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The market street was filled with an old truck spewing black smoke and a motorcycle smeared with rust.

A dark green van coated in dust maneuvered through the unpaved road, avoiding pedestrians. Even standing still, the terrible vibrations from the van reverberated explosively against the bumpy surface.

Smoke and dust poured through the slightly open window, accompanied by ear-piercing noise.

Camila, her brow slightly furrowed, spoke up.

“…Frederick.”

“Yeah?”

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Okay? For now, I think we will.”

“For now…?”

“Because we haven’t done anything wrong.”

Despite entering a warlord’s territory, where relations with the central government weren’t the best, we were in an unassailable position.

A war correspondent thriving on the battlefield and a magician providing protection for a fee. Though it was an unusual pairing, it was somewhat common on the Mauritania Continent.

We had brought broadcasting equipment to disguise ourselves as war correspondents, and I even presented a passport of a third-country citizen working as a legitimate journalist, plus we had received permission from the government.

“Two foreigners have entered their territory, so they’re on guard; it doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve been in similar situations before.”

“……”

Camila’s worried gaze lingered on me for a moment.

A pickup truck loaded with heavily armed members of the Hassan Tribe made a right turn in the alley, followed closely by our van.

“Don’t worry.”

I leaned back into the comfortable seat.

“Just act as we practiced.”

Propaganda banners painted green trailed along the yellowed walls.

In the distance, a tribal building waved its flags.

—

**Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man**

—

The destination we arrived at in the parked van was the main base of the warlord. More specifically, it was a building used by the ‘Al Bas’ tribe, affiliated with the Hassan tribe.

Following a tribe member’s guidance, I disembarked from the van and surveyed my surroundings.

Symbols and writings painted on the walls, flags flapping on the roof. At a glance, it definitely seemed like the kind of facility a warlord would operate.

The building resembled a government office commonly seen in the Middle East. Of course, it was much smaller, with a tattered exterior and a parking lot hastily surfaced with dirt, surrounded by fences up to my chest.

“……”

All the parked vehicles were old and dilapidated. Perhaps due to parts and magic shortages, hardly any of them seemed to be in working condition.

The parking lot resembled a junkyard. The only car that stood out was the aging SUV we had come in.

I thought we had just left it behind, but it turned out they even offered valet service. Not bad service here!

“May the Earth God grant peace. Welcome to the land of Al Bas.”

While surveying the area surrounded by armed forces, a local in a suit approached us and offered a greeting.

Although he looked like a typical suit-wearing civil servant, standing alongside the armed forces made it clear he was affiliated with the warlord. He grinned widely, revealing his crooked yellow teeth.

“Are you foreigners visiting?”

“Indeed, as you can see.”

I pointed at Camila and myself in response. With our pale skin set against the brown-skinned locals, we were clearly outsiders.

“Hmmm….”

The warlord’s suit man observed us with a rather curious gaze.

Whether he was a suit or not, the number of eyes on us was abundant since two foreigners had suddenly appeared.

Camila stood calmly as if used to such attention, while I shoved my hands into my pockets, staring back at the suit man.

“So, what’s the purpose of bringing us here?”

“Ah.”

The suit man began to smile awkwardly at being questioned.

“It’s just that I have a few questions to ask you.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“Just a few simple questions. About who you are and your purpose of being here….”

It was a response I had anticipated. He was following the script.

Although his overly defensive attitude seemed suspicious, I decided to comply with the interrogation.

Why is it that these warlords never manage to step outside the expected path, seriously!

“Let’s go inside, for now.”

We followed the suit man into the building.

—

The suit man of the warlord led us to a room at the end of the second floor. After saying to wait here for a moment, he swiftly left.

The room we were left in radiated a sense of desolation. There were no windows, only one entrance, and aside from a chair and a desk, it had barely any furniture, conveying an air of bleakness.

At first glance, the room appeared to be seldom used, leading me to conclude.

“It’s an interrogation room.”

Camila, resting her chin on her hand, turned to me.

“An interrogation room?”

“Yes. It’s rough, but I can’t imagine anything else besides an interrogation room.”

It was undoubtedly an interrogation room. While it was far from the sophisticated facilities of intelligence agencies, it still resembled a basic police interrogation room—just a small space for a police officer and a suspect to conduct an investigation.

Only it smelled of mold.

“Well, they’ve got the basics down.”

“What should we do now?”

Camila asked.

