Ch.404Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

# Regions on the periphery, far from mainstream culture, are always subjects of alienation.

Their identity, which fully embodies the local climate and characteristics, is suppressed and homogenized under words like “Third World,” “danger,” “terrorism,” “famine,” and “religion.”

However, based on my experience traveling through Africa and the Middle East, I dare say those regions are difficult to explain under the single category of “Third World.”

The reason is simple. Even people living on the same continent or in the same country differ in tribes, languages, and religions. To draw a comparison, Western people lump Korea, China, and Japan together as “Asia,” but when Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese gather, they protest, “How can those people be considered the same as me?” It’s similar to that.

Therefore, regions commonly lumped together as the “Third World” often show meaningful differences when examined closely, making you wonder if they really belong to the same cultural sphere.

Thus, these regions contain anthropological diversity that cannot be explained by the term “Third World,”

And at the same time, they possess a buffet-like variety of utter shittiness that’s almost too much to mention.

For example…

“Ka-Kamila… Sorry, but I need to use the bathroom…”

“UWEEEEEK!!”

Things like endemic diseases.

## Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

The second day of our local trip.

We got food poisoning.

“Ugh…”

“…Are you alright?”

The price for enjoying the local food culture was severe.

A fever that felt like my brain was being boiled, stomach pain like my belly was being sliced open, vomiting and diarrhea—all of it forced me into contemplative moments in the bathroom, reflecting on my life.

I brought a thermometer and checked Kamila’s forehead: 40.1°C.

It was a high fever, enough to suspect acute infection.

Of course, my condition wasn’t much better.

After finishing the abundant meal provided by the tribe, we had both gotten food poisoning together.

Around dawn, stomach pain suddenly found me first, and Kamila, woken by the commotion, began complaining of a high fever.

There was no time for discussion. At that moment, we instinctively knew we had food poisoning.

“Drink some water. Slowly.”

The unsanitary conditions and serious water contamination in the Mauritanian continent were well-known through embassy notices, international organization reports, and travel guide warnings.

Whether it was from eating meat stored at room temperature (I should emphasize that the local daytime temperature easily exceeds 50°C) or from catching freshwater fish living in polluted river water.

Kamila, who had enjoyed the meal given to her, was now groaning in pain.

“Aren’t you drinking any?”

“I already had some earlier. With antibiotics.”

“Do you have any medicine left?”

“Yes.”

I handed Kamila antibiotics and fever reducers.

They were emergency medications I had purchased from a pharmacy just in case, but I never dreamed we’d need them so soon.

After emptying a bottle of mineral water, Kamila and I lay like corpses for a while before waking up. It was around midday.

As we staggered out of our lodging, familiar faces were waiting. It was the warlord duo.

The duo, sitting in their vehicle and chatting, waved cheerfully and began speaking to us in broken Kiyen language.

“Late sleep. Bad habit. Lunch?”

Lunch? We got food poisoning from yesterday’s meal, and they’re talking about lunch? Even Kamila, who normally can’t resist food, would exercise restraint in this situation.

Without anyone saying anything, we both shook our heads. It was the first time since arriving on the Mauritanian continent that Kamila and I were in perfect agreement.

“Sick?”

“Yes…”

“Where?”

“Food poisoning.”

“Ah!”

The warlord duo started grinning as if they understood. It seemed like they were mocking foreigners with weak stomachs.

“Understand. Local food. Very bad. Disease. Common. Need doctor?”

“Is there a doctor in the village?”

“No. But city. Has.”

The warlord duo, after informing us that there was a doctor in the city, said they would go there themselves. I wondered if it was necessary to travel five hours to the city just to treat food poisoning.

“City. Must go. Here. Things. Lacking.”

“Ah, if that’s the case…”

“On way. Doctor. Bring back. But…”

The warlord duo made a silent gesture. They rubbed their thumb against their bent index finger.

Ah, fuck. Of course. I should have known.

I rolled up some cash and handed it to the duo who were boldly demanding a bribe. After checking the amount, the bandit duo got into their car with satisfied smiles.

“Go quickly. Police. Bring back too.”

“Police? Why police?”

