Ch.398Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

# A Market Filled with Smoke and Rust

A bustling marketplace where old trucks belching black smoke mingle with rust-covered motorcycles.

A dark green Bongo van, its body coated with dust, navigates the unpaved road while avoiding pedestrians. The van’s severe vibrations, enough to make one’s head throb even when standing still, create an explosive reaction when meeting the bumpy road surface.

Exhaust fumes and dust pour through the slightly open window gap, along with noise that makes one’s ears ring.

Camilla slightly furrows her brow and speaks.

“…Frederick.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be alright, won’t we?”

Will we be alright?

I stare out the window and think for a moment.

“We should be fine for now.”

“‘For now’…?”

“Because we haven’t done anything wrong.”

We’ve entered territory occupied by a warlord who doesn’t get along with the central government, but we have identities that shouldn’t cause concern.

A war correspondent who makes a living reporting and a magician who provides protection for money. Though uncommon, it’s a combination occasionally seen on the Moritani continent.

We brought broadcasting equipment to disguise ourselves as war correspondents, presented passports of third-country citizens who work as real journalists, and obtained government permission for coverage.

“They’re just being cautious because two unfamiliar foreigners have entered their territory. I don’t think there’s any other meaning to it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

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

“……”

Camilla’s worried gaze rests on me briefly.

A pickup truck carrying heavily armed Hassan tribe combatants turns right from an alley, and the Bongo van follows behind.

“Don’t worry.”

I lean back comfortably against the seat.

“Just act as we practiced.”

Along the yellowish walls, the warlord’s propaganda painted in green stretches on.

In the distance, a building with fluttering flags comes into view.

## Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

The place we arrived at in the Bongo van parked at the checkpoint was the warlord’s headquarters. More precisely, it was a building used by the “Al Bas” tribe, affiliated with the Hassan tribe.

Following the guidance of a tribal member, I got out of the van and looked around.

The symbols and phrases painted on the walls, the flags fluttering on the roof—it looked like a facility operated by a warlord at first glance, confirming we had come to the right place.

The building resembled a government office commonly seen in the Middle East, though much more modest in size, with worn exterior walls in places, and a parking lot that was simply a dirt floor surrounded by chest-high iron fencing.

“……”

All the parked vehicles were old, outdated models. Even among those, it seemed there were problems with parts and magical power supply, as only a few cars looked capable of running properly.

In the parking lot resembling a junkyard, the only decent vehicle was an old SUV—the car we had arrived in.

I thought we’d left it behind, but they even provided valet parking. Not bad service at this place.

“May the peace of the Earth Mother be with you. Welcome to the land of Al Bas.”

While I was looking around, surrounded by armed forces, a local man in a suit approached and suddenly greeted us.

His appearance was that of a typical bureaucrat in a suit, but standing alongside armed forces made it clear he was affiliated with the warlord. He smiled broadly, revealing yellowed teeth with a missing front tooth.

“You’ve come from abroad, I hear?”

“As you can see.”

I answered, pointing to Camilla and myself. Among the locals characterized by brown skin, we were clearly foreigners with our pale complexions.

“Hmm…”

The warlord’s suited man examined us with considerable interest.

Even without him, there were many gazes directed at the foreigners who had suddenly appeared.

Camilla stood quietly as if accustomed to such attention, while I put my hands in my pockets and stared at the suited man.

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

“Ah.”

The suited man, receiving my question, began to smile awkwardly.

“It’s nothing serious. We just brought you here because we have a few questions.”

“What exactly are you curious about?”

“Just some simple questions we’d like you to answer. Who you are, why you’ve come here…”

It was a reaction I had fully anticipated. Going by the book, I see.

Though his overly defensive attitude seemed suspicious, I decided to comply with the interrogation for now.

How is it that these warlords never deviate from expectations? Really.

“Let’s go inside first.”

We followed the suited man into the building.

*

The warlord’s suited man guided us to a room located at the far end of the second floor. Then he left abruptly, telling us to wait here for a while.

The room we were left in was a single room exuding a lonely aura. No windows, only one entrance door, and apart from a chair and desk, not even decent furniture, giving it a desolate feel.

After looking around the room that showed no signs of frequent use, I came to this conclusion.

“It’s an interrogation room.”

Camilla, who had been resting her chin on her hand, turned to look at me.

“An interrogation room?”

“Yes. It’s crude, but I can’t think of any other image besides an interrogation room.”

This was unmistakably an interrogation room. Of course, it was a backward facility unlike the interrogation rooms of intelligence agencies like the National Intelligence Service or the Defense Security Command.

