…..
A heavy stillness clung to the air, broken only by the crackle of burning sand and the hiss of scorched rock. Smoke curled upward in choking spirals, heat warping the horizon above the shattered terrain.
Two bodies lay amid the wreckage.
One was Tony Stark - genius, billionaire, dressed in designer kevlar now torn open, dust and shrapnel embedded in his skin, he coughed weakly, his hand clutching at his chest where the concussive blast had knocked the wind from his lungs and embedded metal into his side.
Blood oozed sluggishly, but he was alive.
Farther back, Jin-Ho lay crumpled near a jagged rock.
His wounds weren't just from the blast as the moment the bomb went off, his instincts had kicked in activating [Telekinesis] all over his body.
Maybe due to his condition and desperation, the barrier was messy, a half-formed shield that slowed the blastwave, sparing both him and Stark.
But the after effect cost hit harder than the explosion on top of portal travel which had already shredded his balance and fried his nerves.
Forcing out his power snapped the rest, and straining his mind resulted in an additional neural backlash.
So finally, it wasn't his body that gave out, it was his brain.
Consciousness was slipping fast - still, for a heartbeat, his eyes fluttered open.
And there he saw him again.
Tony, flat on the sand, clutching his chest in pain, his shirt stained dark where blood spread in a jagged bloom.
The birth of Iron Man.
Never in his wildest thoughts had Jin-Ho imagined he wouldn't just witness it, he would be a part of it.
…sigh…
It was also the death of the businessman, and if luck be on his side, he might even get to see his first step as the Super Hero.
Though he can't call it exactly a story anymore - as it's real, and somehow, impossibly, he was in it.
….
Meanwhile just for a second Jin-Ho gazes locked - two men both a step from blacking out.
Jin-Ho's lips curled weakly, breath rattling.
"You alive, old man? I saved you—cough… now it's your turn, or I will hun—"
And just when darkness was about to swallow him:
◤-----------------------◥
[Ding–! Your body finally adjusted to the after effects of Dimensional Travel.]
[Ding–!
[New Mission is assigned:
| Task - 1: Assist Tony Stark in his escape.
| Task - 2: Save Yinsen from death.
-> Rewards: Unknow
-> Punishmint: None]
◣-----------------------◢
Fuck you… system.
….
From Tony's side, the boy's voice barely carried - broken, faint - but his eyes had said enough.
Defiance, exhaustion, and a strange, reckless pride.
"You alive, old man? I saved you - cough… now it's your turn, or I will hun—"
The words lingered, fading into the roar of memory.
When the ambush came, it was sudden, precise, devastating.
Rockets screamed out from hidden ridges, cutting through air and steel.
Soldiers fell before they even drew their rifles.
His laughter vanished in the shockwave of fire.
In minutes, the convoy's defense collapsed, dust devoured everything, leaving only silence and corpses.
Tony staggered out of the wreckage, coughing, bleeding. "Cough… cough…"
His eyes locked onto the weapon that nearly killed him - a Stark Industries missile, his own design, gleaming with his company's mark.
A cruel irony: his genius, sold and scattered into enemy hands, had come back to tear him apart.
Breathing came in rattles, each one sharp like glass breaking in his chest. For a moment, he didn't understand.
Seconds ago, he had been elsewhere - leaning back in his Humvee, whiskey in hand, sharp-tongued, charming, the center of attention among soldiers.
The convoy had been a show of power, carrying some of the most advanced weapons ever made.
Then a faint vibration rolled through the dunes - low, metallic, growing.
Diesel engines hummed, distant but approaching fast.
Two rugged military trucks crested the rise, camouflaged to blend with rock and sand, closing in like predators.
And everything changed.
….
Dozens of armed men jumped down from the beds of the trucks, boots striking the hard-packed earth in unison.
They spread out with precision, rifles raised.
These were not scattered desert bandits.
These were the men of the Ten Rings, mercenaries who carried themselves with discipline, their eyes trained and formation tight.
