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A brisk wind sneaks through the window.

The prayers of the Al Yabd believers drift in with the breeze, entering the house. As I raise the curtain with my fingers, the sight of locals sprawled on the ground, kissing the earth, becomes clear.

I cautiously stepped into the garage and began to service the vehicle.

The SUV Victor had provided me with was an old model, but its off-road capability and fuel efficiency were top-notch.

[I’ve changed the engine oil, and the tank is filled to the brim. The inspection was done at headquarters beforehand. There’s a spare fuel container inside the car, right? It’s high-quality fuel mixed with the high-purity magic powder guaranteed by the Ivory Tower. You know what kind of stuff gets the picky potion makers’ approval, right? It’s hard to come by locally, so use it sparingly.]

A crude note emerged from the glove box. It was an orc’s letter, a thoughtful gesture for me as I roamed the countryside.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of a troll-sized brute seated at a desk, writing the letter.

“…What the hell. Why are you giving me this?”

I flicked my lighter and set the note ablaze, all for security’s sake.

As I lit a cigarette, I blew out plumes of smoke, checking one last time to ensure I had everything I needed.

“Let’s see… Gas, drinking water, combat rations. Got the communication gear, camera, firearm, and bulletproof vest.”

This should be enough. Lastly, a thick wallet. I packed as much cash as I could, unsure when I might need to bribe someone.

Finishing my checks, I disposed of the household trash that had accumulated overnight in the incinerator. Since the morning prayers were almost over, it was time to be on my way.

“Rise and shine, Camila!”

“…Ugh.”

When I called out towards the upper floor, the response was a groggy swallow. Camila staggered out, disheveled.

“…I’m coming.”

“Get ready quickly.”

I added while slipping on my sunglasses.

“We’re off to play the role of a reporter.”

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

We hopped into the old SUV and headed toward the territory of the Al Bas Tribe. As usual, I took the driver’s seat, while Camila, lacking a license, sat beside me.

“Any interesting news today?”

“Well, several intel reports have come in.”

Camila laid the Military Intelligence Agency terminal on her lap and scrolled through the data. This morning’s updates included information from Abas at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the local Kien Empire Embassy, international news reports, and public source information released by the local government.

Her skills refined during her internship with the British intelligence agency shone here. Camila quickly summarized the flood of intel.

“The government army spokesperson made a significant announcement last night. They’ve declared a curfew in the capital area from 10 PM to 5 AM the following day.”

The local government had proclaimed a nighttime curfew. It meant that movement would be restricted from 10 PM to 5 AM the next morning.

“Anyone, regardless of their purpose, who is active during those hours will be arrested. Foreigners need permission from the Ministry of Interior to move.”

“The capital region is quite a distance from here. Any news about an expansion of the curfew zone?”

“Not yet. They say the curfew will be limited to the capital area…. There’s speculation among foreign reporters that it’s a precursor to declaring martial law since no deadline was mentioned.”

“Is that conjecture? Or is it official?”

“It was mentioned in an interview by an institute studying the political situation in the Mauritania Continent.”

Not good news.

We might never know when the curfew could escalate into a nationwide martial law. If martial law is declared, all foreigners become targets of scrutiny, and war correspondents and foreign journalists would essentially be under special surveillance.

I casually checked the communication gear I packed in the trunk, planning to contact the company if the opportunity arose.

“Any other news?”

“There are reports that a warlord has taken over the water supply facility in the northern regions. Looking at the map, it’s in the territory of Group 1.”

Looks like the Aseen tribe attacked to secure clean water.

Camila cited a report from an international organization detailing the dire local water situation. Due to the warlord’s actions, the water supply facility is out of commission, and the existing facilities have been deemed unsuitable by the government due to neglect for years now.

“So the locals mainly use water sources like wells, rainwater, and river water. But due to hygiene issues, there are annual infant mortality rates.”

“What about the eastern regions?”

The east is primarily the territory of the Hassan Tribe. It would also be the stage for most of our activities for the time being.

Checking the report, Camila presented an uneasy smile.

“They say the east also has many problems?”

Well, that’s just fantastic.

