A Dark Fantasy Spy

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A black wave crashes against the golden fields, and a grotesque noise slices through the blue sky.

The sound of thousands of locusts rubbing their wings together is more bizarre and revolting than I could have imagined.

Where the black swarm of locusts left, flames rise up to scorch the vegetation.

The flames, swaying in the wind above the overgrown underbrush, create a surreal atmosphere.

Led by a decrepit SUV, a convoy of vehicles begins its descent down the hillside.

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

We split into different vehicles and headed down to the village.

The SUV, racing down the steep hillside, quickly caught the eyes of the residents.

As I passed through the village entrance and peered into what seemed to be the square, my senses were heightened, likely due to the recent monster attack. Or perhaps it was just that a foreigner was a rare sight. The faces of the locals flickered with visible wariness as they passed by the window.

I parked the vehicle briefly in the square and gestured for the Warlord Duo to come over.

“Could someone please explain what the hell happened?”

*

As the members of the Al Bas Tribe explained the situation, the eyes of the hostile townsfolk softened slightly.

After parking in the square and waiting a bit, the village elders soon made their appearance. They introduced themselves as the Village Chief and the Elders, delivering their message through an interpreter.

“They’re welcoming us to the village.”

Farid Al Bas translated the Elder’s words into Kien.

“This gentleman is an Elder here. He keeps repeating how thankful he is for eradicating the monster. They appreciate our long journey here.”

He swiftly interpreted the back-and-forth conversation between the Elder and the war correspondent. His skill level was nearly simultaneous interpretation, and considering that Farid’s major was journalism rather than translation, it could hardly be called anything less than impressive.

On top of his quick interpretation, he enunciated with precise standard pronunciation. His study abroad experience in a country neighboring the Kien Empire seemed to be the source of that translation ability.

“They understand that the village isn’t wealthy and that they can’t host guests right now because of the recent locust attack.”

“That’s okay. It’s only natural to help when lives are at stake.”

The Village Chief and Elders warmly welcomed the foreigner who had just appeared in their village, knowing one of the foreigners was the very person who turn the murderous locusts to ash.

The Al Bas Tribe members gathered the villagers to vividly recount what they had witnessed.

The story of the magician who blew away the swarm of locusts that had filled the fields with a mere gesture.

And that magician was none other than Camila.

“Heh.”

Thanks to that, she could hear praises about herself from the surroundings with an air of arrogance.

While the residents praised Camila as a heroine, Farid raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Where on earth did you find such a skilled magician?”

I shrugged my shoulders in silence.

Farid translated all the residents’ stories to me as villagers approached, centering around the Village Chief and the Elders.

I was curious about why he suddenly decided to take on the role of interpreter after sitting quietly till now, but there was no time to ponder that.

With a competent interpreter at my side, I began inquiring about the village’s situation, asking about its size, the number of residents, the main routes, and the surrounding geographical features, and so on.

All of this was part of intelligence gathering.

I should have done this basic research before coming on this mission. The Military Intelligence Agency, having received information that conflicts in allied nations were set to escalate, had withdrawn all reconnaissance assets from this area, making it my responsibility to personally handle all information gathering.

Fortunately, the local residents didn’t seem to be wary of the foreigner bombarding them with questions. The Warlord’s associates had introduced me as a journalist, providing sufficient background.

Of course, the presence of the eloquent Farid was also a major positive factor.

“So, you’re saying around 70 people reside here.”

“Actually, it’s 64, excluding those who’ve just passed away.”

Farid was quite diligent in cooperating with my inquiries. It was hard to believe he was the same person who had ordered his subordinates to serve the guests.

Feeling suspicious about his sudden enthusiasm, I asked, “Why the change all of a sudden?”

“Oh? That thing from this morning? I had my reasons back then.”

“Reasons?”

I probed further.

Farid gave an awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh, it’s that, I’m not too fond of getting involved in tribal affairs.”

“Involved in tribal affairs?”

“More precisely, it’s my father’s affairs. You know Asud, right? My father. Nayan Al Bas is quite a person.”

With that, a hypothesis suddenly crossed my mind, followed soon after by a realization from Farid himself.

“My father is the accountant for the Warlord. Everyone claims my father is a remarkable person who does good work, and my uncle is the same, but I think that’s quite mistaken.”

The term ‘uncle’ here refers to his father’s cousin. Nayan Al Bas’s cousin was Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan, the leader of the third group.

So, Farid was, as I suspected, someone harboring doubts about the tribe. To be more precise, he didn’t think highly of the entire Hassan Warlord regime the Al Bas belonged to.

This suspicion was soon confirmed, right from his own mouth.

“Honestly, I’ve had the privilege of studying abroad because of my father, but I have a vague idea of where that tuition came from. That’s why I didn’t want to come back here.”

“…”

“I thought that once I obtained a degree in journalism, I could get a job with a newspaper or broadcasting company. I thought even if it wasn’t an overseas media outlet, I could become a journalist here and be selected as a correspondent to go abroad. Who would have guessed? The president would shut down all the newspapers.”

“Media censorship is common for dictators.”

Farid smiled calmly, a bitter expression hanging at the corners of his mouth.

