A Dark Fantasy Spy

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Keffiyeh headdress and loose-fitting kandura.

A man dressed in traditional attire reminiscent of a white dress, with a brown coat draped over it, brushes past the citizens.

One man follows closely behind.

The local man with a bushy beard was tailing him.

In Hassan Warlord’s city, there was no distinction between the old town and the new town.

Amidst the maze-like city, a traditional market.

The two men are there.

—

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

—

The traditional market was as bustling as the chaotic situation.

Merchants trying to lure customers onto the road, civilians easily slipping through the myriad of vehicles passing by.

As I strolled past the cluttered streets filled with all sorts of goods, makeshift stalls and stands appeared at every corner. The sounds of television blared, voices exchanged among people, and horns honked noisily.

The man does not stop.

“…….”

With the keffiyeh headdress pulled over his face, he looked just like someone wearing a shimag. The loose-fitting one-piece that concealed his figure made it impossible to distinguish his gender.

The man in traditional attire easily blended in among the locals. His steps were leisurely, and his gaze casually swept over the stalls.

The man observed the casually wandering figure intently.

As the man examined the stalls with one hand dug in his pocket, he pulled out one hand to grab an item.

His actions, like that of a merchant assessing the value of a product, were remarkably relaxed.

The shopkeeper greeted him and exchanged a few words, while the man animatedly spoke with gestures.

The watcher did not miss a single gesture or movement of the man.

The moment he saw the man hand over cash and receive the item, he moved.

Having purchased the item with cash, he walked into an alley away from the bustling traditional market. The man who had been keeping an eye on him followed.

He passed a low wall and walked along the yellow exterior wall. There was a good distance between the two men, but it wasn’t distant enough to be called far apart.

In the distance, the figure disappearing into a side path caught the man’s eye. Clenching his fist with his hands in his pockets, he turned the corner with a tense expression.

At that moment.

“Ugh!”

A groan escaped the mouth of the man as he turned his body along the building’s curvature.

The figure waiting around the corner grabbed the man by the collar and forcefully pulled him in, then kicked at his knees and ankles.

Losing his balance, the local man collapsed. The figure swiftly twisted his flailing arm and pinned him down with his knee.

In that fleeting moment, a fist flew into the seated man. The figure struck the local man’s face and forcefully grabbed his hair, tilting his head back.

And then, a sharp knife was thrust into his trachea.

Trembling eyes grazed over the sharp blade. Harsh breaths swept along the blade and collar. The grip of the man wielding the greatsword began to tighten.

Just touching it was enough to tear skin with that dangerously sharp weapon.

The man holding the greatsword murmured fluently in the common language of Mauritania.

“Who sent you?”

*

The local man, surveying the blade pressed so close, let out a rough breath as he flared his nostrils.

I thrust the blade closer to his throat, demanding answers.

“Who are you?”

The local man had been following me. From the moment I wandered the streets to arriving at the traditional market, he had been persistently trailing me.

I had sensed the tail when I was aimlessly wandering, trying to collect my thoughts after a rendezvous with an informant. I realized I had picked up a shadow.

“Who sent you?”

With a rough tone and an oppressive atmosphere, I threatened the subdued man with questions. In that moment, my mind was racing, trying to ascertain the man’s identity and his backers.

Being followed and watched is a burden information agents wish they could shake off. Thanks to the eyes of counterintelligence agencies and watchers sent by foreign intelligence agencies.

“Guh….”

As I applied pressure to his knee, a wheezing sound escaped the man, his abdomen and solar plexus pressed under the weight.

“Who ordered you to follow me? Give me a name.”

I pressed the greatsword against him, shouting harshly. At that moment, the man lying on the ground began to glance around as if he was scanning his past.

As I became aware of his gaze, I drew the blade back in a line and rose to my feet.

Within just two seconds, a shout in the local dialect reached my ears.

“!عبدال(Abdul!)”

A man came racing into the alley, shrieking.

He called out the name of the fallen informant, eyes wide with panic. However, the fallen man did not hear him.

Abdul. That was the name of the man who had been following me. A relatively common name in the Middle East and Mauritania.

The fallen man and I stood opposite one another, blood splattering from the blade.

