A Dark Fantasy Spy

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The outskirts, detached from mainstream culture, are forever the subject of neglect.

The identity, imbued solely with the region’s climate and characteristics, gets stripped away, homogenized into words like ‘Third World,’ ‘danger,’ ‘terror,’ ‘hunger,’ and ‘religion.’

However, having bravely ventured through Africa and the Middle East, I daresay that region was tough to categorize simply under the label of the ‘Third World.’

The reason is simple: even within the same continent and nation, people may belong to different tribes, speak different languages, and follow different religions. To put it metaphorically, while Westerners lump Korea, China, and Japan together as ‘Asia’, if South Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese were to gather, they might revolt, saying, “How can that guy possibly be the same as me?”

Thus, regions that are often described in shorthand as ‘Third World’ reveal themselves to have significant differences upon deeper examination—are they truly part of the same culture?

In this way, areas that cannot simply be described by the term ‘Third World’ harbor a wealth of anthropological diversity, and at the same time possess a bewildering array of experiences that would make a buffet envious.

For instance…

“Ka, Camila… I’m sorry, but I need to use the restroom…”

“Uwaaaaah!!”

Something like a local disease.

—

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

—

The day after the local business trip.

We contracted food poisoning.

“Ugh…”

“…Are you alright?”

The cost of savoring the local cuisine was harsh.

A high fever that made my brain feel fried, abdominal pains that cut into my gut, and the need to vomit and pass diarrhea led me to contemplate my life in the restroom.

When I brought the thermometer to measure Camila’s forehead, the result was 40.1 degrees.

It was a fever suspicious of acute infection.

Of course, my condition wasn’t all that different.

After enjoying the abundant meal provided by the tribe, we both caught food poisoning together.

Around dawn, my abdominal pain suddenly hit first, waking Camila, who began to complain of a high fever.

There was no time to discuss. At that moment, we instinctively recoiled at the realization that we had food poisoning.

“Drink some water. Slowly.”

The appalling hygiene conditions and severe water contamination on the Mauritania Continent are well known through embassy announcements, international agency reports, and travel guides.

Whether it was because we ate the meat stored at room temperature (emphasizing that the local temperature can exceed 50 degrees) or we caught contaminated freshwater fish from polluted rivers.

Camila, who reveled in her meal, soon found herself lying down and groaning.

“Aren’t you drinking?”

“I drank it earlier. With antibiotics.”

“Do you have any medicine left?”

“Yes.”

I handed Camila the antibiotics and fever reducers.

It was medicine I had bought from a pharmacy, just in case, but little did I expect to use it so soon.

After Camila drained a bottle of bottled water, we lay down for a while, sleeping like corpses until the sun was high in the sky.

When I staggered out to the accommodation, familiar faces were waiting. The warlord duo.

Sitting in the warlord’s vehicle, the duo waved cheerfully and began speaking in short Kien sentences.

“Late sleep. Not good habit. Lunch?”

Lunch? After getting food poisoning from the rice we had eaten yesterday, hell no. No matter how much of a foodie she was, even Camila would have to restrain herself after the current situation.

Without needing to say a word, we both shook our heads. It was the first time my and Camila’s opinions had aligned perfectly since arriving on the Mauritania Continent.

“Sick?”

“Yeah…”

“Where?”

“Food poisoning.”

“Ah!”

The warlord duo began to grin knowingly, as if mocking the foreigner with a weak stomach.

“I understand. This food, very terrible. Disease. Common thing. Need doctor?”

“Is there a doctor in the village?”

“No. But in the city, there is.”

The warlord duo, who shared that there was a doctor in the city, said they would go there themselves. I questioned the necessity of making a five-hour trip just to treat food poisoning.

“City. Have to go. This place. Things. Lacking.”

“Oh, in that case…”

“On the way. Bring doctor. But…”

The warlord duo made a gesture with their hands, rubbing their thumb against their bent index finger.

Oh, hell. Of course. So that’s where they get the doctor.

I handed them rolled cash as they brazenly demanded a bribe. The bandit duo, satisfied after verifying the amount, climbed back into their vehicle.

