A Dark Fantasy Spy

---

I can sense the change of seasons on my skin.

The wind has picked up, and the temperature has dropped.

The once scorching midday sun now seems to have wilted. My heightened senses from the walk alert me to the subtle chill in the air.

The breeze feels oddly damp, which suggests that the rainy season is approaching. Taking a deep breath, I can smell the rising haze.

I close the work device, stepping out onto the terrace.

This hotel somewhere in the unfamiliar Mauritania continent has a distinctly ‘African’ vibe. It feels meticulously crafted yet strangely clumsy.

The blend of brown, light green, and white is familiar, but I’d prefer to feel this familiarity in Kenya.

The plains greet the dawn. Watching the sun rise over the city while sipping a cup of coffee sounds perfect—

“Meow…!”

Crash!

With a shriek, a cat beastman knocks my coffee cup to the side.

And then, a stout creature with pointy ears, brandishing a broom like a Roman legionnaire, leaps onto the terrace with a wild shout.

“Kair, that damn cat…! It’s been watching that little mouse devour Charnoy’s cheese without doing anything…!”

“What do you expect me to do…?”

“Being a cat means you should catch it…!”

“But I’m scared of mice…!”

“…….”

I glance at the coffee cup, now reduced to only its handle, and then let my gaze drop to the floor.

The coffee, meticulously brewed from beans (a Mauritania specialty: double the tax if it crosses over to Abas!), is now spilt all over the hotel’s floor.

…Crap.

“Keep it down with the barking!”

The handle flies off, hitting Charnoy’s forehead with a thwack!

“Yikes…”

“Meow…”

Having subdued the chaos of nymphs and beastmen with just the coffee cup, I was in the middle of stifling my irritation when members from the Royal Intelligence Department and Military Intelligence Agency rushed in after hearing the commotion.

The scene laid out includes shattered glass shards, a broken broom, an unconscious Kair, Charnoy, and me, panting hard.

Matt, the first to assess the situation, wore a bewildered expression.

“Did you all start fighting at breakfast? Why is everyone on the ground?”

—

Episode 18 – The Man Club

The training method presented by the Duke can be summed up in many ways.

Human vs. monster battles.

A deadly duel in the coliseum.

A melting pot of human modification.

The Man Club where only the strong survive, and so on.

It was a training method I’d expect to see in a complete Chinese novel.

It embodies unrefined, unreasonable, and non-systematic practices.

Yet, even if grew up through this ‘unrefined method’, the Duke himself is a ‘refined individual’.

I don’t mean he was born into an established family.

Alexandra Petrovna chose the path of a mage in a distant past when mages were treated poorly, and this serves as evidence of her being a significant intellectual and an enlightened individual even now.

(But we must always remember that all mages are insane. Nikolai VI should have assigned a psychologist to his aunt before he began to lose his mind. That incompetent emperor.)

No matter how twisted his companions were, even a hundred-year-old man with functioning brain cells had enough judgment to differentiate between public and private matters!

What does this even mean?

“What? Didn’t the manager get captured by the imperial Duke?”

“He told me to report back because it’d be troublesome if my income was cut.”

He wasn’t some psychopath holding a foreign public servant captive for an entire day. That’s what I’m saying.

Of course, I wasn’t alone in being released.

“What about the others?”

“They’ve all returned. To the refugee camp. They’ll get some rest tonight before going hunting for arms dealers.”

“Is that for real? Wow, you must be exhausted. Congratulations on getting out early.”

Pippin and Jake took turns congratulating me. They commented on how I looked tired and how I must have been going through a tough time.

But when Golden Sun’s mouth opened to say “got released,” tears started to well up in my eyes.

“I didn’t get released….”

“What? Did I hear wrong?”

“I have to return….”

“Oh.”

What I thought was my discharge turned out to be “Oh crap, it was a nightmare.” Both the analysts and intelligence officers sighed simultaneously.

Damn old mage. Since I can’t have my income cut, they’ll let me go for now, but when there’s no urgent business, they want me to return for training again.

As Pippin sifted through the photo data taken by the air force and mages, he rubbed the back of his neck.

“How about ducking for a bit?”

“They told me to come catch you personally.”

The analyst nodded while the intelligence officer sighed heavily.

“That won’t do.”

“We don’t have a chance.”

“…What if I just say some sweet words? You guys are such bastards.”