At their center, a tall man with a scar down his cheek barked orders in Pashto, he moved with authority, glancing around the site, taking in the blackened crater, the twisted metal, and the litter of broken bodies.
Then he raised his hand and shouted again, his voice ringing with command.
"Spread out and secure the perimeter! Do not leave a single opening unchecked! Move quickly and search every inch of this place for survivors!"
His men responded instantly, scattering across the wreckage. Two of them came upon a figure slumped among the debris, barely moving, his body half-covered in dust and smoke.
One soldier knelt down, peering closely at the bloodied face, he glanced toward his companion, lowering his voice but not enough to hide his uncertainty.
"Could this be him? The American they spoke of?"
The second soldier leaned in, his eyes narrowing as recognition dawned, his tone carried both confirmation. "Yes, I am certain of it, this is Stark himself, there is no mistaking him."
Together, they carefully rolled Tony onto his back, his body heavy with unconsciousness. As they did, a low groan escaped his lips, pained and weak, and blood trickled down from a deep cut at his temple, staining the sand beneath him.
The soldier said. "He is badly injured, but he is definitely still alive and breathing."
Their leader stepped over, eyes sharp. "Take him, bind the arms, not the legs, we will need him to be able to walk."
Tony caught fragments of speech - not in English, harsh consonants, clipped commands.
Sure, he didn't understand the words, but the tone said enough.
One phrase broke through clearer than the rest:
"Take him."
Tony's heart thudded once, heavily.
Alive.
That was good, right?
A brief sliver of relief crept in, he didn't need to do anything.
Not now, let the future Tony deal with this mess.
He could almost smile as he allowed his eyes to drift shut, ready to slip into unconsciousness, to leave it all behind for a few precious moments.
Until he heard another voice. "Sir, over here! There is another one lying on the ground!"
They pointed at Jin-Ho, lying motionless in the dirt, his hoodie shredded, his face pale from the strain.
The soldier continued. "He looks like a kid, he is clearly not one of the fighters, maybe just unlucky."
One of them raised his rifle, finger on the trigger.
"Do you want me to kill him now and be done with it?"
The language was still foreign, guttural and rough, but the intent in the voice, the cold suggestion, transcended the barrier.
Tony's eyes cracked open, just slightly, his blurry gaze tracked toward the sound.
A rifle.
Not pointed at him, this time.
But to someone else.
A young kid.
Lying motionless, a few feet away, almost half-buried in the dust, his hoodie torn, his face smeared with dirt and blood, his body twisted oddly, one arm flung out as if he had fallen mid-run.
Tony's mind reeled.
Wait… didn't he try to save me? The thought clawed at him, rasping faintly in his own head.
A fragment of memory pierced the haze: that voice - urgent and panicked, the sudden push of something unseen just before the explosion, the strange, fleeting sense of a shield cushioning him.
As if someone had slowed the blast itself.
Tony whispered it to himself, disbelief curling through his breath.
His arm trembled as he raised a shaking hand, not pointing at his attacker, not at the boy lying in the dirt, but upward, toward the empty sky.
He was trying to signal, to form words, to explain what he had realized.
But no sound escaped his throat, his strength gave way, his hand fell limply back to the earth, and darkness closed in around him.
….
The man holding the rifle, one of the attackers, looked to his superior, a scarred figure in dark fatigues.
His finger hovered on the trigger.
But the leader raised his hand, making the subordinate lower the rifle.
The leader's eyes narrowed on Tony Stark, already valuable and worth a ransom.
But now, this kid, young, unknown, had drawn Stark's attention.
Even half-dead, Stark had tried to stop them.
Could he be a relative?
A bodyguard seems stretched seeing his age? A fellow scientist? Or just some kid.
Whatever he ….mattered.
And in situations like this, cutting off possibilities was a fool's move.
This world was built on leverage, and Stark wasn't just an engineer - he was a human being, with unpredictable attachments.
Another plate of food? Another bed of straw? - Not a big price for an extra bargaining chip.
The leader gave a final nod.
"Bring them both."
….
.
[To be continued…]
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