A Dark Fantasy Spy

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The hot sun blazes down, and as I cautiously close my eyes, the bright moon begins to illuminate all things.

A ship from the Lushan Federation sails along the dark waves, arriving at the port of the crimson desert at dawn.

The arrival announcement pierces through the slumbering passengers one by one, reaching even the traveler splashing cold water on himself in the restroom.

With drops of water trickling from the faucet, the traveler shed the traces of long voyages and changed into fresh clothes.

As the harmonious combo of a shirt and corduroy pants slides away like a tattered cloak, a plain black top is layered over.

In the place where his hair, which had been bound with a net, fell loose, a black rusari is wrapped. A veil covering his face cascades down from the crown to cloak his chest.

And finally, just as the traveler becomes reflected in the mirror, with only his eyes and the skin around them exposed,

the crimson gaze moves up and down, searching for gaps, before disappearing with a satisfied gleam along the edge of the mirror.

Fully clad, the traveler steps out of the restroom and returns to his seat, now with a clear view of the horizon from the window.

A passenger sat in the corridor-side seat, but he momentarily raised his knees for the returning neighboring passenger.

“Have you changed?”

The passenger asked in Kien.

As the traveler, returning to his seat, nodded as if naturally acknowledging, the man smiled as if relieved.

He lowered his knees and continued to whisper in a small voice.

“When we arrive at the port, there will be representatives waiting. A blue vehicle, two men and one woman.”

The black fabric draped over his face stirred slightly.

Soft Kien words surfaced through the niqab and rusari.

“Market research?”

“No, operational support.”

“…What’s the location of the client?”

“Not yet. I’m about to enter soon, though.”

The man hid his extended fingers with his body, his crimson eyes assessed the count.

Three fingers.

“Support department people say three hours… This is tight. Even mobilizing all branches might not be enough.”

The crimson gaze ventured forward with a deadpan light. The man wore a light smile at the woman’s words.

“Ha. Are you that tense? It’s just one person. But to draw in the entire branch manpower…”

“Hand over the passport.”

“Yes, colleague.”

The man, who unfolded his jacket, handed over the passport from his inner pocket with exaggerated gestures, and the woman placed her own passport on top.

The wind mixed with the scent of the ocean squeezed through the open window.

The passport, the size of a palm, fell helplessly into the sea. And the dark blue waves snatched it, pulling it into their embrace.

The two passports, engraved with the double-headed eagle.

Episode 20 – Who Threatened with a Knife?

Tourism is the flagship industry of the Mauritania Continent.

Some ridicule it, saying what kind of tourism exists for these uncivilized folk who merely survive off the land with no concrete industrial base.

Yet those with travel experiences and documentary crews from broadcasting stations continuously rave about the region’s natural scenery to the extent that their tongues dry out.

“Have you been there? If you haven’t, don’t bother talking; you guys are missing half of your life!”

Something along those lines.

Watching the senior’s impassioned monologue, I thought to myself that this person definitely starts rambling only when drunk, but on the other hand, I wondered if the landscapes truly were outstanding enough for a drunkard to prattle on for four hours and twenty-six minutes.

And only now do I think, wow, that individual was right on some days.

“Охуенно….”

A man in sunglasses muttered as he gazed at the sea.

Even with the sunrise, the scorching sun blazed. The white foam was shattering into pieces. The cliffs were shaped like pieces crafted one stitch at a time by the wind.

Such divine scenery was hard to come by.

“What’s so surprising? Is it your first time seeing the sea as a land dweller?”

The man in the driver’s seat questioned discontentedly. Resting his arm on the steering wheel and window sill, he was glaring dangerously at his friend who had been slouched carelessly on the hood.

Whether they cared or not.

The man in sunglasses raised his voice, pointing towards the sea.

“Look at that. The view is stunning.”

“All I see is your butt. Why don’t you clean your rear?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t believe you, senior. Did we not make the right choice by coming?”

“I get it, but do get that disgusting bottom off my car.”