I hadn’t even considered a way to escape secretly. They said they’d come to catch me themselves.

The Great Mage who bombed what was basically the heart of the Cult with his squad-level troops isn’t something to be trifled with by the military intelligence’s mages or the capture division mages.

Those guys would rather shoot to kill. How do you kill a mage? Even if the Inquisition shows up, they wouldn’t achieve anything.

What can we do? I just have to endure one day at a time, hoping today isn’t the day I’m dragged to the gallows.

“Did anything happen while I was gone?”

I plopped myself down in my cozy office chair.

Pippin and Jake reported to me as if they had been waiting for my return, and the first piece of news was quite the spectacle.

“A foreign cartel clashed with military police while conducting a smuggling raid, causing casualties. According to officials and branch intelligence officers, it seems like they took advantage of the gap left by the continuous crackdowns in the black market.”

“The number of warlords entering the southern Jamria Federation has increased by 42.6% compared to last year. This is believed to be related to the Aramadan period coming to an end and the weakening of the Asen and Sanya warlords, leading to a prolonged security gap caused by the Nabuktu incident. The issue lies in the ‘conflict between federal and state military forces,’ as command hierarchies aren’t being organized, causing confusion among field units….”

“Governments feeling threatened by the recent Al-Kair incident are forming alliances with foreign nations. Nine diplomatic officials from various countries have contacted the Kien ambassador in their countries about ‘mine development’….”

—

Crime, corruption, mold, and cockroaches bear an uncanny resemblance.

No matter how much you try to eradicate them, they’ll burst back in with the slightest lapse in vigilance.

In that sense, the issue of illegal weapons on the Mauritania continent is no different.

“I thought it would end easily.”

As long as there is demand, supply will never vanish.

Even though the DEA puts on all sorts of circus shows to eradicate drugs within the United States, California’s meth dealers won’t decrease. The same goes for the broadcasting department in the Ministry of Defense trying to crack down on South Korean videos; the spread of the videos can’t be halted.

Supply doesn’t generate demand; rather, demand leads to the creation of supply.

Similarly, the reasons behind the continuous failures of efforts like smoking bans, alcohol prohibition, and self-medication are found here. Doesn’t desire bubble up like an unending spring?

Of course, the stance of the Republic of Korea government in the 21st century might differ.

If suppressing demand proves challenging, we will crush the supply! Complete blockage of overseas direct purchases! How to procure things that can’t be found domestically? Oh ho ho~ You just have to ask the government to sell them to you on the official site~

This would surely be a policy that would make Xi Jinping gasp, Kim Jong-un smack his forehead in disbelief, and Biden shout, “Heungseon-daewong! Immediately revoke the isolation policy!”

Had the U.S. done something like that, they might have been able to seize the marijuana Snoop Dog was holding.

For reference, the U.S. has a history of nearly screwing itself over by supporting ‘dictators’ (who claimed to be fervent anti-communists but actually brought drugs from communist countries to the U.S. market) in order to take down the ‘supplier’—the Latin American drug cartels—resulting in public dissatisfaction and diplomatic disputes.

Thus, it wouldn’t be surprising to hear the refrain, “Tried it, but that didn’t work~.”

But what kind of country is the United States?

The Earth’s online North America server state. A wealthy nation that spends more on defense than the combined military budgets of China and Russia.

If personified, they would be a well-dressed, muscular macho man (though the global trend and personal preferences tend more toward feminization than masculinization).

For this macho America, protest letters are as important as mosquito tears! (Mexican government: Damn these guys!) They continue to do everything behind the scenes. (??? ?? : Stop it, Yankees!)

This situation could be resolved by challenging the U.S. military in a duel, but sadly, no dashing macho man has yet emerged to do so. To be precise, they once did but then disappeared.

Yes, Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi had the audacity to proclaim, “F*ing Americans… let’s face off without rank!” But alas, the timing and location were not ideal.

It was simply bad luck to shout such nonsense at a fool with the Guinness World Record for hide-and-seek (captured after ten years and subjected to canoing by American seals) and having his nipples twisted at the same time by an eagle.

Especially considering that after September 11, even Kim Jong-il remained silent and subdued, which puts Saddam Hussein in a different dimension of ‘the real deal.’ Just this speaks volumes; while many strongmen can command the respect of the masses, the parents of Hussein unfortunately picked a very bad date for his birth.

