Tech Hero in Another World
Chapter 144: [143] Narrow-minded people (2)

Chapter 144: [143] Narrow-minded people (2)

From a distance, the silhouette of Eks began to emerge faintly through the dust veil of the Mandaley desert. The city resembled a military fortress more than a settlement. Towering wooden walls, reinforced at every joint with black iron, stood firm at the boundary between civilization and the barren expanse. Totem pillars carved with fierce beasts flanked the main gate—symbols of honor for the Eks people, a beastkin race that revered strength as the highest law.

No flags flew. No royal insignia adorned the walls. Here, only one rule applied: the strongest had the right to speak.

On the rising dune leading to the gate, a strange sight drew attention. A large cart, disguised as a trader’s caravan and draped in coarse linen, advanced steadily forward. But its wheels were too smooth, its shape too precise. It wasn’t ordinary. Hidden beneath that primitive guise was a vehicle from another world, concealed to blend into a society that knew nothing of machines.

Before it stood a beast of prey, pulling the cart. A muscular, golden-furred tiger nearly the size of a warhorse—the fierce predator of the Penal plains. A transformation collar wrapped around its neck—typically shrinking it to a smaller, tamer form. But now it stood in its true form, claws sinking into the sand, tail twitching in agitation. A wooden yoke tethered between its shoulders, modified to anchor the cart.

"Sorry, Alfred... but this is the only way we won’t get our heads cut off at the gate," muttered a young man beneath a wool hood, sitting at the driver’s seat. His tone was heavy yet casual, as if joking with fate.

Alfred, the Penal tiger, growled softly in response. His fangs bared. Were it not for his bond with his master—and intimidated by the man’s tech—this beast might’ve devoured him for breakfast.

Ren was no stranger to risk. In this unfamiliar world he didn’t fully understand, he chose to hide his origins and technology, disguising his machine with wood panels, mud paint, and leather gear typical of local caravans.

The Eks city gate now loomed distinctly. Two guards stood before it, spears tipped with bronze, draped in animal pelts with horned helmets. Their faces were not fully human—one had wolf ears and exposed fangs, the other was covered in green reptilian scales.

They turned as Alfred’s pawbeats echoed. Their eyes widened at the sight of the beast pulling the cart.

"...A Penal tiger?" hissed the scaly guard, tightening his grip on his spear. "Dragged... like a domesticated animal?"

The other guard only nodded slowly. "And who is that driving... a human?"

A murmur spread among the merchants and adventurers queued at the gate: whispers, sharp stares, incredulous grumbles flowing like ripples.

Ren inhaled deeply, then straightened his spine. In Eks—a harsh land that respected no mercy—even the slightest sign of hesitation could spell weakness.

"Show them your golden grin, buddy," he whispered to Alfred, patting the tiger’s head. "Today, we stand out."

His steps were measured, each imprint leaving a dent in the searing sand. His jacket was worn, wool cloak billowing in the desert wind. His hood draped thinly around his head, leaving only his eyes visible—calm, cold, and calculating.

He approached the two gate guards.

The wolf-eared one stood tall, bare-chested, a belt adorned with desert tiger teeth. The reptilian guard’s vertical pupils slitted sharply as his tongue flicked out to taste the air like a predator assessing prey.

"Is there a problem, sirs?" Ren asked casually, his tone light and polite—yet deliberately provocative.

The guards exchanged glances, then snorted nearly in unison.

"Tch. A weak human... riding a Penal tiger?" sneered the scaly one, narrowing his eyes. "Has the world gone mad?"

"I’m pretty sure he’s just some spoiled western noble brat who got lost," the wolf-eared guard sneered. "Soft features like that... he looks more suited to the arms of a concubine than this desert."

Ren didn’t respond at once. He blinked once, then fixed them with a thin smile beneath his hood.

"Oh... Is that so? It’s a bit strange to be underestimated by gate guards who can’t even tell the difference between a trained tiger...and a tiger that’s pulling a cart out of pity."

His tone remained calm. But the words cut like a blade dipped in honey.

The scaly guard hissed in anger.

"Are you mocking us, human!?"

Ren raised his hand slowly. "Certainly not. I was merely... stating facts. Unless you’re illiterate, there’s no excuse to misinterpret."

The wolf-eared guard’s ears stiffened, his tail twitched sharply. His left hand clenched his spear handle.

"You dare speak that way to us on Eks soil!"

Ren raised an eyebrow. "I thought this land was free? Or... only free for those strong enough to claim it?"

