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Sanya.

The keffiyeh wrapped around a loose-fitting kandura.

A man dressed in a traditional attire reminiscent of a white tunic, draped in a brown coat, brushed past the citizens.

Pursuing him was another man.

The local man with a bushy beard was following closely behind.

In Hassan Warlord’s city, there was no distinction between the old town and the new.

Inside the maze-like city, a traditional market.

Both men found themselves there.

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man.

The traditional market was as bustling as the chaotic situation dictated.

Vendors shouting from the road, citizens casually weaving through the passing vehicles.

As colorful items lay strewn across the alleys, stalls lined every corner, with the noise of televisions and the chatter of people blending into a cacophony.

The man did not pause.

“…”

The man whose keffiyeh was pulled away from his face resembled someone wearing a shimag. The loose one-piece attire obscured his figure, making it difficult to determine his gender.

Dressed in traditional clothing, the man easily blended among the locals. His leisurely strides and casual glances over the stalls felt completely natural.

The man observing him kept a keen eye.

With one hand shoved into his pocket, the man examined the stalls when he pulled out his hand and grabbed an item.

His demeanor was as relaxed as a trader weighing the usefulness of a product.

The vendor who welcomed him exchanged a few words, and the man gestured as he chatted away.

The pursuer missed not a single one of his gestures and movements.

The observer made his move the moment the man handed over cash and received the item.

Having purchased the item with cash, he headed into an alley to escape the crowded traditional market. The man who had been watching followed suit.

He passed by low walls, moving alongside the faded yellow exterior. Though the two men were a good distance apart, it wasn’t exactly far.

In the distance, the figure disappearing down a side street caught the man’s attention. The man, with hands still in his pockets and fists clenched, turned the corner with a tense expression.

At that moment.

“Ugh!”

A groan escaped the man as he rounded the building’s edge.

The man waiting at the corner grabbed him by the collar and yanked hard, then kicked at his knee and ankle.

The local man, losing his balance, crumpled to the ground. The attacker twisted his flailing arms and pinned him down with his knee.

The man on the ground and the one on top— in that fleeting moment, a fist flew. The attacker slammed his fist into the local man’s face and seized his hair, forcing his head back.

And a sharp knife pressed against the esophagus.

The trembling eyes scanned the razor-sharp blade. Ragged breaths brushed against the blade and collar. The grip of the man holding the greatsword began to tighten.

Just the touch was dangerous enough to tear skin.

The man pressed the greatsword closer and whispered fluently in the common tongue of the Mauritania continent.

“Who sent you?”

*

The local man, staring at the threatening greatsword, huffed through his nose, letting out a ragged breath.

I was prepared to slice at his throat as I pushed the blade in and asked, “Who are you?”

The local man had been tailing me since the moment I strolled through the street up to the traditional market. This man had followed me consistently.

I sensed the tail when I was wandering aimlessly to gather my thoughts after meeting with an information agent.

“Who sent you?”

With harsh words and an oppressive atmosphere, I threatened the subdued man as I interrogated him. Despite doing so, my mind raced to guess the man’s identity and who was behind him.

For agents dispatched abroad, being tailed and watched is an inseparable shadow. Thanks to counterintelligence eyes and watchers sent by third-country information agencies.

“Gah…”

As I flexed my knees, a muffled sound of air escaping filled my ears. The agent, with his abdomen and solar plexus crushed beneath me, groaned in agony.

“Who ordered you to follow me? Say their name.”

I barked as I pressed more force into the greatsword. At that moment, the agent on the ground started to glance back at the path he had taken.

Realizing he had drawn my attention, I straightened the blade and got back up.

Before even two seconds had passed, a shout in the regional dialect echoed in my ears.

“عبدل!”

A man sprinting into the alley had shouted.

He called out the fallen agent’s name with anguish. Yet the man on the ground did not hear it.

Abdul. The name of the man who had been tailing me. A name that is quite common in the Middle East and Mauritania.

Looking at the fallen man and standing up, blood spattered alongside the greatsword.

It didn’t take long for the man, swiveling his eyes around, to comprehend the situation. He let out a scream that was nearly a wail and drew his knife.

I dodged the sweeping blade, grabbing the joint buried inside his arm. The man whose wrist I had captured swung his knife, but it only grazed my clothing without landing a hit.

