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Corporations hate war, but warlords love it.

That’s because the longer the war drags on, the bigger the slice of the pie that falls into the warlords’ mouths.

So, it’s only natural for warlords to like war.

War is profitable.

And no one in the world hates money.

—

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

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Approach the warlord friendly toward Abas and build a good relationship. At the same time, bring their military force to eliminate the hostile warlords.

That’s the gist of this operation.

Inside the safe house arranged through an information agent.

I pointed at the symbols of three warlords hanging on the board.

“The three major warlords representing this area are Asen, Sanya, and Hassan.”

The Asen Tribe is the largest warlord among the moderate tribes, and the Sanya Tribe is the largest warlord among the pro-empire tribes. For convenience’s sake, I’ve labeled the two warlords as ‘Group 1’ and ‘Group 2’.

And finally, there’s Hassan Tribe. The leader of the ‘Group 3′ warlords, characterized by pro-democracy tendencies.

“This operation will start with gaining the trust of the Al Hassan Tribe. We’ll work our way up from the bottom and earn the heart of the Hassan Tribe leader, incorporating all of Group 3.”

Using a friendly warlord to intervene in local conflicts is a tactic favored by intelligence agencies of great powers like the United States and Russia. The National Intelligence Service and Information Command have done the same.

Of course, the originator of this tactic is the British Empire. The divide-and-rule strategy was a long-standing tactic of the British who once ruled over their colonies.

We will use that very method.

“Hmm… I understand the plan.”

The intellectual from a prestigious British university nodded with crossed arms. He was a dreamer of becoming an information officer, having experienced the realities of Africa and the Middle East through medical volunteer work, even interning at a British intelligence agency.

“We’ll sow discord between Group 1, represented by Asen and Group 2, represented by Sanya. The aim of the discord is military conflict. Once the military confrontation begins, both warlords’ power will dwindle, allowing Group 3 to absorb the pie of both factions and grow stronger. Did I get that right?”

“That’s precise.”

Camila kept her arms crossed. I wondered if she had some dissatisfaction with my plan, but thankfully, that wasn’t the case.

With a dissatisfied look in her eyes, Camila began to pout and mutter.

“But why did the example have to be Britain out of all possibilities?”

“Because, naturally… it’s Britain.”

“Oh, come on!”

The British civilian raised her voice at the (former) oriental intelligence officer. Why? What? It’s the truth!

I stooped down to avoid the flurry of papers flying around.

“Wow, what a patriotic zealot. What’s so great about having the most independence days in the world…?”

“Are you done talking now?!”

“Camila, do you have no conscience? Eating away at the farmland cultivated painstakingly by farmers on land your ancestors burned in Africa. Aren’t you ashamed?”

While dodging the furious Camila, I continuously teased her. If my colleagues from the Information Command, who knew me well, had seen this, they would have been whispering, “What’s wrong with that guy? Did he eat something bad?”

But the moment they saw Camila’s exaggerated reactions, they would surely join in with a comment or two. Watching Camila’s reactions was just too entertaining.

After a lively back-and-forth, it took us quite some time to return to our seats. While Camila cooled down, I dusted off the paperwork.

“Anyway, the objective of this operation is to induce a military confrontation between Group 1 and Group 2 to weaken both factions. As you mentioned, increasing Group 3’s influence is also a goal.”

“I understand the content. But I’m a bit puzzled by one part.”

“What specifically puzzles you?”

“The military conflict part.”

After cooling her head, Camila returned to her usual self and threw a sharp question at me.

“How exactly do you plan to provoke a military conflict between Group 1 and Group 2? No matter how warlike warlords are, they would avoid fighting if they have something to lose.”

That’s a good question.

“Take a look at this.”

I handed her a photograph I had pulled from the board.

“This was taken by a war correspondent who’d worked in this area last year. It’s an image of the Sanya Tribe’s territory, and the people in it are combatants under the Asen Tribe.”

