Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 87: [86] Infiltrate (2)

Chapter 87: [86] Infiltrate (2)

Like a classic infiltration, their first step was to avoid the eyes of the guards—and fortunately, the route provided by the informant proved invaluable. The surveillance gap opened only twice every half hour, and during that brief window, no one stood watch at the gate.

Khan led the way, his movements fluid like a night predator. Behind him, his four companions spread out in the formation they had drilled dozens of times. As they reached the garden flanking the tower, two guards were seen lounging beneath an oil lantern, talking quietly while smoking dried leaf rolls.

Without a sound, one of Khan’s men—a tall, sharp-eyed man named Qasim—moved in from the right. In an instant, he clamped a hand over one guard’s mouth and jabbed a tranquilizer needle into his neck. The man collapsed with barely a whisper, his body dragged into the bushes with surgical grace.

Khan approached the second guard from the blind spot behind the lantern. By the time the man sensed his presence, it was already too late. A sharp elbow to the jaw, followed by a precise knee to the gut, sent him staggering. With one swift motion, Khan drew his short weapon and struck the base of the guard’s neck, dropping him unconscious.

With the outer perimeter secured, they moved quickly into the tower. The old metal door was bypassed using a simple magical unlocking device. Dim corridors guided them toward the damp, narrow underground prison, the stone walls echoing every soft step.

But when they reached the lower level, they weren’t alone. Six lightly armed guards were waiting—and unlike the ones outside, these were clearly more disciplined. One of them immediately shouted and charged at Khan with a raised spear.

Khan met him barehanded. He deflected the spear with the inside of his arm, pivoted, and landed a quick strike to the chest. A sharp crack rang out as ribs gave way, dropping the man to the ground in a writhing heap.

His comrades fought side by side. Qasim faced off against two opponents, his body spinning with twin daggers dancing through the air. He slashed one in the thigh and brought down the other with a crushing sweep kick to the knee. Blood began to pool on the stone floor, but not enough to trigger an alarm.

Meanwhile, a woman on Khan’s team, Farida, tossed a small smoke grenade to the end of the hall, clouding their enemy’s line of sight. In the chaos, she rushed forward and took down a guard with her baton.

The entire skirmish lasted less than three minutes. As the smoke cleared, only Khan and his team remained standing. The bodies of the guards—both unconscious and otherwise—were moved into an empty cell.

Khan wiped a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, then quickly approached a marked cell door. His heart pounded harder than usual. From behind the bars, he could hear faint coughing and weak breathing.

"Open it," he ordered.

Qasim crouched, placing the unlocking tool on the old lock—a hybrid of magic and mechanics. With a hiss, the lock clicked open.

Khan pushed the door gently, and the light from Farida’s lantern fell into the cold, damp cell. In the corner, slumped against a moss-covered wall, sat a middle-aged woman. Her once jet-black hair was now streaked with silver, and her cheeks were more sunken than Khan remembered. But her eyes—those eyes still held the same fierce resolve.

"Mother..." Khan whispered, barely audible.

The figure raised her head slowly, her eyes squinting against the light. Then suddenly, she cried out in a hoarse, emotion-laced voice. "Farid?... Is that you, my son!?"

"Mom..." Khan rushed to her side, kneeling and grasping her hand. Her fingers were cold, her bones pronounced—a clear sign of weeks in poor conditions. "How long... have you been here?"

"Ahh..." she drew a shaky breath, as if pulling air through strained lungs. "About a month. But what matters now... is that you’re safe. Are you eating well? Good heavens, you’re so thin..."

"Mom..." Khan squeezed her hand tighter. "This isn’t the time. We have to go. Now."

But the woman only looked at him, her gaze shifting into something heavier. "Farid... I can’t leave. I... I’m tied to this place. Politically. By blood. If I go, you lose your last chance to save Samsara."

Khan frowned. His voice grew firmer, though he held back emotion. "Can we talk about this later? Somewhere safer. Anywhere but this prison."

She shook her head slowly. "Farid, don’t postpone this. You know I’m not speaking as your mother now... I speak as the only one who knows your family’s position. Your uncle... he was executed yesterday. He chose to take my place at the gallows."

Khan stood frozen, jaw clenched. Behind him, Qasim and Farida watched silently, knowing this was not their place to interfere. The air in the underground cell felt heavier, like the walls themselves bore witness to the weight of their conversation.

"He wanted you to take back Samsara," she continued. "He said... you have the qualifications to be sultan. I’m sorry we cast you aside when it had to be done—to stabilize the politics. But now everything’s in chaos, so he chose you, Farid."

Khan slowly rose to his feet, taking a deep breath. "Let’s go. You need rest. You need treatment. And I need time to think."

"Farid..."