“Around here. Armed robbers. Sometimes gunshots. Very dangerous.”

The bandit duo slightly lifted their shirts to show me something. I approached, wondering what they were up to, and saw a protruding gun handle.

Well, they’re warlords, so of course they have guns. I was thinking that when the man spoke.

“Gun. Useful. Alone 70,000 takron.”

“Just go. Please, just go.”

After chasing away the peddler, all we had left were sick bodies and hungry stomachs.

I wanted to fast, but we needed to eat something to keep moving today. At least to survive.

“Lunch… what should we do?”

“Let’s eat what we brought first. We simply can’t eat the food they provide here.”

We crawled into the SUV and resolved our meal with emergency rations. By emergency rations, I mean combat rations—our trunk was full of combat rations supplied to Fatalia, Rushan, the Order, and even the Kiyen Imperial Army.

For reference, there are no combat rations supplied to the Abas military. An unofficial top information officer cannot possess anything related to their home country. This applies to combat rations, medicines, and even daily necessities.

Pâté that seemed to be made from pig liver, meat cans with a strong meaty smell, crackers harder than bricks. Whatever they put in those crackers, they had a strong spice aroma, and the meat in the cans was hardened with white chunks of fat embedded in it.

Combat rations that I wouldn’t eat even if I died and came back to life, or rather, combat rations aren’t meant to be food in the first place.

But there was no better option.

“Who the hell made this shit… Oh, it’s Imperial.”

“These crackers are too hard. How do I eat them?”

“Try soaking them in water. I don’t know the details either.”

Knowing this, Kamila started eating the combat rations without complaint.

When we were active in the north, she often ate them, saying they were interesting combat rations, but that only lasted a couple of times. After being horrified by the terrible taste of combat rations, Kamila would run away like a rabid Chihuahua whenever she saw them.

Kamila is basically a big eater, but she’s also quite a gourmet. How could combat rations be acceptable to someone who loves eating as much delicious food as possible?

Yet there she was, silently eating combat rations.

There was no special reason. She had witnessed the village women preparing food with unwashed hands.

These damn country bumpkins either lacked the hygiene concept of washing hands before cooking or they were kneading grain flour with hands that had just touched dirt.

Faced with this terrible truth, Kamila finally gave up the joy of good food and chose health. What does it matter if it doesn’t taste good? Better than dying from disease—that was her mindset.

After finishing the meal in silence, Kamila flopped down on a chair. It wasn’t so much that she was tired of everything, but rather that she had no strength to move.

“What do we do now?”

“You go back inside and rest some more.”

I put my foot outside the door and started tying my shoelaces.

Kamila, looking pale, leaned against the chair and asked a question.

“Where are you going? Today we should rest a bit…”

A faint sigh escaped between her dry lips.

“Work needs to be done.”

*

The operation proceeded according to plan, and time flowed smoothly.

Long-range surveillance of government military outposts, border area reconnaissance, intelligence gathering from locals, terrain mapping, and so on.

The plans I had prepared in advance were successfully completed.

Under the pretext of reporting, I scouted the border area between the Group 3 warlords and the government. I checked all the key points of the border while traveling to and from the village to survey the terrain.

Roads were what I focused on most. I checked whether the roads that existed in the data were actually there, what condition the road surface was in, and if there were any missing roads, exactly where they were.

In the process, I took several photos, and the warlord guides readily allowed it when I said I was taking background photos for articles. Of course, those photos contained suspiciously enlarged images of Hassan’s warlord facilities, but I had switched the magic film before any inspection could occur, so there was no worry about being caught.

Monitoring the government military outposts was much easier than photographing the warlord facilities.

The Al Bas tribe personnel, including the warlord duo, kindly guided me to a hill with a good view of the government military outpost, insisting that I must report on the government’s atrocities. Thanks to that, I got some pretty good photos.

For reference, the tool I used to obtain photo information was a high-performance magic camera, similar in performance to the telephoto cameras that paparazzi carry. It’s commonly used by journalists, but it’s also favored by Abas military special operations units for special reconnaissance (SR), so I was able to get one cheaply through Jake’s acquaintance (Jake had served in special operations and even been deployed overseas).

