A Dark Fantasy Spy

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A bustling market street harmonized with a dilapidated truck belching black smoke and an old motorcycle caked in rust.

A moss-green van, covered in layers of dust, zigzagged around pedestrians, navigating the unpaved road. The serious vibrations from the van seemed almost explosive as they collided with the uneven surface, making my head thrum just from standing still.

Through a slightly cracked window poured the noxious fumes and dust, mixed with an ear-piercing cacophony of sounds.

Camila crinkled her forehead before speaking up.

“…Frederick.”

“Yes?”

“Are we going to be okay?”

Are we going to be okay, you say?

I turned my gaze out the window and racked my brain for a moment.

“For now, we should be fine.”

“For now…?”

“Because we haven’t done anything wrong.”

We’ve stepped into the territory of a warlord in conflict with the central government, yet we have nothing to fear because of our status.

A war correspondent like me and a magician providing paid escort—it’s a rare combo, but not entirely uncommon in the Mauritania Continent.

We had brought broadcasting equipment to disguise ourselves as journalists, flashed a passport of a true correspondent from a third country, and even obtained a government press permit.

“They are just wary because two foreigners entered their territory; they’re not getting any other ideas.”

“And how can you be sure of that?”

“I’ve faced similar situations a few times before.”

“…”

Camila’s worried gaze lingered on me for a moment.

A pickup truck packed with heavily armed Hassan Tribe combatants made a right turn down an alley, and our van followed closely behind.

“Don’t worry,” I said, leaning back comfortably against the seat.

“Just act according to our practice.”

Along a fence that had been carelessly painted green, the propaganda of the warlord unfolded.

In the distance, a tribal building with flags fluttering in the wind came into view.

—

Episode 16 – The Six-Million-Dollar Man

—

Arriving at the warlord’s headquarters was the van parked at a checkpoint. To be precise, it was a building utilized by the ‘Al Bas’ Tribe, part of the Hassan Tribe faction.

Following the guidance of a tribe member, I stepped out of the van and surveyed my surroundings.

Symbols and phrases painted on the walls, flags flapping on the roof—it was undeniable that I had arrived at a facility run by a warlord.

The structure looked like a modest government office one might find in the Middle East. Of course, it was much smaller, with weathered outer walls and a parking lot that barely had a dirt floor surrounded by chest-high barbed wire.

“…”

Every vehicle parked here was an old clunker. Whether from scarce parts supply or issues with magic energy, there were hardly any that could make it down the road without limping.

The tribe’s parking lot resembled a junkyard, and the most acceptable vehicle was an aged SUV—our ride.

I thought they just left it there, but they even offered valet parking. Good service from this place.

“May the Earth God’s peace be with you. Welcome to the land of Al Bas.”

While I was scanning the area surrounded by armed forces, a local dressed in a suit approached us and immediately extended his greetings.

He looked every bit the suited civil servant, but standing next to armed forces, he was undoubtedly a warlord ally. Showing off his toothless grin, he revealed yellowed teeth.

“So, you two are foreigners?”

“As you can see.”

I pointed at Camila and myself while we stood out like sore thumbs with our pale skin compared to the brown-skinned locals.

“Hmmm…”

The warlord’s suited man examined us with surprising interest.

Even without his suit, we were the target of many suspicious gazes now that two foreigners had unexpectedly appeared.

Camila stood still as if used to this kind of attention, while I stuffed my hands in my pockets and stared at the suited man.

“So, what brings us here?”

“Ah.”

The suited man started to laugh sheepishly after hearing my question.

“It’s not that; I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Just what might you be curious about?”

“You just need to answer a couple of simple questions. Like who you are and the purpose of your visit…”

That was a response I completely expected. He was playing by the book.

His overly defensive stance felt suspicious, but I decided to cooperate with the questioning for now.

How predictable these warlords are, I thought.

“Let’s head inside for now.”

We followed the suited man into the building.

—

The warlord’s suit-clad man led us to a room at the very end of the second floor. He told us to wait there and swiftly left.

The room we were left in had a desolate vibe, essentially just a small room with no windows, a single door, and barely any furniture aside from a chair and table.

It appeared to be a room that hardly showed signs of recent use. I looked around and concluded,

“This is an interrogation room.”

Camila, resting her chin on her hand, turned to me.

“An interrogation room?”

“Yes. It seems a bit shabby, but I can’t picture it as anything else.”

