A Dark Fantasy Spy

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I roamed around various corners of the world, seeking out places I had never been. However, Iran stood out as a particularly memorable assignment.

Why, you ask? Because I was dragged there after being scammed.

After skipping through Beijing and Moscow like a buffet before returning to my home country, during a time when I was hell-bent on getting to a developed country, I had been twisting and turning around the idea.

I could speak Chinese, Russian, and even French, so naturally, I aimed for Paris.

But the French scores I submitted while hoping for a position in the Paris Military Attaché led me to Vietnam and Algeria, while my Spanish certification got me a ticket to South America.

This was all the result of the mess created by European actors and the original Catholic Taliban (who are referred to as “Conquistadors” in Spain) centuries ago. These folks spread languages far and wide during their colonization.

Of course, Vietnam and Algeria could be exempted from this.

France had last wreaked havoc in Vietnam and Algeria after World War II.

(During that time, even the British, who freed their colonies, were outperformed in this regard; de Gaulle considered independence movements as riots and suppressed them with military force, so the French government was less competent than the British government. Of course, the perspective of the Irish protesters in 1972 might differ.)

Anyway.

After getting worn out by the unimaginable overseas assignments, I was determined to change my posting by any means necessary.

One day, my uncle came around and suggested a solution I had never thought of.

“Why don’t you learn Persian and try your hand at document translation?”

“Translation, you say?”

“To analyze foreign news articles or documents, translation is essential. It might be tough to get dispatched at a mere reading and writing level, but in translation, it’s a different story.”

Persian was a rare language, high in demand but equally hard to learn. It was a high-difficulty language. Especially for overseas assignments requiring conversational skills.

However, once you passed a certain level, transferring departments became easier due to the lower competition with relatively fewer applicants.

Maybe because he was a lieutenant colonel, he definitely had a different perspective.

The problem started when the North Korean ambassador in Tehran contacted the Iranian Foreign Ministry in 2018 to sign an MOU (Memorandum of Understanding) in education and culture. This was right when my posting was about to end, and I was in the middle of handing over my duties, when suddenly I received a call instructing me to go to Tehran for training.

It turned out that the Reds had been actively engaging with Iran in areas beyond education and culture and got caught red-handed.

While I was bubbling with excitement at the thought of easily translating documents, I was once again dragged back to the field.

“In short, I was scammed—this is what happened.”

I slightly prolonged my explanation, finishing with a lengthy conclusion.

“So you really had a reason for being stubborn about not wanting to come?”

“That’s right.”

Camila nodded, finally understanding.

On the way to our destination, she, curious about where my endless discomfort sparked from, began questioning me about the reasons.

So I shared some stories from the past, and she finally seemed pleased, as if her curiosity had been quenched.

“Is that really good news?”

Camila smiled without saying a word. Why was she so delighted?

Perhaps it was because she had uncovered a secret she had long wondered about, her face beaming with joy.

“Because it’s an interesting story! By the way, after hearing it, I have some questions I want to ask.”

“Go ahead.”

“This isn’t just being scammed; it just seems like Frederick messed up his timing, doesn’t it?”

She tilted her head.

Camila, who had spoken, kept tilting her head.

“If he had correctly timed it, he probably wouldn’t have had to come to Iran… When you think about it again, it’s his own mistake, so why does he talk like a victim?”

“That’s a fair point. Nobody threatened him with a knife.”

“A knife threat? What kind of saying is that? Is it a traditional saying from Korea or something?”

“No, it’s not a saying or anything….”

Why was he acting as if he deserved to get hit?

—

Episode 20 – Who was Threatening with a Knife?

—

Upon arriving in Ashtistan, a smile crept across my face.

The desert city seemed to vividly embody the pages of my memories.

Old cars rolling along the street, the “Peshahat.” The timeless masterpiece produced in the 1960s by the Kien Empire’s “Liporske Vehicle Factory” was filling the air of Shizuya with gray.

For Alexandra Petrovna, it was an undeniably heartwarming scene.

To express it more specifically, it was nostalgic.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

The 1950s and 1960s were a continuous battleground.

To prove superiority against the hostile nations, including Abas, the royal family and cabinet deemed it essential to resolve transportation initiatives as a priority. Whether it was for domestic matters or war, moving manpower and resources was the first step.

Thus, it was a time when railways and roads extended throughout the empire.

Fortunately, Kolya, the emperor from the previous era, had a strong interest in transportation initiatives, and his son carried that bloodline.

While searching for new industries that would serve as the empire’s new feet, Kolya laid down a few simple but simultaneously challenging conditions.