Anyway, since I had taken many photos, the military intelligence agency would analyze them when I sent them.

Larry, the senior analyst at the Royal Intelligence Agency, may not be the most likable person, but he’s excellent at what he does. The same goes for the analysis team he leads. Of course, Pippin and Charnoi are also quite skilled at analysis.

The important thing is that there are people who will analyze the intelligence for me. I sent all the collected photos to my office at the military intelligence agency and to the safe house of the operation team, who should be in the Rushan Federation by now.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

But things don’t always go as intended.

I encountered an obstacle while continuing to gather intelligence.

“Hmm…”

There was no one suitable to recruit as a local informant.

After wandering around various parts of the village for two days, I couldn’t find anyone within the warlord or tribe who could provide me with the information I needed.

To be precise, I wasn’t looking for someone who could uncover deep information about Hassan’s warlord and the Al Bas tribe like Farid, but rather someone who could handle broader, shallower levels of information.

For example, rumors like someone from Group 1 tribe fought with someone from Group 2 tribe, or some Group 3 executive was having an affair behind his wife’s back. That kind of trivial gossip.

I needed someone who could handle such broad, shallow information.

But I failed.

“…”

Of course, I could find such information by running around myself. But operating alone, I didn’t have the luxury to pay attention to such minor details.

Who could I entrust this to?

I was pondering this when…

“Huh?”

As I drove the SUV back to the village with my ailing body, a strange scene unfolded before me.

Skinny locals carrying discolored baskets and buckets were packed tightly in an open space. The crowd blocked my view, but I could see people occasionally leaving the scene with basins in their hands.

One peculiar thing was what they were carrying.

The baskets, buckets, and basins they had presumably prepared to collect water were all filled with clean-looking water. And it was steaming hot.

Someone was distributing clean drinking water to the residents.

“Did some aid organization come?”

I put my hands on the steering wheel and thought for a moment. But then I realized I hadn’t heard any news about an aid organization coming here.

I got out of the car to check the situation and craned my neck to look ahead, finally identifying the person distributing water.

“Kamila!”

“Oh, you’re back?”

“What are you doing there?”

Kamila, who had been squatting, waved her hand. In front of her was a huge cauldron with water boiling inside.

With a “tuk” sound, a broken branch became one with the flames. Kamila, who had thrown dry twigs into the fire, began stirring the firewood with a poker she had found somewhere.

Looking around, I saw similar cauldrons scattered throughout the open space. Vigorously blazing flames, boiling cauldrons. Buckets were constantly moving up and down, drawing water from the well, and people were lined up in front of the cauldrons, each holding their water containers.

After setting the pile of firewood ablaze, Kamila smiled brightly and answered. Her face was still pale.

“I was distributing water.”

Kamila was in the middle of distributing water to the villagers.

When I asked why she was suddenly doing this, she replied:

“The dinner we ate yesterday. We got sick because we ate food prepared with contaminated hands.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“But the locals here must have been eating such food every day. When I asked why they don’t wash properly, someone said the water is so dirty that washing doesn’t help.”

It’s well-known that millions die in Africa each year due to dirty water. The use of contaminated water leads to the spread of disease and increases the demand for clean water. And it’s also well-known that armed groups cause bloodshed due to supply that falls far short of demand.

Kamila was not unaware of this. She was a conflict studies major and had been a volunteer with aid organizations like Doctors Without Borders.

That’s why she was boiling water herself, she explained.

The residents’ reaction was not bad at all. In fact, they were quite appreciative.

Even though they knew the water was contaminated, they had to drink it anyway. How many times had they faced this situation? Even Africans with better hygiene awareness than the residents of the Mauritanian continent die from drinking unboiled water. Did the Africans, who have internet access even in rural areas, die because they didn’t know they should boil water? Or did they have to drink it first because they couldn’t afford to boil it?

In any case, the residents’ attitude toward Kamila, who provided clean drinking water, was very favorable.

Since boiling alone couldn’t filter out impurities, unidentifiable pieces were floating on the water like small boats, but even that was a blessing to these people. The residents all bowed their heads to Kamila, expressing their gratitude.

