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The shift of seasons can be felt on the skin.

The wind is strong, and the temperature has dropped.

The midday sun, which used to beam down like a laser, has now become subdued. My heightened senses from the walk have caught a slight chill in the air.

The air feels strangely damp, signaling that the rainy season is approaching. Taking a deep breath, I get a whiff of rising mist.

I close my work terminal and step out onto the terrace.

The hotel, located somewhere on the unfamiliar Mauritania Continent, feels distinctly “African.” It’s clear that a considerable effort was put into it, yet it has a bizarrely clumsy charm.

The mix of brown, light green, and white is familiar, but I’d much rather experience this familiarity in Kenya.

As the morning breaks over the savanna, I gaze at the rising sun across the city while sipping a cup of coffee for breakfast—

“Meeow…!”

—*Crash!*

A shrill scream erupts as a Cat Beastman dashes by, knocking over my coffee cup.

Then, like a Roman legionary charging, a stout, pointy-eared creature brandishing a broom leaps over the terrace, screaming.

“Damn you, Kair! Did you just stand by while that feline devoured the cheese belonging to Charnoy…!?”

“What do you want me to do?!”

“Being a cat means you should catch mice!”

“I’m afraid of mice!”

“……”

I look at the coffee cup now reduced to handle fragments and shift my gaze to the floor.

The coffee I painstakingly brewed from freshly ground beans (a Mauritania special: double tax if you bring it over from Abas!) is now enjoying a full meal on the hotel floor.

…Damn it.

“Can you keep it down?!”

The handle flies, slapping Charnoy right in the face—

“Eek…!”

“Meow…”

As I cool my anger after having quelled the chaos of the nymphs and beastmen with just a coffee cup, the Royal Intelligence Department and Military Intelligence Agency officers rush in upon hearing the commotion.

Broken glass and a splintered broom lie scattered, while Kair and Charnoy are knocked out cold. And here I am, exhaling in exasperation.

Matt is the first to assess the situation, his expression embodying disbelief.

“Did you start throwing punches at dawn? Why is everyone sprawled out like this?”

—

Episode 18 – Man Club

The training method presented by the Duke could be likened to many things.

A battle between man and monster.

A duel for life and death in a coliseum.

A melting pot of human modification.

A Man Club where only the strong survive, among others.

It sounded like something straight out of a Chinese novel.

It’s a training method rife with uncivilized, irrational, and non-systemic fundamentals.

However, regardless of how “fundamentally lacking” his companions might be, the Duke himself is a man with substance.

It’s not about being born into a prestigious family.

Alexandra Petrovna chose the path of the sorceress in a time when mages were reviled, which is evidence that she was a considerable intellectual and an enlightened individual both then and now.

(However, one must always remember that all mages are kind of crazy. Nikolai VI should have assigned a counselor to his aunt before her dementia set in. What a useless emperor.)

No matter how despicable his companions were, and even if his disciple were a habitual arsonist, the 100-year-old man, whose neurons were almost dead, still had enough judgment to distinguish between public and private matters!

What does that even mean?

“What’s going on, Manager? Didn’t you get captured by the imperial Duke?”

“They told me to report back after completing my duties, else it’d be problematic.”

He wasn’t a psychopath locking up foreign officials for the whole day.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one freed.

“What about the others?”

“They all returned to the refugee camp. After a night’s rest, they’re off to catch the arms dealer.”

“Is that true? Wow, you must be exhausted. Congrats on getting out early.”

Pippin and Jake took turns congratulating me, commenting on how worn out I looked and how stressful it must’ve been.

However, when that golden sun bastard uttered the words “freed,” my eyes began to water.

“I’m not free…”

“Huh? Did I mishear?”

“I have to go back…”

“Oh.”

I thought I was discharged, but instead, it was “Ah. Dammit, a dream.” Both the analyst and information officer sighed simultaneously.

Damn old mage. Since I can’t cut off my food supply, they’ll let me go for now, but if there’s no urgent business, I’ll have to pop back for training again.

Pippin, analyzing the photograph and information captured by the air force and the mages, wiped the back of his neck.

“How about hiding out for a bit?”

“They say they’ll come after me directly.”

The analyst nodded while the information officer sighed deeply.

“It won’t work.”

“Not much hope then.”

“…You could at least say it nicely, you little bastards.”

I never even considered sneaking away. If I ran, they’d definitely come after me themselves.

