Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 94: [93] Destiny that binds

Chapter 94: [93] Destiny that binds

"What are you waiting for?" Khan asked, his voice firm yet deep, filled with a mix of curiosity and caution.

Silence settled around them. All eyes were fixed on the dark-robed figure standing like a stone statue, unmoved by the piercing desert wind of the night.

"Waiting for someone," Arash replied, his tone quiet but sharp. "Someone who can inherit the spirit of the Great Sultan. The true soul of a leader who built Samsara—not through bloodline, but through the worthiness of the soul."

Khan fell silent. The words hit like a soft blow—not painful, but shaking.

"None of the previous generations had it," Arash continued. "No crown prince, no general, no noble ever showed that sacred fire. We... merely served under obligation, not from the heart."

Arash stepped forward slightly. "But you... you left the palace not out of weakness. You rejected power because you knew it would destroy you. You returned... not to seize the throne, but to save your mother."

"And I’ll leave again after that," Khan replied flatly. "I don’t want Samsara."

Arash nodded, as if that was the answer he had expected. "And that... is exactly why you’re worthy."

Ren, who was sitting by the campfire stirring the remains of his dinner, slowly turned his head. "Weird. I’m starting to see a pattern. The more you reject power, the more people try to shove it into your hands."

Arash ignored the comment, his eyes still fixed on Khan. "Samsara was built with the blood and sweat of our ancestors. They—the wanderers, traders, warriors, and holy men—shaped this land from desert and dust. But now... it is poisoned."

"Poisoned by what?" asked one of the Band of Massiah from the back.

"By the hand of a dictator who calls himself sultan, but uses God’s miracles—sacred miracels—for acts that defy faith and mock the law," Arash said, his voice beginning to rise.

Susan, standing beside Khan, lowered her head slightly, feeling Arash’s words peel back old wounds from her homeland.

"The power once given as grace is now a weapon of oppression," Arash continued. "Children are burned by hatred. The elders bound by fear. And the land of Samsara... weeps."

Khan stared at the ground, his jaw tightening. "What do you want from me? A coup? Civil war?"

"We don’t want war," Arash replied. "We want redemption. We want justice. And for that, we need a leader. Not a general. Not a commander. But a symbol."

Ren let out a quiet sigh. "Look, I’m not from around here. But as an outsider, let me give you one piece of advice: if you’re all waiting for a miracle... you’d better have a decent plan too."

Arash gave Ren a respectful nod. "We have a plan. But every plan needs a center of gravity. Without you, Farid... it’s just a formless shadow."

Khan lifted his head, staring straight at Arash. "If I agree... will you die for this plan?"

Without hesitation, the three Hassasins dropped to their knees at once, right hands placed over their chests. "For Samsara. For the rightful Sultan."

The camp fell into a sacred silence. Only the crackle of the fire broke the night—and the beating hearts of those who knew, from this night forward, there was no turning back.

---

Khan stood frozen, silent in the dwindling light of the campfire. Normally, he could face the strange and chaotic with calm, even a touch of sarcasm. But tonight... was different.

His eyes remained fixed on his own reflection in the polished metal of Ren’s van—sharp, clear, undeniable. The wolf ears and tail hidden beneath his long cloak were plainly visible, confirming one truth: he was not fully human.

For the first time in years, Khan felt exposed. Not physically, but existentially. As if the world was forcing him to admit that no matter how far he ran, he would always be... different.

"Will I ever truly be accepted?" he muttered, a whisper meant for no one but himself.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced—of a young beastman child being beaten by noble children in the palace garden. His mother had come running, screaming, then begging the servants to stop them. His uncle had watched from the balcony above—silent, unmoving.

That was the first day Khan realized: he would never truly belong in that place.

But deep in his heart, he had a dream. A utopia in the desert. A city where all races could walk together—laugh, trade, sit in teahouses without fear of who they were. A city that didn’t care about the shape of your ears or the color of your scales.