Amidst the raucous noise, sleep finally waved goodbye.

Disturbed from her sweet rest, the woman lying in the backseat tossed aside the jacket covering her head and shot an irritated glare at the two.

“Hey, gentlemen… could you be quiet so I can get some sleep?”

As soon as her sharp utterance ended, laughter erupted.

The woman spread her palm and pulled her jacket over her head, and the man in the driver’s seat pointed at her with his finger.

“Hey, hey. He got scolded by the old man for breaking the supplies and takes it out on us.”

“Your friend seems to be easy to pick on.”

“Shut up… let me nap a bit…”

Lying in the backseat, the tired woman muttered, resembling an office worker, leaving the man in sunglasses agape.

A moment of pity.

“Wow. Are you really gonna sleep when the scenery is this good?”

“Quit with the scenery talk…”

The colleague, draped in her jacket, mumbled as she used her arms as a pillow.

“Do we even have time to gawk at something like that? The mission is right before us.”

The 6th division, which supports tasks for the Imperial Guard HQ across the country and overseas, is in charge of the Mauritania Continent.

They were the personnel of the Imperial Guard HQ, known for making even crying babies shut up.

…To summarize.

From the woman sprawled out like a turtle sunbathing with her jacket draped over her,
the man who scolded from the driver’s seat to get off the hood,
and the man in sunglasses, enjoying the scenery in a carefree manner, were all employees of that terrifying Imperial Guard HQ.

Unbelievable.

“What? In the end, all we do is clean up after the operational department, right?”

The fatigued woman hung one leg from the front to the back seat and muttered.

She was an employee of the 6th division supporting foreign operations of the Imperial Guard HQ within Mauritania.

“They say we clean up after them? That sounds odd. How would operations run without us?”

“Well, it’s not exactly wrong, is it? Most of what we do is errands.”

As the sunglasses man sulked, the friend in the driver’s seat returned a playful rebuttal. A slightly self-deprecating joke.

People think once you join an intelligence agency, everyone becomes a field intelligence officer.

But that’s half right and half wrong.

Indeed, intelligence gathering, data analysis, counterintelligence, and secret operations are the four main activities of an intelligence agency, but for missions to proceed smoothly, support from someone is essential, whether domestic or international.

The 6th division was the department assigned to that “support work.”

To put it figuratively, it’s like providing convenience?

Whether it’s a safe house or a listening device, the role of the 6th division is to bring whatever is asked.

For instance, if an investigator from the 1st division lacks a suitable disguise vehicle to surveil a suspect in a public security case, the 6th division employee immediately secures a usable vehicle.

If an information officer from the 2nd division needs to rescue an informant detained in the heart of Abas, a 6th division employee will supply firearms, forged identification, and escape means locally.

Such operational support departments exist everywhere, with the CIA’s Directorate of Support (DS) being a symbolic example of support departments.

In that sense, it is indeed an important division, and practically it was so.

However, the internal evaluation and status of the 6th division within the Imperial Guard HQ were fairly low…

The reason was obvious.

“Did you hear what the colleagues say… they mock us as servants and maids.”

This was a posting that one should never accept if they wished to advance.

The 6th division employee, leaning on the steering wheel, responded to his colleague’s grievance.

“Ah, anyone who’s truly set on coming to the company would never glance at the 6th division.”

Job seekers who dream of being intelligence officers unconditionally wish to join the 1st or 2nd divisions, or at the very least the 8th which handles comprehensive analysis.

Those with talent in magic or divinity?

Most head to the 13th division (intelligence equipment and technology R&D), while those with exceptional talents are pulled into the mysterious phenomena investigation department.

Those with excellent foreign language skills can thrive as language experts in the 2nd or 8th divisions, while aspiring individuals with ambitions for advancement tend to rise into the inspection or personnel departments.

For these folks, the 6th division was essentially an exile—akin to a hidden valley.