“There are armed warlords guarding outside. They seem well-equipped and well-trained. Where on earth did such people come from?”

“I’m not sure, but… they seem like combatants from an elite unit, perhaps a personal guard.”

Most warlords with significant power generally employ military advisors.

They sit ex-soldiers from local armies or abroad to offer insights on strategies, tactics, equipment, and supplies.

You could think of them as consultants.

“As far as I know, the Hassan warlord has been recruiting retired military personnel for the last two years. They have been hiring people to train and command the troops, like instructors and commanders.”

“Retired soldiers, huh… They must have recruited troops from the tribes. In the Mauritania Continent, tribalism is prevalent, much like in the Middle East and Africa.”

“Exactly.”

They sift through the clever folks born and raised in tribal territories, having them enlist in the military, and after a while, they bring them back to serve as executives in the warlord’s ranks. That’s how the third-group warlords train their combat units.

Asen and Sanya are using similar methods. While it’s not highly classified, small-scale tactical secrets and military manuals have leaked to the warlords, leading local intelligence agencies to have their fair share of worries.

“Hmm….”

There are reports that the Hassan warlord has been building communications networks and searching for tech experts and information security personnel, but according to the military intelligence agency, warlords in the Mauritania Continent do not operate their own intelligence departments.

Even assuming a warlord ran an intelligence department, it would seem like child’s play compared to the likes of the Royal Intelligence Department or Military Guard HQ.

The infamous Taliban or al-Qaeda’s intelligence departments have drawn similarly harsh evaluations from the National Intelligence Service, asserting that no matter how much authority these local warlords pretend to have, they ultimately fall under the thumb of real intelligence agencies.

“Anyway, don’t be tense and just act as we practiced.”

“Got it.”

Reassuring Camila, I checked my wristwatch.

The warlord guys who had guided us to the interrogation room hadn’t even complied with the basic procedure of confiscating the suspect’s wristwatch. I could gauge the level of the warlord just by this oversight.

At that moment—

“Someone’s coming.”

I quickly hid my watch as the sound of shoes clicking on the floor approached. Someone was walking toward the room.

Having been warned, Camila lowered her hand, which was propping up her chin. With arms crossed and legs crossed, she took on a haughty pose. Isn’t she too proud for this situation?

– <Crash>.

Just as we were about to finish getting ready, the entrance door to the corridor opened, and two locals entered. One was a scruffy-looking man in a sharp suit, and the other was a mature woman dressed in traditional tribal attire.

The two exchanged simple greetings and took a seat.

“Welcome, foreign gentlemen.”

“And lady.”

The man and woman alternately spoke. Awkward Kien language stumbled from their lips.

They pulled out a pencil and a stack of paper they had brought with them. As the man neatly adjusted the paper, the woman interlocked her fingers and said.

“What brings you here?”

It was the question signaling the start of the interrogation.

—

The two men and women introduced themselves as members of the Al Bas tribe. They began probing into the purpose of visit to the tribe’s territory.

I answered their inquiries sincerely.

“I’m here for a report.”

“A report? A journalist?”

“Yes. I’m Asud, a freelance reporter commissioned by a newspaper called Gazeta from the LaTuan Republic.”

The identity I used was that of a freelance war correspondent. Writers who accept payment from a media outlet to provide photographs and articles taken on-site.

While not many media agencies have dedicated war correspondents, there is no journalism that sells as well as war news, so, in accordance with the laws of supply and demand, many war correspondents contract with news outlets to work as freelancers.

Being a war correspondent is one of the few professions allowed to roam freely in war-torn areas, and they are often favored identities for unofficial information officers of intelligence agencies. The articles they provide are practically scoops for reporters. It’s a symbiotic relationship.

I leveraged the identity of a freelance reporter contracted with a newspaper from the LaTuan Republic.

“So you’re a reporter. Is this your passport?”

“Yes.”

The local man handed me the passport while asking the question. It was a forged one issued by the Military Intelligence Agency, copied from the passport of a real LaTuan war correspondent who resembled me.

LaTuan shares a border with the Kien Empire, and while there is a distinct native language, many immigrants and laborers from the Empire reside in the country, which is why Kien is the primary foreign language in LaTuan Republic.

Perhaps because of this reason, the man from the warlord used Kien. It seemed they had opted to send a person who could speak a foreign language rather than bring an interpreter.

However, there was a serious problem with the man from the warlord.