In the photo, locals armed with rifles were seen wandering the village. The residents, presumed to belong to the Sanya Tribe, were looking at the combatants with wary eyes, while an Asen soldier, unmistakably an orc from afar, threatened the locals with a large knife.

Upon seeing the scene, Camila narrowed her eyebrows immediately. Half of her felt like she was witnessing something horrifying, while the other half carefully scrutinized the details of the photo.

“You said this photo was taken last year?”

“Yes.”

“It seems like this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. If there are people casually glancing at armed individuals, it must have occurred repeatedly.”

That was an accurate analysis.

Just as Camila suspected, the relationship between Asen and Sanya was at its worst. Even trivial clashes between the two tribes were frequent, and there had been several battles between the warlords just this year.

I fed her intelligence I had gathered.

“According to the information agent, there was a battle last month as well.”

“Oh, I know that too. I read a short news article in a local paper a few days ago. It said there was a big battle in the region, but the government army intervened to quell it.”

“That’s not true. As far as I know, the government army only moved four days after the battle broke out.”

“What on earth happened?”

“Going into the specifics would be troublesome…”

I took a sip of my drink and spat it out.

“Recently, the Sanya Tribe forcefully demanded that the Haranan Tribe, affiliated with the Asen Tribe, join their warlord.”

“Out of the blue?”

“Apparently, there are mines for phosphorus and nitric acid in the Haranan Tribe’s territory.”

Phosphorus and nitric acid are raw materials for explosives. They can be used in ammunition production and making explosives. That’s why most countries control the distribution of phosphorus and nitric acid.

Camila was already aware of this fact. She had once written a report on terrorist bombings by non-state actors. That report had won her the favor of a professor, leading to a recommendation for an internship at a British intelligence agency.

Fragmentary information coalesced in her mind. Her experience analyzing information during her internship supported her reasoning.

Quickly completing her analysis, Camila submitted her answer without much hesitation.

“The Asen Tribe must have been extracting gunpowder raw materials to produce ammunition in that area.”

She understood that it was common for rebels to produce their own ammunition.

The warheads and cartridge cases could be easily obtained from abroad. As long as they had access to the raw materials, they could also manage ammunition production on their own.

Her speculation continued.

“The Sanya Tribe, unable to secure a supply of ammunition, sought to gain means by force. Is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

I relayed additional intel I had received from Victor.

“Initially, the Sanya Tribe tried to bribe them with money, but when that failed, they sent an armed unit to threaten them. Unable to give up their mines, the Asen Tribe ended up reluctantly handing over some of their produced gunpowder.”

“And then? What happened after that?”

“Well, it’s obvious.”

The Asen Tribe stopped supplying the ammunition they had been providing to the Sanya Tribe.

That was the outcome of the previous military clash.

—

As the examples show, the relationship between Group 1 and Group 2 was nearly at its worst. With just the right trigger, they could risk war. This was the analysis of the Military Intelligence Agency, and I agreed with it.

After hearing the report, Leoni decided to use this situation to favor Abas. She aimed to make the closely-knit Group 2 look foolishly incompetent, allowing the empire to lose its grip.

And the tool for that severing would be this operation. I would wield that tool.

“So this operation absolutely must succeed. If it fails, it’s not just my disqualification as an information officer, but a disqualification as a human being.”

“Oh, Osamu Dazai! The great author.”

Camila got all excited about the mention of a novel she knew.

For a moment, I thought she seemed rather nerdy, but I decided to keep that to myself; I could imagine a book flying toward me if I voiced it.

Anyway.

We continued our discussion around the table set up in the kitchen of the safe house. There was also a table in the living room, but with so many windows and thin curtains, it would be difficult to avoid external scrutiny.

Well, we could just buy new curtains and fix that later.

“In order to induce conflict, we need the help of the Hassan Tribe. But logically, these guys wouldn’t want to meet a foreigner with nothing to offer, right? So, we have to work our way up from the bottom.”

