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It wasn’t easy to enter the territory claimed by the “rebels” as per the local government. A sinister rumor that martial law might soon be declared sent ripples of anxiety through the populace.

Although the Ministry of Defense had not officially released any statements, the increased number of checkpoints on the roads leading to the rebel areas lent credence to the rumors.

However, the government army’s checkpoints were no hindrance to my path.

“Good work, everyone.”

The soldiers stationed at the checkpoint easily allowed my vehicle to pass. It was because I casually slipped them some cash along with a drink that tasted like cat piss—er, I mean, beer.

The soldiers who accepted the bribes didn’t bother to inspect the SUV properly. They merely glanced at the exterior and waved me through. They even ignored the identification check, which was typically a formality for both citizens and foreigners. As I handed my documents, they skimmed the papers and moved the barricade aside.

Thus, the government army’s regulations and controls had long degenerated from obstacles into mere irritating formalities.

Of course, that was only true for those who had given bribes, but it was a jarring reminder of just how lackadaisical the military discipline was.

“Clear to pass.”

I drove the SUV into the territory of the Al Bas Tribe.

Though I made it through the checkpoint without incident, unease gripped my heart.

I was so anxious that even Camila, who was somewhat in a daze, asked, “Is something wrong today?”

“Am I okay?”

“Why? Do I look weird to you?”

“Yes. Your expression looks like half-chewed eel jelly…”

It was, of course, a joke. She knew better than anyone why I was feeling off-kilter.

The SUV roared to life as we advanced.

When the smoke from cooking rice began wafting out of a chimney, we arrived at the parking lot of the interrogation room building for the third time today.

Here, I would meet the source of my distress.

—

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

I contacted Farid Al Bas, who was assigned as my guide by the tribe chief.

“Welcome to the land of the Al Bas Tribe. I am Farid, son of Nayan Al Bas.”

The man who introduced himself as the chief’s son had a familiar face—one I recognized well.

A young local in his mid-thirties, his skin was significantly fairer compared to the sun-weathered warlord fighters. He was far more robust than most of the locals I had encountered so far and was the heir to a Hassan warlord executive.

He spoke fluent Kien, indicating he had studied abroad in a nation like the Ratwan Republic, where Kien was widely spoken.

I shook hands with him and completed the introductions.

“I’m war correspondent Asud.”

“Nice to meet you, Asud. Feel free to call me Farid.”

After our initial meeting, my impression of Farid was not favorable, even as a mere formality.

“I’ll be assisting you with your coverage starting today. Although, I probably won’t be of much help,” he said.

Without needing to comb through the military intelligence agency’s database, it was easy to assess Farid.

First and foremost, his attire was a giveaway.

He was decked out in luxury brands from head to toe. Tailored suit, leather shoes, a cowhide belt, sunglasses made from buffalo horn—so on and so forth.

As I appraised his appearance, I recalled who he was.

A journalism graduate from a private university. His grades were average, and his class demeanor was decent enough. He was involved in a sports club but had never played a proper game. His hobby? Shopping. Buying stuff at the department store with his girlfriend.

Not to mention, he had quite the reputation for womanizing; he’d dated two girlfriends in less than a month. He often called his father for money as the end of the month approached, having burned through his allowance.

In short, Farid was just a slacker living off the money sent from home, coasting along while studying just enough to get by.

I didn’t care what kind of life he lived; his extravagant love life was sufficient reason for me to harbor disdain.

Was it that prejudice, or maybe his glaringly flamboyant fashion? It made it impossible not to form a negative impression from the very first moment we met.

And that negative impression soon manifested into reality.

“Yawn….”

Farid stretched out with his mouth wide open, oblivious to the social faux pas of acting that way in front of a guest introduced by his father.

When I saw him do that, a sudden realization hit me. Oh, this guy is a total nutjob.

“…”

The tribe members shot him sharp glares for his indiscreet behavior, yet Farid seemed completely unfazed. So he was indeed a favored child of Nayan; the rumors were true.

I didn’t like the feeling of this situation. An ominous feeling creeping up my spine compelled me to jump straight into business.

