A Dark Fantasy Spy

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A cool breeze slipped through the window.

The prayers of the Al Yabd believers floated in with the wind, and as I raised the curtains with my fingers, the locals kneeling in the yard, kissing the ground, came into view.

I cautiously entered the garage to work on the vehicle.

The SUV that Victor had provided was an older model, but its off-road capability and fuel efficiency made it a fantastic choice.

[I’ve just changed the engine oil and filled it up. The inspection was done at headquarters beforehand. There’s a spare fuel canister inside the car, right? It’s premium fuel mixed with high-purity magic powder guaranteed by the Ivory Tower. If even those finicky potion makers vouch for it, you can imagine how good it is. It’s hard to find around here, so use it sparingly.]

A note scrawled in crude handwriting emerged from the glove box. It was an orc’s letter, showing consideration for me as I traveled through the rural town.

Imagining a troll-sized being sitting at a desk writing a letter made me chuckle.

“…What the heck. Why are they giving me this?”

I pulled out a lighter and set the note on fire for security.

As I lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke repeatedly, I did one last check to see if I needed anything else.

“Let’s see… we’ve got fuel, bottled water, and combat rations. Communication equipment, camera, firearms, and bulletproof vests are all packed.”

This was sufficient. Finally, I made sure to pack a thick wallet. You never know when you might need to bribe someone, so I brought as much money as I could.

After completing the check, I tossed the household trash that had accumulated overnight into the incinerator. It should be fine to move now that the dawn prayers were wrapping up.

“Get up, Camila!”

“…Ugh.”

When I shouted toward the upper floor, the response was just a groggy sound. Camila stepped out, appearing disheveled.

“…I’ll be there.”

“Hurry and get ready.”

I replied, putting on my sunglasses.

“We’re off to play journalist.”

—

Episode 16 – The $6 Million Man

We climbed into the old SUV and headed to the territory of the Al Bas Tribe. As usual, I took the driver’s seat, and Camila, who didn’t have a license, rode shotgun.

“Any exciting news today?” I asked.

“Well, there’s been a lot of intel coming in,” Camila replied, placing a Military Intelligence Agency terminal on her lap and scrolling through it. The screen was filled with reports from the Abbas Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the local Kien Empire embassy, international news reports, and public information released by the local government.

Her skills, honed during her internship at a British intelligence agency, shone brightly here. Camila rapidly summarized the flood of intel as if it were nothing.

“The government army spokesperson made an important announcement last night. They declared a curfew in the capital area from 10 PM to 5 AM the next day.”

The local government had declared a nighttime curfew. This meant movement would be restricted from 10 PM until 5 AM the following morning.

“Anyone moving during that time will be arrested, regardless of their purpose. Foreigners need permission from the Ministry of Interior to move.”

“The capital area is quite a distance from here. Is there any news about the curfew extending to other areas?”

“Not yet. They say the area covered will be limited to the capital. However, since they haven’t mentioned a specific end date, some foreign reporters speculate it could be a prelude to a state of emergency declaration.”

“Is that just speculation? Or is there an official source?”

“It was based on an interview with an institute studying the political situation in the Mauritania Continent.”

This wasn’t promising news.

The curfew could escalate into a state of emergency at any time. If a state of emergency is declared nationwide, all foreigners become subjects of scrutiny, and war correspondents and foreign reporters would essentially be under special watch.

I subtly checked the communication equipment packed in the trunk, planning to reach out to the company if I had the opportunity.

“Anything else?”

“There are reports that a warlord has occupied the water supply facility in the northern region. It’s marked as the territory of Group 1.”

So, the faction over there probably attacked to secure clean water.

Camila, citing a report from an international organization, explained how dire the local water situation was. Due to the warlord’s activities, the water supply system was largely inoperable, and the facilities that were built had been deemed unsuitable for years due to government neglect.

“Thus, the locals primarily use wells, rainwater, and river water. Unfortunately, due to hygiene issues, there are annual infant mortality rates.”

“How about the eastern region?”

The eastern region primarily consists of the territory of the Hassan Tribe, which is where we would be mainly operating for the time being.