There’s a world of difference between a duke-level mage saying he’d “come after me” and the military’s intelligence mages hunting me down.

Those guys are fairly straightforward; at least they’d shoot me.

How do you kill a grand mage? Even if the Inquisition itself showed up, they wouldn’t achieve anything.

What can be done? Just like a death row inmate hoping today isn’t the day they’re led to the gallows, I’ll have to endure day by day.

“Was there anything unusual while I was gone?”

I plopped down at my beloved desk in the office.

Pippin and Jake reported in as if they had been waiting for me, and the first piece of news they delivered was quite the spectacle.

“A foreign cartel clashed with the military police and World Union peacekeeping forces during a smuggling crackdown, resulting in casualties. Officials and agency analysts believe they took the opportunity to expand into the ‘vacuum created in the black market’ due to continued crackdowns.”

“The number of warlords entering the southern Jamria Federation has increased by 42.6% compared to the same month last year. It’s interpreted as a result of the end of the Aramad period and the weakening of the Asan-Sanya Warlords, coupled with a prolonged security vacuum due to the Nabuktu Crisis. The problem lies in the ‘conflict between federal and state troops.’ There’s chaos on-site due to the lack of command structure…”

“Governments feeling threatened by the recent Al-Kair incident are forming ties with foreign entities. Authorities from nine countries met with our ambassador Kien over ‘mining development’…”

—

Crime, smuggling, mold, and cockroaches are strangely similar.

No matter how hard you try to eradicate them, just a moment of inattention, and they reappear with an ugly face.

In that sense, the issue of illegal weapons in the Mauritania Continent was no different.

“I thought it would end easily.”

As long as there’s demand, supply won’t disappear.

No matter how much the DEA puts on a show to eradicate drugs in the U.S., Californians still indulge. Similarly, even if the Ministry of Defense enforces high standards for South Korean content, they can’t stop the spread.

Supply doesn’t create demand; rather, demand creates supply.

Likewise, efforts to eliminate smoking, drinking, and self-comforting remain consistently futile due to this principle. Doesn’t the well of desire spring eternal?

Of course, the position of the South Korean government in the 21st-century global village may differ.

If suppressing demand proves challenging, they might as well eliminate supply! Total blockade on overseas direct purchases! How do you buy what isn’t available domestically? Oh ho ho~ We’ll sell it ourselves, so please buy from the official site~

Isn’t that the sort of policy that would make Xi Jinping gasp in shock, Kim Jong-un smack his own forehead, and Biden shout “Get rid of that isolation policy immediately!”?

If the U.S. were to enforce such a policy, they might have been able to seize the marijuana that Snoop Dogg held.

By the way, history shows that the U.S. nearly got burned when the CIA supported a “dictator” (who proudly claimed to be anti-communist, yet smuggled drugs through communist countries to sell in the U.S.) in a bid to eliminate drug cartels in Latin America.

So it wouldn’t be surprising to hear, “I tried, but it didn’t work out~.”

But what kind of country is America?

It’s like the North America server of Earth Online. A wealthy nation that spends more on defense than the combined military budgets of China and Russia.

Personified, it’s a muscular powerhouse with a well-padded wallet. (Of course, in terms of global trends and personal preferences—down there compass—there’s a tendency to favor feminization over masculinization.)

A wealthy, muscular America doesn’t give a damn about protest letters! (Mexican government: “Damn it!”) They’re still doing their back-alley deals. (??? ?? : “Don’t do that, you Yankee bastards!”)

Technically, if they were annoyed, they could just challenge the U.S. military head-on.

Regrettably, however, no man has ever stepped up to confront them. More accurately, it’s been “there were contenders once, but they’ve disappeared.”

Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi were the duo to boldly throw down the gauntlet: “Hey, America! Let’s go head-to-head without ranks!” But regrettably, the timing and place just weren’t right.

It’s sad that they decided to throw down after one had been hunted down for a decade and the other had his eyeball popped out.

(Especially after September 11, 2001, even Kim Jong-il was crouching down and keeping quiet; in that light, Saddam was a completely different “real deal.” This alone proves that an overwhelming dictator can cast down any mere strongman, but alas, Saddam had parents who picked the wrong date to give birth to him.)

Ultimately, the duo of dictators from the Earth Online Avadia-North Africa server ended up plucking not even the fluff from a lion’s mane.

After taking a severe beating from the North America server (also the global server), they were shot out to join Allah.