If I had to compare, it was like an investigation room commonly seen at a police station? A small room where a police officer and a suspect enter alone for questioning. The warlord’s interrogation room was exactly that type.

Except for the smell of mold.

“They’ve got the basics covered, at least.”

“What do we do now?”

Camilla asked.

“There are armed warlord guards outside. They seemed like well-equipped, trained people. Where did people like that come from?”

“I’m not entirely sure… but they appear to be combatants from some kind of elite unit like a guard force.”

Warlords with a certain level of power usually have military advisors.

They bring in former soldiers who have been discharged from local armies or foreign forces and have them provide advice on strategy, tactics, equipment, and supplies.

Think of them as consultants.

“From what I know, the Hassan warlord has been recruiting retired military officers since two years ago. They hired them as trainers or commanders to train their forces.”

“Retired military… It seems they’ve brought in officers from their own tribe. The Moritani continent is a region where tribalism prevails, like the Middle East and Africa.”

“That’s right.”

They identify capable individuals born and raised in tribal territories, send them to join the military, and then call them back after some time to utilize them as warlord cadres. That’s how Group 3 warlords develop their combat units.

Asen and Sanya use similar methods, and while it’s not a major secret, the leakage of minor secrets like small unit combat techniques or military manuals to warlords has been causing various concerns for local counterintelligence agencies.

“Hmm…”

There’s also intelligence that the Hassan warlord has been looking for communication equipment, technicians, and information security personnel to establish a communication network recently.

According to what the military intelligence agency has gathered, warlords on the Moritani continent don’t operate separate intelligence departments.

Even if we assume they do, they would look like children playing in the dirt compared to “real” agencies like the Royal Intelligence Department, Imperial Guard Office, or Heresy Inquisition Office.

Even the intelligence departments of the notorious Taliban or Al-Qaeda are considered mediocre by the National Intelligence Service and Defense Intelligence Agency. The warlords in this area, no matter how experienced, are ultimately in the palm of intelligence agencies.

“Anyway, don’t be nervous and just do as we practiced.”

“Understood.”

After reassuring Camilla, I checked my wristwatch.

The warlord guys who guided us to the interrogation room didn’t even follow the basic procedure of confiscating the subject’s wristwatch. From this, I could roughly gauge the level of the warlord.

Just as I was checking the time:

“Someone’s coming.”

I hastily hid my watch as I heard footsteps coming over the door. Someone was walking toward the room.

Warned, Camilla lowered the hand that had been supporting her chin. Then she took an arrogant posture, crossing her arms and legs. What kind of attitude is she putting on?

-Bang.

Just as we had roughly finished preparing, the entrance door to the corridor opened and two locals entered. One was a stern-looking man in a shabby suit, and the other was a mature woman in traditional tribal attire.

The two greeted us briefly and sat down.

“Nice to meet you, foreign gentleman.”

“And lady.”

The man and woman spoke alternately. Clumsy Kiyen language came from their mouths.

They took out pencils and a stack of papers they had brought. As the man neatly arranged the papers, the woman with interlocked fingers said:

“Why have you come here?”

It was a question marking the beginning of the interrogation.

*

The two introduced themselves as being from the Al Bas tribe. They began to probe the purpose of our visit to their territory.

I answered their questions sincerely.

“I came for coverage.”

“Coverage? Journalist?”

“Yes. I’m Asud, a freelance journalist commissioned by a newspaper called Gazeta from the Republic of Latuan.”

The disguise identity I used was that of a freelance war correspondent—a profession that provides photos and articles taken on-site to news agencies for money.

Not many news agencies have dedicated war correspondents, but since nothing sells better than war stories, many war correspondents work as freelancers contracted with news agencies, following the law of supply and demand.

War correspondents are one of the few professions that can freely move around civil war zones, and they are a disguise favored by unofficial intelligence officers from intelligence agencies. They are also among the most preferred sources of information. After all, information provided by intelligence officers is as good as a scoop for journalists. It’s a kind of symbiotic relationship.

I utilized the identity of a freelance journalist contracted with a newspaper from the Republic of Latuan.

“Journalist, you say. Is this your passport?”

“Yes.”

The local man held out a passport while asking. It was a forged passport made by the military intelligence agency, a copy of the passport of a real Latuan war correspondent who looked similar to me.

Latuan is a country bordering the Kiyen Empire. Although it has its own native language, due to the large number of immigrants and workers from the Empire residing there, Kiyen is the first foreign language in the Republic of Latuan.

Perhaps for this reason, the man from the warlord spoke Kiyen. It seemed they had sent someone who could speak a foreign language rather than bringing a separate interpreter.