“Look, I have the government’s approval for this report and a travel permit! It means I’m allowed to freely report here!”

“Me… no understand. Your language.”

Despite his stern, intellectual look, the man couldn’t speak Kien properly.

“The travel permit and the report approval! I received them from the government!”

“Government? Very bad men.”

“Ah, damn it!”

Aside from simple greetings, I could feel my neck artery pulsing thanks to the man who struggled with basic conversation. His Kien language skills were utterly disastrous.

If only his conversational ability was poor, it might have been tolerable. But his attitude was the worst.

He confiscated all the documents I had submitted to prove my identity (forged), my reporter’s notebook (forged), the travel permit issued by the government (forged), and the government’s official report approval (forged). I could understand the notebook being taken, but why the hell take the business card?

With conversation skills that were lacking and an attitude that was downright terrible, my mood plummeted as the man took charge of the interrogation. I started to think being caught and going through entrance inspection in China was way better than this.

Given that aspect, the woman who appeared alongside him was actually more competent. Following the tribal tradition of not conversing freely with the opposite sex, she was in charge of interrogating Camila.

“The man named Asud is a reporter, then. So, are you Mr. Asud’s colleague?”

“You could say that. To be precise, I’m his escort.”

“Oh, so you’re a bodyguard.”

The woman from the tribe maintained a smooth conversation with Camila. She freely spoke Kien while the intonation of the local dialect hinted at her fluency.

To lighten the mood, she teased a joke, gently asked personal questions, and jotted down notes as useful information surfaced. I was worried if Camila would be able to navigate through the turmoil, but it turned out she ran circles around the interrogation smoothly. Way to go, Camila. Smash that warlord down with your own hands!

While it was awkward, the ability to communicate became a huge advantage. And her gentle demeanor added to the points. If that’s the case, wouldn’t it make more sense for her to be the one interrogating us? Or at least someone from the soldiers we met at the checkpoint. At least they could converse, and their attitude was polite.

But that was out of the question.

“Purpose.”

“I’m here for an article, as I mentioned.”

“You… not a reporter. You… lie.”

What kind of nonsense is this?

“Spit out the truth!”

Faced with the man’s aggressive demand for me to confess, I was left dumbfounded, my mouth moving like a fish gasping for air.

What kind of interrogation is this? What an idiot.

I decided to calm the man who was demanding that I tell him the plain truth without any context.

Then I began to explain step by step the reason for my presence here.

“Your vehicle has broadcasting equipment, right? Sound equipment and magical film reels. Go check it out.”

“Vehicle? Truck? Bongo? None. Already left.”

“No, I’m talking about my vehicle that you parked in the lot!”

Of course, that was a futile effort. There was no way a foreigner’s explanation could get through when they couldn’t even understand a word.

After struggling to get through to the man who seemed intent on doubting me, I finally took a breath and checked my watch. The hands indicated late afternoon, and after some rough calculations, I figured about seven hours had passed.

Seven hours? For crying out loud. That’s practically a heist-level theft of my time. Those damn robbers.

Honestly, at this point, I wondered if I could just ditch this whole operation and head back. But for the sake of my party who was soon to arrive here, the operation had no choice but to continue.

With time already tight, I couldn’t afford to lose any more. I tossed a photo from my pocket to the man.

“Take a look at this.”

I indicated the picture with my finger.

It was a photograph taken by a war correspondent of the Sanya tribe village attacked by the Asen tribe.

“I came here to find out what’s happening. I was curious about why you guys are fighting the surrounding tribes and why you oppose the government.”

“…”

The man, after checking the photo, began conversing with the woman interrogating Camila in their local dialect.

Since I only understood the common language, there was no way to grasp the topic they were discussing, but thankfully, I had Camila, my human translator who preferred snacks over electricity. She’d fill me in later.

“…”

“…”

After a good three minutes of their chatter, the warlord man and woman fell into silence. They didn’t even meet our gaze, appearing lost in thought.

How much time had passed? The man who had doubted me earlier seemed to come to a realization and started questioning again, this time in a hesitant Kien dialect.

“You. You’re a journalist, right?”

While the content remained unchanged, there was a notable difference in tone.

I nodded, and the man said, “Broadcasting. Dangerous.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Tribe’s location. Becomes known. If known. Government. Sends military. Many magicians. More than tribe shamans.”

The implication was that the moment the tribe goes on-air, the army would confirm their location and send combat units to attack. Specifically, it was stated that military combat magicians would come.