The man, rolling eyes back and forth to comprehend the situation, realized in no time at all. He howled in agony, drawing his weapon.

I dodged the swing of the blade as I grabbed the joint situated in my arm. The man whose arm I now held flailed with the knife, but the blade only grazed my clothing, failing to land a hit.

Having seized the most threatening joint, I kicked into the man’s abdomen.

“Guh…!”

Before thoughts could form in my mind, my body moved on its own.

The greatsword began to jab into the thug. The blade easily surpassed 7cm, tearing the skin, slicing through arteries, and grinding against bone.

The familiar sensation creeping up the handle felt like slicing through lotus roots. As I thrust the blade into the man’s throat, I swiftly jabbed once more.

The thug, slashed through the artery, collapsed forward. In that manner, I extricated myself from the threat of murder.

However, I couldn’t completely relax, as countless footsteps were heard approaching from the alley’s entrance. The sounds of more assailants rushing towards me.

Who was it that sent these men after me? I did not know.

But one fact was clear.

“…Assassination.”

Someone had sent an assassin.

*

The chase had begun.

A game of tag.

“!عبدال او صیر مړه دي(Abdul and Sayir are dead!)”
“!زه په چاقو ووهلم. هغه سړی ومومئ چې هغه یې وژلی دی(He was stabbed. Find the one who killed him!)”

The thugs who had just arrived began speaking in an unintelligible language. It wasn’t the standard common language of Mauritania but a dialect used only in this country’s rural areas.

The thugs who had just faced two fallen comrades yelled angrily. Though I couldn’t decipher the meaning, the emotion was evident.

Concealing myself around the corner, I watched the thugs.

“…….”

There were four local men communicating in that dialect. They seemed to know each other, their exchanges somewhat lengthy.

Like butchers peeling meat off bones, the men searched the area, knives in hand. Judging by how they held their blades, they appeared to be rather skilled combatants.

Gripping my greatsword tightly, I thoughtfully assessed the situation.

I had acquired a tail while returning to my lodgings. The informant trailing me had attempted to draw his knife and fight back as soon as he was ambushed.

In an area with unstable law enforcement, contract killing is a notably sought-after profession. The same held true for Central and South America, Southeast Asia, the Middle East, and Africa.

During my over ten years in intelligence, I had encountered countless contract killers. I often commissioned killings and, when luck was against me, the assassin who accepted my commission would sometimes come to seek me out.

I surmised that the assailants were likely hired killers or assassins.

The reasoning was simple.

Intelligence agencies prefer direct assassinations over contract killings.

When agencies want to significantly enhance the probability of an assassination’s success, they tend to assign the mission to information agents themselves.

In an area where such outdated firearms freely circulate in the black market, intelligence agents would have no qualms about eliminating targets with firearms. After all, firearms are more effectively lethal than blades.

So it was improbable to consider the men chasing me as assassins affiliated with an intelligence agency.

Who could have sent the assassin?

Recon Command? Imperial Guard HQ? Or a warlord? If any of these three were the culprits, the likelihood of it being the warlord was substantial. Contract killings aren’t the typical method used by the Imperial Information Agency. This is a conventional strategy employed by warlords when they want someone eliminated.

Who could it be? Asen? Sanya?

Gripping my greatsword tighter, I continued to speculate.

Yet to find an answer, I needed to survive first.

“!هلته دی(There he is!)”
One assassin pointed his finger at my concealed position. He shouted, relaying the situation to the others.

In an instant, the assassins swarmed towards my location.

I swiftly darted from my hiding place, stabbing the incoming assassin in the abdomen.

Typically, when information agents wield knives, they prefer to target the neck over other vital areas. This is due to the concentration of arteries, the spine, and trachea within that area. Therefore, instructors emphasize the need to stab the neck quickly with short distances and rapid hand movements.

However, a few instructors also described the abdomen as a good target for attacks due to the liver, one of the body’s vital organs, being located there. A single hit to that spot could knock a person out in one go.

To attack the liver, certain prerequisites were necessary.

A sufficiently long blade, strength to pierce, and knowledge of the precise location.

Unfortunately, I had all three conditions met.

Poof! The sound of fabric and flesh being pierced followed by a short gasp. The heavy greatsword pierced the skin and stabbed into the liver.