But the man from the warlord had a serious problem.

“Look. I have government permission for coverage here, and a travel permit. It means I can freely cover this area without any issues.”

“I. Cannot understand. Your language.”

Despite his intellectual appearance, the man was someone who couldn’t properly speak Kiyen.

“Travel permit and coverage permission! I got them from the government!”

“Government? Very bad people.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Thanks to the man who struggled with even basic conversation beyond simple greetings, I could precisely identify which part of my neck the blood vessels were running through. His Kiyen proficiency was that catastrophic.

It wasn’t just his conversational skills that were lacking. His attitude was the worst.

He confiscated all the business cards (forged), journalist notebooks (forged), government-issued travel permits (forged), and coverage permits (forged) with the Ministry of Defense emblem that I had submitted to prove my identity. I can understand taking the notebook, but why take the business cards?

With poor conversational skills and a terrible attitude, my mood rapidly deteriorated as this man took charge of the interrogation. I thought even the immigration screening by Chinese public security would have been better.

In that respect, the woman who appeared with him was actually more competent than the pathetic man. Following the tribal tradition of avoiding conversations with the opposite sex without permission, she was in charge of interrogating Camilla.

“So Mr. Asud is a journalist. Then are you his colleague?”

“You could say that. More precisely, I’m his bodyguard.”

“Ah, so you’re a security guard.”

The female tribal member was carrying on a smooth conversation with Camilla. She spoke Kiyen fluently, though with a local accent.

She made jokes to lighten the mood, asked personal questions in a gentle tone, and jotted down notes with her pencil when she found useful information. I was worried if Camilla could handle the crisis, but once in action, she was skillfully deflecting questions. Well done, Camilla. Crush the warlord with your own hands.

Being able to communicate, albeit clumsily, was a big plus. Add to that her gentle attitude. If that’s the case, shouldn’t she be the one interrogating us? Or even the soldiers we met at the checkpoint. At least they could communicate and were respectful.

But that was out of the question.

“Purpose.”

“I told you, it’s for an article.”

The man held onto me like a rabid dog and wouldn’t let go. When I tried to speak to the woman, unable to bear his poor foreign language skills:

“Stop! No exchanging signals!”

Instead, the woman snapped at me. She seemed to have misunderstood that I was trying to exchange signals with Camilla.

No. If you’re worried about us exchanging signals, you should separate the interrogation rooms. Are these guys really idiots?

The woman had seemed somewhat normal, but my guess was wrong. She was quite the idiot too.

Having confirmed the truth, I decided not to think about the warlord’s idiot duo anymore. Unaware of my rotting inner feelings, the idiot duo’s interrogation began again.

“Article. Where send?”

“To the news agency, of course.”

“You. Not journalist. You. Telling lies.”

What nonsense is this?

“Tell the truth now!”

Faced with the man’s attitude of demanding the truth without any basis, I was so dumbfounded I could only gape.

What kind of interrogation or questioning is this? You idiot.

I first tried to calm down the man who was demanding the truth without any foundation.

Then I explained my purpose for being here step by step from the beginning.

“There’s broadcasting equipment in the car. Sound equipment and magical film canisters. Go check it out.”

“Car? Truck, van? No. Already gone.”

“No, not that one, I mean my car that you parked in your parking lot!”

Of course, it was futile. When communication is already impossible, a foreigner’s explanation won’t get through.

After a bout of wrangling with the suspicious man, I finally caught my breath and checked the time. The clock hands pointed to late afternoon, and by rough calculation, about 7 hours had passed.

7 hours? Damn it. This is almost like having time stolen. These damn thieves.

Honestly, at this point, I feel like abandoning the operation and going back. But for the sake of the companions who would soon arrive here, the operation had to continue.

We can’t afford to waste time here when time is already tight. I took a photo from my pocket and handed it to the man almost like throwing it.

“Look at this.”

I pointed to the photo with my finger.

It was a war correspondent’s photo of a Sanya tribe village attacked by the Asen tribe.

“I came here to find out what’s happening in this place. I came because I was curious about why you’re fighting with neighboring tribes, and I wanted to know why you’re in conflict with the government.”

“……”

After checking the photo, the man began chattering with the woman who had been interrogating Camilla. In the local dialect.

Since I only knew the common language, there was no way to figure out what they were discussing, but fortunately, I had a human Papago (Camilla) who consumes snacks instead of electricity. I could ask her later.

“……”

“……”

After chattering among themselves for about 3 minutes, the warlord’s man and woman maintained silence. They seemed to be deep in thought, not even making eye contact with us.