Although there were plenty of tasks, it became notorious for being an area where advancement wasn’t well-favored. That was the reason the 6th division has long been regarded as a ‘place to avoid’ within the Imperial Guard HQ.

Thus, among the employees, those working in the 6th division half-jokingly referred to themselves as “servants” or “maids”. To put it simply, it resembled the Korean nicknames “yellow cow-black cow”.

Of course, jokes are told considering the listeners.

Among friendly employees working in the 6th division, it was the kind of playful banter shared like “Come here—” and receiving a “Yeah—” back.

On the other hand, if someone entirely unfamiliar or not particularly close to them brought up terms like servant or maid, it would mean it was on.

“Operational support’s mostly handled by seniors; we’re mere newcomers… But let’s not be too disheartened. The 6th division is still a place where people live. Maybe good days will come someday?”

The 6th division officer in the driver’s seat joked to uplift everyone’s spirits.

However, the female colleague offered no reply, and the man in sunglasses was lost in admiring the scenery. For reference, the pairs of bottoms had still been sprawled on the hood.

The 6th division officer looked back and forth, beginning to chuckle.

“A dog barking, a dog barking…”

The dry voice mixed with the seaside breeze dispersed.

The man in sunglasses finally stepped down from the hood, shoulders shaking.

“So who’s coming?”

“I don’t know.”

The fellow information officer answered while lightly shaking his arm resting on the steering wheel.

“The old man just told us to wait.”

In other words, the resident (the highest-ranking information officer in the host country) did not disclose anything.

So essentially, the instruction was to wait at the port until someone shows up, without knowing who that person was.

It was a frustrating command, but they had to follow it, as it was from the highest-ranking information officer in the field. It had come through from headquarters too.

“I should’ve gone for breakfast.”

As he murmured gloomily, the colleague who had been sleeping beneath the jacket replied in a roundabout way.

“Don’t say that… you can’t work if you’re too full…”

Thus the 6th division employees were waiting.

For someone unknown, arriving whenever.

How could they meet someone whose face they didn’t even know? It didn’t make sense, but the resident only gave the reply to sit tight and let them come find.

That statement was indeed true.

The people supposed to arrive from headquarters were well recognized by the 6th division employees.

Just as the three Kien, vulnerable to the heat, were transforming into naturally-cooked sous-vide under the brutal heat of 27.4 degrees Celsius, a pair of traditionally-dressed men and women approached and gently knocked rhythmically on the glass.

An officer from the 6th division asked.

“Did you come from Kudrian?”

The man answered.

“I was introduced by Uncle Juba.”

“Please, get in. We’ve been waiting.”

The agents from the home country took up seats in the front and back. The man in sunglasses glanced at the motorcycle parked beside them.

The resounding roar of a cooled engine faded into the distance, and as the 6th division employee drifted between dreamland, they occasionally glanced back at the home office personnel taking up the seat next to them, the agents heavily armored with niqab seemed so silent one could hardly gauge their gender.

The 6th division officer, gripping the wheel, asked.

“Let’s head to the branch office first.”

The home country information officer nodded in agreement.

However, the officer seated at the back had other thoughts.

“Let’s go to the hotel instead. We’ll need time to prepare.”

“Hotel? Right now?”

“Yes. Go straight on this road.”

For some reason, the clear female voice felt unusually sharp. The 6th division employee responded affirmatively and was about to start driving when suddenly something came to mind, lowering the window to shout back to the colleague.

While gauging the timing to start the engine, the colleague opened his arms, wondering what was up. The 6th division officer whispered to him the adjusted destination.

“They’re saying we should go to a hotel.”

“Hotel? Then we should. I’ll head on ahead and prepare.”

“But it’ll take a while. Longer than you think.”

“Quit whining. Just how long can it take, really?”

“If traffic is heavy, around… 2 hours and 20 minutes?”

2 hours and 20 minutes?

The 6th division employee in sunglasses looked up at the scorching sun once. Then alternated his gaze between the searing seat and the air-cooled engine exuding heat between his legs.

“Охуенно….”