This was undoubtedly an interrogation room. Of course, it was far from the well-equipped ones found in national intelligence or counterintelligence departments.

If I had to compare it, it resembled a small investigation room typically seen in a police station, where an officer and a suspect would conduct interviews alone. The warlord’s interrogation room had a similar layout.

Except for the musty smell of mildew.

“Well, it has the basics.”

“What do we do now?” Camila inquired.

“There are armed warlords outside standing guard. They seem well-equipped and well-trained. Just where did such people come from?”

“I can’t say for sure… but they look like combatants from an elite force, probably from the imperial guard.”

The warlords of a certain caliber usually have military advisors.

They often recruit former soldiers from local or foreign armies to seek advice on strategy, tactics, supply, and equipment.

It could be understood as a kind of consultation service.

“I know that Hassan’s warlords have recruited retired military commanders for the past couple of years. They’ve hired people like trainers or commanders to train their armies.”

“Retired soldiers… They’re probably former militiamen. The Mauritania Continent has a tribal-centric culture, much like the Middle East or Africa.”

“Exactly.”

They scout out the sharpest individuals born and raised among the tribes, enlist them in the military, and when the time is right, call them back to utilize them as warlord officers. This is how the third group of warlords develops their combat forces.

Asen and Sanya utilize a similar strategy, and while it’s not a top-secret operation, the small-scale combat techniques and military doctrines have trickled into the warlords, leading local intelligence agencies to have their share of headaches.

“Hmm…”

There have also been reports indicating the Hassan warlords are scouring for communication equipment, technicians, and cybersecurity professionals to set up networks recently.

However, from what the military intelligence agency apprehended, the warlords on the Mauritania Continent were not running their own intelligence departments.

Even if they were to assume that a warlord operated an intelligence office, it would likely look like child’s play in the eyes of real agencies such as the Royal Intelligence Department, Imperial Guard HQ, or the Inquisition.

The infamous Taliban or Al-Qaeda’s intelligence departments received sparing evaluations from national intelligence as no more than mediocre.

In this area, warlords are likely nothing more than pawns in the hands of intelligence agencies.

“Anyway, don’t be tense, just act as you practiced.”

“Got it.”

I reassured Camila and checked my wristwatch.

The warlords who led us to the interrogation room didn’t follow one basic procedure: confiscating the wristwatch of a suspect. I could gauge the warlords’ level just by observing this oversight.

Just as I was realizing the time,

“Someone’s coming.”

I quickly hid my wristwatch as I heard footsteps approaching the room.

Camila lowered her hand from her chin as if warned. She crossed her arms and took a nonchalant pose. What kind of show-off is she pulling?

– Creak.

Just as we prepared, the door leading to the hallway opened and two locals entered. One was a scruffy-looking man in a shabby suit; the other, a mature woman clad in traditional tribal attire.

They exchanged casual greetings before taking a seat.

“Welcome, foreign gentlemen.”

“And lady.”

The man and woman spoke alternately, stumbling over their basic Kien phrases.

They brought out a pencil and a stack of paper. As the man neatly arranged the paper, the woman clasped her hands together and asked,

“What is the reason for your visit?”

It was the moment the interrogation began.

—

The duo introduced themselves as coming from the Al Bas Tribe. They promptly started probing us for our purpose on their territory.

I answered their questions earnestly.

“I came for coverage.”

“Coverage? A journalist?”

“Yes. I’m Asud, a freelance journalist dispatched by a newspaper called Gazeta from the Republic of Ratwan.”

The pseudonym I used was that of a freelance war correspondent. In journalism, they pay correspondents to provide photographs and articles taken from the front lines.

Not many media houses have dedicated war correspondents, but given that articles from war zones sell so well, many correspondents have contracts with media houses as freelancers based on basic supply and demand.

War correspondents are one of the few professionals allowed free roam in combat zones, making it a favored identity among unofficial disguises used by intelligence agents, serving as prime informants.

I utilized the identity of a freelancer tied to the newspaper in the Republic of Ratwan.

“Journalist, huh? This… is your passport?”

“Yes.”

The local man held up the passport, questioning as it was a forgery provided by the military intelligence agency, based on a real passport of a genuine Ratwan war correspondent resembling my appearance.

Ratwan shares a border with the Kien Empire. Although they have their local dialects, many immigrants and workers from the empire dwell in Ratwan, making Kien the first foreign language in the Republic.