My plan was simple.

First, target a tribal leader who has a connection with Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.

By building a friendship and continuously expressing the desire to meet the leader of the Hassan Tribe, the leader would sense something and send someone of their own.

It might seem like a half-baked plan, but in reality, this is more or less the standard. It’s less risky than direct contact.

Typically, it’s more effective to approach through someone you know rather than a complete stranger. A similar method is used when intelligence agencies recruit people.

“We will operate in the territory of the Al Bas Tribe, which is under Hassan’s command.”

I marked the territory of Group 3 on a map with a red X. It belonged to Al Bas.

Setting down my pen, I referenced the information from the Royal Intelligence Department. I had read a scanned recruitment poster for combatants from the Hassan Tribe early in the morning, receiving intel collected by the region’s information officer.

“Currently, Group 3 is recruiting combat forces. They’ve even promised special treatment for valuable assets like magicians and shamans.”

“Is that from the propaganda? Are you planning to use that?”

“Something like that.”

I was going to infiltrate the warlords seeking a magician with Camila as a combatant. While it sounded effective and appealing, this plan was fraught with danger.

Sending an untrained civilian as an intelligence officer? The higher-ups would surely ask if I was nuts if they found out. I wasn’t keen on putting Camila in danger, so this plan was absolutely off the table.

Of course, there was a workaround.

“Well then, Camila, from now on, you’re my bodyguard.”

“Wh-What? Me?”

Camila blinked in surprise, pointing her finger at herself.

“Bodyguard? I don’t know anything about bodyguarding! I’ve only worked in the office as an intern; I rarely went out into the field, how can I be a bodyguard?”

“I’m not asking you to provide professional security like a bodyguard. Just act as if you’re one.”

“Is there a reason for that?”

“Because magicians are rare assets.”

Magicians are precious resources. In advanced countries like Abas, they have established educational systems, providing a steady supply of magicians to the labor market, but that’s not the case on the Mauritania continent.

Just as an elite engineering graduate from a prestigious Indian university looks for job opportunities or immigration to foreign companies, magicians and shamans born on the Mauritania continent often migrate to advanced countries to sustain their livelihoods.

Thus, there are only two kinds of magicians left on the Mauritania continent.

Locals who were never educated and lack the talent to get by, and foreigners who have walked into hell willingly to work for a generous salary.

Camila would adopt the latter identity.

“Having a magician as a bodyguard means that the person is either a significant wealth holder or a person of power. Just look at how warlord leaders keep magicians and shamans close as confidants to see that.”

“I see. You want me to appear as someone of high social standing?”

“Exactly.”

I handed her a light outfit that blends well with locals. It was traditional garb often worn by adventurers in the Mauritania continent over casual clothing.

“Just act like a superficial character. Think of the typical image associated with mercenaries—greedy for money and loving alcohol. Of course, due to religious reasons, drinking isn’t possible here, but you can express it in other ways.”

“Is that really going to work? To be honest, it sounds suspicious…”

“Intelligence agents operating undercover in cartels in Central America use methods that are even more extreme. Sometimes they even get permission from their companies to hire contract killers from the cartel.”

However, I wasn’t planning to put Camila in such a dangerous position, not even a tad.

Just maintaining a facade would be sufficient. Like those haughty magicians.

Before leaving the safe house, as I burned most of the documents, Camila approached me fully dressed as I had requested.

“I’m ready.”

“Good.”

I packed the photos of the military standoff between Asen and Sanya taken by the war correspondent. They would be necessary for the operation.

Starting up the vehicle I had arranged, I drove out of the safe house. Camila, having checked the front door’s lock thoroughly, took the passenger seat.

Our destination was the Al Bas Tribe’s territory, run by a relative of the Hassan Tribe.

As we drove along the road leading to the tribe’s checkpoint, I shifted gears and began explaining.