First, it must be cheap enough to be distributed to all subjects.

Second, it should possess enough productivity to meet the demands of both civilians and the military.

Third, it ought to be of high quality to withstand the harsh territories of the empire.

The astute chancellor grasped the implications contained within those three conditions. He realized that the transportation initiative promoted by the royal family aimed not just to provide cars to the empire but also to bring in foreign currency through exports.

The chancellor, along with the Foreign Ministry staff, searched for solutions for several months. Ultimately, they formed a partnership with a reputable company from Patalia. Thus, the resultant product was none other than the “Peshahat.”

The new foot of the Kien Empire’s subjects and a traveler navigating frozen roads (пешеход: meaning “pedestrian” in Russian).

Of course, as time flowed and the needs changed, other vehicles were born, but it was evident that the Peshahat symbolized Kien’s automotive industry.

With its affordable price, excellent productivity, and remarkable durability, this immortal masterpiece was loved by many, just as Kolya had envisioned, reaching across the globe.

In the 1960s, it served as the foot of the citizens and troops of allied countries, and in the 1970s, it became the exclusive vehicle for diplomats and entrepreneurs. My first steps into Ashtistan were in the spring of 1968.

Specifically, it was a gift I had brought for her. A close friend who had turned to religion long before we met had not owned even a vehicle after several decades.

While stopping by to check in during the journey, I delivered the gift and taught them how to drive.

There was even a time when my friend confused the brake with the accelerator, nearly crashing into the palace wall, causing both of us to almost depart alongside our colleagues. Nevertheless, I distinctly remember returning after carefully getting it repaired once again.

Just thirty years prior, there was only one of these vehicles, and now it was filling the streets of Shizuya.

For Alexandra Petrovna, it was an undeniable nostalgia.

“Look, my child.”

That’s why.

The duke reminiscing to his young disciple was just that.

“Those cars over there are the very ones I first brought to Ashtistan….”

If the spy from South Korea with the surname “Pesh” heard this, they might have quipped, “Elder, remember to grab some ginseng candy before you collect your dentures,” but the duke had no intention of acting like an old man.

However, everything visible to the walking museum, over a hundred years old, triggered memories.

It was just words that slipped out habitually.

“Until 30 years ago, this place was desolate. The golden age didn’t arrive until 1971 when magic stones began producing in earnest from the Eastern Rift. I visited the Resource Department of Ashtistan the following year with the Deputy Minister of the Imperial Ministry of Magic. Oh, by the way, all the natural resources in this area are managed by the Resource Department. While the magic department usually oversees magic stones, in a theocratic state like this, sorcery is much stronger than magic….”

In any case, the archmage began weaving another amusing story from his past.

Then, suddenly, he pondered.

Why was his disciple so quiet?

“…?”

The duke’s puzzled gaze fell upon his disciple. The blue eyes traveled from the tips of her toes to her head, finally landing on the large bump on the top of her head,

…a bump?

“My child, why do you have a bump as big as an apple on your head?”

A mixture of concern and curiosity slipped out in the form of a question, but the answer did not return.

Though it did return, it wasn’t a proper one.

“…Ugh.”

Camila, with the bump growing atop her head, filled her eyes with moisture. It seemed she had something she wanted to say, yet appeared indignant as well.

Suddenly, she spun around and started storming away!

– Tap tap.

With arms stretched out and a sight of her giving a parting laugh, it looked quite the sight. What on earth was going on?

The dumbfounded duke turned towards me, seeking an explanation.

And I said,

“Do you suppose you can guess why she…”

“i am groot.”

“…?”

She boldly feigned ignorance.

—

The black-tinted vehicle climbed onto the opal highway connecting Shizuya and Mehadan.

The destination: Shizuya.

The road was quiet. Cars heading toward Shizuya were, including ours, hardly numbering five or six, while no one was utilizing the opposite lane.

Just like the Immigration Office we had exited moments ago.

“……”

I gazed out the window, retracing the moment I first arrived in this land.

The immigration office we arrived at was situated in an empty expanse. To put it nicely, it was pristine, but to put it harshly, it gave an impression of barrenness, lacking even a common historical building nearby.

This was a stark example of the terribly failed modernization project in Ashtistan. Originally, the immigration office was supposed to be built on the outskirts of Shizuya. Tall buildings should have filled the administrative district classified as the capital. The warp gate was akin to an international airport for this neighborhood.

However, the warp gate of Shizuya, which should have developed, had been abandoned for a long time.

The treasury of the Ashtistan government had withered to the point where it couldn’t even develop that place.

