Ch.409Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

# The Root of All Evil in World History

The root of all evil in world history lies in the island nation of England in Europe, and the reason why the Middle East, Africa, and Latin America became destitute in the 21st century can be attributed to the United States and the Soviet Union.

Then what is the cause of the Moritani continent’s devastation?

Scholars have varying opinions on this question.

Some argue that Moritani’s geographical characteristics—predominantly flat terrain—along with high levels of corruption and rampant tribalism prevented them from withstanding monster attacks, leading to a chain of tragedies.

This perspective suggests that they couldn’t stop monsters advancing from steppes and deserts, causing borders to collapse and warlords to emerge along tribal lines as governments lost control.

Others claim that Moritani’s suffering stems from powerful nations.

Just as Western powers exploited their colonies throughout global history, they argue that powerful nations like Abas and Kiyen plundered the poor to fill their national treasuries.

This was a position championed by politicians who supported Moritani-centrism.

Thus, the reasons for Moritani’s deterioration vary among scholars and politicians.

But there’s no disagreement about the fact that Moritani’s current situation is dire.

I don’t agree with any hypothesis or claim. Political neutrality isn’t optional but mandatory for civil servants. However, I deeply sympathize with the view that this place’s future isn’t particularly bright.

Let’s look at the present, not the past.

The Moritani continent is overrun with warlords and terrorist organizations. Though they support different political and religious orientations, armed groups here are fundamentally tribal coalitions.

Typical of regions where tribalism prevails, they’re tightly bound by blood ties. Dozens of tribes gather around a few large tribes as focal points to form warlord factions.

When warlords from different regions, languages, and even tribes began to confront each other, the outcome was predictable.

Civil war.

Powerful tribes suppressed weaker ones, while marginalized tribes united to point their guns at governments controlled by specific tribes.

The result: burning government buildings and breached borders. Countless social upheavals and numerous newly formed warlord groups in the provinces.

Thus began the era of warlords.

And I found myself in that era.

Let’s return to the main point. Why am I in a region overrun by warlords?

Because my superiors ordered it. Those superiors are the government of a powerful nation.

So what exactly does Abas hope to gain here?

The Group 1 warlords led by the Asen tribe, who advocate Moritani-centrism.

The Group 3 warlords led by the Hassan tribe, who were once close to democratic nations.

The Group 2 warlords of the Sanya tribe, who receive massive support from the Kiyen Empire.

…And the Kiyen intelligence agencies supporting the warlords.

I’m going to meet Hassan’s leader to cut off that support.

## Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

Following Al Bas tribe’s royal guard, I headed to the territory of the Al Hassan tribe.

It was a vast land embracing both cliffs and plains.

“…Is this Hassan’s territory?”

“Their headquarters.”

I lowered the window while conversing with Camilla.

Hassan tribe’s headquarters was a beautiful region with both cliffs and plains. Following the well-maintained road led to a sloping path that connected to the cliff.

At the open area of the cliff stood a building. Though it didn’t look impressive from the outside, it towered like a duke’s fortress I’d seen in the northern part of the empire.

I observed the terrain of the headquarters while climbing the road leading to the building. It’s a defensive position that would be difficult to ascend without a vehicle.

“……”

As we entered our destination, a heavily armed guard approached. The guard explained that outsiders must park in designated areas.

I manipulated the gear and glanced at Camilla.

“Wait here.”

“You’re not taking me with you?”

“Someone needs to watch the vehicle.”

Half-extending my body out of the car, I went back inside and asked Camilla a question.

“Camilla. Do you know how to drive?”

“Drive? A little. I have a license! Though I’ve never owned a car.”

“That’ll do. Sit in the driver’s seat. Take this pistol too.”

After handing her the equipment, I entered the main gate alone.

Two guards and a woman were waiting for me there.

A familiar face. One I’d seen in photographs.

Juhr.

Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan’s secretary.

“Good evening, Mr. Asud. I am Juhr, Secretary to Sheikh Nasir.”

Hassan’s secretary, dressed in formal attire, greeted me with a polite attitude.

It was a greeting in the common language with clear pronunciation. I returned the greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Juhr. I came because I was called.”

“This way, please.”

With a faint smile, she extended her hand and walked inside.

I passed by the elevator on the first floor and continued walking inward. After descending to the basement via stairs, an elevator identical to the one on the first floor appeared. We took it down to the third basement level.

It was a disguised elevator.

Before reaching the third basement, Juhr pressed the B3 button twice and the B4 button once.

According to Royal Intelligence, there’s a large space between the third and fourth basement levels in this building’s structure. The construction company claimed they had to leave empty space due to technical issues, but examining the blueprints kept in a secure vault revealed another floor existed in that empty space.