Turning the blade around, I buried it up to the handle. The pressure pushed the flesh apart, and the sensation of skin splitting traveled up the handle, hitting the brainstem where it met the spine.

Withdrawing the greatsword, I faced the incoming assassins. Despite losing a companion right before their eyes, the assassins rushed towards me without hesitation.

One of the larger assassins swung his blade. It was a massive weapon, befitting his oversized form.

A roar erupted, hair was severed, and I lost my grip on my drawn pistol, clutching the greatsword instead.

The military greatsword grazed my arm. The powerful sword of the Kien Empire’s military sliced through flesh effortlessly. It was the strength of high-carbon steel.

The hefty assassin swung his sword a few times before the blade sunk into his neck. I tightened my grip on the greatsword to make sure the blood flowed without hesitation, but in that moment, the assassin’s blade nearly grazed my shoulder.

One swing, then another. The high-carbon steel blade penetrated through the thick neck and nimbly sliced through vessels, much like cutting lotus roots.

Another assassin rushed in, looking for an opening. The one disguised with a shimag was so small he could be mistaken for a goblin.

His build akin to a goblin but his movements resembled that of a beastman. A small blade like a sculptor’s knife plunged into my side.

He caught my wrist. The man who couldn’t draw his knife panicked momentarily. But he quickly twisted his hand, beginning to restrain my side. His small blade tore at my skin even as the greatsword embedded in the assassin’s skull.

The military greatsword was a mightier weapon than it appeared. Axes, machetes, Japanese swords—tools that could leave marks not of mere cuts but of deep, unfathomable scars. It took no time for the greatsword to penetrate and pierce through the skull.

Retrieving the blade embedded in the bone was no easy feat. I let go of the handle, abandoning the greatsword, and instead loosened my belt to face the last assassin.

The final assassin appeared to be a perfectly ordinary man to be found anywhere. In his early 40s, he radiated an age typical of someone with grown children, given the local tendency to marry young.

He wielded a uniquely shaped knife. With a wavy pattern, it could easily cut through meat.

Whether the meat he would slice could belong to livestock or humans was uncertain. At the moment, it was evidently meant for the latter.

The assassin with the knife faced off against the informant with the belt.

One for the arm. Two for the collarbone. Three for the chest. Four for the collar.

Dodging the incoming knives that danced like shadows, I secured the strap around his wrist. Crossing the ties, I pulled down hard.

As the pressure was applied, the knife fell. Seeing him raising his arm defensively, I kicked upwards into his groin.

A painful scream echoed briefly as I choked the assassin’s neck with the belt. Heaving, I brutally lifted him.

With our backs to each other, the bent knees straightened.

The strangling assassin let out sporadic breaths, gasping for air. The struggling limbs scratched against me. With each convulsion, I tightened my grip around his neck.

The fingers clawing at my hand slowly began to weaken, and the gnashing of teeth faded.

Yet I still did not release the belt. Advancing with unsteady steps resembling a person carrying a bag of flour, I approached the discarded pistol.

Upon feeling that chilling and familiar grip in my palm. Holding the pistol, I pressed the barrel against the assassin’s side and pulled the trigger.

Bang! The single gunshot was followed by an unsettling silence.

Void of humanity, I sat against the alley wall, clenching the pistol.

“…….”

Staring up at the heavens hovering over the corpse-strewn area, I spotted a good number of stars. As I slipped the pistol into my pocket with trembling hands, I began to rise while clutching my side.

– Rumble!

The wall I leaned against crumbled down. The dust cloud that ensnared me clouded my vision. As I lifted my head to see what happened—

“Hello?”

A voice, lighter than the roughest shout.

In the spot where the voice came from stood a familiar woman.

“I rushed here thinking you might be late, but it seems the fun was all had by the folks before you?”

The local woman with tanned skin grinned.

“Well, the lottery should still be mine, right?”

Her face, concealed under the traditional garb of the Mauritania continent.

The only exposed part of her body was her jaw, but identifying her was hardly a challenge.

“By the way, I guess the guards aren’t around. They were always glued to your side.”

“…….”

“Guards should always be with you. Didn’t I tell you?”