“Quickly go. Police. Will bring them too.”

“Police? Why the police?”

“In this area. Armed robbers. Occasionally hear gunshots. Very dangerous.”

As they carried on, one of them casually lifted his shirt. What trickery was this? As I stepped closer, the grip of a handgun caught my eye.

Being a warlord, having a pistol was no surprise. Did it mean I didn’t need to worry about them? It was around that moment that the man spoke.

“Gun. Useful. Solo 70,000 Tachron.”

“Go. Please, just go.”

After clearly dismissing the conmen, the only remaining companions we had were our ill bodies and hungry bellies.

Honestly, I’d like to fast, but I needed something to eat to move today. At least to stay alive.

“What should we do about lunch?”

“Let’s eat what we brought first. The food here is absolutely inedible.”

We crawled into the SUV and settled our meals from emergency rations. The “emergency rations” here referred to combat food, with our trunk filled with combat meals supplied to Patalia, Lushan, cults, and even the Kien Empire army.

For reference, there are no combat meals supplied to the Abas army. The unofficial disguise info officer cannot possess anything related to the home country, not even combat rations, medicines, or daily necessities.

Pâté made from pig liver, canned meat releasing a repulsive odor, crackers harder than bricks. What the hell they stuffed in those crackers gives off a strong spice aroma, and the canned meat was tough, resembling chunks of white fat.

Combat rations that I wouldn’t eat even if I were dead, but no, they’re not fit to eat at all.

There were no better options.

“What kind of a crazy idiot made this… Ah, it’s the Empire.”

“The crackers are too hard. How are we supposed to eat this?”

“Try soaking them in water. I don’t know much more than that.”

Knowing that, Camila silently began eating the combat rations.

When we operated in the North, she often carried the interesting combat rations, but that was only once or twice. Now, entrapped by the horrifying taste of combat rations, whenever she saw them, she would dash away like a rabid chihuahua.

Camila was fundamentally a big eater, but also quite a gourmet. It would be far-fetched to think she would willingly consume combat rations while she loves eating as many delicious foods as possible.

Yet there she was, quietly eating combat rations.

The reason, plain and simple: she had witnessed the tribe’s women cooking without washing their hands.

These damned rural bumpkins seemed to lack even the hygiene awareness of washing their hands before cooking, kneading grain flour with dirt-covered hands.

Faced with such a horrifying reality, Camila ultimately gave up on the joy of fine dining for the sake of her health. Who cares if it’s a bit bland? It’s better than dying from illness.

Thus, after finishing their meal in silence, Camila sprawled out on the chair. It would be more accurate to say she lacked even the strength to move, rather than being too lazy to do so.

“What now?”

“You should go inside and rest more.”

I began lacing my shoes as I ventured out the door.

Looking pale, Camila leaned on the chair and asked a question.

“Where are you going? Can’t you just take it easy today…”

A faint sigh escaped my dry lips.

“I have work to do.”

—

The operation proceeded as planned, and time flowed smoothly.

Long-distance monitoring of the government army outpost, border reconnaissance, intelligence collection from locals, terrain mapping, and so on—everything worked out successfully.

I had scouted the border between the three groups under the pretext of an investigation. I examined the nearby villages and verified key border points without omission.

The roads were a particular focus of mine. I checked for the existence of roads mentioned in the data, their condition, and any points not accounted for.

During this process, I took a few photographs. The warlord’s guides were more than happy to let me take pictures when I claimed I was capturing backgrounds for an article. Of course, the photos included suspiciously zoomed-in shots of Hassan Warlord’s significant facilities, but I had switched out the magic film before any censorship could see it, so there were no worries about being caught.

Monitoring the government army’s outpost was far easier than photographing the warlord’s facilities.

The warlord duo and members of the Al Bas Tribe kindly guided me to a hill with a good view, urging me to share the government army’s atrocities. Thanks to this, I managed to capture some pretty decent shots.

For reference, the equipment I used to capture photo information was a high-performance magic camera, similar in performance to the heavy-duty cameras carried by paparazzi. Usually favored by journalists, the Abas army’s special reconnaissance unit also loved using them, and I got a good deal from Jake’s acquaintance who had served in special forces.

