A Dark Fantasy Spy

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“Committing terror against innocent citizens is undoubtedly condemnable.”

– Abdul Kahar Valki, Taliban executive and spokesperson for Afghanistan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, criticizing the IS-K airport attack in Kabul.

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Episode 13 – A Land for Magicians Does Not Exist

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“Surprised I suddenly brought up the wanted list? It might sound odd to those hearing it for the first time.”

The analyst with the top-secret document spoke, limping slightly.

“So let me explain a bit for those new to this. I’ll give some background, so keep your eyes wide open.”

As the analyst at the podium manipulated the remote, a new image floated onto the screen.

Displayed on the pristine white screen were several photographs.

“In 1979, Cecil, an overseas intelligence officer from the Royal Intelligence Department working in the Republic of Al-Yabd, was murdered on the roadside while tailing the security officer of a research facility studying military potion technology at a lab in Mammaraka.”

An old sedan, the shattered front windshield covered in blood.

A police barricade tattered and frayed, revealing the red-stained driver’s seat through the cracked glass like a spiderweb.

Beneath it lay the identification card of the female officer.

The card, adorned with the Royal Intelligence Department’s emblem, contained detailed information such as Cecil’s age, residence, her husband’s work evaluations, and her children’s academic achievements.

“In 1981, we had Ahmed from the Kingdom of Mammaraka.”

The next photo that appeared showed a smiling man.

“He was an executive at a state-owned company that monopolized the magic stone mines in Mammaraka and an informant for the Royal Intelligence Department. High-quality magic stones are quite popular in the international market. Kien, Patalia, Magic Tower… everyone wanted a piece. The company recruited Ahmed, and not long after, he was assassinated.”

He was seen shaking hands with the official chief intelligence officer under a banner reading, ‘Commemorative event for the establishment of diplomatic relations between the Kingdom of Abas and the Kingdom of Mammaraka.’

Ahmed, an executive of a government company reminiscent of Saudi Aramco, had a jolly appearance with a bushy beard typical of good-hearted people.

Another photo showed Ahmed sitting in a hotel room.

Seated on a chair, with arms dangling, head raised high, mouth gaping open, Ahmed’s lifeless eyes stared into space.

A bizarre flower and strange plants sprouted from his mouth, making it look more like a grotesque pot than a corpse.

“Next up is a relatively recent incident from 1986. During an incident where Ministry of Defense instructors and military intelligence security personnel were training local warlords in the Shafabi Autonomous Region, chaos erupted and gunfire broke out in the barracks. According to the sole survivor’s testimony, those previously chatting and drinking suddenly pulled out guns and started firing at each other.”

In the photo were about thirty people.

Regional warlord executives wearing mismatched military uniforms, along with instructors dispatched by the Kingdom of Abas and agents from the military intelligence agency, gathered together against the beautiful mountainous backdrop for a group photo.

Right next to it was a photo of the barracks interior turned into a disaster zone.

Gunshot traces marred the ceiling, lockers, beds, floors, tables, and chairs, with congealed blood pooled like a lake.

The analyst began revealing new photos, launching into the main explanation.

“These pictures document various assassinations, kidnappings, and acts of terror the Royal Intelligence Department and military intelligence agency have encountered over nearly a decade.”

Adjusting his glasses, he spoke in a calm yet serious tone.

“If it were merely interference attempts from foreign intelligence agencies, the organization would have noticed long ago, but these incidents have no connection to intelligence agencies.”

“……”

“Indeed, our people weren’t the only ones dying.”

The new photos showed various agency documents.

From the Imperial Guard HQ, Inquisition, and National Security Agency to the Lushan Federal Kingdom’s Central Intelligence and numerous smaller agencies across the continent.

What these documents conveyed was starkly clear.

The deaths of field agents and information sources in the line of duty.

The analyst gestured wildly, using his staff like a command baton in the air.

“From the late ’70s to the mid-’80s, terror lasted for about thirteen years. Field agents from various national intelligence agencies met unexplained deaths. Attempts to analyze the patterns often failed since the attacks occurred at irregular times, and there were no commonalities among the targeted agents. What we know boils down to just two things.”