The shaman, Fatima.

She revealed herself from the collapsed building, grinning sweetly.

“Living that way, anyone could die anytime in a neighborhood like this.”

It was a cruel smile.

*

Six assassins had ambushed me simultaneously. As I dispatched all of them, another thug appeared.

Fatima.

“What a terrible day, huh? Getting stabbed just walking down the street.”

She grinned with the insignificance of her words. It was a clear mockery.

Why was the shaman here? That person made a pact with Hassan. Could it be Hassan wanted me dead?

As I pondered this hypothetical, I promptly dismissed the idea.

Hassan had no reason to kill an intelligence officer dealing with a foreign intelligence agency without an issue. If Hassan were to gain an advantage in the upcoming tripartite conflict after Asen and Sanya’s dispute, he definitely needed my assistance.

Having been bound to Nasir and inciting the feud between Asen and Sanya, we had become inseparable partners.

If I fell here, it would bring ruin to Hassan too. Knowing that, Nasir wouldn’t have likely ordered the hit.

If there was a mastermind behind this assassination, that meant another entity was involved. The main culprit was probably Asen or Sanya.

Though lacking concrete evidence, only those two warlords currently had the motive to commission an assassination.

“…Asen, or Sanya?”

“Oh, quick on the uptake, aren’t you? That’s right. I received a request from Sanya.”

Damn. Where did that information leak?

As I was formulating thoughts about the worst-case scenario, the shaman spoke with significant intent.

“The 2nd group warlords have offered bounties on foreign operatives. What was it? They said the war correspondents were causing them a headache?”

“…….”

The 2nd group warlord placed a bounty on the heads of war correspondents.

Such a decision wasn’t entirely nonsensical. War correspondents are often the bane of warlords. From their perspective, foreign reporters invading their territory recklessly would be undesirable.

Not long ago, Hassan was a prime example. When I sought to cover the Al Bas tribe’s territory, officials on the warlord’s side persistently eyed me, pretending to be war correspondents.

Had it not been for Nayan, a prominent figure within Hassan’s circle, showing me favor, I could have been trapped in Hassan’s police station for several days.

“…….”

Yet currently, the issue was not the warlords’ attitudes towards correspondents. What mattered was that Sanya had put a bounty on foreign reporters.

And the fact that my cover identity was that of a war correspondent.

“…Damn.”

Had I known, I would have approached it as an arms dealer. What a blunder this turned out to be.

The shaman, Hassan’s, or rather, Sanya’s, contracted shaman, smiled chillingly.

“Did you end up getting backstabbed?”

“Don’t say it that way. It makes me sound like the villain.”

Unabashedly claiming she had betrayed Hassan, Fatima casually began to ramble.

“Good for me, though. They’ve been recruiting soldiers lately for those short on manpower in Asen and Sanya. The pay’s quite generous.”

“…….”

“They say shamans receive offers starting at 3 million. The bounty on foreigners is 5 million.”

The shaman smiled while calculating her annual salary.

“How about that? A reporter is right before me?”

I knew exactly what she meant by those words.

I threw sand at the shaman. Then I drew my pistol.

But she was quicker.

-Thud—

Debris scattered in the alley around me. The ground quaked as if something had been sparked, sending fragments flying.

It was the shaman’s doing.

The swirling dust and cascading chunks of rubble surrounded me as she laughed.

Having not formed a union with beastmen nor infused magic into her spell, competent shamans can employ simple magic without prior preparation.

Yet using such a spell, Fatima seemed unbothered.

That woman was more capable than she appeared.

“Damn…!”

I rolled across the ground to evade falling debris.

Unlike wizards, shamans possess a defined range of attack, so the combat protocols for military and police against shamans prioritize avoiding their zones of attack.

Nimbly darting into the alley, I hoped to find the guards stationed there.

Dodging the incoming spells and rubble, every ounce of me urged to escape, and yet Fatima was still hot on my trail.

As her fingers curled and palms pressed together, the magic was complete.

Earth-type magic.

In terms of magic, it aligned with the earth element among the four core elements.

– ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶!!

As the ominous hue sank into the ground, the earth began to twist. It was as though a minor earthquake transpired, the road buckled, and poles toppled over.