Of course, it wasn’t always poor to begin with. In fact, Ashtistan had once been rated as an immensely wealthy country.

It had experienced days of richness and glory thanks to magic stones, oil, and natural gas.

Many foreign military advisory groups and countless businesses willingly paid to enter Shizuya, surrounding Ashtistan’s empress, the great theologian of Al-Yabd, who once wielded dominance over the Mauritania continent—a time that existed here as well.

But now, the history of the once-glorious sand empire is absent from this land.

Weapons are abundant.

Comprehensive economic sanctions from the international community.

Pipelines buried at the borders and smugglers navigating along the coastline.

Half-built buildings and collapsed, abandoned houses.

Security forces monitoring the currency and communications of the entire populace.

Today, the elements symbolizing Ashtistan were precisely those.

If anything, it was a mix of Tehran and Caracas. In short, it wasn’t a place where one could live like a human.

Having visited both places, I knew well enough.

“The roads are very clean.”

I muttered, gazing at the utterly empty, desolate road.

“Indeed, it is clean.”

Alexandra Petrovna began to nod in agreement, as if it was a valid statement. Yes, it was clean, as she had stated.

Yet it was an odd sight that, with the empty road, we were nestled in a vehicle shielded by thick bulletproof glass and armor, traveling alongside a convoy.

For reference, we were in the center of the convoy. Three old military tactical vehicles donated by the Kien army led the way, followed by black SUVs with dark tinting trailing behind.

And through the tinted glass of one of the passing SUVs, I identified suit-clad individuals armed with firearms.

“Yes. This is a really clean city.”

I wondered if Alexandra Petrovna had noticed. She likely did. The archmage’s senses are significantly superior to those of ordinary people.

So that’s why she was able to maintain such calm.

Why would someone who used to singlehandedly annihilate armies be afraid of merely a few guns?

“……”

Gazing at the warp gate, far from the city center, made me suddenly long for Tehran. I could call an Uber from Imam Khomeini International Airport and go anywhere in an instant.

Incheon International Airport was involved in the operational support of Imam Khomeini Airport, among other close relationships, so I often received help when I traveled to Tehran.

But here, there seemed to be none of that.

“…It’s eerily lonely.”

I cautiously closed my eyes, praying inwardly.

This time, I sincerely hoped there would be no mishaps. And that the archmage’s influence would also apply here.

The prayers continued.

The procession crossed the highway and finally entered.

The heart of Ashtistan, Shizuya.

—

We arrived at our destination around 2 PM.

The Ashtistan government warmly welcomed Duke Alexandra Petrovna.

Kien was Ashtistan’s blood alliance and its staunchest ally, and the duke had personal ties with the Priest of Al-Yabd.

In fact, it was a relationship far too difficult to define merely as friendship. They had been comrades on the battlefield since the Cult-Magic Tower War.

Thus, the attendees were glamorous.

“Welcome, Your Grace! I am Farhad Dashtan, holding the chairmanship of the Cultural Ministry’s Sorcery Organization.”

“Good to meet you.”

“It’s an honor.”

The magnificent palace was teeming with impeccably dressed officials and Al-Yabd theologians in traditional attire.

I observed the attendees, taking note of the presence of theologians here.

“Look, there are theologians.”

“…Theologians? You mean the Ulama?”

The moment I murmured to myself, Camila asked if she had heard correctly. I looked at her in surprise.

“You know about the Ulama? You must have studied a lot.”

“Am I being underestimated right now…?”

“Of course not.”

I chuckled lightly, adding,

“I’m just curious how much you know.”

After a moment’s contemplation, she began with something fundamental.

“You must know that Al-Yabd is similar to Islam. You’re aware that there’s no priest or clergyman like there is in Islam, right?”

“Yes. I know that.”

According to the mainstream Islamic academia, Muslims can communicate directly with Allah in mosques during prayers.

It’s stated so in the scriptures, hence they concluded there wasn’t a need for a separate priest class, unlike Catholicism or Protestantism.

“Of course, there are ‘Imams’ in Islam, similar to priests or pastors, but…”

“Yet an Imam is just a person leading prayers, not someone who gets ordained with a degree or who takes an exam to receive a clerical position, right?”

“Right.”

This only pertains to the Sunnis’ interpretation.

The Shia interpretation differs.

“In Sunni Islam, an Imam is not a clergy. Anyone can preside over prayers regardless of wealth or educational background. However, Shia acknowledges only twelve successors related by blood to Muhammad as Imams.”

I glanced over at the Al-Yabd theologians.