Having suppressed the most threatening joints, I delivered a swift kick to his abdomen.

“Ugh…!”

Before thoughts would materialize, my body reacted first.

The greatsword began to pierce into the thug. The blade, easily surpassing 7cm, sliced through flesh, severed arteries, and shattered bones.

The familiar sensation flowing through the hilt felt akin to slicing through lotus root. With the greatsword lodged in the context of the neck, I rapidly stabbed him two more times in the neck.

The thug who had his arteries brutally severed collapsed forward. Thus, I freed myself from the threat of murder.

Yet, I could not feel safe, for I could hear countless footsteps coming from the alleyway. The sound of more attackers rushing in.

I did not know who had sent them after me.

But I was sure of one fact.

“…Assassination.”

Someone had dispatched assassins.

*

The chase began.

It was a game of tag.

“عبدل او صیر مړه دي!”

“زه په چاقو ووهلم. هغه سړی ومومئ چې هغه یې وژلی دی!”

The thugs who had arrived late began shouting in a language I could not comprehend. It was not the common language of the Mauritania continent but a regional dialect spoken only in this rural area.

Confronted with two of their comrades, who had just moments ago been human, the thugs were enraged, raising their voices. Though I could not understand their words, the meaning was certainly conveyed.

I hid around the corner, observing the thugs.

“…”

The local men communicating in the dialect numbered four. They appeared to be familiar, their words lengthy.

Like butchers gutting meat, the men with knives lurked around. Judging by their grips, they seemed to be skilled knife-wielders.

Adjusting my grip on the greatsword, I began to assess the situation.

I had been tailed while on my way back to my lodging. The agent who had entered the alley behind me had attempted to engage in a fight the moment he was ambushed, pulling a knife from his pocket.

Contract killings are a high-demand job in insecure areas. This had been true in Central and South America, Southeast Asia, the Middle East, and Africa.

Having worked for over ten years in intelligence, I had encountered countless contract killers. I had often contracted them for murders, and when things went wrong, I would receive visits from the assigned assassin.

I suspected the identities of these thugs to be hired assassins.

The reason was quite simple.

When setting up agents, intelligence agencies prefer direct assassination over hiring killers.

They would typically prefer giving agencies assignments directly when the goal is to increase the chances of a successful assassination.

In an area where old firearms roam freely in the black market, agents would remove targets with firearms without hesitation. Weapons like firearms were significantly more effective than knives at killing.

Therefore, it would be hard to assume that the men chasing me were assassins belonging to an intelligence agency.

Who had sent the assassins? The Reconnaissance Command? The Imperial Guard HQ? Or perhaps the Warlord? If any of these three were the culprits, it was most likely the Warlord. Contract killing is not a method employed by the Empire’s Information Agency. This was a typical tactic for a Warlord when intending to eliminate someone.

Who could it be? Asan? Sanya?

Gripping the greatsword, I continued my speculations.

But to know the answer, I needed to stay alive.

“هلته دی!”

One assassin pointed his finger towards my hidden position. He shouted to inform his comrades.

In an instant, the knife-wielding assassins surged toward me.

As I swiftly got to my feet from my hiding spot, I thrust the knife into the gut of the nearest assassin turning around the corner.

Typically, information agents prefer to attack the neck rather than the chest or limbs when handling a knife. This is because the carotid artery, spinal cord, and trachea are concentrated in that area. Therefore, trainers emphasize swiftly stabbing the neck with tight intervals and quick movements.

However, some instructors suggested the abdomen as a viable target during emergencies as the liver—a critical point of the human body—is located there. Hitting that region could instantly take someone down.

Unfortunately, I possessed all three necessary conditions.

Adequate blade length, the strength to pierce the liver, and the knowledge to accurately identify its position.

Unfortunately for him, I had all three.

With a whistle, the sound of fabric and flesh being pierced was followed by a sharp gasp. The heavy greatsword tore through skin and shredded the liver.

I twisted the greatsword, driving it deeper until the blade pressed against the brainstem.

Retrieving the greatsword, I turned to face the following assassins. Despite having just witnessed their colleague’s demise, they charged unhesitatingly.

One hefty assassin wielded a giant knife. A blade as colossal as his physique.

Shouts erupted, hair flew, and as I lost grip of my pistol, I clutched my greatsword tightly.

