A Dark Fantasy Spy

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Travel comes with its own inconveniences.

Whether it’s a fantastic journey or one you’d never want to repeat, from the mild hassle of packing and unpacking to the cleanup process of returning from a long trip, discomfort and inconveniences are inevitably involved.

In the same vein, business trips bear the same attributes as travels.

Expense reports, post-evaluation, analysis, audits, debriefings, and more—no matter how legitimate the procedures are, the complex and annoying follow-up work is a must.

Wasting taxpayer money is a mistake easily caught during national audits. It’s not just taxpayers who detest the idea of governmental funds leaking away.

Thus, it was no coincidence but rather inevitable that I was summoned back to the Military Intelligence Agency Headquarters right after my business trip ended.

“Disappearing without a report? Not to mention, you went back to your home country with a detained handler and even engaged in a skirmish abroad.”

Leoni’s gaze was flat. The section chief flipped through the reports with an exaggerated sigh and began to speak.

“Is there anything factually incorrect?”

“None.”

“Nothing to add?”

“Correct.”

“Alright.”

The head of the Overseas Division of the Military Intelligence Agency gave the command.

“Demotion or labor. You decide how you’ll be disciplined.”

—

Episode 17 – The Blood-Drinking Tree

The weather on the Mauritania Continent was sunny once more.

A thin line distinguished the sky from the earth, and the sand looked soft like a fluffy blanket.

The long-awaited rain evaporated without leaving a trace. The scorching sun sprinkled light on the damp ground, allowing the desert to quickly regain its ancient appearance.

“Hey, sir! Move that cannon! There’s no way to pass through!”

A soldier from the International Peacekeeping Force yelled with his head peeking out the window. It was a textbook-perfect Patalian accent.

The bewildered soldiers standing around only moved the cannon after hearing the interpreter.

Seeing the local soldiers grunting as they moved the cannon was strangely familiar, evoking nostalgia.

“Alright, alright!”

A foreigner in an International Peacekeeping uniform began directing with an air of expertise. His gestures showed he had performed this a few times before.

“Push!”

As the fuel truck arrived at its destination, the soldiers sprang into action.

They pulled the fuel hose, and the main valve clicked loudly. The motor, powered by a magic stone, made a raucous noise for a moment. Soon, the hose wobbled as oil poured out.

The soldiers, grimacing, filled the drums with oil. The Patalian officer overseeing them stood with his arms crossed, seemingly an executive.

“Wow. That’s a lot of spillage.”

The Patalian officer monitoring the soldiers inspected the drums and started chuckling.

Even as they hurriedly worked to close the valve and retrieve the hose, the officer walked around the fuel-filled drums, commenting,

“Doesn’t that smell awful?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Whoa.”

Upon hearing the fluent response in Patalian, the officer widened his eyes, feigning surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to hear his native language here.

“You speak Patalian?”

“A little.”

“That’s quite good for just a little. I almost mistook you for one of our laborers. Hahaha.”

The unspecified Patalian officer burst into hearty laughter, clearly thinking I was part of his unit.

Labourers referred to locals and foreign workers employed by the International Peacekeeping Force, contracted by the Ministry of Defense to take care of various menial tasks. They are as common as stones you might stumble upon while passing a deployed unit.

The officer seemed unaware of my true identity, but I wasn’t particularly offended by it.

Actually, it might be better that I wasn’t recognized.

At least from my current standpoint.

“The oil has been delivered. Please be careful with the burns, and stir it slowly. You do know what happens if you set oil on fire, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s going to smell terrible. It’s effective to plug your nose, but you’ll have to endure it as best as you can. And if it’s possible, it’s better to take off your top.”

I tore off two, no three paper towels, stuffing them in my nose.

With the rolled-up tissue stuck to my nose and the mop I salvaged from the restroom in hand, I looked at the officer.

“You’ve done this often, haven’t you?”

“Just a few times due to disciplinary actions. It’s difficult to keep asking the laborers to do the cleaning every time.”

“Ah…”

Indeed, who would entrust such cleaning tasks?

While cleaning and maintenance duties were also up to the laborers, at this level, even someone being paid would undoubtedly complain about their work.

