Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 53: [52] Re-armoring Armor

Chapter 53: [52] Re-armoring Armor

In the middle of the wide field that had now become the center of attention, Ren—or Nico Mustang—stood surrounded by stacks of wooden crates and metal containers. The palace servants and stationed guards occasionally stole glances his way, curiosity plainly written on their faces, as if they were waiting for the next miracle he might create.

Alfred and Bella, along with their three cubs, calmly shifted to the edge of the field. Though their bodies were massive and their strength unmatched, their instincts told them it was best to give this human his space—the man now radiating the presence of a blacksmith from the realm of gods.

Ren bent down, opening each crate one by one to inspect the contents. There were gleaming silver ores, chunks of bronze, sheets of aged iron, pitch-black coal, even tungsten ore—but most striking of all was a pure block of mithril, shining like a fallen star from the heavens.

He touched the surface of the mithril, feeling its energy for a brief moment before giving a small nod. Of course, in this world, crafting armor from these materials could take decades—especially with outdated tools and limited techniques. But Ren wasn’t an ordinary blacksmith. He was someone who carried with him the knowledge of materials science, advanced technology, and the power of transmutation from a world far beyond.

With a tap on the back of his car, a soft mechanical click echoed. The black vehicle slowly opened, its rear transforming in a smooth sequence as sections split apart and rearranged into a symmetrical metal framework—a portable workshop assembled within seconds, complete with automated tools and multifunctional mechanical arms.

Ren stepped inside and quickly powered up the main terminal. From a smartphone he had modified into a central processor for the car’s systems, he pulled up archived data—blueprints of armor designs he had once developed back on Earth. Each file was a fragment of ambition, dreams once set aside, now rising again to become reality.

His eyes scanned the designs one by one: a heavy combat mode with active carbon plating, a high-speed acceleration mode, a winged system for flight, and a burst mode for short bursts of explosive power. Each blueprint reignited a passion in his chest.

"Alright," he muttered, pulling a folding chair over to the monitor. "Let’s see... I’m still missing something."

He waved his hand through the air, activating a holographic control panel above the dashboard. A few taps later, music began to play from a small speaker in the corner of the workshop. A blend of electronic and orchestral sounds filled the air, setting the rhythm for his work and lighting a fire in his mind.

"Ah, that’s it... music."

With a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Ren began reimagining his future—from scraps of mithril and the dreams of an ordinary man, he was about to create something this world had never seen.

Faint instrumental music drifted from the now-open vehicle, which had fully expanded into a field workshop. A soft breeze carried the scent of hot metal and faint oil across the area. Ren sat cross-legged on the fold-out wooden floor at the back of his car, surrounded by open boxes of materials. His hands moved with precision—measuring, weighing, then jotting down notes in a sketchbook already filled with scribbles.

Before him, a sheet of mithril had already been roughly cut. Its shine wasn’t blinding, but it was sharp and clean. Ren touched the surface, then channeled his power—material transmutation. His blue eyes glowed faintly, not from magic, but from an internal flow of controlled energy, like circuits fused to his body. The plate gradually softened, reshaping like metallic clay beneath his fingertips, which drew the outline of a chestplate.

"Core structure stable... pressure distribution needs to be even, or the abdomen’s gonna blow out during heavy maneuvers," he murmured, raising an eyebrow. His hands kept moving, carving, molding, fusing the once-stiff materials into a seamless whole with human precision—not machine.

There were no holographic screens, just printed schematics pinned to the side of the car, held in place by small magnets. Nearby, manual cutters and steel hammers lay scattered—some blackened from repeated heating. A simple mechanical arm he built himself swung slowly, holding Earth-made metal solder still usable thanks to an energy inverter linked to a backup battery.

Ren wiped the sweat from his brow. Even though the day wasn’t particularly hot, the work was physically draining. He stood up for a moment, grabbed a bottle of water from a small cooler, took a few gulps, then crouched back in front of the half-finished armor.

