A Dark Fantasy Spy

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The source of all evil in world history lies in the island nation of Europe, Britain, and the reason the Middle East, Africa, and Latin America turned into a mess in the 21st century is due to the United States and the Soviet Union.

So what caused the disaster on the Mauritania Continent?

Scholars have varying opinions on this question.

Some believe that the geographical features of Mauritania, characterized by flatlands, combined with high corruption and rampant tribalism, made it unable to fend off the onslaught of monsters, resulting in a chain of tragedies.

There’s a viewpoint that because the government lost control and the borders crumbled under the pressure of monsters pouring in from the savannah and desert, tribal warlords rose to power.

On the other hand, some argue that the suffering of the Mauritania Continent is due to great powers.

Just like the Western powers plundered colonies in history, great powers including Abas and Kien have robbed the poor to fill their coffers.

This was a claim supported by politicians advocating for Mauritania centrism.

Thus, the reasons for Mauritania’s transformation into chaos differ among scholars and politicians.

However, there is no disagreement on the fact that the current situation in Mauritania is dire.

I do not agree with any of the hypotheses or claims. Political neutrality is essential for me as a civil servant, not a choice. Nonetheless, I deeply resonate with the view that the future of this place doesn’t look very bright.

Let’s focus on the present, not the past.

The Mauritania Continent is rife with warlords and terrorist organizations. While their political and religious inclinations differ, these armed groups are fundamentally tribal alliances.

As is typical in regions where tribalism prevails, they tend to band together based on blood relations. Thus, dozens of tribes came together to form warlords centered around a few large tribes.

Warlords with different regions, languages, and even tribes started encroaching upon each other’s territories, and the outcome was painfully predictable.

Civil war.

Powerful tribes suppressed weaker ones, and those marginalized gathered their forces to aim their guns at the government held by a specific tribe.

The result was a burning government building and fallen borders, amidst rampant social chaos and a multitude of newly formed warlords.

Thus, the era of warlords began.

And I found myself embroiled in that era.

Now, let’s get back to the main point. Why did I come to an area embroiled in civil war with rampant warlords?

Because the higher-ups ordered it. Those higher-ups being the government of a great power.

So what benefit does Abas seek from this place, I wonder?

The first group of warlords is led by the Asen tribe, advocating for Mauritania centrism.

The third group is led by the Hassan tribe, once friendly with democracies.

The second group of warlords is from the Sanya tribe, receiving substantial support from the Kien Empire.

…And the intelligence agencies of Kien that support the warlords.

I’m going to meet the leader of Hassan to cut through the backings.

Episode 16 – The $6 Million Man

The destination following the loyal guard of the Al Bas Tribe was the territory of the Hassan Tribe.

It was a vast land encompassing cliffs and plains.

“…Is this the territory of Hassan?”

“This is the main camp.”

I let down the window while conversing with Camila.

The stronghold of the Hassan Tribe was a beautiful area with both cliffs and plains. Following well-kept roads led to sloped paths connecting to the cliffs.

At the open space upon the cliff stood a building. It may not have looked impressive at first glance, but it towered like a duke’s keep I had seen in the northern part of the empire.

As I took in the terrain of the main camp while ascending the road leading to the building, it became apparent that it would be tough to even climb without a vehicle due to the defensive geography.

“…”

Upon entering the destination, an armed guard approached me. The guard explained that outsiders must park in designated areas.

I manipulated the gears while casting a glance at Camila.

“Stay here.”

“Are you not coming with me?”

“Someone has to watch the vehicle.”

Leaning halfway out of the vehicle, I then retreated back inside and asked Camila a question.

“Camila. Do you know how to drive?”

“Drive? I know a bit. I have a license! Just never owned a car!”

“Great. You stay in the driver’s seat. Here, also take this pistol.”

I handed her the equipment and walked alone towards the main entrance.

There awaited two guards and a woman.

I recognized her face. It was someone I had seen in a photo.

Jouhrr.

She is the secretary of Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.

“Good evening, Mr. Asud. I am Jouhrr, the secretary of Sheikh Nasir.”

The secretary, dressed formally, greeted me with a polite demeanor.

It was a greeting in a clear tone of the common language. I returned the greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Jouhrr. I came upon your summons.”

“Please follow me.”

With a faint smile, she extended her hand and walked inside.

I passed by the elevator on the first floor and moved inside. Going down the stairs to the basement, I found an elevator of the same model as the one on the first floor. I took it down to the underground third floor.

A concealed elevator.

Before reaching the third floor, Jouhrr pressed the button for the basement three times and the button for the basement four once.