But the world was no fairy tale. And the older he got, the more that dream cracked. In the face of politics, betrayal, and bloodshed—utopia felt like a cruel joke.

Khan clutched the collar of his shirt. His breath was heavy. Even with all his strength and followers, he knew there was one thing that couldn’t be won with a sword: trust.

Ren watched from a distance. He said nothing, just stood there quietly, as if knowing this wasn’t the time for sarcasm.

"Give me time," Khan finally said, his voice soft but firm. "I need time to think this through."

None of the Band of Massiah argued. They simply bowed their heads slightly, giving their leader the space he needed—not out of force, but out of understanding.

Nea, sitting not far from Ren, whispered, "He’s always looked so strong... but I just realized, maybe he’s been carrying more than we ever saw."

Ren nodded, gazing up at the desert sky. "For some reason, this moment feels familiar to me... Oh yeah, was this from a movie?" he muttered with a half-joke. Nea turned to him, confused by the reference.

As the campfire continued to warm the cold night, Arash stood from where he had been sitting. His expression shifted—no longer full of pressure, but now a sincere respect. "We won’t force you, Farid. But we’ll be here... when you’re ready."

Khan nodded slowly. No words could express the storm inside him that night, only one growing certainty: whatever he decided next, he wouldn’t face it alone anymore.

Some time later, Khan sat alone in his tent. The desert night wind rustled the canvas walls, and the torchlight outside cast faint, flickering shadows. He sat silently, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, then lay back on the thin carpet, his body weary.

"No matter what I do to avoid it... it always comes back to me," he whispered, so quietly it was meant only for the stars above the desert sky.

He closed his eyes, letting his memories carry him back—to a childhood that was cold, distant, and full of suspicious stares. He still remembered the day he first realized his ears and tail were the reason people avoided him.

He remembered how hard his mother fought to keep him in the palace, begging the Sultan to let her son live a decent life. But no one could truly hide the fact that he was the product of a forbidden love between a human and a beastman.

His escape wasn’t an act of bravery. It was a forced decision. He had been just a child who wanted to breathe freely, and the outside world gave him both freedom and suffering. Sleeping in animal pens, stealing for food, living like a shadow.

Then came Ryul, the wandering elf. Someone who didn’t look at him with disgust, but with curiosity. They weren’t close right away, but Ryul gave him something he had never received from anyone else—a second chance.

With Ryul, he learned to see the world, to speak other languages, and to understand that not all humans judged based on race. From Ryul, he also learned the meaning of principle—that justice doesn’t come from blood, but from the courage to stand on one’s own feet.

After parting ways with Ryul, Khan kept walking. He met outcasts, people searching for a place to belong, those broken by a cruel system. They formed a group that was at first just about survival—but slowly, it became family.

The Band of Massiah wasn’t just fighters. They were healers, craftsmen, protectors—and they lived by one principle: never oppress the weak.

He smiled faintly, remembering the time they stole from a noble hoarding the people’s taxes. The palace called them bandits, but villagers celebrated them as heroes who ended their hunger.

Now, they no longer wandered just for survival. They carried the hopes of many on their backs. And now—that weight demanded more: to lead. To become a symbol. To become a sultan.

"If I say yes... it’s not about me anymore, or any of them. It’s about everyone," he whispered into the darkness.

Khan sat back up and let his hand rest in the sand beside him. It trickled through his fingers—soft, unstoppable. Just like time and choice—he couldn’t stay in one place forever.

He knew a great decision awaited him. But that night, he chose not to pretend to be strong. He chose to be the wounded child he once was, now trying to heal on his own.

Outside the tent, the fire still burned. Arash sat quietly where he had been, his eyes on the stars. Ren lay sprawled on his van, grumbling about desert dust in his eyes.

Meanwhile, the members of the Band of Massiah spoke in soft murmurs. They did not push, did not press—they simply waited.

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