“I’ll be staying here from today to document the villages. Where should we start?”

“Villages? Oh, just go wherever you want to go, Mr. Reporter.”

His lackluster response came when I asked about the sites for coverage, revealing a generally unenthusiastic attitude.

That was a very bad sign. The guide, who was also effectively the tribe’s de facto leader, should have been eager about the coverage, but his indifference meant trouble for me—as both a reporter and an information officer.

But the ominous premonitions didn’t stop there. Farid went far beyond my expectations with his shocking behaviors.

“Okay, I’m off then. You all consult with the reporter and decide, then let me know.”

“Sure, Farid.”

He left the room, as if he had no interest in the coverage, instructing his subordinates to discuss it with me. He had been completely fine when chatting with me, but when facing the tribe members, his expression soured.

Striding to the vehicle provided by the warlord, he flung open the door and sprawled out in the back seat. Then he pulled out rolled-up headphones from who knows where.

What kind of idiot does that? As those thoughts ran through my head.

“…”

I suddenly locked eyes with the tribe’s executive, now stuck dealing with a war correspondent, and with the warlord duo I had encountered in the interrogation room.

The tribe members averted their gaze, offering awkward smiles. This sort of situation clearly wasn’t new for them.

Camila seemed to catch onto the vibe, carefully voicing her thoughts.

“It doesn’t seem like things are going to go smoothly.”

“I know.”

I sighed inwardly.

This operation didn’t seem like it was going to be easy.

—

While there were minor disruptions, coverage proceeded as planned.

We followed the Al Bas Tribe members, represented by the warlord duo, to visit surrounding villages.

My first step there was to obtain permission for coverage.

“Hello, I’m Asud, here to document the village. Could I get your permission?”

Waltzing into a closed-off rural neighborhood with a camera is definitely a major faux pas. The residents tended to guard their privacy and dislike any disturbances in their village.

The locals seemed wary of outsiders, but once the tribe members explained the situation, they gladly welcomed us as guests.

“Village head. Coverage permission. Very quick.”

The warlord duo, having caught wind of the tribe members’ whispering, approached to inform me that the coverage had been approved. While my Kien was still rough around the edges, I had no problem grasping the meaning.

The area where coverage was permitted was near the border—the term the residents used for the boundary between the government’s jurisdiction and the tribe’s territory. I had expected it would be hard to get permission since government mechanized forces were garrisoned in adjacent areas, yet contrary to my expectations, Nayan granted it.

It seemed they wanted to raise awareness of the unjust circumstances they were experiencing to the outside world through war correspondents. Although I had only spoken with Nayan once, it was easy to infer his intentions.

“I heard the army is close by; is the village safe?”

“Military. Very bad guys. Residents. Unstable. Fears of sleeping.”

The warlord duo accompanying me on this coverage served the role of interpreters.

When I posed my questions in Kien, they translated them into the local dialect for the residents.

“I heard the army that occupied this village has done terrible things to you all. May I ask what treatment you received?”

I took notes of all testimonies that came from the residents. The main focus was on the atrocities committed by the government army in the village—exactly what Nayan sought.

It was painfully obvious, but I willingly decided to accommodate his wishes. My objective was to reach the instigator of the Hassan warlord, and I needed Nayan’s assistance to do that.

Of course, I didn’t only give coverage that benefitted the warlords.

“I heard there’s a mine near the village?”

“Massive mine. Lots of coal. Abundant.”

I gathered information about what facilities were present in the Al Bas Tribe’s territory through the residents’ responses. These testimonies would serve as intelligence to strengthen the data the military intelligence agency might not have captured.

“Are you saying the government army is after the coal mine?”

“Yes. The coal mine has a lot of coal. The military wants coal. Because of lack of electricity.”

“Don’t they mine magic stones?”

“Magic stones? That’s not possible. The mine dried up long ago and is extremely dangerous. Anyone who goes in ends up getting sick. My father died for that reason.”

During the coverage process, I discovered that among the villagers, there were some who spoke Kien.

Their skills weren’t remarkable, but they could at least communicate in longer exchanges in Kien.