For this reason, the warlord’s man spoke Kien. It seemed they didn’t bring a translator, hence sent someone who speaks the language instead.

However, there was a serious issue with the man from the warlords.

“Look here. I’ve received press permits from the government and this travel permit too. This means it’s trouble-free for me to cover here.”

“I. Cannot understand. Your language.”

Unlike his intellectual appearance, the man could barely string together a coherent sentence in Kien.

“Travel permit and press permit! Issued by the government!”

“Government? Very bad people.”

“Ugh, damn it!”

Aside from simple greetings, with the man stumbling over even basic conversation, I could distinctly feel the vein in my neck pulsing with irritation. His command of Kien was catastrophic.

It was one thing if he were struggling with basic conversation, but his attitude was worse.

He confiscated my card (forgery), my journalist notebook (forgery), travel permit (forgery), and the press permit bearing the defense department’s seal (forgery). I could understand taking the notebook, but why take my business card?!

With a translator suffering from such abysmal understanding and a lousy attitude in charge of the questioning, my mood drooped rapidly. I started to think that it’s far better to be caught and interrogated by Chinese authorities instead.

In that respect, the female companion who appeared alongside the man seemed better. Following the tribe’s traditions of avoiding unsanctioned conversations with the opposite sex, she took charge of interrogating Camila.

“The gentleman named Asud is a journalist. Then, are you Mr. Asud’s colleague?”

“I suppose you could see it that way. To be precise, I’m providing protection.”

“Oh, so you are a bodyguard.”

The tribal woman carried a smooth conversation with Camila, effortlessly transitioning to their local dialect mixed with Kien.

To lighten the mood, she tossed in a joke and asked personal questions in a gentle tone. Whenever usable information surfaced, she would jot it down with a pencil.

I worried whether Camila would be able to navigate this crisis, but surprisingly, she seemed to handle herself quite well. Good girl, Camila. Go show them what you can do.

Though awkward, the fluency of their conversation was a significant score. Yet, if she were the one interrogating us instead, I wouldn’t mind at all.

Or the soldiers we met at the checkpoint; at least they could communicate too and were somewhat polite.

But no, that was not the case.

“Objective.”

“I already said it’s for coverage.”

“You. Are not a journalist. You. Are lying.”

What was this nonsense?

“Speak the truth!”

The man shouted harshly, insisting I needed to unveil the truth, leaving me tongue-tied for a moment in disbelief.

What kind of interrogation is this, you idiot?

I decided to calm this fool asking me to spill out facts without a base.

And I explained my purpose for being here slowly from the start.

“Don’t you see I brought broadcasting equipment with me? Sound equipment and magic film! Go check and see!”

“Car? Truck, van? No. Already left.”

“No, not that! What about my vehicle you parked in your parking lot?!”

Of course, it was a futile complaint. Since we were already speaking different languages, there was no way an explanation from a foreigner would get it across.

After my tussle with the suspicious man, I finally managed to take a breather and check my watch. The hands pointed to late afternoon, and a rough estimate put it at around seven hours since we entered.

Seven hours? For crying out loud. At this point, it felt almost like I was robbed of my time. Stupid highwayman bastards.

At this stage, I thought maybe it would be wise to abandon the operation and head back. But for the sake of my colleagues arriving shortly, the operation must continue.

I absolutely couldn’t allow them to steal any more time from me.

I pulled out a photo from my pocket and tossed it to the man.

“Look at this.”

I pointed at the picture.

It was a photograph taken by a war correspondent depicting a village attacked by the Asen Tribe.

“I came here to find out what’s happening in this area. I wanted to know why you’re fighting the surrounding tribes and why you’re at odds with the government.”

“…”

As the man inspected the photo, he began speaking with the woman who had been interrogating Camila, using the regional dialect.

Though I couldn’t discern the topic of their discussion due to my lack of understanding, thankfully I had my human Papago (Camila) to translate later on.

“…”

“…”

The pair from the warlord’s camp continued their discussion for nearly three minutes in silence, engrossed in thought while avoiding eye contact with us.

After a while, the man who had been suspicious of me seemed to rethink his stance. In a hesitant tone of Kien, he asked again.

“You. You are a journalist, right?”

Even if the content remained unchanged, the inflection of his voice was decidedly different.

I nodded, and the man continued.

“Broadcasting. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous, you say?”