With the lights desperately flickering in the shaking stores, abandoned cars came careening towards me.

I tucked in my body to evade the massive shadows barreling down on me.

At that moment, sirens echoed nearby.

It was only natural for the police to arrive, given the chaos erupting in an area dense with civilians. Despite the corruption of local officials, there were elite units, including those specialized in combat against shamans and mages.

A pickup truck filled with officers reached the scene. It swiftly located the shaman slaughtering civilians amidst the chaos and moved in shooting with machine guns.

“You dare.”

Hiding behind the solid concrete wall, the shaman formed a union. She pressed her thumb, crossing her index, middle, and ring fingers.

With her thumb firmly secured, she skillfully moved the other fingers, then recognized the formation of her magic had been completed as it glimmered in her palm, striking the building outright.

– Rumble—

The building began to collapse.

“AHHHHH!”

“KKKAAAAAAHHH!”

Screams erupted from within the structures as the crumbling buildings began to fall upon the police.

In the blink of an eye, more than twenty officers, including those firing weapons and those taking cover, found themselves buried under the debris of collapsing buildings.

As if dominoes were falling, a massive cloud of dust billowed upwards. The silence that emerged from death enveloped the area like a shroud.

“…Ha.”

The shaman nonchalantly stepped over the rubble, speaking aloofly.

“If you had just stayed quietly, I wouldn’t have needed to go this far. Why do people always act so foolishly?”

“…….”

“Look.”

Standing atop corpses and wreckage, the shaman smiled broadly.

“Do you still think you can tear my mouth apart after this?”

I groaned as I struggled to my feet amidst the debris.

“Could it be because of that? That you feel insulted?”

“Exactly. Insult. When a person is insulted, isn’t it only fair to repay them in kind?”

“…….”

In disbelief, I couldn’t help but audibly exhale. Claiming to repay me for the insult by massacring dozens of civilians and burying the police was just insane.

“What a filthy person.”

The shaman’s eyebrows twitched. Her voice was tinged with anger.

“Once I tear that mouth apart, maybe you’ll quiet down—”

Gunshots rang out, making the shaman stagger. The formerly upright Fatima fell to the debris with a painful scream.

As the smoke billowed, I lowered my weapon, now targeting the shaman crawling on the ground.

Gunshots erupted in succession. Bullets stuck within the rubble stirred up a cloud of dust.

“Ugh…!”

Caught off guard by the unexpected gunfire, the shaman hastily ducked down amidst the debris. I reloaded the clip while waiting for her to show her face again.

At that point, the shaman shouted from under the rubble.

“…Damn it. All of you! Get out! Stop just watching!”

Her shout spread across the area, prompting figures to emerge from the city’s shadows.

The local shamans donned in traditional garb of the Mauritania continent. They traversed the devastation with an air of familiarity.

They were fellow shamans.

I fired my weapon at the shamans, but they appeared to be prepared.

As the shaman extended her arm, a sewer buried beneath the ground surged upward. Seemingly torn apart and jagged, water gushed forth between the cracks.

Within moments, the other shamans took shape, forming unions as they cast their spells.

As the liquid that had erupted began to spread in massive circles, it created a barrier.

Though small caliber, bullets are inherently dangerous; however, their efficacy in water is severely reduced.

The resistance of water is about 800 times greater than air, rendering bullet spin nearly impossible.

The rapid deceleration dynamics caused by friction result in unstable trajectories, causing high resistance to hamper thrust. Faced with the water-based magic, my bullets quickly lost their efficacy, getting sucked beneath the surface.

With the liquids rising up to repel the bullets, another shaman approached, unfolding a powerful wind.

A tempest-like gust struck me, sending me crashing into the nearby stalls. I collided into a poorly-constructed stand of wood, rolling over the ground.

As I scraped against sharp glass shards and debris, the shamans found Fatima, who had been hiding beneath the rubble with blood flowing from her abdomen.

“Quit wasting time and get in here already!”

“What was it you said? I’ll keep the bounty for myself? How could that be odd after you refused to share three ways?”

“It’s not easy to split 5 million evenly! You’re the one here losing it all to a dark elf, aren’t you?!”

Amidst their contrasting descriptions of one another.