Most of these people were elderly, and it turned out they had migrated from the Sanya Tribe into Hassan’s territory. They recalled occasionally having visitors from the “Kien Empire in military uniforms” when they were young.

Reconnaissance Command? Or perhaps the Special Forces? I didn’t really care either way. Special forces from the empire were all managed by military intelligence agencies.

The elders who sporadically spoke Kien found it quite an amusing encounter with the young foreigner. In our conversation, they even asked if I was from the empire.

“No, I’m not. I’m from Ratwan.”

“Ratwan? Don’t know it. Where’s that country?”

“It’s a country east of the empire.”

Of course, that was a load of nonsense. I had never set foot in Ratwan in my life.

But the elders didn’t seem to care much about where I came from. Rather, it was the warlord duo, especially the male member, who was keenly observing me.

To be precise, he was cautiously watching me.

“Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

“…Nothing.”

He awkwardly diverted his gaze, likely embarrassed about his inferior Kien skills. Not wanting to skip any translation and opting to communicate directly with the elder himself, he had just brought out a knife from somewhere, beginning to peel a fruit to give to the elder.

The villagers stared at the foreigner in their midst with curious eyes.

Since most had probably never left the village, they stuck to the entrances and windows of the house where the interview was held, like cicadas, peering in to catch a glimpse of the white person.

One interesting aspect was how their attention shifted entirely toward me. I was puzzled by why they didn’t seem to pay attention to Camila, another foreigner like myself, but I figured it out once I looked at her.

“Hey there, kids!”

“Wow! You can speak our language!”

“Of course!”

Camila was engaging with the village kids. Seeing a foreigner skillfully speaking their local dialect excited the children.

Deciding to drop the irritating magician concept, we agreed to present a friendly image. Camila approached the kids with soft smiles and a built-in Papago in her vocal cords (whatever principle that was, I still had no idea). She had, of course, thoroughly prepared according to my advice.

The sharp metal rod poking out beneath her robe could, from a distance, easily be recognized as an automatic rifle. It was one I had purchased from Victor—a weapon from the Kien Empire.

In a neighborhood where bolt-action rifles from the world war were still in use, the status of an automatic rifle was, without a doubt, astronomical. Just watching how the villagers quickly distanced themselves from the sight of a fragile foreign woman carrying one was proof enough.

It’s common knowledge around here that avoiding people in robes is a good idea, but with someone wearing a robe and wielding an automatic rifle, this was clearly a strict lesson in etiquette. Camila, receiving the residents’ wary and fearful glances, unmistakably resembled a colonial garrison soldier. If one of Camila’s distant ancestors, the imperialists, were to witness this scene, surely they would be shedding tears.

Of course, kids don’t understand such things. So, with pure curiosity and no suspicion, they approached Camila.

“You’re doing great!”

At that moment, the Warlord Duo, busy arranging fruit on plates, translated the jumbled mutterings of a local resident.

“Very curious. Residents. White person. First time seeing.”

“Ah…”

Well, this was familiar territory. I had experienced similar events during my time in the intelligence service, traveling through Africa and the Middle East.

Some would ask if I was from Korea, others would mention China or Japan, and some would unexpectedly bring up India, gazing curiously at the Eastern person who spoke their native language fluently. Of course, there were some unkind looks mixed in.

For instance, when a misunderstanding led residents to mistake me for a Chinese person in an area devastated by a Chinese company’s poor reputation, I endured all sorts of insults from them. Some even squinted their eyes at me, while others threw objects, shouting for me to leave their country.

I was incredibly frustrated back then, but I couldn’t even argue that I wasn’t Chinese. My fake passport just happened to be a Chinese one. Thanks to that incident, I refrained from using a Chinese passport for a while.

“Thank you for agreeing to the interview.”

“Rather, I should thank you for listening. Welcome, Foreigner.”

After visiting a few more villages, I found that the local residents generally welcomed me.

This was partly because I was a foreign journalist not associated with the government army, but also because the people from the Al Bas Tribe were actively introducing me positively to the locals.