It was likely the reason why those who messed up ended up getting shoved into this job.

“Wow, time flies…. We’ll be heading off now.”

“Yep, be careful.”

The Patalian soldiers finished refueling and drove off, leaving me with envious eyes as I watched them disappear into the distance before sighing deeply and readjusting my grip on the mop.

With a soft splash, the untainted wooden stick of the mop plunged into the goo. Squishy and gooey. The unpleasant texture transmitted through my arm.

“Ha.”

As I waved the stick around, I momentarily paused to glance into the drum. Once again, a sigh escaped me.

“…Seriously.”

The drum, filled to the brim with filth, encapsulated a revolting scene of oil mingling with excrement.

In simpler terms:

“Wow, they really dropped a load.”

Excrement.

—

There are three types of people here.

If you were to ask what’s crucial in the process of conducting military operations or warfare, each of these three individuals would provide distinct answers.

The couch-dwelling Minister of Defense and Chief of Staff would say weapons and troops are vital, while the clueless rookie and candidate would emphasize the importance of logistics and reconnaissance in a textbook manner.

Lastly, there’s the active-duty soldier, who based on their experiences, would say all of the above is mostly useless.

None of these answers are wrong, yet there’s one factor beyond supply, reconnaissance, and weaponry that’s even more crucial during a war.

Excrement disposal.

A problem that has plagued every soldier across time and space.

“Ugh….”

Fouling indiscriminately transforms the area into a party pool for diseases and parasites, while any half-hearted cleaning could elevate the stench and, at worst, lead enemy scouts to discover the size and location of the encampment.

The issue of managing human waste impacts not just incontinent patients or elderly individuals with dementia but also young men with bright futures.

It’s why those meme-loving individuals whining that the next-generation fighter jets are inferior compared to neighboring countries and that the military is failing or succeeds are left with their craniums pounding under the impact of herbal hammers.

(And generally, those meme-lovers are either morbidly obese or underweight, as proven by the Western military organization MEAL TEAM 6 and the U.S. military’s Operation Dessert Storm.)

“Ew, gross.”

“Hey, it’s Frederick! What are you doing here?!”

Just as I was hanging around the open space, Camila, passing by, rushed up to me, grimacing.

“Labor.”

I set down the stick I used to stir the drum and spoke in a nasal tone due to the tissue plugging my nose.

“Don’t come any closer. Yikes. Get away fast.”

“What the hell is… Aaaah-!!”

Camila, who had pinched her nose and approached, peeked into the drum and jumped back. She had disregarded my warning and looked into the abyss.

Flames flickered like a bonfire in the drum. A concoction of gasoline’s foul odor and an indescribable stench surged forth, revealing a hellish mix of burning waste.

With one hand pinching her nose, Camila looked back and forth between the drum and me with trembling eyes, much like a therapist that had lost her way looking at a cannibal.

“Wha-what are you stirring there?!”

A sigh escaped me again. I weakly replied as I continued to stir.

“Can’t you see?”

“No, why in the world are you stirring that?!”

“I’m processing excrement.”

Although many consider it dirty, fundamentally, humans live producing waste. To put it a bit exaggeratedly, we are factories continuously generating bodily waste.

Therefore, the question of ‘how will we manage waste to maintain cleanliness?’ parallels humanity’s history. There’s a reason a French author who left an indelible mark with masterpieces like Les Misérables stated, “The history of toilets is the history of mankind.”

The same goes for the military.

Excrement disposal in wartime has been a tormenting problem for commanders throughout history, across both past and present, East and West.

Historically, many soldiers died not from weapons like guns and swords but from diseases, epidemics, and infections; before the 20th century, contaminated water sources and soils acted as powerful biological weapons that devastated both attackers and defenders.

—

But here’s where the problem arises.

Though manageable during peacetime, how is one supposed to deal with bodily waste in a war zone?

Fighting while turning the entire battlefield into a latrine might seem convenient at first but will inevitably bring about issues eventually. People drinking contaminated water will fall ill with cholera, or troops may be wiped out due to nearby victims’ waste.