Though his sentences were awkward, the message was clear enough.

I had gleaned two crucial facts from this.

First, the government army’s OSINT division is using war correspondents’ foreign news reports to select targets. Second, the Hassan Tribe possesses its own shamans.

This was quite useful information.

While the man and woman were busy conversing, Camila leaned closer and whispered in my ear.

“Those people are worried that when the knight goes out, the government forces will come invading. They’ve been saying the troops stationed nearby are acting suspiciously, and that other tribes could attack during the chaos… It seems they don’t doubt our identities, but they’re hesitant about going on-air.”

“Which groups exactly?”

“Group 1 and Group 2. Both sides.”

For the warlords to join forces against the government army they were looted by is rare, but certainly not impossible.

“It’s a defensive stance. They’re wary of the nearby warlords and military bases. They also dislike the media.”

“It’s not just a simple wariness; it seems they’re doing reconnaissance as well. From the nuances of their back-and-forth, that’s the impression I got.”

New information.

The third group of warlords seems to be keeping tabs on the movements of the regular military and Groups 1 and 2. Although they engage in propaganda, they’re reluctant to go on-air. It suggests their real aim is recruiting rather than publicity.

If they’re willing to take risks to advertise recruitment even in the capital, then the situation can’t be that favorable. Considering that most local magicians and shamans live in the capital, it’s likely that the true purpose of that propaganda is to secure high-quality personnel.

In that case, should I approach them under the guise of an arms broker rather than a war correspondent?

“…”

Nodding along as I took in Camila’s information, I thought, What a commendable one. This is why I like rookies—they do things without even being asked.

Just at that moment, the tribe’s woman abruptly apologized to us.

“We thought you came to the Al Bas Tribe’s land with bad intentions.”

“Bad intentions?”

Camila asked. The woman responded.

“When journalists broadcast the photos or footage they shot, government forces send troops after seeing it. Normally it takes about two weeks for the troops dispatched from the capital to arrive here, but lately, the military has been staying around this area…”

“…”

“We mistakenly thought you were government informants. Here, when reporters finish their coverage, they usually report back to the military about the warlords in the area. That’s when the troops raid the village not long after.”

The woman from the warlord tribe concluded with a bitter smile.

“I’m sorry for bringing up heavy topics. We misunderstood. The Al Bas Tribe welcomes you.”

*

On the way back to our lodging, an SUV drove past on the darkened road under the early evening sky.

“…”

Inside the vehicle, silence prevailed. The sounds of the roaring engine and the friction of tires against unpaved roads, occasionally interrupted by the buzz of insects hitting the windows, filled the air.

The broadcasting equipment clattered ominously in the backseat and trunk, the gear I’d brought to disguise myself as a war correspondent.

After the interrogation, the warlord gave back all the confiscated documents, business cards, notebooks, equipment, and vehicle. They even permitted us to pass and cover stories.

With nightfall, it was prime time for robbers to be roaming about. The Al Bas Tribe offered lodging, suggesting we take a rest and start our coverage tomorrow, but I politely declined, as I had no assurance that the place would be 100% safe.

Fortunately, there was a firearm stashed in the vehicle. I had saved a pistol in a separate space in the heavy case meant for storing the expensive broadcasting equipment, having hidden it in anticipation of a checkpoint.

As I secured the pistol at my waist, I glanced over at the passenger seat.

“Why do you look so serious?”

“Um… It’s nothing much.”

Camila, with a troubled expression, leaned her head against the passenger window.

“I just… feel a bit off.”

“Is it because of what you heard earlier?”

“…”

Camila fell silent. That silence was the answer.

Dust from the wind stuck to the glass. The scattered beams of headlights illuminated the moribund roads across the Mauritania Continent as they crossed from unpaved to paved.

“Don’t dwell on it too much.”

I offered some comforting words.

“You don’t need to feel sorry or worried over it. They’re not worth it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Camila, do you know why warlords are called warlords?”

Warlords refer to forces with political and military power that independently respond to governments. They seize specific regions and oppose the government by force, indicating that information agencies refer to them as quasi-military organizations or armed groups.

“As you know, the warlords thriving in conflict zones are nothing but headaches. They exploit mines for natural resources like minerals, oil, gas, and gold by force. They’ll hunt endangered species like elephants and gorillas at will. Then they sell that for cash abroad.”

