Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 86: [85] Infiltrate

Chapter 86: [85] Infiltrate

The first area they passed after leaving the livestock trail was the marketplace—usually the heart of the city, vibrant and bustling. But this time, the atmosphere was bleak. The townsfolk wore grim expressions, some simply sitting and staring at empty stalls, while children listlessly played with makeshift toys made from burlap sacks. No laughter, no noise from vendors—just silence.

Khan surveyed the crowd with a somber expression.

He let out a heavy sigh, then continued walking. Their path now led to a narrow alley flanked by crumbling buildings—some with peeling brick walls, others barely standing with tarps and scrap wood. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and damp earth.

"Well then..." Ren muttered, raising an eyebrow as he looked around. "What are we doing in this dump? Collecting tetanus?"

Khan replied without looking back. "Meeting someone."

"A friend of yours?"

"No... just an acquaintance," Khan answered curtly before pushing open the door to a small building with a barely legible sign. A run-down bar at the city’s edge, where the smell of fermentation mixed with bad breath and worse intentions.

As soon as the door opened, the room tensed. The space was filled with burly men, sharp-eyed women, and hooded figures—all of whom stopped whatever they were doing. Every head turned toward them, eyes narrowing.

Because Khan had brought more company than usual, their presence triggered heightened suspicion. One of them—a large man with a thick beard and a beer bottle in hand—staggered up from his seat, body swaying with drunken weight.

"Well, look who we have here..." he said as he approached, voice heavy and laced with mockery. "The prey walks right into the hunter’s den. Let’s see, shall we?" His large hand reached lazily, yet threateningly, for Khan’s shoulder.

The next second, a swift and precise motion turned his bravado into a scream. Khan caught the man’s wrist and twisted it with a near-invisible joint lock, forcing his shoulder to lock up. A cry of pain rang out.

"AAARGH! Let go! Let go, damn it!" the man shrieked as his body was spun and slammed to the floor in one clean move. The beer bottle shattered beside his head with a loud crack.

The action triggered instinctive reactions. Chairs scraped, weapons were drawn. Knives slid into palms, wooden clubs were grabbed from under tables. The tension skyrocketed in mere seconds.

But before chaos could erupt, a heavy, calm voice echoed from the corner of the room. "Enough, all of you... unless you want half your bodies buried in the sand by morning."

All heads turned toward the speaker—an older man in gray robes and a brown turban, his gaze sharp and steady as he sat at a round table with a mug of beer.

He tilted his head slightly, eyeing Khan with a faint smile. "Not often we see you around here, Khan."

At the mention of that name, the entire room seemed to freeze. Hardened faces shifted. Weapons were slowly returned to their places. Some even stepped back, bowing their heads or pretending to look busy.

Khan gave a small nod, locking eyes with the turbaned man. "It’s been a while, Mullah Razak."

Razak narrowed his eyes, then let out a low chuckle—not warm, but the kind of laugh that carried the sting of old memories. "Heh, yeah... last time we crossed paths, our groups clashed over a border convoy raid. I still remember—it was you who gave me this." He pulled back his robe to reveal an old scar slashing across his chest.

"I’m not here to reminisce about battle wounds," Khan said flatly, stepping forward and sitting directly across from Razak without waiting for an invitation.

"Oh yeah?" Razak set his tea mug down, his eyes now sharper. "If not to dig up the past... then what do you want?"

Khan leaned back in his chair, calm yet with a gaze as sharp as an unsheathed blade. "How’s the sultanate been lately?" he asked in a steady voice, but one that carried weight. "From the outside, it looks bad."

Razak raised a brow, then chuckled bitterly. "Since when do you care about the sultanate? I thought you’d washed your hands of palace affairs years ago."

But Khan’s stare didn’t falter. He said nothing, just looked on in silence. Yet in that silence was something that made Razak’s skin crawl—not anger, but unshakable resolve.

Seeing that, Razak swallowed hard. Once again, he was reminded—this man wasn’t ordinary. "Alright... don’t look at me like that," he said, turning his gaze to his mug, fingers now tapping slowly on the table’s edge. "As you guessed... things are a mess."

Razak began to speak of what Khan had come to learn. Khan didn’t react, simply listened with an unreadable face. But Ren, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, now looked a bit more focused. His eyes narrowed, absorbing the information quickly.

"And the worst of it?" Razak continued, his tone lower, almost a whisper. "Your cousin, Al-Fahir, has formed a new army. They’re not aligned with the council, not with the faith, not with the people. Just with him. And they... they don’t hesitate to kill anyone deemed disloyal."