In any case, there were plenty of great photos, and sending them over to the Military Intelligence Agency would ensure they’d do the analyzing.

Although Larry, the senior analyst in the Royal Intelligence Department, wasn’t the most likable person, he was exceptionally skilled. His analysis team was no different. Of course, Pippin and Charnoy had decent analytical skills too.

What mattered was that there were people willing to analyze the intelligence on my behalf. I sent all the photos I collected to both my office at the Military Intelligence Agency and the operations team’s base, which should now be in the Lushan Federation.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

But of course, things don’t always go as intended in the world.

While I continued collecting intelligence, I encountered a hurdle.

“Hmm…”

There didn’t seem to be any locals suitable for recruitment as informants.

After wandering the village for two days, I couldn’t find anyone from the warlords or the tribe to provide the vital information I needed.

To be precise, I sought someone who could dig deep for information on the Hassan Warlock and the Al Bas Tribe, rather than someone who merely handled shallow, broad-level details.

For example, information like “Some guy from Group 1 got into a fight with someone from Group 2,” or “Some higher-up from Group 3 had an affair behind his wife’s back.”

I needed an individual skilled at working with such shallow but broad information.

But I failed.

“……”

While I could go hunting for such information myself, as someone acting alone, I couldn’t afford to waste time on trivial matters like those.

Whom could I possibly entrust this task?

Just then, as I pondered that thought…

“…Huh?”

Struggling with my ailing body as I drove the SUV back to the village, a bizarre scene unfolded before me.

Local inhabitants, skinny and wearing tattered clothing, were densely packed into an open area with discolored baskets and buckets slung over their shoulders. Though obscured by the crowd, I caught glimpses of people calmly emerging, carrying large basins.

One peculiar detail stood out: the items they were holding.

These baskets and buckets presumably set up to fetch water, as well as the basins, were filled with pristine-looking water. No, rather boiling water that was steaming vigorously.

Someone was dispensing drinkable clean water to the residents.

“Did an aid organization come?”

I rested my hands on the steering wheel and pondered, only to realize I hadn’t heard any news about any aid group coming here.

I stepped out of the car to take stock of the situation, craning my neck and glancing around until I finally spotted the identity of the person distributing the water.

“Camila!”

“Oh, you’re here?”

“What on earth are you doing over there?”

Camila, crouched down, waved her hand. In front of her stood a massive cauldron, bubbling with water.

With a sound, a broken branch fused with the flames. Camila began poking the firewood with some implement she must have found somewhere.

As I looked around, I noticed similar cauldrons scattered throughout the open area. The air shimmered with the fierce flames, and cauldrons were bubbling vigorously. Buckets were hoisted up and down as residents formed a long line in front of the cauldrons.

With the fire crackling cheerfully, Camila grinned and replied. Her pale face remained unchanged.

“I was distributing water.”

Camila was in the process of giving out water to the townsfolk.

When I asked why she suddenly began this, she responded simply.

“It’s because of the dinner we had last night. We got food poisoning from eating contaminated food prepared with unwashed hands.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“But these town folks have probably lived on that kind of food every day. When I asked why they don’t wash their hands, they said that they thought it wouldn’t matter since the water was dirty anyway.”

It’s infamous that hundreds of thousands die each year in Africa due to dirty water. The use of filthy water leads to the spread of diseases, increasing the demand for clean water. This supply, however, is far surpassed by the demand, which has, in turn, led armed groups to wreak havoc.

Camila wasn’t oblivious to this reality. After all, she had a major in conflict studies and had been a volunteer with organizations like Doctors Without Borders.

Hence, she replied she was boiling water personally.

The townspeople’s reactions were not bad at all. In fact, they were quite positive.

Even if they knew the water was polluted, how many times had they found themselves drinking it? Even people from Africa, who have better hygiene consciousness than the residents of Mauritania, are dying from drinking unboiled water in the countryside. Did those in rural areas who have internet access really perish because they didn’t understand why they should boil their water? Or were they forced to drink first due to an absence of options?