Juhr spoke to me.

“Feeling stuffy?”

She, who I presumed had approached me, asked if I felt uncomfortable.

The reason I described her position as an estimation despite having perfectly good eyesight was because a hood was covering my vision.

“Not at all.”

“Please bear with it a little longer. We have unavoidable circumstances.”

Those unavoidable circumstances were security measures. What’s the point of creating a disguised elevator if outsiders who ride it go out and talk about it? It would all be for nothing.

So the Hassan warlord faction had no choice but to put hoods on outsiders.

But it was all pointless.

I already knew everything—the building’s structure, the existence of the disguised elevator, even how to operate it.

-Whoom.

The elevator stopped.

With a guard’s help, I stepped out, and the hood covering my head disappeared. As dizzying light tickled my eyes, the scenery of the secret space unfolded before me.

A long corridor decorated in red. At the far end were a terminal, an empty desk, and two guards protecting a door.

While being searched, Hassan’s secretary approached the empty desk. It was her seat.

“No guns, knives, or talismans.”

The guards who confirmed I was unarmed turned to look at her.

The female secretary, nodding her head, knocked on the door.

“Sheikh Nasir, your guest has arrived.”

An elderly voice was heard from beyond the door.

“Very well.”

*

The door opened, and I entered.

The old man was standing by the window, looking outside. Next to the window lay a sniper rifle—an old model used by the Kiyen Imperial Army 30 years ago.

A large desk occupied the space in front of the sniper rifle. An office desk made of hardwood.

A worn terminal, a couple of frames, and documents suggested this was an office.

“Good evening.”

I greeted the old man respectfully.

But the old man didn’t answer.

“……”

He was looking at the scenery beyond the window.

The majestic sheer cliff and the vast plain stretching to the horizon, with the sunset dyeing the sky red. Perhaps that’s what had captured his attention. Just as I was thinking this—

The old man turned around and gestured toward a long table, offering me a seat. I went and sat down, while he took the head seat.

“Asud, is it?”

“Yes, I am Asud.”

A wrinkled hand extended toward me. He was offering a handshake.

“I am Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan.”

The old man introduced himself.

We clasped hands and shook them lightly.

“You may leave us.”

Nasir dismissed his subordinates with a single word. After the guards left, he spoke to me again.

“What would you like to drink?”

He was offering refreshments.

“Coffee, please.”

I was served coffee made from ground beans, befitting a major coffee-producing region. It was a hand-blending machine, rare these days when magic has changed the paradigm of industry.

The old man put beans into the machine and turned the lever by hand.

“……”

“……”

The sound of beans being finely ground echoed. During this time, we didn’t exchange any conversation.

His behavior was quite strange—summoning me here suddenly and not saying anything—but I didn’t rush to get to the point.

I realized I didn’t have the initiative in this conversation.

As I suspected, Nasir, who was turning the lever, spoke first.

“You said you’re a war correspondent?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I heard you came to cover the civil war.”

The old man glanced at me briefly while grinding the beans.

“Have you been to the capital?”

“I have.”

“The capital gathers all visitors to this country. Diplomats, businessmen, immigrants, tourists, soldiers, and journalists.”

Drr-rrk. The movement of the blade grinding the beans suddenly stopped. Then came silence.

Nasir’s voice filled the void.

“This is a first. A journalist coming down to this region.”

I gauged the intent behind his words. He was saying, what’s a journalist doing crawling into warlord territory?

The smiling journalist answered the warlord’s question.

“I’m a war correspondent. War zones are my workplace.”

Hmm. After a short hum, the old man started moving his hand again.

Perhaps interested in my identity as a war correspondent, Nasir began asking various questions.

“So have you been to other neighborhoods besides this one?”

“Yes. I’ve visited several places.”

“Where? The regions you’ve covered.”

Activity areas.

“I received your business card a few days ago. You’re from Latuan, right?”

“Yes. Born and raised in Latuan.”

“But your name is Moritani-style.”

“My grandfather was an immigrant. He gave me my name, just like my father.”

“A compatriot living in a foreign land. What kind of people were your grandfather and father?”

Family background.

“Latuan is next to the Kiyen Empire, isn’t it? Have you ever been to the Empire?”

“Yes. I studied at the National University in Petrograd as an exchange student during my sophomore year.”

“So that’s why your Kiyen is fluent. My cousin’s son also went abroad to study.”

“Ah, Farid.”

“You seem to know him. I heard he had quite a hard time overseas. How was it for you?”

“Well, the life of a foreign student is pretty much the same everywhere. It wasn’t easy.”

Growth background.

“I see. Are you employed?”