In the end, the ruthless duo of dictators from the Earth’s online Avaria-North Africa server was reduced to the farce of plucking hair from a lion’s mane rather than a cock.

After being dogged and beaten by the North American server (and simultaneously the global server), they were expelled to the side of Allah.

Since then, the global village has become a ‘super-coward’s haven,’ truly a tale of woe that can hardly be recounted without tears.

“What one?”

“I was just lost in thought for a moment. That friend over there looks remarkably like Hussein.”

“Who’s that?”

There are those who are born at the wrong time.

I, reminiscing, began to speak in a nostalgic voice.

“A man born out of the errors of his father and mother, a tragic figure.”

“That describes him perfectly.”

Matt nodded. I felt chills at his agreement, as if he could wipe out half the population with a single snap of his fingers.

I expressed boundless respect and gratitude to Matt’s parents for bringing him up not in a cosmic realm but on this earth.

Even the fact that they gave him white skin instead of purple.

With a refreshing breeze, the temperature was just right. Matt and I, standing by the open Namdaemun gate, took a leak on the sandy ground together.

“Damn.”

I muttered a curse while holding my cigarette.

Not out of anger, but rather out of pure absurdity.

“What are two men doing peeing on the plains? What is this nonsense?”

“What else can we do? Look around. Sand, trees, weeds everywhere; there’s no restroom.”

“Seriously, don’t they even have a bathroom?”

A faraway country, quite far from the Jamria Federation. A border area between that country and another.

There, a faint white smoke was curling from a storage facility, and criminals were kneeling with their heads down.

The ones I pointed to were those who had been caught sneaking across the border and snagged by the intelligence agency radar.

They weren’t the kind of pathetic smugglers you would entrust to the World Union or your party. They were the real deal, dealing in all sorts of goods across continents.

Originally, intelligence agencies were meant to catch these types of folks. (CIA: You hear this? / Mexico: F*.)

Of course, we were the same.

Thus, since dawn, we’d boarded a boat and teleported to near the target coastline to catch them while even conducting a material check. Reflecting on it, I grew angry.

What am I, a Jeju Island diver? I’m not a navy, and I shouldn’t have to dive while infiltrating. Sure, I have experience with scuba diving from intelligence, but the sting from that jellyfish still hurts.

Yet, I do understand. They likely didn’t expect armor-wearing ‘white-skinned commandos’ to chase them down. I can completely understand that.

But this is just wrong, isn’t it?

“They built a storage facility for drugs, firearms, wild animals, and even illegal DIY magical tools, but they don’t have a restroom? That’s the most essential thing.”

Indeed.

Our proud (not really) and lovely (not one bit) criminals had made a storage facility to stash their smuggled goods but failed to prepare even the makeshift bathrooms found in refugee camps.

The team leader of the Royal Intelligence Department named Matt, puffing on his cigarette, shrugged.

“It seems they figured there’d be a trace left if they set up toilets for doing their business.”

“But they build a warehouse?”

“I find that laughable too.”

They set up a noticeable storage facility kilometers away yet skipped out on the bathroom. How’s that for camouflage?

Have they got a bunch of udon noodles in their brains? Is that head up top there just for decoration?

“This is just nuts.”

“They may look silly, but they are decent-sized. Gucci’s got a big name for a reason.”

That meant we finally caught something worth our while.

As I smoked, I threw out a question.

“Seems like a lot of foreigners are crossing into Mauritania these days, whether they be criminals or businessmen.”

“You’ve heard it in the briefing, haven’t you? The government is attempting to get cozy with foreign powers.”

“I know.”

“But?”

Matt asked as if concerned about my state, and I exhaled a mix of smoke and a sigh, clutching my cigarette.

“Criminals and entrepreneurs…. But it’s not like only those kinds of folk are coming here.”

—

The stench of gunpowder mingled with cigarette smoke. After marking our territory on the plains, taking a bit of a break (the privilege of someone ranking higher; you can complain if you want to get promoted), Matt and I headed back to the scene.

This intel operation was joint work. It was a friendly gathering of Abas intelligence agencies; it wasn’t about sharing any food with local intel or military police.

Military Intelligence Agency staff divided into teams were each carrying out their respective missions. In fact, the entry and gunfire clearly concluded long ago, leaving only cleanup work.

A squad armed with rifles was observing and interrogating the captured criminals, and all while collecting documents from the vehicles, warehouses, and offices used by the criminals.

