I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 153: After Test Drive

The last light of day filtered through the trees in amber shafts, casting long shadows over the clearing. The Apache sat dormant like a sleeping beast—rotors still, cockpit dark, hull streaked with dust and char. Inigo leaned against one of the skids, helmet resting beside him on a folded tarp.

He stared into the dying embers of a small campfire.

It had been a long day.

Between the impromptu test flight, the ambush, and the rescue, he hadn’t had a moment to breathe. But now, in the hush of twilight, his mind turned toward the next step—returning to Ironmark.

He reached for his canteen and took a swig of water, then checked his wristwatch.

It was nearly 1900 hours.

"Lyra’s probably wondering where I am," he muttered, though he wasn’t entirely sure she’d be worried. She trusted him. That much he knew. Still, being gone this long without a word wasn’t ideal.

He stood and walked a slow circle around the Apache, eyes tracing every panel, every bolt. The aircraft looked... out of place. No—it was out of place. This was a machine of Earth, forged by the minds of engineers and refined by generations of military evolution. It didn’t belong in a world of swords, dragons, and spellcraft.

Which meant it needed to be hidden.

Carefully.

Permanently.

At least for now.

Inigo crouched and opened one of the side compartments—pulling out a folded camo net. It was synthetic, lightweight, and thermal-dampening. He slung it over his shoulder and walked toward the treeline.

First, he scouted the area again—recon instinct still sharp. No signs of movement. No fresh tracks aside from his own. The encounter earlier with the orcs had left a scar on the landscape, but the forest had already begun to swallow the ash and blood.

He found a cluster of boulders to the west, partially collapsed into a ravine over time. Trees had grown through the rocks, twisting up into a natural canopy. It wasn’t ideal for takeoff—but it could serve as a long-term hiding spot.

He returned to the Apache and started the process.

One step at a time.

First, he activated the startup sequence long enough to reposition the helicopter. The turbine hummed to life, blades spinning slowly as he eased the cyclic forward and lifted the Apache a few meters above the ground.

Dust scattered beneath him.

Carefully, he guided it between the trees, blades clearing the trunks by inches. The machine obeyed his every input like a loyal hound. It took ten long, tense minutes, but he eventually settled the Apache behind the rock cluster, positioning it between two twisted oaks with the tail facing the ravine slope.

Once it was shut down again, he got to work.

Camo net over the top. Then branches. Twigs. Loose ash.

He created the illusion of neglect—like some ancient wreck lost to time. Even the rotor blades he covered with fallen pine boughs, tying them down loosely with cord. From a distance, it would look like a half-collapsed shed if anyone stumbled across it. From above, the infrared signature would be minimal.

He packed dirt over the landing skids, then used a worn cloak to dust over his footprints.

By the time he was done, the Apache had vanished into the landscape.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

He took a step back, hands on hips, and exhaled. "No one’s finding you out here. Not unless they know what to look for."

Satisfied, he turned back toward camp and began packing what little gear he’d brought—canteen, MRE wrappers, a utility shovel. His rifle was slung across his back, and he tucked the helmet into a carry pack.

Then he started the long hike back to Ironmark.

—

The forest by night was a different world.

Cold. Watchful. Still.

Inigo moved with purpose but not haste. He stuck to high ground, always with clear lines of sight and natural cover nearby. His training kicked in like muscle memory—eyes scanning, ears tuned to the softest rustle, hands brushing the safety of his weapon now and then.

He avoided the trail he’d flown over earlier. Too much smoke. Too many fresh corpses. If any carrion beasts—or worse—had moved in since, he didn’t want to tangle with them without backup.

It took nearly two hours to reach the outer border of Ironmark’s territory. He paused at the edge of a tall ridge, crouched low, and scanned the city below.

Ironmark wasn’t a true city—not in the modern sense. More of a fortress town, carved into the valley’s rim with high stone walls and ironwood towers. Lanterns burned along the battlements, casting golden glows into the haze. Even from here, he could see movement—guards on patrol, traders closing shop, locals settling in for the night.

Safe. Quiet. Human.

He allowed himself a small smile.

Then, he descended.

—

The outer gate guards didn’t recognize him at first.

"Halt!" one barked, stepping forward with a halberd raised. "State your name and business!"

Inigo raised a hand and slowed his pace. "Easy. It’s me—Inigo. From the adventurer registry. Team Cerberus."

The second guard narrowed his eyes. "You’ve been gone all day. Lyra was looking for you."

"I’m back now," he said evenly. "Just scouting."

The guards exchanged a look, then relaxed.

"Alright," the first one muttered. "Gate’s closing soon. Head in."

He nodded and passed through the reinforced archway, boots echoing on the stone path. The air inside Ironmark felt warmer—safer—but also... narrower. The walls, the people, the chatter. After flying in the open sky, the town suddenly felt cramped.

As he walked toward the inn, a familiar voice called out.

"There you are."

Lyra.

She stood near the fountain at the central plaza, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her bow rested across her back. She hadn’t even changed out of her scouting gear.

"I figured you’d turn up eventually," she added.

Inigo stopped in front of her. "Sorry. Took longer than I expected."

She looked him over. "You alright?"

"Fine," he replied. "Did a little recon. Found something interesting."

Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of something?"

"Let’s get some food first," he said, voice low. "We’ll talk upstairs. Not here."

She studied him for a long second, then nodded.

Without another word, the two walked back toward the adventurer’s lodge.

—

Later that night, after a hot meal and a private meeting in their rented room, Inigo leaned back in the chair and let the silence hang. Lyra sat on the windowsill, arms folded, gaze fixed outside.

"So," she said finally, "you’re telling me you’ve got a flying death machine hidden in the woods."

"Yes."

"And you used it to wipe out a group of orc raiders... from the air?"

"Correct."

She looked back at him, brow raised. "That’s insane."

Inigo shrugged. "It worked."

"No, I mean it’s insane that it exists," she said. "And that you’re flying it like a bird of prey."

He didn’t reply.

Lyra exhaled and stood, pacing. "You said they were from the Red Scar clan?"

"That’s what the halfling said."

Her eyes grew darker. "Then we have a bigger problem. They’ve raided frontier villages before, but never this far south."

Inigo’s tone grew cold. "Then it’s time we start hitting them back."

"With what?" she asked, gesturing. "Your helicopter?"

He met her eyes. "If I have to."

She stared at him for a beat longer, then finally nodded.

"Alright. But no more vanishing all day without telling me."

"I promise."

She softened. "Good. Because if we’re going to fight a war from the sky, I’d like a seat in the cockpit next time."

Inigo smirked. "Deal."

And outside, the stars glimmered over Ironmark—unaware of the machine sleeping beneath the trees. A storm was brewing. And it wouldn’t come from the ground.

It would come from above.