According to information from the Royal Intelligence Department, there is a wide space between the basement three and basement four levels due to the building’s design. The construction company claimed the void was necessary due to technical issues, but scrutinizing the strictly safeguarded blueprints reveals another layer exists in that void.

Jouhrr spoke.

“Feeling a bit claustrophobic?”

Assuming the one approaching was her, she inquired whether I found it suffocating.
My two eyes were hindered from seeing her due to the hood in place.

“No, not at all.”

“Please bear with us just a little longer. It’s for an unavoidable reason.”

The unavoidable reason was security. What use is a concealed elevator? If an outsider, having ridden in the elevator, spills secrets outside, everything is for naught.

Thus, the Hassan warlords had no choice but to cover outsiders with hoods.

Nevertheless, it was a pointless endeavor. In any case, I knew all about the building’s structure and the existence of the concealed elevator. Even the operations.

-Thunk.

The elevator stopped.

As I was helped by the guards out, the hood that had been placed over my head was removed. Amidst the dizzying light tickling my eyes, the scene of the secret space unfolded before me.

A long corridor decorated in red. At the end stood a terminal, an empty desk, and two guards guarding the door.

As the body search took place, Hassan’s secretary approached the vacant desk. That was her spot.

“Guns, knives, and charms, all gone.”

The guards confirmed her lack of weapons and looked back at her.

Nodding, the secretary knocked on the door.

“Sir Nasir, a visitor.”

An old voice responded from beyond the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and I entered.

An old man was standing by the window, gazing outside. Next to the window rested an old sniper rifle, a relic from 30 years ago used by the Kien Empire army.

A large desk took up the forefront of the sniper rifle’s position. A desk made of hardwood, dusty with a couple of frames and several documents suggesting it was an office.

“Good evening.”

I politely greeted the old man.

But he did not respond.

“…”

He was gazing out at the view beyond the window.

The breathtaking cliffs and expansive plains stretching to the horizon, with the sunset coloring the sky red. That must have captivated him. Just as I contemplated this, the old man turned toward me, gestured toward the long horizontal table, and invited me to sit. I took a seat, and he took the honored position.

“Your name is Asud, correct?”

“Yes, that is me.”

Wrinkled hands extended towards me. He was offering a handshake.

“I am Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.”

He introduced himself.

We shook hands lightly.

“You all stay outside.”

With a single word, Nasir dismissed his subordinates. As the guards left, he spoke again.

“How would you like your beverage?”

It was an offer for refreshments.

“I’ll have coffee.”

Being a major coffee-producing area, I was served coffee made from freshly ground beans using a hand-blending machine that is quite rare these days where magic has changed the industrial paradigm.

The old man placed the beans into the machine and turned the lever by hand.

“…”

“…”

The sound of beans grinding resonated through the air as we exchanged no words.

The strange behavior of suddenly calling me here without saying anything was odd, but I refrained from broaching the main subject easily.

I recognized I had no control over the conversation.

As I suspected, Nasir turned the lever before speaking.

“Did you say you’re a war correspondent?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“I heard you came to cover the civil war.”

The old man glanced at me before resuming grinding the beans.

“Have you been to the capital?”

“Yes, I have.”

“All guests visiting this country gather in the capital—diplomats, businessmen, immigrants, tourists, soldiers, and journalists.”

Drifting. The grinding blade’s movement paused. Then, came a silence.

Breaking the void was Nasir’s voice.

“It’s a rare occasion for a journalist to come this far.”

I pondered the meaning behind his words. It implied that journalists don’t usually crawl into warlord territories.

The grinning journalist responded to the warlord’s question.

“After all, I’m a war correspondent. The war zone is my workplace.”

Hmm. The old man, who had fallen into a brief silence, resumed his hand movements. Perhaps he found the identity of a war correspondent intriguing, as he began tossing various questions my way.

“Besides this place, have you visited any other towns?”

“Yes, I’ve been to a few.”

“Where? The regions you covered.”

My activity areas.

“A few days ago, I received a business card with your name. You mentioned you came from Ratwan?”

“Yes. I’m a native of Ratwan.”

“Yet your name is Mauritania-style.”

“My grandfather emigrated here. My grandfather gave me my name, just like my father’s.”

“A compatriot living in a foreign land, I see. What were your grandfather and father like?”

The background of my family.

“If you say Ratwan, isn’t it a neighboring nation to the Kien Empire? Have you ever been to the Empire?”

“Yes. I studied at the National University of Petrogard as an exchange student in my second year.”

“Ah, so you’re fluent in Kienese. A cousin of mine also went abroad to study.”