The pair hissed in unison. Several other beastkin queued behind them turned, sensing the escalating tension. One even whispered, "That newcomer doesn’t know his place..."

At that moment, the wolf guard raised his spear high and shouted:

"GORTHAR!!"

The call echoed loudly, sending desert birds fluttering from the wooden walls.

Gorthar—the official invitation to a duel under Eks law. Once cried out, there’s no turning back. Blood must be spilled to defend honor.

Ren simply took a steady breath—the hot desert air entering his nose, then released as a cool, measured exhale.

"Well... that escalated quickly," he murmured wryly.

Alfred lounged beside the disguised wooden cart—now clearly a van—growling low, as if sensing what was coming. The ground around them vibrated—not from an earthquake, but from the rhythmic stomp of feet.

The gathered beastmen started chanting a name in a deep, resonant chorus:

"Gorthar... Gorthar... Gorthar..."

The name felt like a battle hymn. A call to their god of strength, the God of Duel, Fist, and Fang. In Eks society—where power defines law—that name wasn’t just symbolic... it was the law.

The guard who issued the challenge strutted forward and cleared a small arena in the main gateway, opening up space at the center of the crowd. Some citizens began shouting bets.

"Ten coins on Grag!"

"I’ll put twenty on the human! Look at his build—it’s soft like steamed buns!"

Ren strolled into the ring, Alfred watching idly with a mocking expression.

From a distance, the silhouette of the city Eks began to materialize through the swirling dust of the Mandaley desert. The city resembled more a military fortress than a settlement. Massive wooden walls stood tall, each joint reinforced with black iron, gripping the last boundary of civilization before the barren sands met the sky. Totem pillars carved with fierce beasts lined the main gate—a symbol of honor among the Eks: a beastkin race where strength rules above all else.

There were no flags, no royal insignia. Here, only one law applied: the strongest had the right to speak.

On a dune rising toward the gate, an unusual sight drew attention. A large cart, disguised as a trader’s caravan and draped in rough linen, rolled forward with unnatural precision. Its wheels were too smooth, its shape too perfect. Beneath this primitive facade lay a vehicle from another world—camouflaged to blend into a society that knew nothing of machines.

In front of it stood a predator, pulling the cart: a muscular, golden-furred tiger nearly the size of a warhorse—the fearsome beast of the Penal plains. A transformation collar circled its neck—usually shrinking it to a smaller, tamer form. Now, it moved in its true form: claws digging into the sand, tail twitching, a wooden yoke tethered between its shoulders to the cart.

"Sorry, Alfred... but this is the only way we won’t get beheaded at the gate," muttered a young man beneath a wool hood, sitting at the cart’s reins. His tone was heavy yet casual, as if making a joke with fate itself.

Alfred, the Penal tiger, responded with a low growl, fangs bared. Were it not for the bond with his master—and the intimidation of concealed tech—he might’ve devoured the man for breakfast.

Ren was no stranger to risk. In this unfamiliar world, he chose to conceal his origins and technology. Machine parts were hidden under wooden panels, mud-colored paint, and local leather accents.

The Eks city gate towered before them. Two guards stood there, bronze-tipped spears at the ready, draped in animal pelts and horned helmets. Their faces were half-beast—one with wolf ears and fangs, the other covered in emerald-green scales.

They turned as Alfred’s footsteps echoed. Eyes widened at the sight.

"...A Penal tiger?" hissed the scaly guard, tightening his grip on his spear. "Dragged...like a domesticated animal?"

The wolf-eared guard nodded slowly. "And who’s driving...a human?"

A hush swept across the merchants and adventurers waiting in line, whispers and glances flowing like currents.

Ren inhaled deeply, straightening his posture. In Eks—land of no mercy—even a flicker of weakness could be fatal.

"Show them your golden grin, buddy," he murmured to Alfred, patting the tiger’s head. "Today, we stand out."

His steps were slow and deliberate, each pressing into the scorching sand. His jacket was worn, cloak of wool fluttering in the desert wind. Under his hood, only his eyes broke the shadow: calm, cold, calculating.

He approached the two gate guards.

The wolf-eared one was tall, shirtless except for a belt of tiger fangs around his waist. The scaly guard’s slit pupils flickered as his tongue darted out—assessing prey.

"Is there a problem, sirs?" Ren asked, voice light, polite—yet clearly provocative.

The guards exchanged looks—and snorted in unison.

"Tch. A weak human... riding a Penal tiger?" sneered the scaly one. "Has the world gone mad?"