Barely able to lift my body, I leaned against a vehicle.

A brutal pain throbbed throughout me, and a headache pounded in my skull. It struck me abruptly, a thought formed.

The thoughts of that scathing confrontation after I die.

What would my company inform my family? Would they divulge the truth, stating ‘died in action’? Or would they state, ‘died in a car accident’ to reassure them?

I wonder what my older brother Jerry and older sister Adela would say if I died. Would they reveal the truth I’m not the Defense Attaché, but a military intelligence officer? It would surely shock the elders of the Nostrim Family.

Do cat beastmen let out ‘mew’ or ‘meow’? Why on Earth does Kair shriek like that?

Right, I haven’t received the money from Ayla yet. She claimed to have been hired, but didn’t even buy anything for her family. The girl is lost—what’s with this modern youth….

Next, my mind drifted to people’s faces. Colleagues, seniors, and juniors I met at the Military Intelligence Agency. Colonel Clevenz and Leoni, those I once worked alongside.

I wonder how Pippin and Jake are faring. If the department is disbanded, would they return to their previous positions? Charnoy’s fate remains uncertain, as the Inspection Office has a rotational term. The Royal Intelligence Department’s dispatch team would likely revert back in a standard protocol.

Lucia. Now the newly anointed Saint. I hope she can remain safe from harm.

Francesca. Though more than capable of taking care of herself, I can’t help but worry a tad. The National Security Agency has gotten particularly intense.

Veronica. Well, she’s… just Veronica.

Thoughts drifted briefly to my parents. My father and mother. I wonder if they are managing well. Losing their husband and having a child leave before them—such shouldn’t be accepted.

If my dad were alive, perhaps things would have been better. Well, at least it would be fortunate if he weren’t downing soju at a funeral like grandpa did.

The last person who came to mind was,

“…….”

My consciousness was half-lost. Is this a common psychological phenomenon that occurs before death, or was I simply losing my grip on sanity—I couldn’t tell myself.

I felt my fingers brush over the slide. The weapon chamber within was loaded with live rounds primed for fire at any moment.

Applying pressure against my bleeding side, I gradually collected my senses. With a single magazine, I would likely take at least one down with me.

Trembling, I grasped the vehicle’s door and pulled myself up, only to have someone approach me from the side. Cracking my thumb back on the coast and lining my index finger on the trigger, I glanced down to see their legs.

At a glance, they were beautiful legs well taken care of. The skin was pale and smooth. White people must have white legs too.

Amidst my jumbled thoughts, I had an epiphany. Why in the world were their legs white? There weren’t even white folks here.

As I scrutinized closer, I recognized those legs. Where had I seen them before? I rifled through my memories, and suddenly it clicked as I raised my head.

Then I found myself staring into the cerulean eyes fixed on me. Eyes sparkling bright like a cloudless sky.

Camila was speaking.

“What are you doing here?”

“…Huh.”

She stood, calmly looking down at me.

Slung over one shoulder was the backpack that had packed my belongings, and she donned a traditional Mauritania outfit, perhaps acquired from somewhere. She was wearing a headdress resembling a hijab.

Neither a Muslim nor indeed any Muslims were present here.

While I was lost in my thoughts, Camila turned to glance at the commotion around us.

“Umm…”

The havoc around her unfolded before her eyes. Mangled bodies caught beneath the collapsed structures, warped cars, and the livelihoods of local residents tossed by the strong winds flooding the area.

Having absorbed the harrowing sight, Camila let her backpack drop to the ground. Stretching her arms, she proceeded to murmur my way.

“I thought you might get into trouble if left alone. Who would have thought you’d end up like this in less than a week?”

“…Camila.”

“Shh.”

She pressed her finger to my lips, rendering me speechless.

“Save the nagging for later.”

I wanted to shout at Camila to stop, but my mouth was sealed, leaving only muffled sounds of “Mm, uh, mm!” to escape.

Ignoring me entirely, Camila slid off her headdress. Her dyed hair spilled down, and with a flick of her head, the strands danced like a curtain in the winds.

“So….”

With her headdress removed, Camila pointed toward the shamans. Turning her head, she queried me.

“First, should we capture those people?”