“However, there is a group called ‘Ulama’ who study the scriptures and theology in Shia Islam. They do not lead prayers but interpret the laws, applying Islamic law, Sharia, to daily life. It is these Ulama who actually govern the Iranian political system.”

To illustrate my point, I named a particularly renowned figure among them.

She was someone Camila would have heard of, or surely knew.

“Ayatollah Khomeini. Have you heard of him?”

Camila nodded.

“Yes. He was the founder of the Iranian nation, leading the Islamic revolution in 1979, overthrowing the Pahlavi dynasty. He’s the first Rahbar as well.”

“He’s one of the representative Ulama. The term Ayatollah is one of the titles for Ulama.”

The ranks of Ulama begin from the student level, Talab, to Saqitoleslam, Hojjatoleslam, and finally, Ayatollah.

Before Ayatollah, there was a religious leader known as Marja-e Taqlid, but after Ruhollah Khomeini succeeded in the 79 Iranian revolution, that position was replaced by Ayatollah.

So, when you see ‘Ayatollah Khomeini’ often in the media, you could equate that to something like ‘President Hong Gil-dong’ in Korea, simply put.

“Just a note, the supreme leader of Iran is the Rahbar. Though the Imam leads the group of law scholars, typically, to be a Rahbar, one must first go through being an Ayatollah, like Khomeini.”

“Does that mean the Rahbar practically doubles as a religious leader?”

“In conclusion, yes.”

Khomeini also reached the Rahbar position after serving as an Ayatollah, which reveals how immense that rank is in Iran.

And this holds true for Ashtistan as well.

In short…

“The theologians of Al-Yabd in Ashtistan are effectively walking power institutions. This is a theocracy.”

To validate my assertion, the theologians of the Ashtistan Al-Yabd religious organization (which is one of the official state agencies) were guarded by tight security.

They were obviously muscular individuals, easily exceeding 180cm in height, dressed in suits.

Were they security forces? Or perhaps the Sepah?

None could be identified, the guards were there to protect the theologians. Each bore a rifle slung over their shoulders.

This was not the ordinary firearms used by rebels.

Naturally, the compact rifles, reminiscent in appearance, were prevalent among the Kien Empire’s special forces.

“Sanctions my foot….”

I exhaled a minor sigh, quietly to myself.

The guards revealed weaponry introduced by the imperial army eight years ago. When I worked at the Petrogard branch, my task was to ascertain whether the empire was providing military support to Ashtistan.

I never imagined I would confirm that here.

“The professor is waiting for you, it seems. They’re likely finished.”

Camila caught the duke’s signal and nodded to me, motioning for us to move along.

I kept my eye on the guards, then followed the guide into the palace. The government officials and law scholars were murmuring among themselves, though I could certainly feel their scrutinizing gazes penetrating from behind.

“It seems the greetings have taken rather long. Are your legs okay?”

“I’m fine, Professor!”

“Then I’m relieved. We must hurry along; someone is waiting for us.”

Alexandra Petrovna smoothly passed through the palace corridor. Camila, smiling brightly at her side, glanced my way briefly.

I nodded once, indicating that I was fine, and she turned back to the duke with a relieved expression.

As we strolled along the corridor, the Ashtistan government posed no restrictions on me. Probably because I was someone the duke had brought personally, they allowed me to roam freely.

Thus, the only ones I had to be on guard against were the guides.

“This way.”

We moved further into the palace with the assistance of the guides who had been assigned to us.

The people designated by the government were nothing more than ordinary civil servants, as I observed during the journey. It was best to remain cautious regardless.

Anyone could easily perform the task of relaying the information they obtained.

Especially those closest, tending to guide us.

“……”

While I was remembering the surroundings and the guide’s face, one of the lead guides turned, and as if on cue, all the other guides turned to face us.

“I apologize, esteemed guests, but we must urgently request something of you. Please change into these garments prepared by our side before entering.”

Before he even finished speaking, someone who had been waiting nearby brought a box. A beautifully crafted wooden box, luxurious in appearance.

The guides approached the duke and Camila, opening the lid to display its contents. As Camila examined the scarves, I instantly recognized what the Ashtistan government had prepared in the box.

Essential items for women in the Middle Eastern cultural realm.

“…Hijab?”

Camila’s response was one of disbelief at the sudden appearance of the scarf.

“Why hijab all of a sudden…?”

“It’s not hijab; it’s a ‘Rusari.’ Here, they call it Rusari.”

I replied towards Camila, still bewildered while the guide nodded, somewhat incredulous. I could see the astonished expression on his face as if he were watching a white person recite traditional attire listlessly.