“No. I work as a freelancer, so I’m not affiliated with any particular media company. In fact, it’s uncommon for war correspondents to be tied to one company.”

“Any particular articles you’ve written that come to mind?”

Achievements.

The questions were almost like a job interview. I took this as an interrogation.

Nasir was wary of a war correspondent from a foreign country. He seemed to suspect I might be a government agent or a foreign intelligence operative.

A reasonable suspicion.

In reality, many war correspondents cooperate with intelligence agencies, and when I was in the intelligence service, I formed relationships with several war correspondents.

They would pass on materials they had gathered, and I would provide sources useful for their articles. A kind of mutual exchange.

So Nasir had no choice but to be cautious of me, though he pretended otherwise on the surface.

“You’ve lived an interesting life.”

“My life has been so unremarkable that there’s nothing to boast about.”

“People who are truly humble rarely claim to have lived insignificant lives.”

The endless probing continued.

I tried to dispel Nasir’s suspicions, but the old man didn’t let his guard down. They said he was a cautious person, and it was true.

The questioning stopped when the coffee was almost ready. Nasir handed me a cup and returned to his seat, and I took a sip of coffee and caught my breath.

How could I take control of this conversation?

First, I needed to make him listen to me. Scanning the office, I looked for material to question under the pretext of reporting.

That’s when the sniper rifle decorated by the window caught my attention.

I gestured toward the sniper rifle with my chin.

“What’s that rifle for? Decoration? Or hunting monsters?”

Nasir spoke.

“That’s my rifle.”

Slurp. After swallowing his coffee, the old man rested his arm on the chair and looked back. The sniper rifle in question was where his gaze landed.

“A weapon I used long ago.”

“Ah, you must have been a hunter.”

“……”

Nasir didn’t speak.

Silently gazing at the sniper rifle, the old man gently closed his eyelids as if tracing past memories and murmured.

“Hunting. Yes. Something similar.”

I attempted conversation centered around the keyword “hunting.”

“When you say something similar to hunting?”

“I shot government troops. With that rifle.”

Twenty years ago. In his younger days, Nasir fought against government forces with a sniper rifle.

At that time, the Hassan warlord faction wasn’t as powerful as it is now. A college student destined to become the head of a warlord faction took up arms and went to the front lines himself. Numerous government troops fell to his trigger.

From riflemen to machine gunners. Commanders, messengers, staff officers.

The fired bullets crossed cities, and the shot stars fell. Finally, Nasir, who sniped the regional commander controlling the area, put an end to the civil war. And he began leading Hassan.

I know how he could become the leader of a warlord faction. I also know about the time he spent as a sniper.

Because reports documenting Nasir’s past activities as a sniper are stored in the Military Intelligence Bureau’s archives.

The person who was by Nasir’s side at that time, informing him of targets and training him as a sniper was…

“Asud.”

Nasir’s voice broke my reverie.

He was staring at me while putting down his cup.

I looked at him, and he looked at me. We didn’t avoid each other’s eyes and didn’t take our gaze off each other.

Click!

The sound of a pistol being loaded breaks the silence. A small pistol used by the Abas military.

“Enough games.”

Nasir began.

“Where are you from?”

The warlord leader asks a question.

While pointing a gun at me.

*

Despite the gun barrel appearing before my eyes, I didn’t take any action and calmly assessed the situation.

The first thing visible was the pistol.

The pistol pointed at me was a model produced in Abas. Somehow similar in structure to a PPK, it was a small pistol I had often used and had been issued by the company.

It wasn’t surprising that a familiar pistol appeared. How hard could it be to get a pistol in a war zone?

Especially for a warlord.

The warlord leader opened his mouth.

“Who sent you?”

I sat quietly, calculating.

Even as I continued my thoughts, Nasir kept questioning me.

“Who sent you?”

As if to urge an answer, he pointed the gun barrel at me while asking. I obediently placed both hands on the table.

“Why are you suddenly pulling out a gun? This is disconcerting.”

“You don’t look as disconcerted as your words suggest.”

Nasir muttered while sitting in his chair. The muzzle of the gun still pointed at me.

Resting his gun-holding hand on the table, he let out a faint sigh. And then he silently looked at me as if in deep thought.

I asked him a question.

It was a genuine curiosity.

“May I ask why you’re pointing a gun at me?”

Why are you doing this? When I asked that, Nasir answered.

“Because you’re lying.”

“Lying?”

I tilted my head.

Nasir’s chest expanded and contracted significantly.

When his mouth opened, it was after he had exhaled a couple of times.

“Recently, a report came in from the Al Bas tribe. It was a report that a village near the border was attacked by armed robbers. And as far as I know, you were in that village too.”