The military greatsword scraped my upper arm. The powerful weapon of the Kien Empire’s military easily tore through flesh. The strength of high-carbon steel.

The burly assassin swung his knife a few times until the greatsword embedded itself in his neck. I tightened my grip on the greatsword to ensure the thug’s death, but in that moment, the assassin’s knife just barely grazed my shoulder.

One blow, another. The high-carbon blade pierced thick necks and burst vessels, akin to cutting through lotus roots.

Another assassin came in to exploit an opening. With a shimag covering his upper body, he was so small that he could easily be mistaken for a goblin.

A goblin-like build, but agile like a beastman. With a small cutting blade, he aimed for my side.

He grabbed my wrist. The startled assassin couldn’t pull out his knife and soon began to twist into my side. The small blade snagged my skin when my greatsword plunged into the assassin’s skull.

The military greatsword is a formidable weapon indeed. As an axe, machete, or katana, it has the strength to form a decisive blow. The greatsword easily penetrated as it struck the foe’s skull, causing a swift fatal end.

Retrieving the lodged blade was a thorny task. I relinquished the hilt and abandoned the greatsword in favor of my last foe.

The last assassin was an unremarkable man, just as common as the next. Approaching his forties, he wouldn’t seem out of place with adult children due to the region’s early marriage pattern.

He held a peculiar knife—wavy patterned, easily capable of slicing through flesh.

It was uncertain whether the knife would be used to butcher livestock or humans. But what was clear was that it was currently intended for human prey.

The knife-wielding assassin met the spy wielding his belt.

One for the arm. Two for the collarbone. Three to the chest. Four for the collar.

Dancing like shadows, I ducked under the surging blades, wrapping the belt around my wrist. I crossed the straps and yanked down with all my might.

As soon as the pressure was applied, the knife dropped. Seeing him raise his arms to defend, I delivered a powerful kick to his groin.

A brief yet piercing scream followed, and I soon caught the assassin’s neck with the belt, pulling with all my strength.

Back to back, I unbended my knees and swept him into the air.

The choking assassin exhaled ragged breaths, clawing at my constricting grip on his neck. The thrashing limbs and scratching nails continued their desperate struggle as I tightened my grip.

Eventually, the fingers clawing for dear life began to relax. The raspy breaths producing grinding sounds began to fade.

Yet, I did not relent in my grip. With the dragging effort of a person carrying a sack of potatoes, I stumbled towards where I had dropped my pistol.

Finally, I caught the familiar and chilling feel of the handgun in my palm. With the gun pressed against the side of the still-struggling assassin, I pulled the trigger.

Bang! The single gunshot shattered the silence.

Having cast aside my humanity, I leaned against the wall of the alleyway, gripping the pistol.

“…”

As I sat among the corpses, I observed the numerous stars shining brightly in the sky. With trembling hands, I holstered my pistol, and just as I began to rise while clutching my side—

-Rumble!

The wall crumbled. The wall I had been leaning against.

I hit the ground, covered in dust. Wondering what was happening, I raised my head to see—

“Hello?”

A familiar woman stood where the voice was heard, much finer than the earlier booming one.

The woman, with tanned skin, flashed a grin.

“I was worried I might be late, but it looks like all the fun was already had by the folks ahead?”

A knowing smirk graced her lips, concealed beneath the traditional Mauritania cloak.

The only visible part of her body was her jaw, but identifying this woman didn’t take much effort.

“By the way, it seems your bodyguard isn’t around. You used to drag them along everywhere,”

“…”

“You should always have a guard. Didn’t I tell you?”

The shaman, Fatima.

Emerging from the collapsed building, she offered me a sly smile.

“Living like that, it wouldn’t be strange to die whenever.”

It was a cruel grin.

Sanya.

While there’s no concrete evidence, currently, only two warlords have a reason to contract an assassination.

“…Is it Asen? Or is it Sanya?”

“Oh, you’re quick on the uptake, huh? That’s right. We received a request from Sanya.”

Damn it. Where did the information leak from?

As I pondered the worst-case scenario, the shaman spoke up with a significant remark.

“A bounty has been placed on foreigners operating in the region. What was it they said? Because of the war correspondents, they’re growing increasingly worried?”

“……”

It meant that the group of warlords had placed bounties on the heads of war correspondents.