In any case, the townspeople’s attitude towards Camila, who provided them with clean drinking water, was very favorable.

Although merely boiling it wouldn’t filter out the impurities, which bobbed around in the liquid like small boats, the residents gratefully accepted it. They each bowed their heads in thanks to Camila.

I watched that scene with interest.

“…….”

As long as Camila had her magic power, she could boil water 24 hours a day. If she stayed here, clean drinking water could be supplied continuously.

Moreover, one other important point: she could single-handedly scare off swarms of killer locusts. Not just sending them away, but if she so desired, she could burn them all to ashes.

I carefully surveyed the crowd surrounding Camila. I feared someone might be watching.

Sure enough, a few steps away from the crowd, a handful of elders and strong men stood in a good spot. They were intently fixed on Camila, whispering amongst themselves.

As I quietly observed them, the elders and young men, mid-conversation, suddenly seemed to be aware of my gaze and turned to us. Their heads turned away as though nothing had happened.

“…….”

I shifted my focus back to Camila.

She was calmly tending to the cauldron’s fire.

—

Even if she had imperialist ancestors, perhaps she wasn’t fundamentally an imperialist, for Camila’s good deeds continued on for quite a while.

Initially, by boiling well water.

“Could you bring me some gravel and sand? There must be somewhere to clean them and let them dry.”

“Do you need charcoal as well?”

She began creating makeshift filters to strain out impurities floating in the boiled water.

“Do we have enough medicine?”

“We have nothing except for what we are actively eating.”

“Didn’t the warlords go to fetch a doctor? Can we spare a little for the patients?”

She began distributing medicine.

After supplying a significant amount of drinking water to the villagers, Camila unpacked items she had brought from the safe house. Food, blankets, toilet paper, medicine, and more.

In such remote villages, even basic necessities were often treated as precious items. In this place, how highly valued would high-calorie combat food, energy bars, fever reducers, and painkillers be?

Even though she hadn’t been here for even two days, I could easily guess the village’s dire circumstances by observing the residents’ living conditions and attitudes. Just by looking at how they grabbed armfuls of white paper towels.

Recognizing the villagers’ plight, Camila began to provide them with the items they needed. She didn’t charge them anything. I had insisted that she give them out freely.

“Do we really not have to accept it?”

“There’s no point in robbing the peasant’s pockets. Just give it away. Anyway, I’ll have to head back tomorrow.”

The supplies loaded in the SUV were meant for long-term activities. I had brought them just in case anything unexpected happened, but it seemed like I wouldn’t even have time to unpack them.

Thus, there was no reason to keep items taking up space without any proper usage. That’s why we decided to give them without charge.

If I could exchange items that I could get anytime for information, it would benefit me. Of course, antibiotics were the exception. I couldn’t hand those over even if Camila hit my head with a monkey wrench.

Camila pouted while handing out blankets to the housewives.

“How could I possibly hit you with a monkey wrench?”

“I’ve been hit with a monkey wrench before, and it hurt. That memory just came rushing back.”

“Oh please, you’re lying.”

With the villagers receiving a bounty of presents, smiles broke out on their faces. It had only just begun summer on the Mauritania Continent, yet the atmosphere felt like Christmas had come early. It was the kind of ambiance that matched the phrase “like around the globe.”

Vibrant and hopeful.

The villagers repeatedly expressed their gratitude toward Camila. Some placed their hands together and bowed, while others knelt and kissed the ground. The former was a traditional expression of gratitude from the tribe, while the latter was a prayer specific to the followers of Al-Yabd.

It was evident that the plain, sickly-looking mage distributing free essentials moved their hearts. Given the overheated reactions that exploded in the location, it was no surprise that the chief and elders stepped in to calm them down before the situation was brought back under control.

As I stood next to Camila, observing the villagers, I lowered my voice.

“Now that you’ve distributed everything, we should start heading back.”

“Wait a moment. I just need to boil a bit more water.”

“Boiling a bit more won’t make a turbine start turning. Come on, the village has run out of buckets to fetch water.”

The sudden gifts were as abrupt as the farewell that followed.