“I’ll be operating here as a freelance war correspondent.”

“A war correspondent, huh.”

Camila, brushing dust off her fingers resting on the window, murmured.

“I’ve met a few war correspondents during my medical volunteering. They’re knowledgeable experts, since they report from war-torn regions. Are you sure you won’t get caught?”

“Of course not.”

Just like Camila had encountered war correspondents while doing medical volunteer work, I had met countless war correspondents during my time as an intelligence officer.

So disguising myself as a war correspondent was entirely feasible.

“Journalists are a commonly used identity in intelligence agencies. It’s easy to meet informants under the pretext of gathering information. War correspondents work similarly.”

“Hmm, it doesn’t seem much different from what you see in movies.”

“It’s even more intense. While working in Africa and the Middle East, I’ve met not just foreign reporters but several Korean journalists too. Seeing what they do is no joke.”

“Are there Korean war correspondents active in war zones?”

“Absolutely. Most people don’t know, but there are surprisingly many. I even have a friend who’s a war correspondent.”

Whether it was South Sudan or Lebanon, when I went to support a Korean national army unit deployed as part of the UN peacekeeping force, I met many Korean war correspondents there.

Initially, our connection was established as an intel agent and an intelligence officer, but over time we became friends through casual greetings and interactions. I recalled moments when colleagues were curious about the nature of our close friendship, given the age gap of over ten years.

I wondered how they were all doing.

Lost in nostalgia, I was steering when Camila, seated in the passenger seat, suddenly asked me.

“Um, can I ask something?”

“Feel free.”

“If I disguise myself as a war correspondent, will I be able to contact the warlord leader?”

That was a reasonable question.

I took a moment to ponder and answered carefully.

“Hmm… I can’t assure you that you’ll definitely make contact. There are far too many variables at play. But there are the most probable options.”

“What are those?”

“Do you know the saying ‘A clever rabbit has three burrows’?”

“A clever rabbit digs three holes.”

If the warlords cared about propaganda, there would be a possibility they’d respond to a war correspondent’s inquiries, but I can’t say for sure they’d agree to any direct contact. Even if I did manage to contact one, whether they’d share any valuable information is another unknown.

But what kind of place is an intelligence agency? It’s a paranoid lair where they send people knowing that things could go wrong and prepare alternative plans for when they do.

The possibility of the plan falling apart can’t be ruled out, so I naturally prepared another identity.

“Weapons dealer.”

I replied while fixing my gaze straight ahead.

“If the war correspondent role doesn’t pan out, I’ll push forward as a weapons dealer.”

“A weapons dealer? You mean you’re going to pretend to be a black market broker?”

“Yes.”

I was flooring the gas on the open highway while explaining the reality of the civil war zone.

“In a civil war zone, you can find weapons just by going to the market, but the weapons that the warlords want aren’t the ones littered on the market floor; they’re proper military-grade weaponry. Rifles, machine guns, sniper rifles, mortars, anti-tank guns… Even military explosives and shells. The greedy ones drop big cash for armored vehicles too.”

“…….”

“But brokers dealing in such goods aren’t as common as you’d think. The gear used by the regular army hardly ever hits the black market. And even if it does, there’s barely any supply. We’re going to strike right at the source.”

Camila’s expression noticeably darkened. Was she not pleased with the idea of supplying weapons to a civil war zone, or did she think it was a frivolous plan?

No matter how I thought about it, I felt it was the latter. After some contemplation, Camila spoke up.

“Where do you plan to get the weapons from? Are you thinking of bringing them from Abas?”

“We can’t bring military gear from Abas to the Mauritania Continent. If we did, the Imperial Guard HQ or other information agencies would trace us.”

In our current situation, we absolutely had to avoid monitoring by foreign intelligence agencies. The operation to illegally export military equipment from Abas wouldn’t just meet with opposition from the Parliamentary Intelligence Committee and the Defense Committee; the Military Intelligence Agency’s superior units, including the General Staff and the Ministry of Defense, would vehemently oppose it too.