It wasn’t an entirely incomprehensible decision. After all, war correspondents are the nemesis of warlords. From the warlord’s perspective, they likely didn’t want foreign journalists digging through their territory without restraint.

Take Hassan for example. When I requested coverage while venturing into the territory of the Al Bas Tribe, the party’s officials constantly kept an eye on me, who was disguised as a war correspondent.

If Nayan, Hassan’s right-hand man in charge of finances, hadn’t shown me any goodwill, I might have ended up stuck in Hassan’s police station for days.

“……”

But now, what mattered wasn’t how the warlords treated war correspondents. What mattered was that Sanya had placed a bounty on foreign journalists.

And that my cover was as a war correspondent.

“…Damn.”

If I had known this would happen, I would have approached it as an arms dealer. What a mess.

The shaman working for Hassan, no, the shaman contracted by Sanya, smiled coldly.

“Did you end up double-crossed in the end?”

“Don’t put it that way. It makes me sound like the villain.”

Fatima, who brazenly started to ramble about betraying Hassan, began to speak nonchalantly.

“It’s good for me, though. They’ve been recruiting soldiers lately in Asen and Sanya because they’re short on manpower. They’re offering a lot of money.”

“……”

“They say the shaman will pay 3 million from the start. The bounty on foreigners is 5 million.”

The shaman, while calculating her earnings, raised her mouth corners into a smile.

“Just in time, I have a journalist right in front of me?”

I wasn’t naive enough not to understand what that meant.

I sprinkled sand at the shaman. Then I drew my revolver.

But the opponent was a step ahead.

– Bang ̶ ̶!

Debris strewn in the alley began flying towards me. The ground trembled as if it had gained resonance, and shards of stone were starting to fly up.

It was the shaman’s doing.

The pouring pieces of rock and swirling dust. The shaman was laughing amidst the chaos.

Without forming a pact with a beastman or even embedding magic power into a spell, a skilled shaman or magician could conduct simple spells or sorcery without preparation.

And yet, even though she cast such a spell, Fatima seemed completely unfazed.

This chick is better than she appears.

“Shit…!”

I rolled on the ground to dodge the debris.

Unlike a magician, shamans have a range within which they can attack. Therefore, the military police’s engagement rule against shamans is diligently structured around avoiding their attack range.

Having dodged the debris, I quickly fled the alley. The hazy dust obscured my figure to a certain extent.

If it were a deserted alley, no problem. But in a place filled with civilians, I figured it would be hard for her to use sorcery freely.

However,

– Boom ̶ ̶!!

Fatima relentlessly pursued me, casting her magic.

“Ahh!!”

“It’s a shaman! The shaman is killing people!”

The locals gathered in the traditional market began to scream at the sudden outburst of the shaman’s rampage.

Some stepped outside to assess the situation and were caught beneath fleeing civilians, while others carried children and ran like mad.

Given the unexpected nature of the rampage, the residents’ responses were all over the map. Most were sprinting in the opposite direction of where the loud noise emanated, but some ran against the crowd, desperately calling for someone.

Right into the shaman’s attack range.

One woman, looking for a child, was split in two. Not that her lower half dropped away from her upper half, but I mean literally split from the crown of her head down.

Nearby, a person screamed, clutching a severed wrist, while an old man sat in front of a collapsed store, tearing at his hair. Just moments ago, inside that store, people had been cheering for a sports broadcast blaring from the CRT TV.

Beside the old man, whose eyes were filled with emptiness, the shaman swept past, her cloak billowing.

“…What the hell!”

I yelled at the shaman.

“Are you planning to kill everyone?”

“People die anyway.”

The shaman twisted her lips and added,

“You’ll die soon, too.”

I began sprinting toward a building to evade her approaching magic. Because the Hassan warlord’s guards were inside that building.

Dodging back and forth between spells and debris, even while furiously running, the shaman was still closely on my heels.

Her fingers curled, and as her palm made contact, the magic was complete. The ominous-colored sorcery seeped into the ground.

Earth element magic.

In magical terms, it corresponds to ‘earth’ among the four elements.

– ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶!!

As the ominous light permeated the ground, the earth began to twist. The road buckled as if a small earthquake had struck, and utility poles fell over.

With bulbs hanging precariously in the shaking stores casting unstable shadows. Abandoned vehicles started rushing toward me.