I watched this scene with interest.

“…”

Kamila, who could boil water 24 hours a day as long as her magic didn’t run out. If she stayed here, clean drinking water would be continuously supplied.

And another important thing: she could drive away killer locusts with her power alone. Not just drive them away, but burn them all if she wanted to.

I carefully examined the crowd surrounding Kamila, wondering if anyone was watching.

Sure enough, several elders and young men were standing in a good spot a few steps away from the crowd. They were whispering to each other, their eyes fixed on Kamila as she distributed water.

As I was staring at them, the men who were chatting with the elders seemed to notice my gaze and turned their heads toward me. Then, as our eyes met, they turned away again as if nothing had happened.

“…”

I shifted my gaze to look at Kamila.

She was lighting the fire under the cauldron with a peaceful expression.

*

Perhaps because she had an imperialist among her ancestors, though she wasn’t an imperialist to the bone, Kamila’s good deeds continued for quite some time.

First, she boiled well water.

“Could you bring me some pebbles and sand? There should be some clean, washed, and dried ones somewhere.”

“Do you need charcoal too?”

Then she made several simple filtration devices to filter out impurities floating in the boiled water.

“Do we have enough medicine?”

“None except what we need to eat right now.”

“The warlords went to call a doctor earlier. Couldn’t we share some with the patients?”

She even distributed medicine.

After supplying a large amount of drinking water to the village, Kamila also unpacked items she had brought from the safe house. Food, blankets, toilet paper, medicine, and so on.

Being a remote village, even basic necessities were treated as precious here. In such a place, how valuable would high-calorie combat rations, energy bars, fever reducers, and painkillers be?

Although we had been in the village for less than two days, it was easy to guess the residents’ living conditions and attitudes by observing them. Just look at how they grabbed handfuls of white toilet paper.

Noticing the village’s dire circumstances, Kamila began providing necessary items to the residents. She didn’t charge money. I told her to give them for free.

“Are you sure we can just give them away?”

“What’s the point of emptying the pockets of country folk? Just give them away. We’ll be leaving tomorrow anyway.”

The items loaded in the SUV were all supplies needed for long-term activities. They were stockpiled in case unexpected events prolonged our external activities, but we were about to leave before even opening the packaging, let alone letting the factory smell dissipate.

There was no reason to keep items that were just taking up space. So we gave them away for free.

If I could exchange items that could be obtained anytime for information, it would be a gain for me. Of course, antibiotics were an exception. I wouldn’t hand those over even if Kamila hit my head with a monkey wrench.

Kamila, who was distributing blankets to housewives, pouted her lips.

“As if I would hit your head with a monkey wrench. Even your metaphors are…”

“I’ve been hit with a monkey wrench before, and it hurt. Just remembered that suddenly.”

“Oh come on~ You’re lying.”

After receiving plenty of gifts, the residents’ faces bloomed with smiles. The Mauritanian continent was just beginning to get through summer, but here it already felt like Christmas. If I had to compare it to Earth customs, that was the atmosphere.

Vibrant and hopeful.

The residents kept expressing their gratitude to Kamila. Some put their hands together and bowed, while others knelt and kissed the ground. The former was the tribe’s traditional expression of gratitude, and the latter was a prayer unique to Al-Yabd believers.

It seems that a magician with a visibly poor complexion giving out free necessities moved their hearts. Judging by the heated reactions that were overheating the atmosphere. Eventually, the village chief and elders approached to calm the excited residents, and the situation was finally settled.

I stood beside Kamila, slowly observing the residents, and lowered my voice.

“If you’ve distributed everything, let’s head back soon.”

“Just a moment. Let me boil a bit more water.”

“That’s not going to make the turbines turn, so come on. There aren’t even any more buckets in the village to collect water.”

The farewell was as sudden as the unexpected gifts.

We returned to our lodging. Word must have spread about Kamila’s poor condition, as herbs plucked from the hills, expired medicines, and local foods containing the essence of folk remedies began to be delivered one after another.