“……”

“First, all attacks were directed at intelligence agency staff working in the Mauritania continent.”

I asked the analyst.

“What’s the second?”

“Oh, that’s the most interesting part. The only weapon the terrorists used wasn’t firearms, vehicles, explosives, or poisons…”

The chubby analyst, with a smirk, along with a tap of his staff on the ground, declared:

“It was pure magic.”

—

The types of crimes committed by magicians are diverse.

Narrowly defined, these range from pickpocketing tourists with magic and disappearing on a broom in some dark alley, to broadly encompassing robbery, pillaging, arson, and murder.

Whenever such large incidents occur, public sentiment surges to tightly regulate magicians, yet statistically, the crime rate among magicians in developed countries is incredibly low.

This isn’t tied to the number of magicians or their individual consciences or personalities.

The reason magicians in developed countries don’t commit crimes is simply because the rule of law applies without region-specific exceptions.

If a crime is committed, reports flood in within five minutes, and within thirty, a specially trained unit specializing in major magical threats arrives. What chance do they have to engage in crime?

No matter how skilled a magician might be, overturning a numbers disadvantage and killing military police combat magicians is challenging. In developed countries, qualified magicians often serve in the military or form security firms to guard their clients.

Conversely, for magicians in underdeveloped countries, the story changes.

“Nations on the Mauritania continent weren’t centralized due to tribalism and religious, political, social, and cultural conflicts. In Abas, if a magician only breaks a person’s finger, a fully armed special squad wearing great magical protective gear will burst in within thirty minutes; in that region, it takes police three hours just to receive reports.”

“I get it. With no money in the country, police salaries can go unpaid for months; who would want to work hard?”

In Mauritania, where industries predominantly revolve around extracting and exporting magic stones or raw materials, skilled magicians earn money through two methods.

Building a career and emigrating abroad.

Or joining organized crime through connections.

Just think of Somalia, where fishermen and farmers take up arms and resort to piracy.

Of course, there are many countries, like Saudi Arabia or Jordan, that, based on vast capital, have established stable societies. There are even places where rational individuals run the government, like Botswana. However, creating a safe society requires money.

And most of the countries on the Mauritania continent were classified as the poorest.

With no money, the government cannot even pay its civil servants.

Civil servants begin to slack off or accept bribes when their salaries aren’t paid.

And without the resources even for basic infrastructure maintenance, life becomes increasingly challenging.

Without functioning police, law and order deteriorate rapidly. If political or religious issues arise causing rebellions? That’s where civil wars begin.

There are numerous countries that can’t even afford to repair a single streetlight, yet no one would come chasing after a magician accused of a crime.

Magicians turn to warlords for survival, engage in drug and arms smuggling, and when the military shows up, they fight against combat magicians belonging to the army. That’s how magicians survive on the Mauritania continent.

In other words,

If a magician assassinates an intelligence officer in that area, the intelligence agency cannot even secure proper investigative cooperation.

The analyst began explaining, his voice slightly excited.

“So over the past few years, we were twiddling our thumbs, keeping an eye out for companies that might have violated the Nastasia Treaty. But then, Director Leoni appeared like a comet and solved the whole issue.”

The chubby analyst spoke gleefully, recalling the excitement of a child discovering a toy aisle.

“She sweet-talked and whipped the ministers of the interior and the heads of intelligence. The way she managed intimidation was a work of art. Thanks to her, we extracted a lot of information from stubborn Mauritanian agencies. It was the fruit of sheer determination.”

“……”

“Wow, looking at it this way, the director’s handling of affairs is commendable, but her temper is absolutely dreadful. If only she could manage that temper, she’d be a fine person. But once you enter the company, even decent people seem to lose their minds. Just look at me, my hair’s already—”

Caught off guard by his rambling, I was starting to lose my focus. How in the world does someone so scatterbrained not get fired from the company? Is his analytical skill truly that outstanding?

Just as I was getting increasingly irritated at the analyst’s chatter, the operation team leader seated at the back, resembling Thanos, launched into a scolding.