Looking for reports, Camila frowned slightly.

“They say the eastern region has its share of problems as well.”

What a mess.

I calculated the amount of bottled water stored in the back seat and trunk.

Even if Camila and I used 3 liters each per day, we had enough water for about three days. Of course, this was considering only drinking.

Still, with that amount, we could spare some for enlisting locals. Camila agreed it was a good idea.

“That sounds like a good plan. The locals would likely appreciate clean drinking water.”

“But once it’s gone, we’ll need to find our own water, you know?”

Wells, rainwater, river water. These three can easily lead to trouble if you consume the wrong thing.

We had to conserve bottled water above all in the desert. Running out of water out here could mean actual death.

“We should aim to buy them off with money, if possible.”

“That could work too.”

Once Camila finished gathering enough information, she closed the terminal. She then pulled out printed materials detailing the organization, territory, and members of the Group 3 we were to meet today.

“Who exactly are we meeting today?”

As she perused the materials, Camila posed the question. I maneuvered the vehicle as we exited the interchange and replied.

“Nayan Al Bas.”

“Nayan, Nayan Al Bas… Ah, here it is. But…”

Camila’s voice trailed off as she checked the information.

She stared at the paper and then looked up at me.

“Is this person really coming?”

“Yes.”

Nayan Al Bas, the leader of the Al Bas Tribe from the Hassan Warlord faction.

And also the cousin of Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.

“We’re on our way to meet him now.”

He was our first target.

—

The Al Bas Tribe is affiliated with the Hassan Warlord. They govern the eastern “border,” a critical strategic point leading to the capital, meaning their influence is significant within the warlord faction.

And the one leading that important tribe is none other than Nayan Al Bas.

Cousin to the leader of the Hassan Warlord and in charge of acquiring funds and troops.

“Well, there may be five or six cousins, but this fellow has a particularly close relationship with Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.”

They were childhood neighbors and often visited each other. They even attended school together.

Considering that the average educational level in the Mauritania Continent is significantly lower than that of South Korea immediately after the Korean War, these two would be seen as ‘intellectuals’ by local standards.

“They finished elementary school together and even attended the Academy. Nayan did enroll in college but dropped out in his freshman year due to succession issues in the warlord faction.”

“Succession issues?”

“The chieftain of the Al Bas suddenly passed away. The cause was poisoning. It was an assassination.”

As a result, Nayan became separated from Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan. Nasir had to drop out in his senior year as the Hassan Warlords began facing scrutiny from the government army, but the friendship between the cousins remained unchanged throughout their time at the Academy and campus.

“Thanks to that, Nayan Al Bas has assumed a critical role in recruiting funds and troops for the Hassan Warlord.”

“That means he is sitting in a position solely based on connections, huh?”

Though I spoke this negatively, unfortunately, tribalism is a deeply rooted aspect of the Mauritania Continent.

In this place, even someone like Kim Young-sam, who rose to prominence through a populist approach, would have to bow down. If locals prioritize their tribes, they’ll think, “Then aren’t we family? We’re not strangers.” This sentiment is also prevalent in Africa and the Middle East.

At this point, Camila began to chuckle, seemingly finding it amusing that such an important position would be entrusted to a relative.

I steered the car and corrected her thoughts.

“It may sound strange, but at the time, Nayan was a suitable person for the recruiting role. He majored in accounting.”

“He must have studied hard, especially in math. Was his counting fast?”

“That’s part of it, but the biggest reason was trust and debt awareness. His father was assassinated when he was only 20.”

“Oh.”

It seemed the leader of the Hassan Warlord kept Nayan, whose father had been taken from him by assassination the moment he became an adult, close to his heart. He frequently sent gifts to Nayan, who longed for life in the capital, and relayed letters from his school friends.

The local intelligence agency was keenly aware of this heart-wrenching familial bond.

Records of communications exchanged between Nayan and the Hassan Warlord were used by the intelligence agency to monitor Nasir. They monitored him so intensely that Nasir’s close friends distanced themselves from him.

The Military Intelligence Agency assessed that this experience indirectly contributed to Nasir’s fierce resistance against the government army after he ascended as the leader of Al Hassan.