Perhaps Nayan Al Bas had instructed them to cooperate actively with the interview. Of course, it was likely that after Farid caused such a mess, they felt compelled to work even harder to restore the tribe’s reputation.

While the tribe members busily roamed around engaging with the residents, Farid was afar, taking in the sights.

“….”

Perched on the trunk of the vehicle we arrived in, he paid no attention to the village, staring intently at the vast desert. I couldn’t figure out what he was looking at, but it seemed he was gazing at the horizon.

Was there something out there?

I brought out my binoculars to examine the horizon, but nothing particularly stood out.

“Where are you looking?”

“Oh, Camila.”

“Looks like you’re seeing something interesting.”

“No, just taking a brief look at the scenery.”

Camila, who approached quietly with her rifle, decided she wanted to see for herself and took the binoculars from me.

After handing the binoculars over to her, I joined the tribe members to visit another house for information gathering.

That’s when a problem arose.

While we were in the midst of interviewing a local resident for intelligence about the government army and Hassan Warlord, one tribe member rushed in, shouting at the Warlord Duo.

After listening to the resident, the Warlord Duo exchanged words with the tribe member, and I could see their eyes filled with distress as they turned to me.

“What’s going on?”

“Asud. That’s…”

“Did the government army come charging in?”

The man shook his head.

“Problem. Arisen.”

Ah, so what kind of problem has arisen?

Just as I was about to ask in frustration, the warlord spoke up first.

“Your bodyguard.”

*

Camila was in trouble. The moment I heard that, various hypotheses raced through my mind.

The first thought was, of course, pillage or robbery. The Mauritania continent already had poor security, but out here in the countryside? The lack of government influence meant security was barely maintained, and the effects of ongoing droughts and civil wars had led to a scarcity of resources, with armed robbery on the rise.

Just yesterday, an armed robbery alert was issued from the Kien Empire Embassy, warning the local community. The notice included brief news of an imperial tourist who had been attacked by robbers and was currently under police protection.

I grabbed my notebook and remembered the location of the concealed knife, heading toward the scene.

Robbers would surely be armed, but if they weren’t wielding guns, I was confident I could take one down.

As I rummaged through my pockets on the way to Camila’s location, I was taken aback.

“…No, why are you perfectly fine?”

When I found Camila again, she looked entirely unharmed.

She was staring at me with bright eyes, holding the binoculars she received, while her automatic rifle seemed adjusted to fit her properly.

“What a strange thing to say. Is there any reason I shouldn’t be perfectly fine?”

“Ah, no, that’s not it.”

Camila’s surprisingly unscathed appearance left me stuttering. I wondered if she had caused trouble, but thankfully, it seemed she hadn’t.

In fact, the one causing trouble appeared to be someone else.

Surrounded by tribe members, Farid was shouting for some reason. A middle-aged local man, older than him, was waving his hands passionately, addressing him with fierce words. Suddenly, Farid, who had been fervently arguing back, turned away in irritation and walked off.

What on earth was going on?

I asked Camila what had happened, and I quickly grasped the situation.

“Ah, he was talking to me, you see?”

Camila responded as if it were no big deal.

He spoke to you? When I asked her to elaborate, she nodded.

At that moment, I thought to myself, that an obsessed fool had finally stirred up trouble.

“And how did he start talking to you?”

“I was just looking at the desert here when he came up and asked if watching the desert was interesting. So when I honestly replied it was boring, he started asking me various questions like where I was from and my name.”

“Ah.”

After hearing her explanation, I understood how the situation had developed.

Regarding the culture of the local tribe, unmarried men and women can’t easily converse. Depending on the village, in some places, even family members of different genders don’t share the same dining table, eating at separate tables.

Therefore, when we first visited this area, we were questioned by a duo of warlords made up of both men and women, as even foreign visitors were not accustomed to interacting with the opposite gender.

Of course, it wasn’t an absolutely strict custom. Many in the capital viewed such cultural norms as outdated, and even in the countryside, one could frequently witness young men and women cautiously chatting while evading the gaze of the elders. After all, traditions tend to fade as time goes on.