I calculated how much water I had in the backseat and trunk.

Even if Camila and I used 3 liters each per day, we had enough water for around three days—at least, based solely on drinking.

Still, with that much water, I could definitely spare some to recruit locals. Camila agreed that it was a solid idea.

“Great plan! If it’s clean drinking water, the residents will surely appreciate it.”

“But if we run out of that, we’ll have to find our own drinking water, you know?”

Wells, rainwater, and river water—the three musketeers that can send you to your grave if consumed improperly.

Operations are important, but we absolutely must conserve drinking water. Running out of water in the desert means real death.

“Let’s try to recruit them with cash if possible.”

“Sounds good.”

After gathering all the information, Camila closed the terminal. Then she pulled out materials she had printed beforehand on the organization, territory, and members of Group 3.

“Who were we supposed to meet today?”

As Camila scanned the documents, she asked me a question. I maneuvered the vehicle onto the exit ramp and responded.

“Nayan Al Bas.”

“Nayan, Nayan Al Bas… Ah! Found it! But…”

Her voice grew faint as she confirmed the information.

Staring blankly at the paper, she lifted her gaze to me.

“Are you serious? This person is coming?”

“Yes.”

Leader of the Al Bas Tribe allied with the Hassan Warlord, Nayan Al Bas.

Also, cousin of Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.

“We’re meeting him right now.”

He’s our first target.

The Al Bas tribe belongs to the Hassan Warlord faction. Since they control the strategically significant eastern “border” that leads to the capital, they carry considerable influence within the warlord’s inner circle.

And the one leading this important tribe is none other than Nayan Al Bas.

Cousin to the Hassan Warlord leader, he holds crucial responsibilities for financing and troop procurement.

“Though he has around five or six cousins, this guy is particularly close with Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.”

They lived as neighbors during childhood, visited often, and even attended school together.

Considering the Mauritania Continent’s educational standards are far below South Korea’s post-Korean War, both of them are ‘intellectuals’ by local standards.

“He graduated from elementary school and even attended the Academy together. He did enroll in college but dropped out in his first year due to the warlord succession issues.”

“Succession issues?”

“The Al Bas tribe leader passed away suddenly. Cause: poisoning. It was an assassination.”

That’s when Nayan was separated from Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan. Nasir also had to drop out in his fourth year as the Hassan Warlord began to be pressured by the government army, but the friendship between the cousins that spanned the Academy and campus remained unchanged.

“Because of that, Nayan Al Bas took on the significant role of recruiting funds and troops for the Hassan Warlord.”

“Sounds like he snagged that position because of connections.”

I meant it with a negative nuance, but unfortunately, tribalism runs deep within the Mauritania Continent.

Even Kim Young-sam, who shot up to prominence on the motto of “We’re all in this together,” would have to back off here. Locals would respond with, “So we’re family, aren’t we?” Of course, the circumstances are similar in Africa and the Middle East.

At this point, Camila began laughing, seemingly finding it absurd. The shock of placing such an important role in the hands of a relative clearly resounded with her.

I corrected her thoughts as I turned the steering wheel.

“It may seem strange, but at that time, Nayan was suitable for the recruiting role. He majored in accounting, you know.”

“I guess he studied hard. Especially math. Is he quick with numbers, so they trusted him?”

“That’s part of it, but the most significant reasons are definitely trust and a sense of obligation. His father was assassinated when he was 20.”

“Ah.”

It seemed the leader of the Hassan Warlord kept Nayan, who lost his father to an assassination right after becoming an adult, in mind. He also sent him gifts every quarter and communicated letters from his friends in the department.

That touching family bond didn’t go unnoticed by the local counterintelligence agency.

Using communication records exchanged with Nayan, who was incorporated into the warlord early on, they closely monitored Nasir. The scrutiny was so intense that even Nasir’s close friends began distancing themselves from him.

The Military Intelligence Agency later analyzed that this early experience became an indirect cause for Nasir’s fierce resistance against the government army after he rose to become the leader of Al Hassan.