In other words,

“Nayan Al Bas, the chieftain of Al Bas, is the closest relative and ally of Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan, the leader of the Hassan Warlord. We’ll dig right into that connection.”

I maneuvered the SUV through a narrow alley and approached a building. A shabby wall with green propaganda, bravely fluttering flags—the very building we had visited yesterday.

Matching the signals from the soldiers dressed in casual civilian attire (tank tops, worn shorts, sandals), I parked in the lot. I received a parking ticket handwritten by a tribe member.

“What? Three hours of free parking, but after that, it’s 5 takron every 15 minutes?”

Five takron would be enough to treat myself to an imperial-style dumpling session at a stall in the Kien Empire. Packed with rich ingredients to endure the cold, just one would fill you up.

But to park on dirt and pay for dumplings every 15 minutes? Those thieving rascals. They’d be better off accepting a bribe, you bastards.

“…”

As anger brewed within, I suppressed it with a water bottle. Just then, Camila, who was sipping water, nudged me on the shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Look over there. The people we met yesterday are here again.”

“What?”

I turned my head following Camila’s finger. In front of the shabby building stood the two individuals we had met in the interrogation room yesterday.

Dressed in shabby suits and traditional garments, the duo approached, waving happily.

“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you. Nice to see you, journalist. We’ve met again.”

Gone was my doubt about them being agents from the intelligence agency. After clearing up the misunderstanding, they waved, looking delighted.

As the man greeted us, the woman stepped closer to explain. Stripped of grandiose phrases, the summary was simple: they wanted to act as our guides while we stayed in the tribe’s territory.

Camila cocked her head, puzzled.

“A guide?”

The man replied in clumsy Kien, “We. Locals. You. Foreigners. Here. Very dangerous. Need help. Must.”

“That’s what they say… what do you think we should do?”

For a war correspondent, having local guides could be a great help. Intelligence agents avoid hiring guides to prevent unnecessary contact, but as journalists, we might need them.

Of course, whether they would purely play the role of a guide or serve as our watchers was a truth only they knew.

If they were sent from the warlord, they’d definitely report back up the chain. Perhaps we could use that report to our advantage.

“That sounds good. Welcome. I’ll introduce myself properly. I’m Asud, here to cover the civil war.”

“Welcome. Very much.”

The man clasped my hand warmly. Just as I was shaking hands, a peculiar smell began to invade my nose.

Could it be body odor? Or what kind of nasty smell was emanating from their bodies? They say it’s a water-scarce country (fact), but now they don’t even wash?

Lost in such thoughts, an unusual sight unfolded before me. The woman, having greeted Camila, approached the SUV.

“Hey, we already went through security…”

Ignoring my remark, the woman opened the back door of the SUV and began to pull out a small water bottle.

What the hell? Is this a hidden camera? Why are they acting like this? As I watched in confusion, the man also started pulling out water bottles to drink from.

“Why are you drinking that water…?”

“Friend!”

The man clasped my hand tightly.

“We. Friends! Water. Sharing.”

“No…”

“Very grateful. Tears flowing.”

What the heck? They didn’t share it, they just took it without permission.

Biting back my rising anger, I wanted to smack them but restrained myself, thanks to Camila’s intervention.

Having accumulated years of experience in medical volunteer work in conflict zones, Camila offered me a sympathetic look.

“Stay calm, Frederick. No matter how much you dislike them, you can’t start a fight.”

“After seeing that, you want me to stay calm?”

“If the urge is to beat them up, then do it where no one is watching.”

“…Ah!”

To beat them where there’s no surveillance—what a clear answer!

Since a scholarly Brit was advising me not to fight, I stepped back for now. The duo who had snatched a 500ml water bottle stuffed a handful of bottles into their vehicle before departing.

“Here, take this too.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s a snack.”

As I witnessed this scene, Camila handed energy bars to the two rascals. These were emergency rations I had stuffed in amidst the leftover space.

Camila pulled out a few and handed them to the locals, saying a very warm sentiment.