After some time passed, the man who had been suspicious of me earlier seemed to have changed his mind after thinking quietly. He came back with another question in his awkward Kiyen.

“You. Really journalist?”

The content hadn’t changed, but the tone of his voice was different.

When I nodded, the man said:

“Broadcasting. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous, you say?”

“Tribe location. Revealed. If revealed. Government. Sends army. Many magicians. More than tribe shamans.”

He was saying that the moment the tribe appears in a broadcast, the army, monitoring the media, would send combat units to attack. More specifically, he mentioned combat magicians from the army coming.

Though the sentence was awkward, it was a sufficiently understandable answer.

From this, I learned two facts.

First, the government army’s OSINT unit is using foreign press reports from war correspondents to select targets. Second, the Hassan tribe has its own shamans.

This was quite useful information.

While the warlord’s man and woman were chattering, Camilla tilted her head slightly and whispered information into my ear.

“Those people are worried that if the article goes out, government troops might invade. They’re saying that units stationed nearby have been acting suspicious lately, and that tribes from other groups might attack during the confusion… They don’t seem to doubt our identity, but they’re reluctant to be broadcast.”

“Which groups exactly?”

“Groups 1 and 2. Both of them.”

Warlords who have been raided by government troops being jointly attacked by others. It’s not common, but it’s not entirely unrealistic either.

“They’re being defensive. Wary of neighboring warlords, cautious of military units. Disliking the press too.”

“It’s not just wariness; they’re even conducting reconnaissance. That was the nuance of what they were saying.”

New information.

A Group 3 warlord monitoring the movements of regular army and Groups 1 and 2. They engage in propaganda but are reluctant to appear in the media. This suggests their purpose is recruitment, not publicity.

If they’re willing to risk placing recruitment ads in the capital, their situation must not be very good. Considering the statistics that most local magicians and shamans live in the capital, the real purpose of the propaganda is probably to recruit high-quality personnel.

Perhaps approaching as a black market arms broker would be better than as a war correspondent?

“……”

I nodded after hearing Camilla’s information.

How thoughtful. This is why I like rookies. They do their job without being told.

I made a mental note to buy her something delicious when we get out of here.

“I’m sorry.”

The tribal woman suddenly apologized to us.

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

“Bad intentions?”

Camilla asked. The woman answered.

“When journalists’ photos or videos are broadcast, the government sends troops after seeing them. Usually, it takes about two weeks for units dispatched from the capital to get here, but recently, the army has been staying in this area…”

“……”

“We mistook you for army informants. Journalists here usually report to the army after their coverage. That there’s a warlord in this area. Then not long after, the army raids the village.”

The woman from the warlord finished with a bitter smile.

“I’m sorry for bringing up such a heavy topic. We misunderstood. The Al Bas tribe welcomes you.”

*

On the way back to our lodging.

An SUV passes along a road shrouded in darkness under the early evening sky.

“……”

The interior of the vehicle is quiet. Only the roaring engine noise, the friction sound of tires racing on the unpaved road, and the occasional sound of insects hitting the window can be heard.

The broadcasting equipment loaded in the back seat and trunk collided with a rattling noise. It was equipment we had brought to disguise ourselves as war correspondents.

After the interrogation, the warlord returned all the confiscated documents, business cards, notebooks, equipment, and the vehicle. They also permitted us to travel and conduct coverage.

As night was falling, it was about time for bandits to become active. The Al Bas tribe had offered us lodging, suggesting we rest for the night and start coverage tomorrow, but I politely declined. I wasn’t 100% confident that their lodging would be safe.

Fortunately, there were separate firearms in the vehicle. A pistol stored in a specially created space in the heavy case that housed the expensive broadcasting equipment. It was something I had hidden in advance in preparation for checkpoints.

With the pistol tucked at my waist, I glanced at the passenger seat.

“Why do you look so serious?”

“Um… it’s nothing.”

Camilla, with a troubled face, leaned her head against the passenger window.

“I just feel a bit… off.”

“Is it because of what you heard earlier?”

“……”

Camilla remained silent. That silence was the answer.

Dust carried by the wind stuck to the glass. The headlights scattered through the hazy dust illuminated the messed-up roads of the Moritani continent, straddling the boundary between unpaved and paved roads.

“Don’t worry too much.”

I offered words of comfort.

“There’s no need to worry, and no need to feel sorry. They’re not worth it.”

“Why not?”

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

Warlords refer to forces that independently possess political and military power to counter the government. Groups that dominate specific regions and oppose the government. Intelligence agencies refer to them as paramilitary organizations or armed groups.