In other words,

“Nayan Al Bas, the chief of the Al Bas tribe, is a bosom cousin and comrade to Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan, the leader of the Hassan Warlord. We will dig right into that point.”

I drove the SUV past the alley toward the front of the building. A shabby fence with green propaganda painted on it and the flag fluttering proudly. It was the same building I visited yesterday.

Parking the car in response to a soldier’s hand signals dressed in free-spirited militia fashion (a sleeveless striped T-shirt, tattered shorts, and sandals), I received a parking ticket handwritten by a tribesman.

“Three hours of free parking, but after that, it’s five Taekron every 15 minutes?”

Five Taekron was enough to score a meal of Imperial-style dumplings at a street vendor in the Kien Empire. Stuffed with rich, succulent meat to withstand the cold, just one bite could fill you up.

But to charge one dumpling for every 15 minutes of parking on this dirt lot? Damn robbers. They might as well take bribes, the bastards.

“……”

While I was suppressing the gradient rage swelling up from my stomach with a bottle of water, Camila, who had been drinking, tapped my shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Look over there. The people we met yesterday are back.”

“What?”

I turned my head, following Camila’s finger. In front of a shabby building, there stood the two people we met yesterday in the interrogation room.

They approached, the duo dressed in rumpled suits and traditional attire, greeting us warmly.

“May the Earth God’s peace be upon you. Good to see you, journalist. We meet again.”

Gone were the days of suspecting them as agents from the Information Agency; they waved their hands with the brightest smiles.

As the man greeted us, the woman stepped closer, explaining their circumstances. Stripping away the grandiose verbage, they were simply offering to guide us while we stayed in their tribe’s territory.

Camila tilted her head in confusion.

“Guide?”

The man replied awkwardly in Kien.

“We. Locals. You. Foreigners. This place. Very dangerous. Help. Needed. Definitely.”

“I guess that’s what they say… How are we going to handle this?”

For a war correspondent, having local guides is a trusty asset. An Information Officer would avoid hiring guides to prevent unnecessary contact, but as a journalist, it would make sense to have one.

Of course, whether they will merely act as guides or actually be tailing us in a surveillance capacity is a truth known only to them.

If they were sent from the Warlord, a report would undoubtedly be sent up the chain. Perhaps that report could be turned to our advantage.

“Sounds good. Welcome aboard. Allow me to introduce myself; I’m Asud, here to cover the civil war.”

“Welcome. Very much.”

I shook the man’s hand as he reached out. Just then, a sour smell started to waft into my nose from somewhere.

Could it be body odor? No way, how could anyone smell that bad? Didn’t they say this was a water-scarce (fact) country? Are they seriously not bathing anymore?

As I pondered this, a bizarre sight unfolded before me. The woman who had greeted Camila approached an SUV.

“Hey, we just went through a checkpoint earlier….”

Ignoring my words, the woman opened the back door of the SUV and began pulling out a small bottle of water.

What the hell? Is this some hidden camera prank? I watched in disbelief as the man also began pulling out his own bottle of water to drink.

“Why are you drinking that water…?”

“Friend!”

The man seized my hand excitedly.

“We. Friend! Water. Share.”

“No….”

“Very grateful. Tears, coming.”

They didn’t share— they just drank from it on their own without permission.

Seeing these highway-robber bastards move in without a signal had me gritting my teeth. I felt like knocking them out, but I couldn’t, as Camila was holding me back.

With years of medical volunteering in civil war zones under her belt, Camila looked at me with a sympathetic expression.

“Hang in there, Frederick. No matter how much you hate them, don’t let it lead to fighting.”

“Am I supposed to just stand there and take that?”

“I meant to say, fight where no one can see you.”

“…Ah!”

Fighting in a place without surveillance? Now that was a clear answer.

Since a civilized British person was telling me not to fight, I reluctantly took a step back. The highway-robber duo, having seized a 500ml water bottle, gathered a couple of pet bottles and exited the vehicle.

“Here, take this too.”

“What is it?”

“A snack.”

Camila handed over energy bars to the two robbers, who had been observing us. They were part of the emergency rations shoved into leftover space along with combat rations.