“Oh, Farid.”

“Looks like you know him. I heard he had quite a hard time overseas. How about you?”

“Oh, you know how it is for a foreign student. It wasn’t easy at all.”

My background.

“So, have you found a job?”

“No. I’m working as a freelancer and am not particularly affiliated with any media outlet. In fact, it’s rare for a war correspondent to be tied to one company.”

“Is there a particular article that stands out among what you’ve written?”

The inquiry felt almost like an interview. I perceived it as an interrogation.

Nasir was wary of the foreign journalist. He seemed to suspect I was either a pawn of the government troops or an agent of a foreign intelligence service.

It was a reasonable suspicion.

Indeed, many war correspondents collaborate with intelligence agencies, and during my time in intelligence, I had made connections with several war correspondents. They provided me with information I could use in my articles, a kind of mutual assistance.

Hence, it was natural for Nasir to be cautious of me. He pretended to maintain composure outwardly.

“You’ve lived an interesting life.”

“It’s not a life I can boast about since I’ve managed to stay under the radar.”

“There’s no one who has lived a life of humility yet boasts about it.”

The probing continued.

I exerted effort to dispel Nasir’s suspicions, yet he remained resolute in his wariness. Indeed, he was a careful person.

The questions ceased when the coffee was ready. After handing me the cup, Nasir returned to his honored seat, and I took a sip of the coffee to catch a breath.

How could I seize control in this conversation?

First, he needed to be in a position to listen to me. Scanning the office, I sought conversation starters under the pretext of my coverage.

That’s when I noticed the sniper rifle decorated by the window.

I pointed at the sniper rifle with a gesture.
“What purpose do you keep that gun for? Decoration? Or for hunting monsters?”

Nasir spoke.

“That’s my rifle.”

With a satisfying clatter, the old man shifted, leaning with his arms resting on the armrest of his chair. His gaze landed on the aforementioned sniper rifle.

“It’s an old weapon I used back in the day.”

“Oh, so you went hunting?”

“…”

Nasir did not respond.

Silently contemplating, he seemed to be mulling over past memories, eyes softly closing as he muttered, “Hunting, yes. It’s quite similar.”

I aimed to steer the conversation with the hunting-related keyword.

“By similar means, you mean?”

“I shot at government troops. With that rifle.”

Over twenty years ago, a young Nasir fought against government troops with that sniper rifle. At that time, the power of the Hassan Warlord was not as entrenched as it is now. The college student, destined to become the warlord’s chief, directly took to the front lines, pulling the trigger that brought down numerous government soldiers.

From riflemen to machine gunners, commanders to messengers and aides.

The bullets traversed the cityscape, bringing down fallen stars. Ultimately, the shot that took out the local commander in charge marked the end of civil war in the territory. Thus, he began to lead Hassan.

I comprehend how he ascended to the leadership of the warlords. I also know about the years he spent as a sniper.
Reports detailing Nasir’s past activities as a sniper are archived within the military intelligence agency’s document archives.

The one who relayed the targets to Nasir and nurtured him into a sharpshooter was…

“Asud.”

Nasir’s voice snapped me out of my reverie.

He was now gazing steadily at me, having set down his cup. I looked back at him, and he looked back at me. We maintained our gazes upon each other, refusing to avert our eyes.

Click!

The sound of a gun being cocked shattered the silence. A compact pistol, used by the Abas troops.
“Let’s put the jokes aside for now.”

Nasir began.

“Where did you come from?”

The warlord leader posed the question, pointing a gun at me.

The barrel appeared before my eyes, yet I made no move, calmly assessing the situation.

The first thing that caught my sight was the pistol.

The presented pistol was a model produced in Abas. It resembled a small pistol designed much like a PPK; perhaps it was merely a coincidence.

It wasn’t that surprising; securing a pistol in a war zone isn’t particularly difficult. Especially for a warlord.

The warlord leader spoke.

“Where were you sent from?”

I sat quietly, pondering.

While I pondered, Nasir continued his inquiries.

“Who sent you?”

As if pushing me to answer, he pressed the gun closer while questioning. I peacefully placed both hands on the table.

“Why are you suddenly pulling a gun on me? That’s quite shocking.”

“You don’t seem particularly startled.”

Nasir muttered, still seated. The muzzle remained trained on me.

With the gun hand resting on the table, he exhaled a light sigh, narrowing his gaze while studying me.

I addressed him with a question.

“A pure curiosity, but may I ask why you’re aiming a gun at me?”

Why exactly was he doing this? In response, Nasir replied, “Because you are lying.”

“Lying?”

I tilted my head in confusion.