"Hm..." Khan nodded slightly, his expression now darker, more contemplative. "There’s someone behind all this. Al-Fahir doesn’t have the kind of mind it takes to orchestrate a coup on this scale by himself."

Razak squinted, then gave a slow nod. "Finally, you’re thinking what I’ve been thinking." His voice was bitter—like someone who’d carried the weight of secrets alone for far too long.

"So who do you have in mind?" Khan asked, wary but open.

Razak leaned in, his voice barely audible. "The Eks. Those beastmen... I suspect they have a hand in all of this."

Khan looked surprised, but not entirely dismissive. "The Eks? Are you sure?"

"This stays between us," Razak said, emphasizing each word. "But some time ago, I heard whispers—the King of the Eks, the Golden Lion himself, has started moving. Not armies, but people... a lot of them."

From the back, Ren chimed in. "Gathering people? If it’s not a military, what is it? The biggest carnival this continent’s ever seen?"

"This isn’t a joke, kid," Razak said sharply, his eyes narrowing before turning back to Khan. "He’s gathering people, yes—but not for war. Not for an attack. They’re being gathered as... laborers."

Khan narrowed his eyes. "Laborers? For what? The Eks are a small nation, with limited resources. Their strength has always been in muscle, not land."

Razak nodded slowly, stroking his whitening beard. "Exactly. That’s what made me suspicious from the beginning. The Eks never cared about diplomacy or development. That nation was built on war, and it survived because of war."

Khan’s eyes drifted into the distance for a moment, his mind racing. "But if they’re shifting focus to a massive project, uniting labor instead of soldiers—then the only explanation is they’ve found something more valuable than war itself."

"What I know," he continued, crossing his arms, "is that the Eks are all battle maniacs. If they’ve actually stopped fighting, then something’s seriously off."

Khan leaned forward. "Now, I need to know something else." His voice tightened. "My mother. Have you heard any rumors about her?"

Razak’s expression stiffened. "Yes. There’ve been whispers in the back alleys. They say... she’s being held with the remnants of the old sultan’s family. Quietly imprisoned in an underground dungeon."

"Where?" Khan asked sharply.

"In the east tower. About two o’clock from the city’s west gate. The prison underneath isn’t listed officially. Only Al-Fahir’s personal guard knows the way in."

Khan didn’t respond with words. Instead, he reached into a small pouch behind his belt and tossed a sack of coins onto the table. It landed with the familiar clink of gold.

"For you," Khan said simply, his voice flat but heavy with intent. He didn’t look at the money—as if its value meant nothing compared to what he’d just learned.

Razak caught the pouch with one hand, weighed it briefly, then tucked it into the sleeve of his robe. "You know," he said softly, eyes softening just a little, "it’s good to see you again..."

Khan gave a small nod—just enough to show respect—but said nothing in return. There were probably things he wanted to say, but this wasn’t the time or place for nostalgia.

He rose, straightened his posture, and turned toward his group. With a single, swift gesture—sharp and nearly silent—he signaled for them to move out of the bar.

Ren, who’d been leaning casually against the old wooden doorway, pushed off and followed behind. "Alright, sneaking time again. Please tell me we don’t have to crawl through a sewer this time."

"No," Khan replied as he walked, his voice calm but edged with a slowly building fire. "But there will be blood, if we’re not fast enough."

---

Several hours had passed since they left Mullah Razak’s bar. They had regrouped at the logistics yard where they had first infiltrated the city—a temporary neutral zone for now. Night was falling, bringing the desert chill and the dry scent of sand clinging to the clay walls.

Ren sat atop an old dusty crate, one leg up, chin resting on his hand. His eyes scanned the Samsaran sky, glittering with stars, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. "So... what’s your take on all this?" he asked casually, though his gaze was sharp. "The Eks, Samsara, and all this... escalating madness."

Khan leaned against the wall, arms folded. Around them, only the sound of wind and the occasional short snore from a sleeping beast mount could be heard. "Troubled," he replied softly, but with firm conviction. "We don’t yet know exactly what the Eks are planning, but one thing is clear—their movements can’t be ignored."

Ren nodded slowly. "And meanwhile... we’ve got a ticking time bomb in our backyard."

"Exactly," Khan said. His eyes drifted toward the east, where the prison tower stood—barely visible from this distance. "What matters now is what’s happening inside this city. I need to save my mother... before it’s too late."

They fell silent. Ren sighed, then stood and stretched. "Well, while we’re waiting, here’s hoping your informant shows up soon. Honestly, I’d rather deal with another sandworm than this palace politics crap."

As if on cue, a hooded figure emerged from the shadows of the stable—one of Khan’s informants. The figure approached swiftly, breathing short but controlled.

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