I approached the tumbling smugglers to identify them. They were all wrapped in rags (we did that), so I had to check one by one from left to right.

“Don’t know him. Don’t know this guy either. Oh, he’s a bit young.”

Interestingly enough, the ages of the captured smugglers were mostly early twenties. The oldest appeared to be in their 30s or 40s.

Occasionally, you’d find a boy or girl in their teens, but since they looked to be cartel affiliates rather than warlords, it seemed they deliberately chose the life of crime. A scenario not uncommon in Latin America and Africa.

These rookies were just the low-level affiliates, so I passed them. They were of the delivery boy type, with just enough experience to potentially act as a foreman. It’d be better to sort through the older men to gather intel.

I pulled off the masks and yanked on their hair. Check the top.

“Don’t know this guy.”

Not in the database.

Discard newbie number one. Next! A guy in his mid-30s, jackpot!

“What is this? That chin of yours is smooth?”

Al-Yabd’s believers usually sport facial hair. Growing it is a local customary practice. It is indeed a peculiar fellow, but he turned out to be of no use, so he’s passed as well.

As I diligently verified identities, the earlier familiar friend reappeared. A tragic figure, not Hussein!

Just seeing his face triggers a smile, but tragically, he’s a complete failure. How did a guy who once ran Iraq end up as a smuggler that struggles? He’ll be specially passed on to Allah.

“Let’s see…? Oh?”

Bringing a new guy for a mask reveal, a curious face emerged. The previous guys were all dark-skinned, clearly Africans, but this one was distinctly lighter, like a Latin American.

Checking his identity aligned with the server indicated he was a cartel mid-level member from across the sea.

Hearing the news, Matt, who had just been browsing records in the smuggling office, materialized with a cheerful whistle. As I was carelessly uncovering the half-masked face of the mid-level member, he grinned and gave him a hearty slap on the back.

“Do you know this guy?”

“Yup. He’s the one I missed two years ago on a local mission. We almost caught him, but the police rat messed it up.”

“Looks like they blew it and let him go.”

“Something like that. The police officer we were dealing with was in cahoots, feeding information to the cartel.”

Matt laughed, and I joined him with an amused chuckle.

Regardless, there are indeed many frustrating people around.

“I never expected to run into him here.”

Matt, poking at the cartel mid-level member, issued orders to the operation team.

“Take this guy, gather the materials, and let’s burn that shipment to the ground. Don’t forget to wipe all traces away.”

“Yes, Team Leader. What about the rest of the smugglers?”

Hearing his subordinate’s question, the team leader shifted his gaze toward me. I adjusted my suspenders and began to whistle.

Clank.

“…….”

The team leader turned back to his subordinate, and in an unremarkable voice, he dropped a line.

“We saw their faces.”

—

The bearded, testicle-less Hitler (gender, eye color, and hair color all different) Alexandra Petrovna the Duke is a serious troublemaker.

For our job security, although they let us go for now, they didn’t set a specific ‘when to return’ date.

Quite the mess. Not knowing the return date is like receiving a leave pass without a return date inscribed!

Soldiers could blame administrative incompetence, but our foe is not the Ministry of Defense but a hundred-plus-year-old mage!

Even a fifty-year-old could drive us crazy with their conversations; how could a century-old magus wade through conversation without confusion?

Even if I brought the great old mage of the vet counter, Veronica, she’d likely leap out a window if the opponent is a duke. (Just to illustrate, Veronica once hid under my bed to avoid eating couscous.)

Regardless, since the Duke might come after me unannounced, I need to finish tasks as quickly as possible.

That’s why I hurried to find Hassan Warlord.

“I wish you peace. It’s great to meet you again, Nasir.”

“Peace to you, Asud.”

The Hassan Warlord is one of the three major warlords in the Jamria Federation.

Centering around the Hassan tribe, multiple tribes converged to form this warlord band, with the other two major warlords, the Asen Warlord and Sanya Warlord, having been similarly established.

Incidentally, Asen and Sanya are currently at war, and I had a hand in stoking that fire.

To be precise, the Sanya tribe, supported by the Kien Empire (with weapons, ammo, intel, etc.), pushed the Asen tribe too far, prompting the two sides to clash. Meanwhile, I had been smoothing relations with the Hassan tribe.

Of course, that is still a current endeavor.

Whether it’s the war between Asen and Sanya or the cooperation between me and Hassan, it’s all ongoing.