"Enough, Mom!" The shout cracked through the stone like a thunderclap, echoing down the corridor where the fallen guards lay. For a moment, time stopped. Even Qasim and Farida’s breathing felt too loud in the heavy silence.

Khan stood tall, face hardened. But in his eyes, something deeper stirred—more than anger. A wound not yet healed. "Don’t push me into something I don’t even believe in. Since when did the sultan—or that uncle of mine—ever care about me?"

His breath came ragged as he went on. "All my life, I was just a stain on their lineage. The child of an unwanted union. And now, suddenly... all the weight of this family, all the political legacy, gets dumped on me like I’m some divine emissary? I’m sorry, Mom. I need time. Time to think clearly—with my own head."

She fell silent, but her expression remained calm, even as her eyes shimmered. She had endured too many nights in the darkness of this prison, and this was the first conversation that brought her hope. But she knew—her son needed space.

"In that case..." she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper—a quiet prayer. "Leave me. Take them instead." Her eyes drifted to the other cells lining the corridor—behind the rusted bars, young figures could be seen. Children from the royal bloodline, also imprisoned. Some looked weak, others stared blankly into space.

Khan turned, his gaze sharpening as he saw them. They were nothing to him—strangers—but not enemies. The children weren’t at fault. Still, there was only one thing that had kept him going this far.

"No... Mom," he said, voice calm but trembling with emotion. He knelt again, gripping her hand tighter. "It’s you I need. Right now. Not a throne, not a crown, not anyone else—just you."

His mother smiled—tired, but warm. Her thin fingers gently brushed his cheek, as if trying to wipe away the weight from her son’s face. "And I need you too, my son... more than you’ve ever known. But sometimes... a mother has to push her child into a world harsher than she’d like. Because that world won’t wait for him to be ready."

Farida stood quietly behind them, turning her face away to give them a moment. Meanwhile, Qasim moved to the other cells, checking the young prisoners and beginning preparations for evacuation.

Khan took a deep breath. A decision had to be made tonight—and time was short.

---

Ren stood in the shadow of the tower’s side wall, arms crossed while one foot rested against the stone. The night air carried the scent of sand and a faint tang of iron from the weapons they bore. The silence was unnaturally perfect—no footsteps from guards, no chatter from inside the fortress.

"Hey, isn’t it a little too quiet?" Ren muttered, his tone light but audible. He was trying, as usual, to ease the tension.

"Don’t start now," one of the outside team members muttered, still facing the alleyway. "Stay focused."

"Oh, come on. Just a little chat. We’re just standing here waiting. Besides, I’ve got a question..." Ren flashed a slight grin. "Is there anything special in this city? I mean, aside from the fancy palace and the food I haven’t gotten to try yet?"

One of the guards—a short man with a thin beard named Darek—glanced sideways. "You mean food?"

"That too," Ren quipped. "But more importantly... something valuable. Weapons, artifacts, rare metals, mystery stones—I’m open to suggestions."

Darek paused, raising an eyebrow. "I don’t know if it’s real or just market gossip... but have you ever heard of Damascus steel?"

Ren straightened immediately, eyes sharpening. "Damascus? Like the legendary layered blades? Details, bro. I need details."

"They say," Darek whispered, "there’s Damascus steel in the Mandaley desert—this metal... it has a kind of ’living pulse.’"

Ren narrowed his eyes, now genuinely interested. "Living pulse? You mean... living metal? Like, regenerative?"

"Something like that," Darek nodded. "Rumor has it, if forged with the right technique, at specific temperatures and patterns, the metal can bond and repair itself. Even after being cracked or broken."

Ren raised an eyebrow, then pulled out his phone to jot it down. "Okay... important note. Semi-organic metal, structural recovery, possible flexible molecular binding or nano-magic tech. This... could be huge."

"Don’t get too hyped, Ren. It’s still just a rumor," another guard interjected, though the curiosity in his voice betrayed his own interest.

"Well, rumors are where discoveries begin," Ren replied, tucking the note away. "Some of the craziest things in the world started with: ’I heard it from a guy in the market.’"

He leaned back against the wall again, fingers idly playing with the end of his belt, eyes still scanning every corner of the street. But in his mind, something was starting to take root—this mysterious metal. It wasn’t just a rumor. If true, what he found could change everything... even his armor tech.

But the night’s calm shattered in an instant when one of the guards on the right whispered with tension, "You hear that?"

Ren snapped upright, tilting his head slightly to listen. Heavy footsteps... rhythmic. Accompanied by the faint clink of metal.

Then light began to appear from around the corner—not one, not two, but more than a dozen moving sources. Torches flared high, held by armored hands. Their silhouettes marched like a row of flaming shadows, sweeping through the corridor with purpose.

"We’ve been made," Darek said quietly, his voice flat—but the tension in his throat was impossible to hide.