"I’m pretty sure he’s just some spoiled western noble brat lost in the desert," laughed the wolf, baring his teeth. "Soft features like that... he belongs in a concubine’s arms, not in the dunes."

Ren merely blinked, then smirked beneath his hood.

"Oh... Is that so? How odd to be underestimated by gate guards who can’t tell a trained tiger... from one pulling a cart out of pity."

His tone stayed steady—but his words pricked like honeyed steel.

The scaly guard hissed.

"Are you mocking us, human!?"

Ren raised a hand in placation. "Not at all. I’m merely stating facts. Unless you’re illiterate, there’s no reason to misunderstand."

The wolf’s ears stiffened, tail twitching. His left hand tightened around his spear.

"You dare speak that way on Eks soil!"

Ren’s eyebrow arched. "I thought this land was free. Or is it only free for those strong enough to take it?"

They hissed again. Nearby beastkin turned, sensing tension. One muttered, "That newcomer doesn’t know his place..."

Suddenly, the wolf guard raised his spear and screamed:

"GORTHAR!!"

The cry echoed sharply, sending desert birds flapping from the wooden walls.

Gorthar—an official challenge under Eks law. Once invoked, there was no turning back. Blood must be spilled to uphold honor.

Ren exhaled slowly—the scorching air passing through cool, deliberate lungs.

"Well... that escalated quickly," he muttered.

"I’m sure there’s another way to settle this," Ren said quietly. "But if you insist on acting like a wild boar with a stiff backbone... fine. I hope my knee is sharp enough."

The beastman—now known as Grag—snarled, veins straining in his neck. "I’ll enjoy the sound of your bones cracking, human!"

Grag tossed aside his spear—it sank into the desert sands.

According to Eks myth, Gorthar defeated every challenger barehanded. Thus, weapons were forbidden in his duels. Only fists, elbows, fangs, and claws were allowed.

Grag loosed a low growl, shoulders coiling like a charging bull. Ren removed his coat, revealing a physique like a Greek god’s. For a moment, admiration rippled through the crowd—but it vanished as he assumed his stance: one knee raised to waist height, right hand guarding his face, left hand tucked close to his temple.

The audience chuckled.

"That stance? Weird!"

"Standing like a fang?!"

Ren said nothing. Eyes focused, breath steady. He embraced his balance. A classic Muay Thai guard—strange in this land, lethal in the world he left behind.

Grag charged, fists like bricks.

Ren shifted half a step, raised his knee...and BAM! His knee smashed into Grag’s stomach mid-air.

The beastman soared, then crumpled to the sand. Silence fell.

Ren didn’t follow. He remained, knee still raised.

"...Your move," he said coldly.

Grag’s eyes turned red—this wasn’t just a fight. It was an insult. Worsened by how he’d been taken down—on one leg.

Ren could almost feel the focused stares—curiosity, amusement, anger—but he stayed centered. Calf muscles tense, knee still poised.

Grag rose, dark fur matted with sand, eyes burning—not condescending now, but calculating. He bared yellowed fangs.

"You playing games?" he snarled. "Let’s see how flexible you are when your bones break."

Ren remained unmoved. He lowered his knee and shifted his weight forward. Classic Muay Thai stance, merged with fight-move analysis gleaned from days of watching martial arts videos back home. (Watch shoulder, hips, breath... that’s how you predict movement.)

Grag lunged again—low, like a tiger dropping to drag down prey. Claws slashed left—lightning fast.

Ren ducked—his body folding like a spring. He rotated and thrust his elbow into Grag’s ribs—precisely under the armpit, where bone offered no protection. A sharp crack echoed, followed by Grag’s cry of pain.

Ren stepped back, breathing even. Inside, he knew his body conformable his power and create body like a superhuman.

Grag knelt, but rose again, blood seeping from his side.

"You fucking... human!" he roared, swinging both arms downward like a wrecking hammer.

Ren crossed his forearms to block. The impact rattled through his shoulders and bones, staggering him—but he held firm.

Instantly, he countered: right knee into Grag’s gut, left elbow to the jaw, and—in a swift turn—right elbow across the temple.

Grag flung aside like a rag doll, collapsing to the hard-packed sand. He didn’t get up.

Silence.

Then, erupting cheers.

The crowd roared—not for Grag, but for the brutal, thrilling show they’d just witnessed. Eks had no pity—only respect for absolute strength.

Ren lifted his gaze to the gate guards.

"May I pass now?" he asked, tone flat.

One nodded swiftly. The other bowed deeply—an unspoken mark of respect. In this realm, power spoke louder than words.

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