“Shut your mouth, Larry.”

“Sorry.”

The portly analyst sheepishly scratched the remaining hair on his head in apology.

“Got off track again. Anyway! We started our investigation based on the magical traces collected from the terror site. We registered those traces in our database and issued wanted notices for international terrorist suspects. However…”

Thud. The analyst slammed his staff down.

“These damned magicians have not been found anywhere! Not in the Royal Intelligence Department, Special Investigation Bureau, National Security Agency, Integrated Intelligence Department, Imperial Guard HQ, Counterintelligence Bureau, nor even the archives of the Inquisition!”

“……”

“It felt like the sky was crashing down. It was like playing hide-and-seek with a ghost for five years. Identifying the face, name, gender, nationality, and even the number of suspects proved almost impossible. But then, Director Leoni brought in new information.”

A new photo suddenly appeared on the screen. As all eyes focused on the projection, I inhaled a sharp breath.

No.

Why in the world.

Is that bastard showing up here?

“…Fabio Verati?”

—

The man in the picture was Fabio Verati, an informant for the Magic Tower operating within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which is a similar agency to the Magic Tower.

However, in reality, Fabio Verati was a disguised spy. This meant he was an intelligence officer diligently infiltrated by the Patalia National Security Agency to monitor the Magic Tower.

Bam! Bam! The analyst thumped the screen with his staff and continued.

“Fabio Verati. An overseas intelligence officer at the National Security Agency. He was a high-ranking informant active in the heart of the Magic Tower government until last year.”

The analyst from the Royal Intelligence Department walked back and forth in front of the screen, his eyes glinting ominously as light passed through his glasses.

“Director Leoni obtained materials that this man acquired from the Magic Tower through data sharing with the National Security Agency, and I analyzed a whopping ten years’ worth of extensive materials. And it was precisely from those materials that we uncovered the magicians who committed the terror and fled!”

As he pressed the remote, the screen switched again.

The new image was filled with names of various individuals. It was a list of Secretariat staff members relayed through Clevenz.

The analyst circled some names on the list with a marker. Even as junior analysts pleaded, “Sir, uh, that screen is company property…” the robust analyst paid no heed.

Carefully putting the lid back on the marker, he pushed his glasses up with his thick fingers and used his staff to point at the screen.

“The names highlighted here are the prime suspects, confirmed magicians. They are employees from the Magic Tower who were sent to the Mauritania continent frequently or for extended periods… We narrowed down the scope by sifting through the traces they left behind during their business trips. This includes public transport use records, train tickets, places visited, credit card payment histories, and signals from the mobile phone towers they pinged.”

As a junior analyst began operating a terminal, more analysis data appeared. An Abas intelligence officer hacked the servers while agents stationed across the continent systematically skimmed data from credit card companies and banks.

Although it was impossible to glean precise information from the analysis alone, a rough outline began to form—it appeared more than eight branches were involved in the operation. Naturally, given Leoni’s character, it was very likely that even branch heads would remain in the dark about the operation’s specifics.

The thumb doesn’t know what the index finger is doing. To deceive others, even family first. That is Director Leoni’s modus operandi.

It’s the most straightforward method.

And yet it can lead to the destruction of families.

No matter how much of an employee’s family they may be, they cannot access classified information. Even my father used to leave home without a word when I was young and wouldn’t return for months. Back then, I thought my parents were fighting, but it turned out he was on business trips to mainland China and Hong Kong.

After realizing the truth, I began to respect my mom even more for holding that marriage together. Usually, people don’t understand those sorts of things. Perhaps that’s why Leoni has been divorced three times.

Anyway.

Determined to refocus on the briefing, I snapped back to attention, just as the side conversation culture had faded, and the analyst returned to his main point.

“Jean Marbo, Gabi Schneider, Karim Boumediene, Juan Pablo Martinez. These four individuals were named in the documents provided by the National Security Agency and are the most likely suspects. Considering they lingered around the areas where the terror occurred during the day of the attacks and over a two-week period, it’s almost certain. They’re quite clever too. To scout and plan ahead like that.”