A vibrant scarf, filled with lovely Persian motifs, lay before us. As Camila examined the Rusari gingerly, a senior guide spoke with polite demeanor.

“This is the traditional attire of our Ashtistan. It is worn by women. Undoubtedly, it should have been delivered upon your arrival, but due to inadequate preparations, we had no choice but to explain this now.”

It was akin to saying, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. In fact, wearing a scarf was an etiquette tourists often adhered to.

However, the individuals here were far from mere tourists.

“What does this mean?”

The duke’s expression was solemn, throwing an unamused glare at the guide. It seemed he demanded an explanation for the current situation.

Reading the implications, the guide continued to speak, adopting a more formal tone.

“I sincerely apologize, Your Grace. Due to our oversight, we inadvertently caused you inconvenience. We should have provided ample explanation when you passed through the Warp Gate….”

“Do you regard informing a guest who has stepped through the threshold as an explanation or a mere notification?”

“……”

“If you had prepared these garments, you could have communicated that through the embassy in advance. Do you represent Ashtistan’s custom in requiring a visitor, who has traveled a long distance, to change into clothing first?”

The suggestion being, “Does your country treat guests in such a manner?”.

Considering that hospitality customs were generally strong in the area, this cavalcade of displeasure carried twice the weight.

The guide, who had been respectfully bowing, began shifting his eyes nervously. Though absent from direct view, I caught a glimpse of the still and darting pupils.

Yet Alexandra Petrovna, still standing firm, seemed intent on hearing a satisfactory response.

“On behalf of the government, I sincerely apologize.”

After a period of searching for an explanation, the government representative inevitably had to offer a formal apology.

Naturally, the desired response wasn’t an apology but rather an explanation. However, it felt impolite to reprimand a subordinate in front of others, hence the duke had to step back.

“I hope you’ll be more cautious next time.”

“I will certainly do so, Your Grace.”

As the duke accepted the Rusari, the guide released a breath of relief. His expression appeared as if he had just escaped from an execution.

Watching the scene unfold, I could only find it absurd. So, if you’re aware of rudeness, then why did you attack the Abas Embassy?

“A changing room is prepared for you. We will assist you.”

“There’s no need to bother preparing a changing room for something so trivial… Thank you, child, will you come along?”

“Do I have to go?”

“Only if you can dress yourself.”

“I’ll go too!”

Camila dashed along, and the guides respectfully led them towards the changing room.

For reference, I was excluded. The Rusari was for women only.

“Sir? As a first male guest, kindly remove your tie….”

As the guide appraised my outfit, they saw no other issues but requested the removal of my tie. I pretended not to know and slowly undid my tie.

While I lingered alone.

“Excuse me, may I have your name?”

A guide who had been standing blankly with an inquisitive tone approached me. It was someone I hadn’t seen today for the first time.

I found this particularly odd; thus, I slowly surveyed the situation. The guide was female, and behind her were groups of female guides whispering as they glanced our way.

Considering the context, I quickly guessed

Ah, they’re clearly having some fun here.

“I’m Frederick.”

“Is this your first time in Ashtistan?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Oh, I see.”

The guide turned towards the group, whispering something. Whatever she was saying seemed to suggest, “I told you so!”

While being questioned by the public servant, she threw out various queries.

“How did you meet the duke? She’s someone incredibly hard to meet.”

“It was for a government project.”

“Were you from the continent? You don’t seem like someone from Mauritania.”

“Yes.”

“I noticed you were with that red-haired lady earlier, is there anyone else in your party?”

“There are others, but I’m unsure of their arrival times.”

Out of the potentially hundreds of questions she had flung at me, only these three inquiries could hold even a slight bit of value.

What were the rest of the questions?

It boiled down to trivialities like:

“Do you have any favorite foods?”

“Have you seen any movies recently?”

“Did you check out the famous handmade craft street in Shizuya?”

What an utterly useless question.

Are these people permitted to behave like this while on duty? I also wish I could get a free paycheck. I wonder when Camila will return? I must find out the anticipated time of arrival for the others…

Lost in my thoughts as I bobbed along in a stream of consciousness, I began to drown in the unrelenting chatter of the guide.

At that point, I thought, perhaps I was dragged into a world full of muay thai calls with no way out. It wasn’t that she was loud but that she wouldn’t quit talking, making me feel like I was suffocating.

Just then, a murmuring of voices began to swell as footsteps approached.

“…Oh.”

Had they finally arrived?

I turned, feeling cheerful, towards Camila and the duke.

However,

“Who on earth are you?”

What stood before me was not the two returning, but rather a group of black-suited mafias.