Many commanders aiming to prevent non-combatant losses during battles, either because they didn’t want to end up fighting their bowels themselves or for other reasons, sought innovative ways to resolve excrement disposal issues.

Thus, the literal burning pit approach is what the U.S. military has relied on since the 20th century.

Fill the waste pit with gasoline and set it ablaze.

“Dreadful smell.”

The feature of this method is the smell. The fine fusion of methyl, diesel, and about aged waste creates an awful odor that could easily knock you down.

Imagine two homeless people finishing off in a urinal— that’s the kind of scent we’re talking about.

As I stirred, trying to ensure the waste burned properly, I pulled out the tissue jammed in my nose. Each time I stirred, the smell transformed.

While a woman’s transformation can be excused, the constantly changing stench of the latrine felt like a life sentence. The one who devised this should immediately be handed over for a military trial, without a doubt.

No joke, this qualifies as a war crime!

Just when I vigorously stirred the drum to incinerate the waste, shocked, Camila moved closer, her eyes wide.

“Um… I think I’ve seen this in a drama or maybe a movie? It was on Netflix, featuring the U.S. military.”

“It’s the Americans’ way. Well, others do it too.”

The method of burning waste isn’t just limited to the U.S.; other nations use it as well.

In the early 2000s, one of my superiors who served in intelligence reports that this method was also employed by the South Korean forces during deployments in Iraq.

Usually, it’s soldiers, not officers, who manage such waste disposal tasks. Nationality doesn’t matter here. The tradition of seasoned personnel offloading tedious duties onto fresh recruits is universal—even more so when it involves stirring human waste.

“By chance, why are you doing this?” Camila asked, still pinching her nose, looking at me inquisitively.

I answered, holding my breath briefly.

“Discipline.”

“Ah, unauthorized engagement?”

“Yup.”

The search for angels had been fulfilled by locating Nathaniel in an underground ruin.

However, the lesser demons sealed within that ruin were unleashed, resulting in combat.

As repeatedly stated, engaging in combat abroad without permission is a serious matter entwined with violations of sovereignty and could escalate to diplomatic issues.

Arriving along with the peacekeeping forces to swiftly resolve issues on the Mauritania continent, local governments held a subordinate position while we maintained a clear upper hand, yet that didn’t mean we could act recklessly.

Hence, the Abas government was presented with two choices.

First, they could brush it under the rug like a great power.

Ignoring any diplomatic responsibility, they could say something along the lines of, “I don’t know anything about that; you handle it, k?”

Second, they might punish those involved and move forward.

They could seize some pawn for punishment, claiming, “Though this unpleasant event occurred, it was unintentional; please let it slide.”

The Abas government opted for the latter.

For the record, I was that pawn. To be precise, no one else was available.

The reason was simple enough.

Among the Abas officials who followed Ramiel, I was the only one.

Though I hated to admit it, I was receiving my share of karma.

“So that’s why I’m cleaning a toilet…”

Camila gazed at me with pitying eyes. Her irises reflected countless feelings of sympathy as she looked at my situation.

In response, I waved my hands frantically.

“Don’t worry. It’s a miscarriage-of-justice kind of discipline.”

“Miscarriage-of-justice discipline?”

“It means it’s merely a facade of punishment.”

As mentioned before, engaging in unauthorized combat actions could elicit official protests from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

However, the local government (from which the engagement incident occurred was far removed from the refugee camp operations) didn’t officially object.

There had been motions to summon the Abas ambassador to address the issue, but the Al-Yabd faction blocked that.

Yet, even with the Al-Yabd covering for the situation, the Abas government could not remain idle.

With the eyes of embassies from different countries focusing on the situation, failing to offer an apology or punishment could lead to excessive criticism from behind the scenes.

Thus, the Military Intelligence Agency demanded I choose between six months of demotion or labor.

Well… for me, this was a good thing.

I should consider myself fortunate.

“Just thinking about the possibility of being expelled. Getting a few labors as a substitute felt nice at first.”

If the Military Intelligence Agency truly sought to haul me in, they would have started with demotion. Following that, they would have called me into the Inspection Office.

However, that wasn’t the case.

Leoni acted proximately to ensure things didn’t escalate into a larger issue.