“Is there any new information?”

Nodding at the deputy team leader’s question, the analyst replied.

“Of course.”

Flipping through the screens, the analyst wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and indicated the screen. The screen was densely packed with intelligence I had accumulated over the past few weeks.

“Director Leoni activated the intelligence network in the northern empire where the four terrorists were dispatched. Investigating their behaviors, relationships, the locations of hotels they stayed in, the structure and security of those hotels, the restaurants and cafes they frequented. They can flawlessly plan both kidnapping and assassination.”

The team leader, listening to the explanation, crossed his legs, leaning against the armrest.

“What about the interrogations?”

“Ah, Gabi Schneider? We had some yields there as well.”

The analyst instructed his subordinates to prepare the data. A flurry of keystrokes echoed briefly. As the magical projector illuminated another screen, new materials emerged.

It was video footage.

In the video, Gabi Schneider sat bound to a chair.

Showing signs of torment, she breathed heavily in terror. The intelligence officer standing in front of her, arms crossed behind his back, began questioning her.

“Who else were you working with?”

“Um, Jean Marbo….”

“Who else?”

“Karim Boumediene! Ahmad bin Lavani!”

“Tell me about Ahmad bin Lavani.”

Using his staff as support, the analyst approached his subordinates and held up a printed photo against the screen.

“This guy, Ahmad bin Lavani, appears in the video. We’ve newly discovered the name of another terrorist.”

The analyst explained how they obtained evidence about the terrorists and their activities by interrogating Gabi Schneider. Of course, this kind of material wouldn’t be legally admissible in court. Information obtained through torture holds no legal weight.

But that’s a concern only for the courtroom.

Agencies like ours do not meticulously sift through such issues.

Just then, the operation team leader clapped a few times.

“Great. Have you pinpointed their location?”

“The name was on the delegation list for the Magic Tower. He’s also up north.”

“Good, good.”

“Though it’s not entirely a cause for celebration. Because….”

When the analyst pressed the remote, the video began playing from the start.

The paused video rapidly advanced.

“Is this person Jean Marbo?”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

“Then who is this person?”

“Karim Boumediene….”

“And this woman?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen her before; I swear.”

“The hell’s wrong with you?”

“Please, I don’t know!”

The investigator held up photos of employees from the Secretariat irrelevant to the terrorism case. Gabi Schneider had factually answered everything when presented consecutively. She passed all tests administered by the lie detector and psychological warfare officers.

“Seems she didn’t lie.”

But is that really the case?

The analyst, leaving a meaningful remark hung in the air, rewound the footage. The investigator held a photograph in front of Gabi Schneider.

“Who is this person?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“I’ve asked you who this is.”

“I don’t know. I can’t say. Please….”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Ahh!”

The sound of a rubber hose whip cracking ricocheted through the speakers. The noise was akin to a whip slicing through the air.

A brief glimpse of Gabi Schneider’s back in the shot showed her handcuffed, swollen hands. The rubber hose hurt badly when struck, even more so when tightly cuffed to restrict blood flow and then hit, heightening pain.

What a smart tactic.

Just as those thoughts crossed my mind, Gabi Schneider, drenched in sweat, managed to whisper through her trembling lips.

“…Huh.”

That was the moment.

Bang! An explosive sound erupted from the speaker.

As the explosion resonated, the camera was splattered with fresh blood. The lens was immediately cloaked in a wave of crimson liquid. Profanity and screams surged through the speakers as half of the camera section collapsed. Someone must have triggered it.

In the remaining footage, the investigator was shown clutching his face in panic, screaming. The thud of the heavy iron door opening rang out, and other agents hurried in, only to gasp in shock at the chaos.

A flurry of frantic footsteps could barely be seen in the recording.

After pressing the button to halt the footage, the analyst placed the remote down and spoke gravely.

“Gabi Schneider died during the interrogation after her head exploded. Investigation results revealed investigators used no explosives. Post-mortem examinations indicated that the explosion occurred inside her brain, according to medical opinions.”

“……”

“Yep. She was eliminated.”