I readily admitted it.

“Yes, I was.”

“A gunfight broke out.”

He began describing the situation at that time.

“Residents who turned into robbers ambushed you with guns. Gunshots rang out after the evening prayer, and shortly after, a gunfight erupted.”

“……”

“The place where the first gunshot was heard was the building next to the lodging where Al Bas tribesmen were staying. The very lodging where you stayed.”

Nasir knew everything that had happened in that chaos. In detail, and accurately.

He said he received a report. It must have been a report submitted by the tribesman who escaped from the village with Farid. Since Al Bas tribe belongs to the Hassan warlord faction, the report would have gone up to Nasir, the leader.

Here, I discovered that the warlord’s reporting system was very solid.

New information.

“What did you do when you heard the gunshots?”

“I talked.”

I answered truthfully.

Because he was already aware of the circumstances at that time.

“I had a conversation with the person who was the vigilante leader. I asked why they were attacking us. I didn’t get a proper answer.”

“You didn’t just talk.”

Nasir interrupted and pressed on.

“Who fired the gun?”

“……”

“Was it you, or was it the robbers?”

His sunken eyes began to focus on me. I silently took a sip of coffee.

“I think the first person to fire was you. You pulled the trigger at the robbers who came to your lodging.”

“It was the bodyguard who shot.”

“You mean the magician you travel with?”

“Yes.”

Nasir chuckled.

“You lie very naturally.”

He continued speaking while holding the pistol. That’s how Nasir’s speculation began.

“The first person to fire was you. Just looking at the fact that it was you, not the bodyguard, who had a conversation with the robbers right after the first gunshot was heard, I can tell.”

I smiled faintly.

“That’s a claim with flimsy evidence.”

Resting my arm on the backrest, I began my excuse.

It was an alibi I had thought of in advance to answer whenever questioned.

“My bodyguard is a taciturn person. He rarely opens his mouth unnecessarily.”

“For someone like that, I heard he was quite friendly with the villagers.”

“There’s no rule that says a taciturn person can’t be kind to others, is there?”

I countered with open hands.

Nasir looked at me with narrowed eyes.

“So your claim is that your bodyguard fired the gun, but it was you who had a conversation with the residents.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why did you have a gun?”

When I silently tilted my head, he continued.

“There were two guns.”

“……”

Rising from his seat, he walked toward the desk. He bent over and searched for something, then pulled out something heavy from underneath.

They were automatic rifles used by the Kiyen Imperial Army.

One was a standard model with a wooden stock, and the other was a derivative with a folding stock for airborne troops.

Familiar guns.

“These are weapons found by soldiers in the reed field where you fought the robbers. Rifles used in the Kiyen Empire.”

Nasir said.

“International law defines armed individuals as combatants. Even if they’re not regular forces, organizations with markings and uniforms are recognized as combatants.”

“……”

“That’s why war correspondents don’t carry weapons. The moment you pick up a gun, you become a person who can’t receive protection under international law.”

It was true.

While there have been cases of war correspondents taking up arms, modern war correspondents don’t arm themselves.

Therefore,

“So are you a journalist? Or someone else pretending to be a journalist?”

“……”

“I don’t think you’re a journalist.”

I couldn’t help but laugh momentarily.

I’ve been caught. Busted.

I looked at Nasir with a smirk. He was still pointing the pistol at me.

Nasir speaks.

“A person who uses journalist credentials while secretly carrying guns. I know one type of person who does that.”

A spy.

Nasir murmured. It was a voice full of conviction.

He took a step forward. And as he took another step, he began to ask.

“I’ll ask once more.”

“……”

“Who sent you?”

Only then did I mutter, taking my eyes off the old man.

Teach a little more gently, would you? I asked you to train rebels, not create operatives.

“Answer me.”

Nasir, holding the pistol, urged. Now the distance between us was close enough that if we extended our arms, we could brush each other’s collars.

Of course, the speed of a bullet is faster than human movement—a truth proven by countless intelligence officers. At this distance, if he pulled the trigger, I would be hit without being able to dodge.

So, I neatly folded my arms on the backrest.

And answered Nasir’s question.

“Leoni Richach.”

“……”

“The director sends his regards after a long time.”

=

Though it’s not particularly a secret anymore, intelligence agencies have trained civilians as operatives for various purposes.

The photo shows a document from the Intelligence Command explaining the Seon Gap Do Unit and Seolak Development Group.

Last year, when the Intelligence Service displayed firearms, they left documents like this throughout the exhibition hall, but there’s nothing particularly interesting in them. There’s not much to read since it’s just one page. Even if it were real, it would no longer be classified under domestic law as the retention period has passed.

They probably just left it as decoration.