I crouched to avoid the looming shadow.

At that moment, sirens began to wail nearby.

It was natural for the police to arrive, given a riot had broken out in a crowded urban area. Even if this is a neighborhood rife with corrupt civil servants, elite forces exist, and among them are special police tasked with dealing specifically with magicians and shamans.

A pickup truck full of police officers arrived at the scene. The truck, having located the shaman who slaughtered civilians in the chaos, began firing machine guns, pushing through the debris.

“How dare you.”

The shaman, who was hiding behind a solid concrete wall, began to form a pact. Her thumbs locked together, while her index, middle, and pinky fingers intertwined.

As she coordinated her fingers, colors began to settle in Fatima’s palm, and realizing her magic was complete, she slammed her palm against the building.

– Rumble ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶!!

The building began to collapse.

“Ahhh!!”

“Gaaahh!!”

The screams of residents poured from the building as it crumbled down on top of the officers.

The sharpshooter managing the machine gun and the officer aiming his revolver behind the police car. An elite group of over twenty police officers plunging from the pickup truck met with the debris in the blink of an eye.

With a rumble! As buildings toppled over like dominos, an enormous cloud of dust soared. The silence that accompanied death rendered the area eerily quiet.

“…Hah.”

The shaman spoke, leisurely stepping on the ruins like a casual hiker.

“If you’d just stayed put, this wouldn’t have gone this far. Why is it that people always do foolish things?”

“……”

“How about it?”

Standing tall amidst corpses and debris, the shaman smiled naively.

“Do you think you can still tear my mouth open like that?”

I, fumbling around on the ground, attempted to speak.

“Is that what this is all about? Pride?”

“Yeah. Pride. Isn’t it just natural for a person to return a slight?”

“……”

Suddenly, a hollow laugh escaped me. To repay an affront, she slaughtered dozens of civilians and buried police officers alive.

“You’re quite a piece of work.”

The shaman’s brow twitched. Her voice hung thick with malice.

“If I tear that mouth of yours open, you might quiet down a little-”

Gunfire rang out, and the shaman swayed unsteadily. Fatima, who had been standing tall, fell onto the pile of debris, shrieking in agony.

Setting aside my smoking barrel, I gazed at the shaman, who was crawling on the ground.

Gunfire erupted again. Bullets embedded in the rubble sent dust flying in all directions.

“Guh…!”

The shaman, caught off guard by the sudden gunfire, hurriedly concealed herself amidst the rubble. I reloaded my magazine, waiting for the shaman to reveal herself.

Then, from within the debris, the shaman yelled out.

“…Shit. Everybody get out! Don’t just stand there, hurry up!”

As her call echoed throughout the spot, figures began emerging from the shadows of the city.

Locals clothed in traditional attire from the Mauritania Continent. They walked through the chaos, which the shaman had recently wrought, as if it were second nature.

They were fellow shamans.

I fired at them with my revolver. However, it seemed they had prepared their magic in advance.

As the shaman extended her arm, a buried sewage pipe shot up from the ground. Water gushed from the jagged break and cracks, like a fountain, setting the stage for a grand spectacle.

River-type magic. This sorcery corresponds to ‘water’ among the four primary elements of elemental magic.

While a small-caliber bullet may be dangerous, its effectiveness diminishes underwater.

The resistance of water is some 800 times greater than that of air, rendering bullet rotation impossible.

The loss of rotational force leads to unstable trajectories, and heightened resistance dampens propulsion. Upon encountering river-type sorcery, the bullet quickly lost its force and was sucked into the liquid.

As the underground water arose to block my attacks, a shaman presumed to be her associate emerged. As they formed a pact and recited their spell, a powerful wind began to swirl.

I was unceremoniously smashed against a nearby stall by the typhoon-like wind. I crashed through the rickety wooden stall, rolling on the ground.

While I was scratched here and there by the sharp glass shards and debris, the shamans located Fatima, who had been huddling behind the rubble. Fatima, pressing down on her lower abdomen wound with her hand, scolded her comrades irritably.

“If you were going to join, you should have done it sooner!”

“Who was the one who insisted on taking the bounty all for yourself? It’s strange hearing you say that when you refused to split when we were three!”

“Is it easy to split 5 million evenly?! Not to mention, had you not wasted it gambling, we wouldn’t even have to deal with the dark elf for money.”