It had been a while since we sat face to face. I asked the leader of the Hassan tribe, ‘Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan’ how he had been.

“How have you been? It has been quite eventful.”

“Things are always peaceful here. And you?”

“Are you asking about me?”

The cunning warlord leader nodded and shook his head.

I sipped jasmine tea emanating a pleasant fragrance. Wetting my lips, I responded.

“Nothing much has happened.”

“Let’s leave it at that.”

Small talk ended there. Despite the relatively short duration of our acquaintance, we had forged a deep connection.

We delved into the main subject, gradually unraveling the discussions we had missed.

“The conflict between Asen and Sanya has dragged on. Just as we predicted.”

The planner of the Asen-Sanya dispute, Leoni, had initially anticipated a prolonged conflict from the start.

Since the time when the Kien Empire was deeply involved with the federal government, she had been active here, well aware of how deep the conflicts run between the Asen and Sanya. Even hindering attempts at peace negotiations, she actively incited conflict.

Although the circumstances had shifted slightly, leading to necessary adjustments in her plans, still.

I quoted her words verbatim.

“Until now, it was just simmering and hadn’t exploded; it was a bomb waiting to go off. Sooner or later, it would have detonated. It was the same for Asen and Sanya.”

“I’m also aware of that.”

Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan released a long breath laden with complex emotions.

“Asen and Sanya have historically had a good relationship, but the Asen ‘warlord’ and Sanya ‘warlord’ have had their differences.”

“Their interests have always clashed sharply. It all started when Sanya claimed ownership over Asen’s iodine and nitrate mines.”

The dispute regarding the ownership of mines between Asen and Sanya is the beginning.

Iodine and nitrate, raw materials for gunpowder, are extremely vital strategic resources for warlords. Even if they import shell casings, heads, and primers, being able to produce gunpowder locally means a groundbreaking reduction in costs. They can also control the production volume as they wish.

But one day, iodine and nitrate mines popped up in the territory of a subordinate tribe under Asen. The Sanya tribe, in need of ammunition, hurriedly went over and attempted to persuade the ‘neighboring residents to sell them that mine!’

However, the subordinate tribe flatly refused.

The reason? Well, everyone knows that.

“If they sold the iodine and nitrate mines, Asen would have pushed that tribe aside.”

Nasir mumbled in a voice that differed little from his usual tone. It seemed he was implying he would have made the same decision. A true warlord leader.

“So they refused.”

“Naturally, a decision that should have been made.”

“Yes, that’s true, but the problem is that Sanya wouldn’t just give up their ammunition, would they?”

Sanya felt aggrieved. They had clearly expressed their willingness to pay a hefty price. It was tantamount to a huge insult for a mere subordinate tribe to reject their offer, especially since it placed their survival and battle readiness in jeopardy.

So they threatened them. They dispatched armed forces to shout, “Bring it at once! No, bring it all!”

With the warlord’s chief rattling their chains, what could a mere subordinate tribe do? They just begged for mercy. Thus, Sanya returned home laden with all the ammunition.

…If the story ended there, it wouldn’t be entertaining.

The real story begins here.

I smiled and broke apart the prepared snacks.

“Asen and Sanya originally coexisted as warlord clans. Even if they fought, they maintained the relationship where they respected what needed to be respected.”

No ammunition? Come purchase ours. We’ll give you a discount.

No weapons? We have some excess; want to take those?

Need to push some drugs? Shall I introduce you to a cartel boss you can contact?

What! You got attacked by some petty hoodlums? Guys, gear up. I can send you over to the government guys by the earth god today!

Of course, that’s an exaggeration, but this was the vibe among Jamria’s three major warlords. It was a relationship where they fought and insulted each other but kept a common courtesy alive. More accurately put, it was a relationship where they didn’t particularly want to share meals but still felt the need to maintain appearances.

Then Sanya hit the gas pedal. They forcibly seized ammunition.

Asen immediately cut off the ammunition supply to Sanya, leaving them with one major source of supply gone.

Though this incident didn’t cause either warlord to collapse entirely, mistrust brewed between them.

A bit, more than a bit.

Given that there were underlying tensions, if the leaders (sheikhs) had been truly serious they would have met to settle things. But the leaders’ rear ends were far too heavy.

The problem was that an annoying white guy crashed into the scene to stir the pot.

As I crunched through the cookies, I recollected my past deeds.