Should I ask Victor for help? That’s impossible too.

Victor was working at the behest of the Kien Empire’s Ministry of Defense to support the Sanya Tribe’s second group of warlords. In that situation, it would be practically impossible to support the third group led by the Hassan Tribe.

Of course, there’s always a way out, even if the sky falls. I do have a plausible plan for acquiring weapons. But since I’ve decided to operate under the identity of a war correspondent, it’s best to put that plan on hold for now.

“…….”

But Camila’s face showed no signs of brightening.

While I was driving, I kept glancing at the rearview mirror.

“What’s wrong? Are you worried?”

“It doesn’t look like there’s any reason not to be worried. It’s clearly a reckless plan.”

“Reckless? I wouldn’t go that far….”

It seemed Camila thought the plan was unrealistic. It wouldn’t do to leave her in a state of unease, so I decided to alleviate her worries with some detailed explanation.

“Camila, take a look at this photo.”

“This… is the photo of the civil war zone you just showed me, right? The one the war correspondent took?”

“That’s right.”

Camila examined the photo carefully. It depicted the conflict between the Asen Tribe and the Sanya Tribe, captured by a war correspondent last year.

“Look at the weapons and equipment the combatants are holding.”

“…….”

Upon hearing my words, Camila scrutinized the photo. The tribal combatants were equipped with various weapons, but even she could see their gear was severely inadequate.

They wore tattered straps over casual clothes and clutched well-worn rifles. Their equipment was far more primitive compared to the Islamic extremist armed groups she had seen on Twitter. Just looking at the guns, they appeared more suited for World War II than any modern conflict.

As Camila carefully reviewed the photo, she began to cast glances in my direction, as if asking, “So what’s your point?”

“Puny gear, right? So?”

“You don’t get it, do you? Listen closely, Camila.”

I began to impart some knowledge that would be useful for budding intelligence officers working in the Third World.

“When we operate in places like Africa or the Middle East, intelligence operatives need to check the armament status when they first encounter a paramilitary organization. That way, we can gauge how much they care about and invest in their equipment.”

“Can’t you just find that out beforehand?”

“In theory, yes. But does the world operate strictly by theory and principles?”

On paper, it might show that a lot of military funds were spent, but it’s common in the Third World for someone to skim off the top or sell the equipment on the black market at rock-bottom prices. If the regular army can pull that trick, the warlords certainly can.

That’s why intelligence officers must visually assess the level of armament in armed groups.

We need to verify whether these guys are equipped as per intel or if they’ve sold their gear. If the internal assessment has determined that ‘the level of armament is very low,’ but upon inspection, they are equipped like a regular army? Then the intelligence officer has to scramble to find out what their true intentions are.

Continuing my explanation, I added nonchalantly, “The intel we received might be incorrect. But such cases are rare, you know? So it’s crucial to ascertain what level of armament they possess based on the intel, while also prepared to avoid any worst-case scenarios.”

“If the situation contradicts the intel, it must be tricky to analyze.”

At Camila’s remark, I shook my head.

“Analyzing the armed groups doesn’t require you to pull your hair out in the office. You only need to do that for complex regular army analyses. The level of warlord groups is generally comparable, therefore, it can be sorted out quickly. There’s a pattern, so to speak.”

“Can you tell me what that pattern is?”

“I’ll tell you after we see it for ourselves. A checkpoint is coming up.”

Anyway, back to the main point.

“Anyway, what I want to say is this: these guys are so starved for weapons that they’re itching to get their hands on them. So if I disguise myself as a weapons dealer and approach them, they’ll bite the bait right away.”

“That’s a realistic plan. If I were the warlord leader, I would’ve arranged a meeting the moment a weapons dealer approached.”

“You, though? I’m not so sure about that.”