Since then, the world has become a “refuge for super cowards.” Truly a sad story that you can’t listen to without tears.

“What’s with the sudden change?”

“I was just lost in thought for a moment. That friend over there reminds me of Hussein.”

“Who’s that?”

Such people exist. A man born in the wrong era.

While lost in nostalgia, I began to muse, my voice soft.

“He was an ill-fated man, born out of the mistakes of my father and mother.”

“That description fits him perfectly.”

Matt nodded in agreement. The way he seemed to snap his fingers as if half the population could vanish sent chills down my spine.

I expressed boundless respect and gratitude to Matt’s parents for giving birth and raising him here on Earth instead of outer space. Especially for not giving him purple skin.

The breeze was cool; the temperature was just perfect. Seated side by side, Matt and I relieved ourselves on the sandy ground.

“Damn it.”

I muttered a curse under my breath while smoking a cigarette.

Not out of anger; it was just too absurd.

“What are two men doing peeing in a vast plain? What is this nonsense?”

“What can we do in the field? Look around. There’s sand, trees, and weeds everywhere; there’s no restroom.”

“Didn’t those guys even build a restroom?”

A country far from the Jamria Federation. Between that country and another nearby country’s borders.

There stood a warehouse with pallid smoke slowly wafting up and criminals kneeling, hands on their heads.

Those were the guys I pointed to.

They were the ones caught red-handed while sneaking across the border and detected by the intelligence agency’s radar.

These smugglers were no amateurs suited for handing off their work to the World Union or the team; they dealt in all kinds of merchandise spanning continents.

It’s generally the job of intelligence agencies to catch guys like these. (CIA: “Did you hear?” / Mexico: “F*** you.”) Ours is no different.

Thus, we set sail at dawn, then teleported close to the destination and seized them. Now that I think about it, it just makes me angrier.

Am I some Jeju Island diver? I’m not naval; I’m army! Why should I have to wade through water? While I’ve gotten used to scuba ever since my intelligence days, the sting from the jellyfish still throbs unbearably.

But I understand. Those folks probably didn’t expect a white-clad armed infiltrator (not a guerrilla) to chase them down. I can understand that a hundred times over.

But honestly, this is ridiculous, right?

“They’ve set up a warehouse for drugs, weapons, and even illegal magical tools, but they don’t even have a restroom? That’s the most important thing.”

Yes.

Our proud and (not really) lovely criminals have constructed a “warehouse” for all sorts of smuggled goods, but they failed to prepare even a make-shift toilet seen in refugee camps.

Matt, the operations team leader of the Royal Intelligence Department, shrugged his shoulders as he puffed on a cigarette.

“They probably didn’t set up a restroom for fear of leaving traces after doing their business.”

“And yet they built a warehouse?”

“I find that hilarious too.”

They constructed a warehouse visible from kilometers away, but they forgot the restroom. Talk about poor disguise.

Do these idiots have the brains of udon noodles? I really can’t tell if what’s on their necks is decoration or part of their head.

“It’s maddening.”

“They look like fools, but they’re actually pretty hefty guys. Bigger isn’t a compliment here.”

That means we’ve landed a proper case. It should be good for some stats.

I took a drag from my cigarette and threw out a question.

“I’ve been noticing a lot of foreigners crossing into the Mauritania Continent lately, whether they’re criminals or enterprise owners.”

“You’d know from the briefing. Government pals are looking to hook up with foreigners.”

“Right.”

“But?”

Matt asked with a hint of concern, and after exhaling a sigh mixed with smoke, I took a drag off my cigarette.

“Criminals and entrepreneurs….”

There couldn’t be only those kinds making their way to the locals, right?

Why is it that the man who ruled Iraq couldn’t thrive even as a smuggler? This one is particularly exempt from Allah’s grace.

“Let’s see… Oh?”

When I pulled off the mask from the new guy we captured, a strange face appeared. All the others around were typically dark-skinned, but this one stood out with a Latin-like complexion.

After verifying his identity, I discovered he was on the server list. A mid-level cartel officer from across the sea, it seems.

Just then, Matt appeared, whistling cheerfully as he browsed through the smuggling office’s records. He brushed aside the mask I’d carelessly thrown on and examined the executive’s face, then smirked and slapped the back of his head hard!

“Do you know this guy?”

“Yeah, he’s the one I missed during the local trip two years ago. We almost caught him, but the cops messed up.”