“Tribe location. Gets revealed. If disclosed. Government. Sends army. Many magicians. More than tribal shamans.”

The implication was clear—the moment the tribe received the broadcast, the military would send a combat unit to strike due to the intelligence gathered. Specifically, he mentioned combat magicians from the military.

Though his sentence was clumsy, it was a comprehensible response.

I learned two crucial facts from this exchange.

First, the army’s OSINT division uses war correspondents’ foreign reports to select targets. Second, the Hassan Tribe has its own shamans.

That constituted valuable intel.

While the man and woman from the warlords rambled on, Camila leaned in and whispered this piece of information in my ear.

“Those people are worried that if the report goes out, the government forces will invade. Their nearby stationed troops have been acting suspiciously, and there’s a notion that neighboring tribes might exploit the chaos to strike… You can tell they don’t doubt our identities, but they seem hesitant about broadcasting.”

“They’re quite defensive. They’re wary of other warlords, and of the military too. They dislike the media.”

“Not just wariness, but it seems they’re going full reconnaissance mode. The nuance from their conversation suggested as much.”

New intel.

The third group warlords, aware of movements from the regular army and groups one and two. While they’re propagandizing, they shun the press. It indicates recruitment rather than promotion.

If they are willing to take risks to display recruitment ads in the capital, this suggests that their situation isn’t so rosy. Considering that most local magicians and shamans live in the capital, their true objective for propaganda is likely to secure skilled personnel.

In that case, it might be better to approach them as an arms broker operating in the black market rather than a war correspondent.

“…”

With Camila whispering, I nodded in acknowledgment.

What a fortunate one. This is why having a fresh recruit is great—she does her part without being asked.

As I decided I would treat her to something nice once this was over, the tribal woman suddenly apologized to us.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Camila inquired.

The woman replied, “We thought you came to the land of the Al Bas Tribe with ill intentions.”

“Bad intentions?”

Camila probed once more.

The woman continued, “When reporters air photographs or videos they’ve shot, the government deploys its military based on that. Normally, it takes about fifteen days for units dispatched from the capital to arrive here, but lately, troops have been staying in the area…”

“…”

“We mistook you for government informants. Most journalists report to the military once they finish coverage, indicating the presence of warlords in the area. It doesn’t take long before the military raids the villages.”

The warlord’s woman concluded her words with a bittersweet smile.

“I’m sorry to bring this heavy topic up. We misjudged you. The Al Bas Tribe welcomes you.”

—

On the way back to our accommodation.

Beneath the twilight sky, an SUV sped along the darkened road.

“…”

The interior of the vehicle was tranquil. Only the roaring engine sound and the tire friction against the dirt road made noise, alongside an occasional thud against the window from passing insects.

Broadcasting equipment rattled in the trunk and backseat, clashing to form crashing noises. Equipment brought along to disguise ourselves as war correspondents.

After the interrogation, the warlords returned all confiscated papers and items, inclusive of business cards, notebooks, equipment, and vehicles. They also granted us travel and press permissions.

As night fell, we entered a time when bandits began to roam. The Al Bas Tribe offered us lodging and suggested we rest a bit before beginning our coverage work tomorrow, but I declined, as I had no assurance that the accommodation was 100% secure.

Fortunately, the vehicle contained a firearm I had stashed away. A pistol secured in a separate compartment of a hefty case meant for the expensive broadcasting equipment. It was a precautionary measure for the checkpoint.

Sliding the pistol into my waist, I glanced over at the passenger seat.

“Why do you look so serious?”

“Um… It’s nothing much.”

Camila, with her troubled expression, leaned her head against the passenger window.

“I just… feel a bit off.”

“Is it because of what you heard earlier?”

“…”

Camila fell silent. That silence was the answer.

Dust carried by the wind latched onto the glass. The headlight beams refracted through the misty particles, casting light across the ruined roads of the Mauritania Continent.

“Don’t think too much about it.”

I offered words of comfort.

“It’s not worth your concern, nor is it something to feel pity over. They’re not worth it.”

“Why?”

“Camila, do you know why warlords are called warlords?”

They refer to factions with political and military powers that respond independently to a government, controlling specific territories and opposing the government. Intelligence agencies refer to them as pseudo-military organizations or armed groups.

“As you know, warlords in civil war regions tend to be a headache. They check and mine natural resources like minerals, oil, gas, and gold through force. They hunt endangered species, like elephants and gorillas, as they please. They sell whatever they collect overseas for money.”