“Why do you say that?”

At Camila’s puzzled tone, I gestured toward the photo with a smirk.

“Look at the guns those combatants are holding. They’re similar to the ones your ancestors used.”

“Oh, those guns? Hm… now that you mention it. My great-grandfather was once deployed to the battlefield. It does look a bit like the one in the photo.”

“Battlefield? Must have fought in a colony. Where did he serve? India? Africa? Afghanistan?”

“…….”

“Just kidding! Why so serious? Oh, wait, stop! We need that photo, don’t burn it!”

At that moment, the bus driver, with a passenger on the roof, blew the horn upon seeing a vehicle ahead sway dangerously.

Of course, my ears didn’t catch a word as I wrested the photo from Camila’s grasp.

*

There was a brief incident with the bus driver yelling curses in the local language after pulling up close to our vehicle, but we managed to reach our destination safely.

After several hours of driving, we entered the territory of the Al Bas Tribe. This area was under the control of the warlord group led by the Hassan Tribe.

The main road was occupied by armed forces — combatants of the Al Bas Tribe associated with the Hassan Tribe. They blocked the road with their flags, signaling us to stop. I placed the documents I had prepared on my lap and slowed down in accordance with their signal.

“…….”

Just then, a soldier with an outdated bolt-action rifle approached the driver’s side. Just that sight alone confirmed how pitiful their equipment was. No ammo belt, just a scrap of cloth with four or so five-round clips. There wasn’t even a single bulletproof vest in sight, and the radio was the only one present at the checkpoint.

At least he was wearing military fatigues. If he wasn’t, I might have mistaken him for a common thug.

As I rolled down the window, I thought to myself.

This place is a complete mess.

“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you. Where are you from?”

I fully lowered the window and handed him our passports and documents. It was a travel permit stamped by the local government.

“Um….”

Upon checking the documents, the soldier’s expression immediately furrowed. Just the fact that the government placed a bounty on the warlord leader was enough to infer how bad the relationship between the local government and the tribe was.

However, since the gentlemen in the driver’s and passenger’s seats were obviously pale foreigners, he didn’t nitpick and allowed us to pass.

“You may enter, but please present a travel permit issued by the tribe next time.”

“A tribe? Where can I obtain that document?”

“Just head into the nearby city, you can find the tribe’s building there. You’ll be guided to it. That building over there with the flag is where you need to go.”

The soldier pointed out the building adorned with the flag—a symbol of the Hassan Tribe.

“May the Earth God’s peace be with you.”

I returned the greeting and rolled up the window. As the soldier raised his hand, another soldier, who had received the signal, manually lifted the barrier.

Fascinating.

Thus, we passed the first checkpoint and entered the territory of the tribe. There were countless checkpoints leading deeper into the territory. Each time, the Al Bas Tribe members requested to stop and carried out inspections, but perhaps because they had received word from the first checkpoint, they didn’t utter a peep upon seeing the documents issued by the government.

As Camila sighed deeply while glancing through the side mirror after passing the third checkpoint.

“There’s a government army checkpoint just 30km out. Here, the rebels operate the checkpoint. What on earth is happening in this country…?”

“Isn’t this a classic civil war zone style?”

I chuckled as I maneuvered through the rough terrain.

“I saw a lot on the way here, and the tribal situation doesn’t look good. The combatants are equipped poorly, while the people look frail too.”

Camila, squinting at the sunlight flooding the passenger seat, threw her hood down and replied.

“I read a report published by an international organization, and it seems the food situation in the Mauritania Continent isn’t very favorable. Foreign governments and aid organizations provide assistance, and the local government is implementing agricultural improvement policies, but due to the recent famine, food prices have skyrocketed.”

That wasn’t good news. Generally, when food runs low, people get restless and start brandishing guns. It’s common to fire shots for a sack of grain, and it’s too frequent that aid trucks get hijacked and dragged into their territories.