“Looks like they let him go with a screw-up.”

“Pretty much. The police officer we were communicating with was a traitor. He leaked information to the cartel.”

Matt laughed, and I chuckled too.

Truly, there are so many ridiculous people out there.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Matt tapped the cartel officer lightly and instructed the operations team.

“Take this guy, gather the data, and we’re outta here. Burn everything in the warehouse. Don’t forget to erase all traces.”

“Yes, Team Leader. What about the other smugglers?”

Hearing his subordinate’s question, the operations team leader glanced at me. I adjusted my suspenders and started whistling.

Clack.

“……”

The team leader turned his head towards his subordinate and casually spat out.

“We saw our faces, didn’t we?”

*

Hitler, minus the beard and testicles (gender, eye color, and hair color all different), Duke Alexandra Petrovna is a serious menace.

We let him go for now, fearing our job losses, but there was no defined ‘deadline’ for his return.

What a chaotic bucket! Not knowing when to return? That’s no different from a vacation notice lacking a return date.

A soldier could blame administrative incompetence, but our opponent isn’t the Ministry of Defense; it’s the old wizard.

How can someone who’s 50 years old still be so out of touch? Just imagine how disconnected a 100-year-old wizard in a society saturated with the old guard would be.

Even if I brought in the old wizard counter-part, President Veronica, she’d likely jump out the window to escape. (As an example, Veronica once hid under the bed in my hotel room to avoid eating couscous.)

Anyway.

Since the Duke might chase us down at any moment, we needed to wrap up our tasks as quickly as possible.

That’s why I urgently sought out Hassan Warlord.

“May peace be upon you. It’s good to see you again, Nasir.”

“May peace be upon you as well. It’s good to see you, Asud.”

The Hassan Warlord is one of the three great warlords of the Jamria Federation.

Born from the gathering of various tribes centered around the Hassan Tribe, the other two great warlords, the Asen Warlord and Sanya Warlord, formed similarly.

By the way, Asen and Sanya are currently at war. I pushed them into it.

To be precise, it was the Sanya Tribe, supported by the Kien Empire (weapons + ammunition + information, etc.), that provoked the Asen Tribe by being unbelievably heinous. While I was cozying up with the Hassan Tribe.

Of course, that’s still an ongoing affair.

Whether it’s the conflict between Asen and Sanya or the collaboration between Hassan and me, it’s all still happening.

It’s been a long time since we last sat down together. I greeted the leader of the Hassan Tribe, Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.

“How have you been? Things seem lively around here.”

“It’s always calm here. How about you?”

“Me?”

The wily warlord leader nodded and shook his head.

I sipped from my tea, which smelled delightfully of jasmine. I only moistened my lips with it before speaking to him.

“Nothing special.”

“Let’s leave it at that.”

The small talk ended there. Though our acquaintance was brief, it was far from shallow.

We eased into the main topic, gradually unraveling the stories we had yet to share.

“The conflict between Asen and Sanya has escalated. Just as we anticipated.”

Leoni, the mastermind behind the Asen-Sanya conflict, always intended for it to drag on.

Since she was active during the period the Kien Empire was gobbling up the federal government, she understood just how deep the animosities between Asen and Sanya were, even actively undermining ceasefire negotiations to stoke tensions.

Things have changed a bit, necessitating a tweak in plans, but anyway.

I quoted her words directly.

“Until now, they hadn’t ignited yet, but once they do, it’ll be a massive explosion. It was destined to explode. Between Asen and Sanya.”

“That’s something I also understand.”

Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan, leader of the Hassan Warlord, let out a long breath laden with complicated emotions.

“Though Asen and Sanya tribes have historically gotten along well, the Asen ‘warlord’ and Sanya ‘warlord’ have not.”

“Their interests have sharply clashed. It all began when Sanya claimed ownership of the Iron and Nitric Acid mines belonging to Asen.”

The cause was a dispute over mine ownership between Asen and Sanya.

The ‘Iron’ and ‘Nitric Acid’, key materials for gunpowder, are crucial strategic resources for warlords. Even if they have to import shells, producing their own gunpowder saves significant costs. They can control production quantities as well.

Then one day, Iron and Nitric Acid mines suddenly appeared in a subordinate tribe under Asen’s authority! The Sanya Tribe, desperately in need of ammunition, rushed over, shouting, “Hey, neighbors! Please sell us that mine!” They attempted to buy it, but the subordinate tribe flatly refused.