“Sanya’s snipers shot Asen’s officials, and Asen’s forces blew up Sanya’s ammunition factory, poppy fields, cocaine plants, and gold mines….”

“You caused quite the mess. Want to try again?”

Nasir chuckled and stirred his tea comfortably. I laughed along, shaking my head in denial.

“Why would I? I think your skills are rather good.”

“There’s no need for that anymore, is there? Enough blood has already been shed!”

“Hmm, indeed.”

Nasir, the leader of the Hassan Warlord, nodded, a smile lingering on his face even as a shadow flicked across it.

I then put forth a proposal. A rather enticing one.

“How about we bring this to an end? The conflict between Asen and Sanya.”

Nasir suddenly raised his head, accepting my words.

“Is it because of the incoming warlords from the south?”

“Dragging it on won’t lead to anything good.”

The war between Asen and Sanya benefited Hassan significantly. Seizing the opportunity while Asen and Sanya weakened, he had steadily taken resources for himself, though he quietly negotiated it rather than overtly pillaging.

To begin with, the reason Nasir associated with me was for it too. To eliminate competitors and expand territory.

Yet, as the war between the two clans dragged on….

The troublesome Al-Kair, looking like some environmental organization, popped up, misreading the flow and igniting a fire across the continent, thus distorting the situation.

“The minor warlords are stirring. They’re coming down from the North, East, and West into the South.”

Although Asen, Sanya, and Hassan stand as notable warlords in the Jamria Federation, there are indeed many other warlords that coexist within this land. It doesn’t take much thought.

Doesn’t martial arts novels deal with that as well?

Though there are major factions like the GuPailang and OdaeSeiga, they often feature minor sects belonging to those factions. Nameless entities that play more of a supporting role than starring ones.

The minor warlords marching down now are these kinds of characters.

If this were a novel, they would likely remain mere background settings, characters flying under the radar without anyone noticing.

But reality differs.

In the hottest battleground of the African continent, the Sahel triangle, those minor terror groups go mad, carrying out their wild antics. All the while, all the groups fighting in that area are also considered minor.

Yet, people only know of major terror groups like the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. Much like a protagonist in a martial arts novel walking the stage of, say, GuPailang or OdaeSeiga. The ones actually killing people and confronting military police are often ones never heard of.

But the interesting part is this.

Occasionally, those underdogs might band together to rip apart a bigger opponent.

Like piranhas.

“Hmm….”

Nasir, the Hassan Warlord leader, scrunched his brow uneasily. I popped another snack into my mouth and continued speaking.

“Asen and Sanya have sufficiently weakened. I believe that Hassan could absorb them without any trouble.”

Nasir nodded persistently. No matter how uncomfortable that thought made him, he agreed with that statement.

Thus, I could say words like this.

“Let’s take care of both of them.”

After all, Hassan had always intended to absorb Asen and Sanya from the outset.

Even if he pretended not to in front of me, the blatant desire was evident in the communications exchanged between the warlord executives.

And I wanted to help achieve that desire.

“How about you act as a mediator, Nasir? Hassan should remain as a third party in this war. Nobody would think it odd if you stepped in to mediate.”

“That would be so. Especially in a situation like this.”

Be it Asen or Sanya, it was their preference to fight.

But what is the aim of war? Isn’t it to conquer land? With minor warlords poised to raid empty properties again, there surely wouldn’t still be ground left for them after a hard-fought battle.

Both clans have been itching for positions of power as it stands; neither leader is likely eager to escalate things any further.

Even if continuous skirmishes occur at the frontlines, back at headquarters, news just came in that both leaders were seeking a mediator to end the war.

And that mediator must always be the Hassan Warlord.

An excellent plan dawned upon me.

“The origins of all these events are rooted in the disputes over ownership of the iodine and nitrate mines. It commenced with Sanya eyeing Asen’s mines. However, the deeper cause lies elsewhere, doesn’t it?”

“The matter with Jamila was the cause of strife.”

“The Asen clan leader’s niece forcefully ripped off cash from a Sanya merchant. From Sanya’s perspective, it must have severely impacted their honor.”

Nasir posed the question of how Hassan should react.

“Welcome guests warmly, treat enemies coldly. In this land where honor surpasses life, this saying seems to be the most enduring.”

“….”

“And there’s an ancient tale passed down from an island nation. ‘Resolve matters by the sword.'”

I responded.

“Let’s nip it in the bud.”