The highlight was a potion from somewhere. The old woman who brought the potion insisted it was a famous remedy manufactured in a magic tower, spitting as she spoke. However, neither Kamila nor I had ever seen this unidentified object that was supposedly a potion.

To be honest, what the resident brought as a potion was a fake. More precisely, it was a scammed potion.

Magic tower potions may not be as excellent as those from ivory towers where alchemists gather, but their quality is certainly not inferior. It’s like the relationship between Samsung’s S series and Apple’s iPhone. They’re both high-performance items with the same capabilities, but users divide them into tiers, saying this one is good for this reason and that one is trash for that reason.

Where excellent products exist, counterfeits being created is the law of nature. Even now, there must be cottage industry workers all over the world attaching “Made in Magic Tower” labels to unidentified fake potions. This potion was one of those.

It would be impolite to refuse a gift of what they considered an important elixir.

However, even to me, a layman in magic, it was a substance with serious side effects, so I quietly disposed of it down the drain.

“But if you throw that down the drain, doesn’t it violate some Magic Waste Management Law? My professor emphasized not to dispose of failed drugs carelessly.”

“That’s right. That’s why if you go to the magic tower’s sewers, you’ll find all sorts of crazy things. Like that 30-meter crocodile you caught.”

“Isn’t that dangerous then?! What if we get caught by the police!”

“Forget about waste management, they should be doing restaurant hygiene inspections. It’s like they’ve thrown food hygiene laws to the dogs…”

As the gift rush continued for a while, the village chief and elders stepped in again to calm the overheated atmosphere.

They told the residents gathered in front of our lodging to return home for now. They said they would convey the gratitude on behalf of the village. They also added that the guests had surely understood enough.

With their skilled rhetoric, reasonable justification, and the authority of elders, they dispersed the residents. The elders delivered the gifts left by the residents to us. And as promised, they conveyed their gratitude.

“Thank you. The village has been blessed again.”

The old man bowed his head.

Watching this, Farid added:

“…That’s what he said.”

He had somehow become an interpreter while helping Kamila distribute water.

When I asked how he ended up there distributing water, he replied that he was suddenly asked to help and was dragged there without knowing what was happening, so he just helped distribute water. He seems a bit slow-witted.

Anyway, now he was an excellent interpreter.

Farid translated everything the village chief and elders were saying. While Kamila was like a human Papago, I was someone who could only understand the common language of the Mauritanian continent, so if someone was speaking in a local dialect, I definitely needed a local’s help.

“They’re really expressing their gratitude. They say if the tribe can help in any way, please feel free to ask.”

“It’s nothing. I just did what needed to be done.”

“Um… They say the bodyguard has a kind heart. That such a good person coming to the village must be God’s will. Yes, that’s what they’re saying.”

Kamila chuckled and scratched the back of her head.

While an old man held Kamila’s hand and conveyed words of gratitude, the elders standing at a distance suddenly began whispering. It was the village chief and the rest of the elders.

They were talking with quite serious expressions, but even while conversing among themselves, their eyes were fixed on Kamila and me.

“…Hmm.”

The village chief, who had been chatting with the elders, approached Kamila.

The old man cleared his throat politely and, with a slight gleam in his eyes, as if expecting something, opened his mouth toward the young magician.

Farid translated his words:

“He’s asking how long you plan to stay in the village.”

I answered without hesitation:

“Please tell him we’ll depart as soon as the sun rises tomorrow.”

Farid immediately translated the message. After hearing the meaning through the local, the village chief looked at us alternately with an expressionless face, nodded, and then led the elders out of the lodging.

I drank a glass of mineral water left in the SUV while Kamila waved her hands vigorously behind me.

My physical condition was terrible, but it was much better than at dawn. The fever had subsided considerably, and my mind was somewhat clearer.

“Kamila. Let’s go to bed early today.”

“Huh? Why suddenly?”

Kamila looked out the window and then turned to me. Outside, the sky was just beginning to darken, gradually taking on darker colors as if the sunset was about to begin.

“Isn’t it too early to sleep? It’s still midday.”

“Hmm…”

I tapped the door and windows of the lodging and replied in a nonchalant tone:

“I feel like we’ll regret it tomorrow if we don’t sleep now.”