vacuum chamber.

The internal display flashed a single message in crimson red:

[CORE ENERGY DEPLETED - SYSTEM RECHARGE IN PROGRESS]

The micro-reactor—the heart of his armor, the source of its power—was drained dry after the brutal battle against ten advanced tactical bots. Thankfully, he didn’t need to plug into a socket. The reactor’s auto-recovery system ran on heat absorption and kinetic vibration. With enough time and stillness, it would gradually recharge.

Kiriya’s voice buzzed through the earpiece, calm and clear.

[Ren, by my calculations, your system needs about thirty minutes to be fully operational again.]

Ren exhaled slowly, leaning against a warped metal plate. "Yeah... I can see that too. But... at least that part’s over." His eyes swept over the battlefield—piles of wreckage, embers crackling, and shattered robot carcasses scattered like discarded junk.

[Right. For now, it’s Fujisawa’s turn to fight. But once you’re back online—support him. I’ll keep monitoring you both from here.] Kiriya’s voice faded before the channel went quiet.

Ren let out a long breath and closed his eyes for a moment. In the silence, only the clinks of metal and the whisper of desert wind filled the void between heartbeats that had yet to calm.