We returned to our lodging. Rumors of Camila’s ill health had spread, and she began receiving a stream of deliveries: medicinal herbs from the nearby mountains, expired medications, and local foods rich in folk remedies.

Among them was a potion whose origin was questionable. The old woman delivering it insisted it was a miraculous cure made in the Magic Tower. Yet neither I nor Camila had ever seen such a potion.

To be honest, the potion given by the villager was a counterfeit. More precisely, it was a potion that had been swindled.

Even though the potions from the Magic Tower aren’t as superb as those produced by alchemists associated with the Ivory Tower, their quality certainly doesn’t lag behind. It’s the relationship between Samsung’s S series and Apple’s iPhone. Ultimately, they’re essentially equally excellent products but users differentiate which one is superior based on their experiences.

When a remarkable product exists, it’s only natural that counterfeits should come into being. Even now, there are likely small-scale artisans around the globe attaching ‘Made in Magic Tower’ labels to mysterious counterfeit potions. This potion was precisely one of those.

It was unreasonable to reject a gift of something I deemed important.

However, as someone with no knowledge of magic, I quietly dumped that suspicious substance down the drain.

“But if you discard that down the drain, isn’t it against the magical waste disposal laws? Didn’t the professor stress never to carelessly throw away failed potions?”

“That’s true. So when you visit the Magic Tower’s drain, you see all sorts of shit floating in there. Like that 30-meter crocodile you captured.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? What if we get caught by the police?!”

“The waste management laws mean squat; they just go check restaurant hygienics. Who knows how they treat food hygiene management laws…”

While the gift rush continued for a while, the chief and elders once again stepped in to calm the escalating atmosphere.

They told the surrounding villagers to return home for the time being. They assured them they would convey the gratitude on behalf of the village to us. They added how the guests would surely understand.

With a skilled choice of words, logical reasoning, and the authority of the elders, they managed to scatter the villagers. The elders presented us with the gifts left behind by the villagers. And true to their word, they conveyed their appreciation.

“Thank you. The village has been blessed once again.”

The elder bowed his head.

As I observed that, Farid chimed in.

“…That is what they conveyed.”

Now acting as the interpreter while filling water beside Camila, he had somehow transformed into a competent translator.

When I inquired how he had ended up distributing water there, he replied that he had been quick to lend a hand when suddenly asked. It seemed he might have been a bit slow on the uptake.

In any case, he was proving valuable as a translator at that moment.

Farid relayed every word the chief and elders spilled with flair. While Camila could converse fluently, I could only discern the public languages of the Mauritania Continent, so if someone spoke in a local dialect, I had to depend entirely on the locals’ help.

“They are truly thankful for your presence. They say if the tribe ever needs assistance, we should feel free to ask.”

“Well, it’s just something normal for me to do.”

“Ah, they’re saying your kindness is commendable. They believe such a good person’s arrival in the village must be a sign from God. Yes, that’s what they’re saying.”

Camila chuckled, scratching her head.

While the elder thanked Camila, among the distant elders, a few began whispering among themselves. It was the chief and the remaining elders.

They were conversing seriously, yet even amidst their conversation, their gazes remained fixed on Camila and me.

“…Hmm.”

The chief approached Camila, adjusting his voice expectantly as if he were hopeful about something.

Farid translated his words.

“He inquired how long you plan to stay in the village.”

I immediately responded.

“Please tell them we’ll set off at dawn.”

Farid swiftly translated my words. After hearing the response from the local, the chief nodded, alternating his gaze between us before leading the elders away from our lodging.

I took a sip of the bottled water left in the SUV.

My condition was far from good, but it had improved significantly since the morning. The fever had lowered, and my mind felt clearer.

“Camila, let’s sleep early tonight.”

“Uh? Why suddenly?”

As she looked out the window, Camila turned to me. The sky outside was gradually darkening as if it were dusk.

“Isn’t this too early to sleep? It’s still midday.”

“Umm…”

I casually replied, tapping rhythmically on the door and window of our lodging, making it seem like it was no big deal.

“If we don’t sleep now, I feel like we’ll regret it tomorrow.”