“Take it and share it with your friends. It’s got chocolate, so it’s okay for kids. There are nuts inside too.”

Giving snacks to someone who just grabbed our water was an action that even Jesus would be astonished by.

Seeing Camila’s act of kindness left me shocked.

“No, this isn’t the concept behind this. Didn’t you say you were acting like a standoffish magician earlier?”

“Being kind is easier for connection than being prickly, don’t you think? Who knows, maybe if we get close, they’ll tell us good information.”

Maybe because she was British? She had a knack for dealing with these folks. It really shows why companies prefer hiring experienced professionals.

“Thank you very much.”

“Overwhelmingly grateful.”

The duo, having received the energy bars, expressed their thanks and shook hands with Camila. They also gave me their thanks.

From this perspective, they didn’t seem bad at all. But I still questioned why they snatched our water without permission.

Anyway, what a confusing, absurd place this is.

“…You should probably stay put in the office.”

“Hmm? What did you say?”

“Just muttering to myself.”

Anyway, having stocked the bandits’ supplies, it was time for them to show us their gratitude. The two, grinning broadly, began to lead the way.

—

The place led by the warlord duo was somewhere blocks away from the building. I used vague expressions to denote the unclear location because I couldn’t even be sure of where I was.

We navigated through a maze of streets and buildings. As we followed the duo, people who seemed to be warlord members watched us from a distance and suddenly signaled.

What stood out was their age. The individuals signaling to one another were all minors. Some looked like high school boys, while others appeared to have just started elementary school.

The one commonality among all these children was that they were presumed to belong to the Hassan Warlord.

That meant these kids were child soldiers.

“…”

As I realized this fact, Camila’s expression darkened.

I had anticipated that she, being observant, would catch on to this eventually, but I was surprised it happened this quickly.

I took a passive glance at the faces of the child soldiers. The faces of those young children began to overlay with others I had seen in different locations.

Liberia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Mexico…

“…”

One child soldier met my gaze and turned to look at his friend.

The kids, who looked like they could be in middle school, were idly sitting in the filthy hallway of a communal entrance, playing with dirt in a flowerbed.

Without even a glass window, a mother wrapping a baby in a cloth stood behind a gaping window, while two old rifles hung on the wall of the living room.

What a ridiculous country. Kids definitely shouldn’t be here. As we continued following the warlord duo, I whispered softly to Camila.

“Should we turn back?”

“…Where to?”

“Anywhere. Kien is fine, Abas too, the Magic Tower or the Cult would be okay. Or perhaps Patalia where Francesca is.”

We could probably take a month off at the villa and leisurely return to the Empire.

Duke Alexandra Petrovna would surely ensure Francesca received news, and she’d be relieved to wait.

But the answer that came back matched exactly what I expected.

“I don’t want to.”

Camila, walking next to me, elbowed me in the ribs.

“We’re just going to figure out what you’re planning to do once I disappear. Where would I go leaving you behind?”

“…”

Now she’s treating me like a kid.

“Who’s looking out for whom here?”

“It seems we’ve arrived.”

After walking for a while, the warlord duo halted in front of a building.

It was a magnificent residence.

It seemed like a grand house where a renowned minister would live, or perhaps a grand mansion befitting a local dignitary.

What stood out was the armed guards surrounding the mansion with automatic rifles. I looked around and felt sure.

We had arrived, indeed.

“Come on in.”

Camila and I entered the mansion under the guidance of the duo. Was it because they were expecting us? Several armed soldiers began accompanying us.

After passing through the marble-floored lobby and climbing the stairs, we were finally able to meet the mansion’s master in a well-furnished room on the third floor with a great view.

“Journalists, huh?”

The elderly local leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the desk, exuding an aura of arrogance.

“Yes, I’m Asud,” I replied.

He slowly turned around. Behind him stood a local man in his 30s and a woman draped in robes, both standing guard like sentinels by the old man.

“Nice to meet you, Asud.”

Though it was our first meeting, his figure seemed familiar.

“I am Nayan Al Bas.”

He extended his hand, offering a handshake.

“I am the chieftain of the Al Bas Tribe.”