Camila took out a few and handed them to the locals, delivering a warm message.

“Take these and share them with your friends. They contain chocolate, so they’re safe for the kids. There are nuts inside too.”

Gifting snacks to robbers? That’s an act even Jesus would be impressed by.

Watching Camila’s kindness unfold left me dumbfounded.

“No, that’s not right. Aren’t you supposed to be a proud magician?”

“Isn’t it easier to approach someone friendly than to be all high and mighty? Who knows, they might share some valuable information if we get to know them.”

Is this a British thing? She had quite a knack for dealing with these rough types. That’s why experienced hires are preferred.

“Thank you.”

“Overwhelmingly grateful.”

The two, having received energy bars, expressed their gratitude to Camila and thanked me as well.

On the surface, they didn’t seem like bad people, so why did they drink water without permission? This country really is a strange one.

“…Maybe we should just stay quietly in the office.”

“Huh? What did you say?”

“Just talking to myself.”

Anyway, having filled the robbers’ coffers, now it was our turn for some reward. The two beamed with smiles and began to guide us down the path.

*

The place the Warlord duo led us to was somewhere several blocks from the building. The reason I used vague expressions was that I wasn’t even sure where I was.

We wove through a complicated network of streets and buildings. Following the duo, who guided us ahead, we noticed Warlord members watching us from a distance, sending signals.

The peculiar thing about these signals was their age. Everyone signaling back and forth seemed to be minors. Some looked like they were in high school, while others seemed no older than those who just entered elementary school.

The common thread among these youngsters was that they were all presumed to be from the Hassan Warlord faction.

That meant these kids were child soldiers.

“……”

It seemed that Camila had picked up on this fact, as her expression darkened.

She had always been quick on the uptake, so I expected she would figure it out eventually, but I never thought that moment would come so soon.

I surveyed the young soldiers with a blank expression. The faces of these little children blurred with memories of other young soldiers I had seen elsewhere.

Liberia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Mexico….

“……”

One child soldier, whose eyes met mine, turned to look at his friend.

The kind of kids you’d find in a middle school academy sat around in the dirty hall of a shared lobby, playing in the dirt in a garden.

Beyond the shattered windows, a mother carrying a baby in a wrap was visible, and on the wall of the living room hung two old rifles.

Damn it, this country. Kids should not be here. I whispered softly to Camila as we followed the Warlord duo.

“Should we go back?”

“…Where to?”

“Just anywhere. Kien would be fine, Abas too, the Magic Tower or the Cult would be alright. Or maybe to Patalia where Francesca is.”

After resting at the villa for about a month, returning to the Empire would be fine too.

Duke Alexandra Petrovna is friends with Francesca, so if she hears news, she’ll probably be at ease waiting for us.

But the response I got was exactly what I expected.

“I don’t want to.”

Camila, walking beside me, poked me in the ribs with her elbow.

“If I disappear, what will you do? Where could I go, leaving you behind?”

“……”

So now she thinks of me as a child.

“Who’s worrying about whom?”

“I think we’ve arrived.”

After what felt like a long walk, the Warlord duo stopped in front of a building.

It was an impressive residence.

It looked like the house of a darling minister or perhaps a grand mansion fit for a local dignitary.

One noticeable feature was the guards armed with automatic rifles surrounding the house. Scanning the area, I felt sure of it.

We had indeed come to the right place.

“Entering is good.”

With the duo’s guidance, Camila and I entered the mansion. It seemed they were expecting us, as several armed soldiers began to accompany us.

Beyond the marble-floored lobby and up the staircase, on the third floor, we were able to meet the owner of the mansion.

“You’re a journalist?”

A local elder, positioned in a posture that seemed almost arrogant behind the desk, spoke.

“Yes, I’m Asud.”

He slowly turned his body. Behind him, a local man in his thirties and a woman cloaked in robes stood on either side, guarding the elder.

“Nice to meet you, Asud.”

Though it was our first meeting, his face looked somewhat familiar.

“I am Nayan Al Bas.”

He extended his hand to offer a handshake.

“Leader of the Al Bas Tribe.”

 

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