Of course, if the actual facts were clarified, I wouldn’t have had to face any formal punishment, but the “incident from that night in the underground ruins” was kept a secret.

The letter sent by the Abas Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the local government discussed only the unauthorized engagement.

The details of what we were fighting were omitted entirely.

To clarify that, I’d need to reveal the circumstances, and punishing someone would have left only one viable candidate.

So there was no alternative. The guilty me would have to face punishment. The reality was that no one else carried the guilt.

The issue was…

“Why in the world am I cleaning toilets?”

“……”

“Um, so, it’s an excrement maintenance batch?”

Camila, who had chuckled, suddenly rolled her eyes wide and ran away as I pulled the mop out of the drum.

“Gyaaaaak! What are you doing?! Are you insane?!”

“Stop being so loud and go catch a monster!”

“I already caught them all?!”

“Just go already! Please!”

As I watched Camila disappearing, I irritably jabbed the stick into the drum.

This was happening just as I barely emptied one of the eight drums.

—

As my dignity plummeted beneath the floor into the basement, envisioning my demise from the stick of shame, the disposal operation finally concluded.

“Finally!”

Having burned the eight drums of waste, I could reclaim my freedom.

Temporarily, of course.

“Wha-wha-what?!”

“Yes, you have to come back in nine days to do this again.”

“Why?!”

“What you processed just now was from last month. This means there’s waste from this month still remaining. You’ll need to take care of it by the end of this month.”

The clerk from the international relief agency managing the refugee camp delivered that thunderbolt of news.

Seriously? Doesn’t this agency lack the resources for even a single toilet? Stuffing thousands into a camp resembling a pigpen and can’t even manage to create a simple latrine?

As if I was about to voice my disbelief, memories of Jeik’s report before being dispatched to Mauritania floated into mind.

The president had embezzled all the modernization costs for the waterworks made to the local governmental authorities in the Kien Empire.

What is wrong with this country? They are even worse than Afghanistan.

“Ah, ah…”

A sigh slipped from my lips.

I was living in a dream.

This was never going to end with just one labor. Why did I think I could wash away my sins with a single day’s work?

Resigned to unending despair, I had no choice but to return to reality. It was time to switch back from the waste handler to the information officer.

In the end, I didn’t even have the chance to throw a decent complaint before changing into my clothes.

Just as I was heading back to the office, I ran into Pippin in the hallway, who was carrying some meeting materials.

“Hey, Pippin! Where are you headed?”

“I have a meeting. Heading to discuss the Hassan Warlord’s project with the analysts from the Royal Intelligence Department.”

Hmm. That must be the project I had previously worked on— the conflict between Asen and Sanya.

Though I had handed it over to Matt for now, the Third World Division suffered from a chronic manpower shortage, so we were still somewhat involved in the project.

I asked Pippin, suspecting something serious had come up.

“Did something happen?”

“Just a regular meeting.”

Nothing major then.

“I think I can return as soon as the meeting’s over…and the report I received from the Necropolis has been put into the manager’s office.”

“Alright. Take care.”

“Oh, and the Chief?”

“Yeah?”

“About the incident from last time… The Inquisition contacted us.

I was stopped just as I was about to enter my office by Pippin, who added, “They’re investigating the whereabouts of the two handlers who escaped from detention and were last seen searching for you after following Saint Lucia. Do you know anything about them?”

“Nothing else to say?”

“The staff over there seems to be having trouble tracking those two handlers’ whereabouts. There’s been no further progress.”

“…….”

“What should I tell them?”

“Let them know I don’t know anything, but I’ll reach out if I think of something.”

Ah, and also.

“By the way, where are Jake and Charnoy?”

“Jake is at the rear headquarters today, and as for Charnoy… I’m not sure. She hasn’t had much work lately.”

“Tell her to come find me when she’s around.”

“Got it.”

I waved my hand and unlocked my office door, then shortly after, I stepped outside with a stack of documents and got into the car.

Riding along with a Nymph behind me.

“Where are we heading…?”

After speeding along a beautifully straight highway for about 90 minutes,

I finally arrived at a familiar, luxurious building.

The safe house where the angel was hiding.