Why? Well, everyone knows the reason.

“If they had sold the Iron and Nitric Acid mine, Asen would have wiped that tribe out.”

Nasir muttered in a tone no different from usual; it seemed he was implying he would’ve made the same decision. Indeed, a warlord leader.

“So they refused.”

“Naturally, it was the right thing to do.”

“Yeah, well. That’s true, but the problem is Sanya wouldn’t give up on ammunition, right?”

Sanya felt wronged. They had clearly stated their willingness to pay a premium. It’s not as if they were demanding it from the chief of the Asen Warlord but merely from a “subordinate tribe.” Rejecting the offer was a significant insult.

This was a très serious affront in the honor-centric culture of the Mauritania Continent. Especially since ammunition production directly correlates with the warlord’s combat power and survival, the Sanya Tribe couldn’t back down.

So they threatened. They sent armed forces, saying “Bring it here right now! Or we’ll take it all!”

What could you do if the opposing warlord leader acted like that? Not the chief of the Asen, just a mere subordinate tribe—they had no choice but to give it all up and hand it over. Therefore, Sanya returned home loaded with ammunition.

… But if the story ended there, it wouldn’t be interesting.

The real story starts from here.

I smiled broadly as I crushed a prepared snack.

“Asen and Sanya were originally symbiotic as warlords. They may fight, but they keep their word.”

Missing ammunition? Buy ours. We’ll give it to you cheap.

Lacking weapons? We have extras; you can take some!

Need to sell drugs? Want me to introduce you to a cartel officer who can help?

What! You were attacked by some low-level thugs? Better gather your weapons; I’ll send a few government officials to meet their Maker today!

That sounds exaggerated, but that’s the vibe between the three major warlords of the Jamria Federation. They curse and fight, but fundamentally, they’re friendly. To put it precisely, it’s a “I don’t want to share a table, but I still want to save face” relationship.

But then Sanya hit the gas hard. They forcibly snatched away ammunition.

Asen immediately cut off the supply of ammunition to Sanya, leaving them suddenly without a source of ammo.

That didn’t cause the warlords to shout “we’re doomed!” but it did sour their relationship.

Just a little, but still.

There had been accumulated grievances for a long time, and the ammunition issue deepened the conflict. While it could have been serious enough for both leaders (sheikhs) to come out for negotiations, their backsides were far too heavy to make such a move.

The problem was that a certain pale-haired man had barged in and started causing havoc.

Nostalgically chewing on snacks, I recalled the chaos I’d caused in the past.

“Sanya Warlord’s sniper shoots an Asen officer, Asen forces blow up Sanya’s ammunition factory, poppy fields, cocaine factories, gold mines…”

“You’ve caused quite a bit of destruction. Want to do it again?”

Nasir chuckled, enjoying his tea for once. I laughed along and shook my head.

“Why would I? I think your skills are pretty decent.”

“I don’t need to anymore. Isn’t there already enough blood on our hands?”

“Well, yes, that’s true.”

The leader of the Hassan Warlord nodded thoughtfully, a smile still lingering on his face, but a shadow loomed over it.

I made a proposal to him. A very attractive one.

“Let’s end this. The conflict between Asen and Sanya.”

Nasir raised his head slightly, then took over the words.

“Is it because of the warlords entering from the South?”

“There’s really no good to be gained from dragging it out any longer.”

The Asen-Sanya war had brought significant benefits to Hassan. Taking advantage of both Asen and Sanya’s weakening status, he had stealthily taken a portion of their stakes. Of course, he had achieved this through trade rather than open theft.

The very reason Nasir initially teamed up with me was for removing competitors and expanding influence.

However, as the war dragged on between the two warlords… Al Kair, who was either an environmental protection agency or conservationist, emerged from nowhere and accidentally set the whole continent ablaze, disrupting the situation.

“Small warlords are moving. From the North to the South. From the East to the South. They’re making their way to the South,” I continued.

Even though Asen, Sanya, and Hassan are the representative warlords of the Jamria Federation, there are many warlords coexisting in this land. There’s no need to think too hard about it.

Isn’t that something you see in martial arts too?

While there’s the Gui Pai Alliance or the Five Great Sects, there are tiny sects that belong to those larger factions. They’re more like passing secondary characters than the main characters in the story. The small warlords marching south are exactly that kind of crowd.