Most of the funds generated are squandered on maintaining the warlords. They recruit forces and purchase equipment. The crumbs left for local residents are minimal.

Regional development? Such a thing doesn’t exist. What kind of concern do people who pillage relief supplies sent by foreign governments and relief agencies have for the future of the region or its residents?

“That’s why most intelligence agencies don’t evaluate warlords positively. They might maintain some degree of relations, but actively getting close is avoided.”

“Why’s that?”

I asked, and Camila answered.

“Um… Probably to be conscious of the international community?”

“Because they’re not human beings.”

I said firmly.

“Warlords are scum that aren’t even fit to be called beasts. They wave shiny slogans about resisting foreign powers or fighting against tyranny, but their real goal is just to line their own pockets. You know, right? The Taliban making money by selling opium cultivated in Afghanistan.”

“…I know.”

Keep them close, but not too close. Maintain a relationship that allows for mutual usage without crossing into friendship. Both sides use each other until they’re done and then throw each other away like cheap disposables.

That’s how the relationship between warlords and information agencies generally works.

“Others warlords do the same. Because that’s the most profitable business.”

Warlords thrive on war. War is money. War is business.

Thus, warlords can never become partisans dreaming of social reform and revolution. They are merely large profit groups.

“The warlords here are no different. Asen, Sanya, Hassan. All three hold drug manufacturing facilities. They’re making a fuss to seize those. Just this spring, Sanya tried to steal Hassan’s opium cultivation area, leading to armed conflict.”

“So they’re not clean people.”

“They’re filthy scoundrels.”

I pulled out a photo from my pocket.

“Of course, I’m not defending the government here. The current president has been a tyrant for the past 14 years, so why would I defend anyone? Abducting and torturing innocent people is their daily routine. Just like you heard earlier, those journalists you mentioned? The truth is they don’t just inform; the counterintelligence department captures journalists and tortures them to find out the truth. That’s just how an intelligence agency in a dictatorship operates.”

They stick a straw into a desk, writing articles that fit the government’s narrative while abducting and beating any journalists that are a thorn in their side. My information agent, Dmitri, had endured such treatment. He was captured by the information police while writing articles against the royal family, tortured for months, and then thrown out, pushed to the Magic Tower.

The Mauritania Continent is worse than any empire. No matter how you slice it, it’s all the same.

I turned on the high beams to ensure visibility as we navigated uncertain paths, but still, the way ahead remained murky. The vehicle perched precariously on the edge of unpaved and paved roads hadn’t yet veered off that boundary.

“But, do you think warlords would just sit back and watch that?”

“…What do you mean?”

“If they can see a journalist collaborating with the government army is a future they can anticipate, would those warlords let that journalist go unscathed?”

Camila accepted the photo I handed her, one she was already familiar with.

A photograph depicting the conflict between Asen and Sanya taken by a war correspondent.

I pointed at the picture while keeping my gaze forward.

“The war correspondent who took that photo died here last September.”

As Camila quietly gazed at the photo, she turned her eyes toward me.

Sighing lightly, I shared everything I knew.

“He died while covering in Sanya’s territory. A bullet penetrated the neck gap between his bulletproof vest and helmet, killing him instantly. I don’t know whose doing it was. Was it Asen’s, Hassan’s, or perhaps a government sniper?”

“…”

“But the person who took that picture was friends with my information agent. He was someone who used to dig into the dictator’s affairs… I just know he died moving with the government forces reclaiming territory ruled by warlords. It was in a mine seized by Sanya.”

At that moment, quietly listening, Camila opened her mouth.

“If he was wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet, he’d have been easily recognizable as a war correspondent even from a distance.”

I caressed the steering wheel and answered. “…Well, that’s how it went down.”

“Do you think it was deliberate?”

“Who knows? I didn’t pull the trigger, and I wasn’t there. But one thing is certain.”

“What’s that?”

“Camila doesn’t need to feel sympathy. Not for warlords, not for government forces.”

“…”

“Maybe not for that journalist either.”

Camila, with the photo resting on her lap, closed her eyes quietly. It looked as if she were in prayer.

I wasn’t sure who or what she was praying for, but I didn’t want to disturb her.

As I pressed the accelerator deeply, the engine began to rumble.

The vehicle, having passed the caution line, surged ahead onto the black asphalt, charging towards the city.

*

The next day, contact came from the Al Bas Tribe.

I received news that a high-ranking official was seeking us out.

 

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