While the shamans rambled on carelessly, I barely managed to pick myself up, leaning against a vehicle.

Excruciating pain throbbed through my body, and a headache pounded in my skull as I suddenly found myself thinking such thoughts. Nonsensical thoughts.

The first thought that emerged was about the things that would happen after I died.

If I die here, what would the company tell my family? Would they tell the truth, that I perished on a mission, or would they comfort them by saying I died in a traffic accident secretly?

I wonder what Jerry and Older Sister Adela would say if I died. Would they reveal that I was an information officer and not just a defense attaché? The elders of the Nostrim family would surely be shocked to hear that.

Is the cat beastman’s meow “meow,” or is it “meow”? Why does Kair cry out “meow”?

Right, I haven’t received the money from Ayla yet. She gets a job but doesn’t buy anything for her family. What a terrible character she has. These days, kids these days….

The next thing that came to mind was the faces of people. My colleagues, seniors, and juniors from the Military Intelligence Agency. My superior Clevenz and Leoni.

I wonder what happened to Pippin and Jake. If the department is disbanded, will they return to their original places? As for Charnoy, I don’t know. The Inspection Office has term limits, so she will likely be reassigned elsewhere. The Royal Intelligence Department’s dispatched team should return as they were.

Lucia. She just became a saint; I hope she stays safe.

Francesca. She can usually fend for herself no matter where, but I’m honestly a bit worried. With the National Security Agency being so strict.

Veronica. Well, she’s just…

I also thought of my parents. Dad and Mom. I wonder if they’re doing well? After losing both a husband and a child. They shouldn’t have to struggle.

Would it have been better if my father were alive? Who knows? At least I hope he wouldn’t have ended up at the funeral home, drinking soju like my grandfather.

The last person to come to mind was,

“……”

I had half lost my mind. I don’t know if it’s a universal psychological phenomenon that occurs before death or if I’ve lost my sanity to end up like this.

I traced my fingers along the slide. Inside the tightly sealed chamber was a live bullet ready to fire at any moment.

Pressing my hand against my bleeding side, I slowly gathered my thoughts. With one magazine, I could at least take down one person.

As I shakily leaned against the door of the vehicle, someone approached me from the side. As I pushed the thumb safety and placed my finger on the trigger, I noticed the figure’s legs next to me.

Well-maintained, picturesque legs. The skin was pale and lovely. So white that even white people have white legs.

Amid my ramblings full of pointless chatter, I suddenly had this thought. Why are people’s legs white? There are no white people here.

Upon closer inspection, those legs looked familiar. After a moment’s recollection, I suddenly snapped to attention and looked up.

Finally, I met eye to eye with the clear, blue eyes gazing at me. Eyes shining as clear and bright as a cloudless sky.

Camila spoke.

“What are you doing here?”

“…Huh.”

She was looking down at me with an unfazed demeanor.

Slung over one shoulder was the backpack that had helped me with my belongings, and she was wearing the traditional clothing of the Mauritania Continent that seemed to have come from who knows where. She was also wearing a hood that resembled a hijab.

Not a Muslim, nor were there any Muslims around here.

While I rummaged through my fragmented thoughts, Camila scanned the area.

“Hmmm….”

Before her, the street lay in utter disarray. The body fragments of humans piled under the ruins of a collapsed building, and the mangled vehicles. Even the livelihood of local residents swept away by the strong winds and flooded with underground water.

Camila, taking in the horrific sight, plopped her backpack onto the ground. Then she stretched her arms, muttering in a tone for me to hear.

“I thought if I left you alone, you’d probably get involved in some accident…. And here we are, you ended up like this within a week.”

“…Camila.”

“Shh.”

She placed her finger against my lips. All of a sudden, my mouth was abruptly covered.

“Let’s save the scolding for later.”

I shouted at Camila to stop. But since my mouth was shut, I couldn’t articulate a proper word. All that came out was a muffled sound of “Uhm, uh, uhm.”

Disregarding me entirely, Camila threw off her hood. Dyed hair spilled down, and with a flick of her head, it swayed in the wind like the fluttering fabric.

“So….”

Camila, having thrown off her hood, pointed her thumb toward the shamans. Then, turning her head, she tossed a question at me.

“First, we just need to catch those people, right?”

 

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