If this were a story, those minor warlords might have remained mere background settings. Elements that authors and readers alike would overlook.

But reality is different.

In the hottest battleground in Africa, the Sahel Triangle, terrorist organizations run rampant. Even the terrorists fighting there are all weaklings.

But people only recognize large terrorist groups like the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. Just like martial arts heroes tend to feature the Gui Pai Alliance or the Five Great Sects. In reality, the people killing folks and clashing with the military and police are those whose names nobody has even heard of.

But the interesting thing is, sometimes…

Those seemingly insignificant players band together to take on the big players.

Like a swarm of piranhas.

“Hmm….”

The leader of Hassan Warlord, Nasir, sighed uncomfortably, wrinkling his brow. I snagged another treat and continued my speech.

“Asen and Sanya have weakened sufficiently. At this rate, I believe Hassan can absorb them without a hitch.”

Nasir nodded with determination. Even if he was unsettled, it signified consent to that statement.

So I could say this now.

“Let’s take care of both of them.”

After all, Hassan had always intended to integrate Asen and Sanya from the start.

Though he feigned ignorance in front of me, the explicit ambition was laid bare in communications with other warlords.

And I wanted to fulfill that ambition.

“How about you arrange for peace between them, Nasir? Hassan can remain a third party in this war. No one would find it strange if you took on the role of a mediator.”

“That would be fitting. Especially in a situation like this.”

Whether it’s Asen or Sanya, this conflict suits them just fine.

But what’s the purpose of war? Isn’t it to conquer lands? If they don’t keep an eye out, they might leave their lands open to the minor warlords ready to pillage.

Both warlords were already uneasy and couldn’t even fight properly. The leaders of Asen and Sanya would surely want to bring this war to a close.

Even while clashes continued on the front lines, information about their search for a mediator to end the fight just came in.

And that mediator had to be the Hassan Warlord.

A brilliant plan began to form in my mind.

“The root of all this chaos was the dispute over Iron and Nitric Acid mine ownership. Sanya’s overreach towards Asen’s mines started it all. However, there’s a deeper underlying cause, isn’t there?”

“The Jamila affair was the root of it.”

“The nephew of the Asen tribe leader extorted money from a trader of the Sanya tribe. The Sanya must’ve been deeply offended.”

Nasir asked how Hassan should proceed in that case.

“Hospitality to friends and hostility to foes. In a land where honor is more precious than life, this saying has surely existed for the longest time.”

“……”

“And in a distant island nation, there’s a saying that has been passed down since ancient times: ‘Resolve matters with the sword.'”

I replied.

“Let’s cut the problem at its root.”

*

Not long after that, a meeting was convened.

Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan, leader of the Hassan Tribe, served as a mediator, attended by the two leaders (sheikhs) of the Asen and Sanya tribes.

The security detail at the conference was handled by the Hassan Warlord. Although the Asen Warlord and Sanya Warlord brought their bodyguards, their numbers paled in comparison to Hassan’s.

That day, a lot of dialogues transpired during the conference.

How to end the war.

How to lay down arms.

How to resolve conflicts.

Listening to the Sanya tribe leader, the leader of the Asen tribe, Sheikh Bint Al Asen, stood up.

Bint summoned his niece, Jamila Al Asen, and had his subordinate fetch a sword that was tied to the saddle.

Then, Bint used that sword to cut off Jamila’s arm.

Right after severing the very arm that had spread the seeds of discord by extorting money from a merchant. The Asen Sheikh presented it to the Sanya Sheikh as a gift. The Sanya Sheikh received it gladly, and the conference concluded there.

Since the troublesome arm that caused the dispute was gone, there was no reason to fight any longer.

Returning with the severed wrist, Sanya tribe declared a ceasefire, and the Asen tribe also officially announced a truce. Both tribes expressed boundless gratitude to Sheikh Hassan for facilitating the ‘mediation.’

It was a unique scene of reconciliation in a culture that values honor above life.

“…I never thought I’d see something like that here, just like in the Middle East.”

I took off the headset and turned off the terminal screen. The wizard flying above the conference room gathered his video recording magical tools and began to sweep his broom.

The dialogue between the sheikhs concluded that way, leaving behind a body without arms.

By the way, considering that the title Sheikh (شیخ) only attaches to ‘male leaders,’ it was undoubtedly a reconciliation characteristic of the men of the Mauritania Continent.

 

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