The funds thus acquired predominantly go towards maintaining their warlord existence. Recruiting troops, buying equipment; the pennies that trickle down to the local people are negligible.

Regional development? That would be a fairy tale. These crooks even pillage relief supplies sent by foreign governments and NGOs. How could they worry about the future of the region or its residents?

“Thus, most intelligence agencies don’t view warlords positively. While some maintain a casual relationship, they avoid forming close alliances.”

“Why’s that?” I inquired.

“Um… I suppose due to international awareness?”

“Because they aren’t human beings.”

I pronounced the truth decisively.

“Warlords are less than beasts. Claims of resisting external forces or opposing dictatorship are nothing but flashy slogans used to line their own pockets. You know, right? It’s the same game with the Taliban selling opium harvested from Afghanistan.”

“…I know.”

They treat their relations closely yet comfortably, opting not to become friends but to maintain a usable relationship. Using each other as needed, only to toss the other away when things go awry—a cheap one-time-use arrangement.

Such is the nature of relationships between warlords and intelligence agencies.

“Other warlords do the same. That’s the most profitable model for business.”

Warlords thrive on war. Wars are profitable. Wars are business.

Thus, warlords cannot aspire to be partisans dreaming of social reform or revolution. They are merely immense profit-accumulating entities.

“Warlords here are no exception. Asen, Sanya, Hassan—all three possess drug manufacturing facilities. They’ve even clashed trying to seize drug-producing lands under Hassan’s tribe during this spring.”

“They aren’t clean folks, then.”

“They’re filthy scum.”

I fished out the photo again.

“Of course, I’m not defending the government here either. The current president has been a dictatorial fiend for fourteen years, making a mess of the nation. Why would I support anyone? It’s commonplace to capture innocents and beat them up. The stories you heard earlier are no different. Did you catch that journalists report to the military?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“What that means is that this isn’t about reporting; it’s more of intelligence agents bullying journalists to extract information. That’s just the nature of intelligence agencies in a dictatorship.”

They direct journalists to write articles aligning with government narratives and kidnap those deemed problematic, mercilessly pummeling them. Just like how Dmitri, who I keep as an informant, was treated. Writing articles against the royal family, he was seized by the information police and tortured for months. Expelled and nearly thrown into a magic tower as a consequence.

The Mauritania Continent is no less severe than an empire; it might even be worse.

Yet, ultimately, it’s all the same dish in a different bowl.

I switched on the high beams to see the path clearer as the residents roamed the rough road bordering unpaved and paved streets.

“But what if the warlords let this slide?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“If a journalist is clearly cooperating with the government military, would they let the journalist walk away freely?”

Camila took the photograph I handed her. It was a picture she well recognized.

A war correspondent’s photo of the conflict between Asen and Sanya.

As I gestured toward the photo while keeping my gaze forward, I spoke, “The war correspondent who took that picture was killed here last September.”

Camila stared at me, silent as she absorbed my words.

After a soft sigh, I delivered everything I knew.

“He died while covering the Sanya Tribe’s territory. A bullet penetrated from his helmet through the neck portion of his ballistic vest, killing him instantly. I don’t know who did it—whether it was Asen, Hassan, or perhaps a sniper from the government forces.”

“…”

“But it gets worse; the guy who took that picture was a friend of my informant. A fellow journalist working to expose the dictator with me… He died while following the military reclaiming warlord territory. It was during an operation at a mine seized by Sanya.”

At that moment, as I shared the details of his death, Camila, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up.

“If he was wearing a ballistic vest and helmet, they would have recognized he was a journalist from afar.”

I caressed the steering wheel as I replied, “…yeah, that’s how it turned out.”

“They must have targeted him.”

“That’s hard to say. I wasn’t there—or shooting it either. But one thing is for sure.”

“And what’s that?”

“Camila doesn’t need to feel pity for them. Not the warlords or the government forces.”

“…”

“I can’t speak for that journalist, though.”

With her knees drawn up, Camila set the photograph on her lap and closed her eyes. It looked almost like she was in prayer.

Whom she prayed for or why, I couldn’t possibly know, and I didn’t want to interfere.

As I pressed down harder on the accelerator, the engine began to roar.

Having crossed the boundary, the vehicle charged ahead on asphalt and sped toward the city.

—

The following day.

The Al Bas Tribe sent word.

It was news that a high-ranking official was intending to summon us.