“…Wow, I felt like I was burning alive. Ugh-”

The 6th division employee kept retching with unfocused eyes.

The fallout from riding a motorcycle across the sun-kissed desert.

“Why haven’t you gotten more cars…?”

“How can we, with the budget being what it is? I’m sorry for the trouble.”

The colleagues diligently patted the back of their friend who had swallowed more than he could chew with the heat.

The reason he rode the motorcycle wasn’t out of bravado or ego.

It was merely that the only vehicles left available were a four-seater passenger car and a motorcycle.

The customized vans they paid extra for had been long-term lent out to surveillance and intelligence teams, and every truck had already been taken by the special task force.

Sure, the hatchback one of the 6th division seniors had cherished for years still existed, but that too had been borrowed by a military intelligence unit for a business trip to Zamiaria or Suria months ago, and there had been no news since.

“How’s the landscape looking?”

“Good enough.”

The two agents from headquarters gathered by the window engaged in conversation.

The man peered through a monocular mounted on a tripod while the woman tossed aside her cumbersome niqab and inserted her identification card into her mobile phone.

The flickering logo of the local carrier momentarily danced before combining area codes and numbers, playing the dialing tone.

-‘Hello?’

“Yes, Aunt. I’ve arrived.”

-‘Good to hear. How’s the weather there?’

Her gaze moved from the window to the table.

– Blink. Blink.

“It’s clear.”

The woman, pulling her attention from the blinking green light, added briefly.

-‘…Good. The reception is decent.’

Her aunt replied.

-‘Have you secured the base?’

The woman replied.

“I have secured it. Shizuya, Okchaburvinsk Plaza, 35th floor.”

Her superior inquired.

-‘Who are you with?’

The subordinate answered.

“With Salizan and three others.”

-‘6th division?’

“That’s correct.”

Conversation paused. It was the supervisor’s habit to adjust the receiver during calls due to their usual manner.

-‘A guest will arrive there today. One man. Check the particulars in the attached documents.’

“Yes.”

-‘Alternate monitoring with your colleagues. The priority is to secure as much evidence as possible. Until you receive permission, avoid approaching as much as possible.’

The superior added.

-‘If you require support, a follow-up team will arrive from the neighboring country. But starting from four days later.’

Backup. Nearby countries on standby. Movement in four days.

“How long until they arrive?”

-‘At least 36 hours.’

That meant they wouldn’t arrive until at least two days later.

A pen swiftly skated across the notebook. Shift monitoring. Evidence securing priority. Approach forbidden. Backup four days later. Minimum 36 hours required.

The Imperial Guard HQ employee’s lips moved as they continued jotting down notes, just in case they would forget.

-‘If possible, I’d like you to finish this with just your group. If absolutely needed, feel free to get help from a 6th division member or the resident.’

The pen stopped as it moved across the page.

“Didn’t you tell us to call for support?”

-‘I did. But that group isn’t our family, so I am a little concerned.’

Not our family. It meant other agency personnel.

While the specifics were omitted, the larger context was clear. The final instructions were to report every 12 hours before the call was cut.

The woman wrote down those details and finally rose from her seat.

“Director’s call.”

With a flick, the notebook soared from her blanket back onto the bed. The man dispatched from headquarters paused his equipment check to take a look.

“…To do it just the two of us? Are you kidding?”

“A touching true story indeed.”

This work trip certainly wouldn’t be easy. The Imperial Guard HQ employee shook his head as he locked the case containing the magical imaging device.

“Everyone.”

A sharp clap drew everyone’s attention.

Only one person, her colleague tidying up the gear, remained unaffected.

“These are the directives from the Director. I ask for your cooperation for a few days.”

The frail-looking staff who were swaying and their two supporting colleagues looked at each other.

And simultaneously turned their heads away.

“…What kind of cooperation are you speaking of?”

“Oh, it’s nothing much.”

To the employees’ questioning, the woman responded in a flat voice.

“We’re just monitoring a certain man.”