"Acceleration mode has to stay light... can’t overload the legs or mobility’s gonna tank," he muttered, tightening a screw on the newly-installed knee joint. His voice was nearly lost in the clinks of metal and the soft hum of a portable fan inside his car, but his movements were steady, seasoned.

He took a deep breath, turning to the other side of the worktable where a heated mithril block was slowly cooling. One technical problem kept spinning in his head—cooling. The acceleration mode would generate intense heat in the armor’s core, and without an efficient cooling system, it could end up harming the wearer.

But Ren wasn’t just some amateur tinkerer. His hand touched the mithril surface, fingers tracing the now-stable cool texture. He nodded slightly, as if receiving confirmation from the metal itself. "Mithril... not just strong and light. But a natural thermal conductor," he said softly, as if speaking directly to the alloy.

He stood up, grabbed a fine carving tool, and began engraving thermal flow channels on the inner side of the chestplate. His movements were swift, like someone who knew exactly what he was doing—experience, not guesswork.

"I’ll rework this a bit... reroute the cooling paths, add insulation around the spine," he said, pulling a fresh schematic from the pile. His eyes traced the rough design lines, clear enough to serve as the next blueprint.

He dropped back into a cross-legged seat on the floor, reaching for a now-lukewarm glass of water. His gaze landed on the half-finished armor, now softly glowing under the light of the setting sun. "I’ll need at least another day before testing," he whispered, to himself—and maybe to the battlefield already drawing near.

###

Behind the bedroom window adorned with delicate lace curtains, Elaria stood in silence, her gaze fixed on the courtyard where Ren—now known as Nico Mustang—was immersing himself in his work. The dim twilight cast a soft glow on his silhouette, surrounded by piles of metal, tools, and the glint of blue mithril he had recently forged.

Elaria remained still. She had been standing in the same spot for hours, unmoving, her mind filled with old voices that refused to fade. Outside, everyone was busy contributing—sharpening swords, hauling supplies, or practicing protective spells. But her? She did nothing—just watched from afar, like a shadow.

The guilt clenched in her chest, burning and sharp. She loathed her own helplessness. Not just because she had failed to protect the fortress, but because she had been the weak point that allowed the enemy to break through.

Bitter memories still burned brightly in her mind, haunting every quiet night. When she was captured, humiliated, violated—her honor torn away mercilessly by the vile hands of King Yordan. She remembered everything. The disgust, the pain, the shattering... all clung to her like stains that couldn’t be washed away.

Yet amid the wreckage, a question began to stir: was she going to remain like this forever? A victim forever shrouded in trauma? Or... was there still room to rise again?

Suddenly, she moved. Slowly, but with purpose. She stepped away from the window, walking through the stone corridors now quiet with nightfall. Her feet carried her to a place she hadn’t visited in a long time—the room where her father once worked, a room of memories she had long avoided.

The old door creaked open softly, as if uncertain in welcoming her. The scent of aged wood and faded ink filled her senses, bringing back images of her father seated behind a large desk, writing battle strategies and reading reports with piercing eyes.

The bookshelves still stood firm, as if time dared not touch them. Among the dust and timeworn leather covers were maps of strategy, war journals, and hand-written notes scribbled by the former king—proof that this room had once been the heart of monumental decisions.

On the wall hung a portrait of King Thalion Alfenir Eldaleon—Elaria’s father—graceful within a golden frame. The sharp yet gentle eyes in the painting seemed to still observe the room, as if the wise king had never truly left this world.

And in the corner, mounted on an intricately carved wooden stand, rested a longbow known as Elthamar, the legendary heirloom of King Thalion. Its engravings spoke of noble blood and the craftsmanship of the elves’ finest artisans, while the quiet surrounding it echoed with the memory of countless battles.

"Sweetheart?" A soft voice broke the silence, flowing in like a spring breeze. When Elaria turned around, she saw her mother standing in the doorway—Queen Beatice Laurwen Eldaleon, graceful as ever in an evening gown embroidered with golden vines, her eyes filled with both warmth and the strength of a true leader.

Elaria stood frozen, her heart lurching. "Mother..."

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