“As you well know, warlords thriving in civil war regions are all troublemakers. They forcibly occupy mines that produce natural resources like minerals, oil, gas, gold, and extract them. They hunt endangered species like elephants or gorillas at will. Then they sell them abroad to convert into funds.”

Most of the funds raised this way are consumed to maintain the warlord. Recruiting troops, buying equipment. The money that trickles down to local residents is minimal.

Regional development? There’s no such thing. How can people who even plunder relief supplies sent by foreign governments and aid organizations to residents care about the future of the region or worry about the residents?

“That’s why most intelligence agencies don’t view warlords positively. There are cases of maintaining adequate relationships, but they are reluctant to actively befriend them.”

Why is that?

I asked. Camilla answered.

“Um… because of international society’s perception?”

“Because they’re not even human.”

I declared firmly.

“Warlords are worse than beasts. Resisting foreign powers, opposing dictatorship… Behind these fancy slogans, they’re ultimately just looking out for their own interests. Don’t you know, Camilla? How the Taliban makes money by selling poppies they cultivate in Afghanistan.”

“…I do.”

Keep them close but not friendly. A relationship where they can be used appropriately instead of being friends. Use each other as much as possible, and discard when things go south—cheap disposables.

The relationship between warlords and intelligence agencies is mostly like that.

“Other warlords do the same thing. Because it’s the most profitable business.”

Warlords love war. Because war is money. War is business.

That’s why warlords can’t be partisans dreaming of social reform and revolution. They’re just massive interest groups.

“The warlords here are no different. Asen, Sanya, Hassan. All three warlords have drug manufacturing facilities. They do all sorts of things to steal them. Last spring, Sanya tried to seize an opium plantation from a tribe under Hassan, which led to an armed conflict.”

“You’re saying they’re not clean people.”

“They’re dirty bastards.”

I took out a photo from my pocket.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m defending the government here. The current president is a dictator who’s been eating away at the country for 14 years, so who would I defend? It’s everyday life for them to capture innocent people and torture them. The story you heard earlier is the same. They said journalists here inform the army, right?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“That’s not actually informing; it’s the counterintelligence unit capturing and torturing journalists to find out. That’s what dictatorial state counterintelligence agencies typically do.”

They put straws in news desks to make them write articles that align with government rhetoric, and kidnap and beat up journalists who are troublesome. My informant Dmitrea was exactly like that. He was dragged away by the information police for writing anti-imperial articles and tortured for months. Then he was pushed out to the magic tower after losing his job.

The Moritani continent was at least as bad as the Empire, if not worse. Though it’s all the same dish in a different bowl.

I turned on the high beams to safely secure visibility in case something jumped out, but the front was still not visible. The vehicle, caught in an ambiguous position between unpaved and paved roads, still hadn’t escaped that boundary.

“But would the warlord just sit back and watch?”

“…What do you mean?”

“If it’s obvious that a journalist will cooperate with government troops in the future, would the warlord guys leave the journalist alone?”

Camilla received the photo I handed her. It was a photo she knew well.

A war correspondent’s photo capturing the conflict between Asen and Sanya.

With my gaze fixed forward, I pointed to the photo with a gesture and said:

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

Camilla, who had been silently looking at the photo, looked at me.

With a slight sigh, I revealed all the facts I knew.

“He died while covering in Sanya tribe’s territory. He died instantly when a rifle bullet penetrated the neck area between his bulletproof helmet and vest. I don’t know who did it. Whether it was Asen, Hassan, or a government sniper.”

“……”

“But the guy who died taking that was a friend of my informant. He was someone who used to dig into the dictator’s background… I only know that he died while following government troops reclaiming warlord-occupied territory. It was a mine forcibly occupied by Sanya.”

At that moment, Camilla, who had been quietly listening, spoke up.

“If he was wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet, they would have recognized him as a war correspondent at a glance, even from a distance.”

I stroked the steering wheel as I answered.

“…Well, that’s what happened.”

“Do you think they aimed at him deliberately?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t shoot him. I wasn’t there either. But one thing is certain.”

“What’s that?”

“That Camilla doesn’t need to sympathize. Whether it’s the warlord or government troops.”

“……”

“The journalist, maybe.”

Camilla, with the photo on her lap, quietly closed her eyes. She looked as if she was praying.

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

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

The vehicle, having crossed the boundary, raced forward on the black asphalt, speeding toward the city.

*

The next day.

We received a contact from the Al Bas tribe.

It was news that a high-ranking person was looking for us.