“…That’s just how it is. Don’t worry about it too much.”

He might think of this conversation as a trivial complaint, but the discussion was precious intelligence to me.

The prospect of recruiting the favored son of the Al Bas tribe chief into the intelligence network had opened up.

Of course, conversations about intelligence were too early for a budding journalist.

“I’ll apologize for the cold treatment this morning! My father assigned me an unexpected task. I didn’t like working with his subordinates.”

“I understand.”

Farid slightly bowed his head in apology. He turned out to be a decent person, better than I had expected. He had a human touch, unlike the usual children of warlords.

Having cleared the misunderstanding, Farid and I returned to the main topic.

“This area marks the northernmost territory of the Al Bas tribe that my father leads. All the people here fall under his influence.”

He began to explain about the outlying village with surprising confidence.

Despite his desire to stay out of tribal matters, he seemed to know quite a lot. This was in line with what his father had promised.

Farid recounted the backstory of how this village came into being. According to him, this place was not originally part of Al Bas territory.

“This village didn’t even exist until two years ago.”

“Two years? So, it’s a recently established village.”

“Yes. It was formed by people who moved here from Asen, following relatives.”

A clan village. It’s a term I hadn’t heard in a while.

A clan village refers to a settlement formed by people of the same surname. Names like the Tang family in Sichuan or the Peng family in Hebei qualify as examples.

Such clan villages are usually marked by a closed-off nature, attributed to the tight-knit cultural ties typical of rural life.

“What drove the residents from Asen to here?”

“Government forces’ oppression. There were conflicts within the Asen Tribe as well. You could also consider them temporary refugees.”

“What’s the relationship between the Al Bas tribe and this village?”

“Our tribe and this place? We know each other as just neighbors. In reality….”

Farid looked around.

A barren field and a remote village spread out before us.

“The tribe isn’t really concerned. It’s so far out here.”

“So, Hassan believes this place isn’t a strategic stronghold.”

“I’m not sure about that. I prefer not to get involved in those matters….”

A cluster of monsters had established themselves at the northernmost edge of the territory, forming a clan village.

It felt like they were gathering all the words I wanted to avoid. There was a vibe of being under tribal control yet still being neglected, which weighed on my mind.

I quickly scanned the village, assessing potential risks.

“How far is the nearest village or town from here?”

“The village you just reported on is nearby, and the town is about a five-hour drive away. But why do you suddenly ask?”

“Just curious.”

A map of the Al Bas territory formed in my mind. A village of 200 people is two hours away, while a small town of 3,800 is five hours away.

I asked the son of the warlord’s accountant, “Are there stationed troops in the nearby town?”

“Troops? Well, there are police, but they’re not military.”

“Police?”

“Police operating in tribal territory. Filled with tribe members.”

I had no way of knowing exactly how competent those police forces were, but at least the fact that reinforcements could be requested brought me some relief.

We wandered through the village, observing the daily lives of the residents.

Luck was on our side when we came across an open house, and peering inside revealed a rustic scene with just an old radio and a lonely lightbulb.

Nothing but that could be expected in a rural area. But where did that radio come from?

“Where do the villagers get necessities or electronics?”

“I heard people saying they have a peddler who comes by regularly from the city. If they need something, they get it through him.”

So it was the classic ‘dai gong’ (a term for someone who transports goods across areas)?

I was aware of foot peddlers traveling between third-world remote villages. It’s common and I had disguised myself as one before.

Together with Farid, I left the village and headed toward the fields.

Where the murderous locusts had swept through, nothing remained. No crops, no grass, no trees, not even the workers who had been there.

However, thanks to the timely formation of a defensive line, we could protect much of the farmland from the locusts.

A few thin adult men were squatting down by a well, gathering water with mud to control the fire. Meanwhile, a man who looked like a leader pointed at us who were photographing the scene.

As I stood waiting, an elderly man approached, tapping his staff gently. Farid listened to the elder’s words and nodded before translating for me.

“He says we can look around, but he doesn’t want us taking pictures. It frightens the people.”

I cautiously tucked my cheap camera into my coat. The elder then smiled gently and greeted us with a short phrase in Kien.

“Welcome.”

There was no need for further interpretation of that.

While Farid was guiding the elder to a nearby rock to sit, I began observing the young men around.

Their nutritional and hygiene conditions were not great, but they were very composed, working in an orderly fashion while simultaneously keeping an eye on me.

I noticed an implicit hierarchy in the signals and orders exchanged among them. I quickly summoned Farid to clarify their identities.

“Those people?”

Farid glanced at the young men and replied, “They call themselves a self-defense group.”

“A self-defense group?”

“Because of the dangers lurking near the borders.”

The son of the Al Bas tribe chief smiled wryly.

“Monsters, robbers, raiders, soldiers — it’s an area where enemies outnumber guests. Apparently, raiders had a field day here last year due to famine.”

I silently nodded.

“Sometimes, humans are more dangerous than monsters.”

It has always been that way.

*

As the murderous locusts retreated and the situation began to settle, villagers started gathering once again.

A somber atmosphere lingered over the village, now reduced to just about 60 people. The weight of grief for the lost lives and livelihoods pressed heavily on their hearts.