Nasir’s chest rose and fell significantly.

He opened his mouth after taking a few breaths.

“Not long ago, a report came in from the Al Bas Tribe. They received an attack from armed bandits near the border. And as far as I know, you were in that town as well.”

I had to acknowledge it.

“Yes, I was there.”

“There was a shootout.”

He began to narrate the circumstances of that day.

“Townspeople turned into armed bandits and ambushed you. Gunfire rang out after the evening prayer, leading to a chaos just moments later.”

“….”

“The initial shot originated from the place next to the lodging of the Al Bas Tribe members. That was exactly where you stayed.”

Nasir seemed to possess intimate knowledge of the calamity that transpired. All the details, accurately and comprehensively.

Did he say he received a report? It must have been from a tribal member who escaped the town with Farid. Since Al Bas is affiliated with the Hassan warlords, a report surely reached Nasir, their leader.

From this, I understood that the reporting system of the warlords was extraordinarily solid.

This was new information.

“When gunfire erupted, what were you doing?”

“I was conversing.”

I answered truthfully.

He already recognized the situation at the time.

“You were talking with a certain vigilante leader. You inquired about their reasons for attacking. Yet received no proper response.”

“…”

“Surely, it wasn’t just idle talk.”

Nasir interjected.

“Who pulled the trigger first? Was it you, or was it the bandits?”

His deep-set eyes started to take in my essence. I remained silent, sipping my coffee.

“I believe the first shot was yours. Right after the initial gunfire rang out, not from a bodyguard, but you engaged in conversation with the bandit.”

“The guard fired.”

“Was it that magician you carry around?”

“Yes.”

Nasir chuckled lightly.

“You weave lies quite naturally.”

With the pistol secured in his hands, he continued speaking. His speculation began as such.

“I reckon the one who fired first was you. Right after the sound of gunfire first echoed, it’s evident you were conversing with the bandit.”

I smiled.

“That’s a baseless assertion.”

I relaxed in my chair, transforming my defense into an argument.

Should probing occur, I was fully prepared to counter with an alibi.

“My bodyguard is a quiet person. He doesn’t speak frivolously.”

“That seems contrary to what townsfolk reported; he was rather friendly with them.”

“There’s no rule saying a quiet person can’t be kind to others, is there?”

I spread my hands in rebuttal.

Nasir scrutinized me with narrowed eyes.

“So, your argument suggests that while your bodyguard fired first, it was also you conversing with the townsfolk?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did he have a gun?”

When I tilted my head in silence, he continued his inquiry.

“You had two weapons.”

“…”

Standing from his chair, he proceeded toward the desk. Leaning over, he rummaged for something, finally pulling out a heavy object.

That was an automatic rifle used by the Kien Empire army.

One was the standard type with a wooden stock, and another was a variant equipped with a foldable stock for paratroopers.

A familiar weapon indeed.

“Those weapons were found by soldiers at the reed field where you fought off the bandits. They are rifles used by the Kien Empire.”

Nasir stated.

“According to international law, armed individuals are regarded as combatants. Even if they are не регулярные, any group possessing identifiers and uniforms shall be considered as combatants.”

“…”

“Hence, war correspondents do not carry weapons. The moment one lifts a weapon, they lose their status as a protected under international law.”

That was true.

Though there have been instances of war correspondents wielding weapons, it is uncommon for modern war correspondents to bear arms.

Consequently,

“Are you a journalist, or someone posing as one?”

“…”

“From my standpoint, I don’t believe you are a journalist.”

A smirk almost slipped out.

He’s onto me.

I glanced slyly at Nasir, who remained unwavering in pointing the gun at me.

Nasir spoke.

“Using the cover of a journalist while secretly carrying arms. I have a particular class of people I know who match that description.”

Spies.

Nasir murmured that with unyielding conviction.

He stepped forward, moving closer, and resumed his questioning.

“I’ll ask once more.”

“…”

“Who sent you?”

It was at that moment that I finally tore away my gaze from the elderly man, muttering to myself.

Oh, give me a break. They tasked me with training rebels and somehow ended up creating a spy.

“Answer me.”

Nasir urged, the gun still pointedly aimed. Now we were so close that we could brush against each other’s clothing merely by extending our arms.

Of course, it is a well-known truth verified by countless intelligence officers that a bullet is faster than a person’s movement. At this distance, I wouldn’t be able to dodge or escape the instant the trigger is pulled.

Thus, I composed my hands, placing them evenly across the back of the chair.

Then, I answered Nasir’s question.

“Leoni Risha.”

“…”

“Director asked me to convey greetings after a long time.”