How on earth do they plan to send Camila and the kids to a place like this? I really can’t grasp the thoughts of those in high office.

I drove deeper into the Al Bas Tribe territory. About an hour had passed since we passed the third checkpoint when we came upon a new checkpoint.

But something felt off.

“…….”

My hand on the gear stick momentarily halted. The state of the checkpoint was unusual.

Typically, intelligence officers working in the Third World assess equipment levels when encountering paramilitary organizations or while passing through checkpoints. The equipment at such front-line posts typically carries intent behind it.

Let me give an example.

According to the gathered intel, there’s a faction that invests heavily in equipment. However, if the equipment level at the checkpoint unit or patrol units is inadequate, one might suspect one of three main situations.

First, there tends to be an emphasis on the elite units, with all investment directed toward them.

Second, there’s corruption involved. Someone in the middle is skimming off military funds or selling the equipment on the black market.

Third, they don’t want to display military strength to the outside world. In other words, they don’t want surrounding powers to know they’re investing in military capabilities.

Conversely, if the equipment investment is low or supplies are chaotic but the checkpoint personnel are well-equipped, one can usually infer four situations.

First, there’s a desire to flaunt their capabilities. Second, a lack of control means the unit is independently replenishing its equipment. Third, the local unit is acting independently or preparing for a coup.

And finally, the fourth.

“…….”

The combatant in black gloves raised his hand to signal us to stop. I gradually slowed down. Amidst the rattling engine noise, a dry swallow was heard from beside me.

The soldier who had signaled us tightened his grip on his rifle—a scratched-up piece, but clearly intimidating for anyone to see, fully semi-automatic.

As the vehicle came to a halt, the spacing between the surrounding combatants began to close in. One moved beside the passenger seat, another blocked the front of the driver’s seat, and yet another took positions at a short distance, ready to fire at either the driver or the passengers.

Seeing the well-trained movements of the operatives, I kept my hands on the steering wheel and murmured to Camila.

“Camila.”

“…Yeah.”

“Do you remember what I mentioned earlier? The worst-case scenario upon arriving at a checkpoint.”

“…I remember.”

“Right. This seems to be that scenario.”

There was a significant contradiction: while the intel suggested inadequate equipment investment or chaotic supply issues, the personnel at the checkpoint were well-equipped.

That fourth scenario:

The local forces are aware of the visitors’ arrival.

“…….”

Knock, knock. The soldier who had signaled us knocked on the driver’s window.

“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you.”

As I rolled down the window, he offered us a formal greeting. He was equipped with the Kien Empire automatic rifle typical of regular forces. Five thirty-round magazines, wearing body armor, with a chest rig and radio, and a pistol clipped to his waist.

He was arrayed with gear nearly matching a local regular army unit’s quality. If you compared it to regular combat forces, it could even stand shoulder to shoulder with special forces.

He spoke, “Please turn off the engine and exit the vehicle.”

“…….”

“The lady in the passenger seat must exit as well.”

His request came in an extraordinarily smooth tone. Though, of course, the tone didn’t reflect the actual sentiment.

Generally, it’s not common for an armed group that isn’t even the regular army to establish a checkpoint and demand people disembark. And if it was merely asked, maybe it could be overlooked, but here were armed men with machine guns blocking the road.

Naturally, resisting here would be madness. By the time I put the gear in reverse and tried to flee, those machine guns would turn us into Swiss cheese.

I had somewhat anticipated a reaction if a foreigner caused a ruckus in the territory. I was just caught off guard by how significantly superior the equipment was compared to the checkpoints we had passed through before.

“Get out of the vehicle.”

I nonchalantly pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the driver’s seat.

After they finished searching the vehicle, they promptly escorted us to the checkpoint. We were then crammed into a van parked nearby.

Thus, having switched vehicles, we entered the territory of the Al Bas Tribe.

Surrounded by armed forces.

 

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