Yet amid all this, a lively spirit suffused the village center.

“Wow!”

The villagers warmly welcomed the warlord’s people along with the two foreigners.

The fervor was overwhelmingly intense.

Bonfires erupted everywhere, and food surrounded them. The people gathering around to soak in the warmth were all wearing smiles.

At the center of it all was a girl with red hair.

“Yay!”

Camila, having received a warm welcome from the villagers, bounced around in excitement.

“Did you see? Did you see?!”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“As I shot out flames, the locusts just — poof!”

Having saved the villagers from the attack of the murderous locusts, Camila instantly became a hero.

The Village Chief and Elders warmly received the foreign magician who had saved lives and the village.

“Try this! It’s delicious!”

Camila thrust a skewer of lamb at me.

“Okay, okay, just calm down a bit….”

“Wow. What on earth is this flavor? The spices are unique and really good.”

“Ugh.”

The British magician (former Muggle, current aspired spy) devoured the food served with frenetic enthusiasm.

The village women, hosting the valuable guest, provided us with food and shelter according to tribal tradition. Despite their modest means, the residents managed to prepare significant local dishes using most of their available ingredients. All for Camila.

Indeed, it was Camila alone who saved the village, but hospitality was extended fairly to all of us.

The villagers believed that without the wizard coming here, they all would have perished in the monster attack, so anyone who guided the magician here was considered a benefactor of the village.

By that logic, it was only natural that I, too, deserved generous treatment.

In fact, as soon as the villagers heard that “the magician came with a war correspondent’s escort,” they prepared a feast that could break the table’s legs.

Yet even amidst that huge array of local delicacies, I found it hard to eat.

The reason was simple.

“Do I have to eat this…?”

The main ingredients of the food were, of course, mostly local produce. While some were brought in from the city, that came from the distribution side of things. The actual storage and cooking were all done in the village.

So, here’s the question.

In a third-world rural town without refrigeration, how are meat and fish stored?

I already knew the answer.

From my experiences roaming around Africa and the Middle East, in such villages, meat isn’t refrigerated; it’s simply left at room temperature. They don’t even have fridges.

Thus, all food items are consumed before they spoil. The problem is, in hot climates, meat spoils easily.

Back in my early days of working in Africa, I once bought a meat dish in a rural restaurant. Sure enough, the dire prophecies of the seniors warning me to be cautious turned into reality that very evening with a terrible food poisoning attack accompanied by a high fever and diarrhea.

Since then, I’ve refrained from eating meat in areas that aren’t big cities. The same goes for fish. Freshwater fish caught from rivers usually teem with parasites, and eating those could lead to spending weeks in a hospital upon returning home.

If that’s the case in Africa and the Middle East, what about the even less developed Mauritania continent?

“….”

I watched Camila as she enthusiastically consumed the food laid out before her without a care in the world, seemingly oblivious to the danger.

“Camila.”

“Yes?”

“Uh, never mind. Just eat a lot.”

The members of the Al Bas tribe and the Warlord Duo were casually grabbing food with their hands. Farid, who had some experience with foreigners, sought a spoon, but sadly, such symbols of civilization did not exist here.

To be honest, I was genuinely worried about their health, but I didn’t need to concern myself about the locals. Their stomachs were probably tougher than mine; who was I to worry?

The meat, which I couldn’t even begin to guess how spoiled it was, and the fish that plainly looked unappetizing.

Out of all those, I chose to eat a grain dish. Using a plastic spoon from my combat rations, I took a spoonful to taste.

“…Mmm.”

The dish I carefully selected was a porridge. I didn’t know its name, but it looked like porridge.

Boiled rice mixed with water spiced up in less than appealing concoction gave me a very familiar flavor.

Ketchup.

Yeah.

The taste in my mouth was unmistakably ketchup.

“….”

A watery, tasteless porridge doused in ketchup. I desperately wanted to fling the spoon away at that indescribably horrible taste, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Not finishing the food prepared for me would be an affront to the host.

And since I’d need something in my stomach to keep an eye on the government forces’ forward base starting tomorrow, I’d have to eat at least something. Combat rations were strictly emergency food, after all; I needed to save them as long as possible.

In the end, I ate one spoonful after another, wrangling with the food.

“Wow, you finished it all? Have another bowl!”

Just then, a woman appeared from who knows where and dumped more porridge into my empty bowl. Holding a green plastic container, she used a ladle to heave generous portions of the unappetizing food.

And as if that wasn’t enough,

“Make sure to try the chicken, too. It’s chicken from the city, brought in a week ago.”

“Uh, do you happen to have any refrigerators in the village…?”

“Refrigerators? No, we sold that last spring. The generator broke down, so we got rid of it too.”

“…….”

“Oh goodness, look at me. You simply must try this fish stew! The Elder specially arranged for it to be pulled in just for the guests….”

Having witnessed that horrific scene, I quietly called out to Camila, who was munching down on the moroccan traditional rice cakes made from grain.

“…Camila.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s just survive.”

“…?”

That very dawn, Camila and I both fell ill from food poisoning.

It was an obvious outcome.