However, it seemed that a tribe member had witnessed Farid talking to Camila. Camila remembered the scene vividly.

“Suddenly, this middle-aged gentleman approached angrily.”

“Toward you?”

“No, toward Farid. His earlier politeness transformed completely, and he grabbed Farid’s hand, pulling him a few steps away and shouting at him.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

“Something along the lines of how it was disgraceful to offend a guest of the tribe, reminding him that one shouldn’t speak loosely to the opposite sex.”

It appeared the tribe member misunderstood Farid as making advances toward Camila. Given the talk of offenses, it was evident.

But I still suspected Farid. When I asked Camila if he had been flirting, she assured that he didn’t seem to have any intentions of that sort.

“He didn’t seem to be flirting at all. He was just asking about where I lived and my name, and then complained about how dull it was here.”

“Dull?”

“Something about it being a boring town.”

He must have made a remark similar to lamenting his fate. But still, why was he venting to Camila specifically?

I briefly reflected on who Farid was. I recalled a short intelligence report mentioning he had pursued a journalism degree and had previously gone to speak with a professor. If I remembered correctly, he had expressed a desire to enter graduate school.

I wondered if it was a desire for academic achievement or simply a longing to spend more time abroad in his case, but it brought to mind analysis I heard about how his return home was primarily driven by his father’s insistence.

“Seems he might be missing living abroad.”

Of course, whatever thoughts the youngest son of a warlord had about his situation was of no concern to me.

I approached the tribe member who had quarreled with Farid, intending to mediate by indicating there might have been a misunderstanding.

While this incident wouldn’t ruin our relationship with Nayan Al Bas, it was essential to prevent any awkward atmosphere from developing. Of course, if it came to it, I had even considered claiming offense, ready to push back if necessary. Opportunities and crises are often just one thin line apart.

After resolving the situation.

We got back into our vehicles and moved to another region. Although the atmosphere had grown tense due to Farid’s incident, we prevented further issues by using separate vehicles.

However, the trouble arose elsewhere.

“…You can’t go there?”

I pointed at the map I had placed on the hood while quizzing the Warlord Duo.

“This village. You’re saying we can’t go there? Did I hear that correctly?”

“Correct. We. Cannot go. This place. Very dangerous. Might die.”

The Warlord Duo responded with unusually clear diction. Each word fell from his lips slowly, even tinged with a hint of anxiety.

I checked the map in disbelief. The village I had indicated was closest to the border.

I had gathered plentiful information from the villages visited today, but the final destination—this place—was crucial to this intelligence-gathering mission. It was near a base of the government army.

The chief of the Al Bas tribe described the government army as “the blade hanging above our necks.” From Abbas’s perspective, it was just a minor mechanized unit, but these seemingly inconsequential troops could potentially turn the tide of the entire operation.

Although the government army’s base was quite far from the village, on clear days, one could often see the base with the naked eye from the village. If we captured it using the high-performance Magic Imaging Equipment disguised as broadcasting gear, we could obtain detailed information on the facility layout, equipment, and the size of the unit.

According to the local meteorological agency, today and tomorrow were the only days with favorable weather this week.

If we missed this chance, we’d have over two weeks of idle time, sitting on our hands.

“No. Nayan has already given us permission to conduct interviews in this area. How can you suddenly change your mind?”

I summoned the authority of Nayan Al Bas to assert myself strongly. In a warlord faction known for its dictatorial tendencies, defying an upper command was no simple task.

However, the tribe members stood their ground. They insisted they could not take us to that village.

“Absolutely not.”

Even the Warlord Duo explicitly expressed their dissent.

“….”

I surveyed the desert in exasperation.

Camila concerned about dehydration, brought out some bottled water. After gulping down, I soaked my headscarf, then turned to the tribe members.

“What exactly is the reason we can’t go there? Huh? At least give me an explanation.”

Just then, a voice answered—a voice that didn’t belong to the warlords or the tribe members.

“Monster.”

Farid, sitting in the warlord’s vehicle, leaned out.

“There are monsters living there.”

 

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