Ch.496Episode 18 – Men’s Club

# Justified Violence Strikes the Black Market!

“Hup- Take it like a man, brother!”

Glass shattered with a crash as a Black man flew through the window.

Falcon (though without wings), caught selling seven pistols, screamed as he plummeted straight down.

“Gyaaaaaahhh-!”

-Crunch! Crack! Squish!

Wrapped in a brilliant white light, the mace pulverized the floating guns in a single blow, then moved on like a bloodthirsty hound seeking its next prey.

Taking advantage of the chaos, several thugs tried to escape through the back door. Just then, the once-solid ground transformed into a squelching swamp, snatching at their ankles.

“Help! Somebody help! Blurgh…”

“Gurgle…”

Between the screams piercing the alley came the sound of someone calmly sipping tea.

“H-hey! Help us!”

“Hey! Help—gaaack…!”

“……”

The magician elegantly tilted her teacup with an expression of complete worldly detachment.

A sword etched with strange patterns leaned against the wall, and beside her gently swaying feet rolled an oddly shaped empty potion vial.

-BOOM!

An explosion erupted.

The flames, which consumed an entire floor of the warehouse, greedily devoured the mountains of ammunition and weapons stored inside.

The pop-pop-pop of heated bullets exploding could be heard clearly from outside, as could the ba-ba-ba-bang of magical recording devices bursting.

“……”

I was left speechless at the dizzying sight.

Neither the merciless clicking of shutters from the swarm of reporters, nor Jake calling out to me, registered in my ears.

“Section Chief…”

“…Ah.”

I rolled my eyes, not even realizing my body was falling backward.

“…Holy… sh… fu…”

Anyone would do. Please.

I just wish someone would kill me right now.

## Episode 18 – Man’s Club

In a world gone mad, if someone manages to keep their sanity, are they normal? Or abnormal?

I don’t know much else, but of this I’m certain:

Whoever that sane person is, they’re definitely surrounded by lunatics.

That was exactly my situation.

*

“Why is everyone treating me like this?”

In Churukushi, about 300km east of Umsalga, the capital of the Zamria Federation.

An unexpected commotion at the Federal Government Army’s Eastern Command captures the attention of passersby.

“I’ve told you repeatedly to be careful. We even made a promise last time. You said you wouldn’t cause any more incidents!”

The well-groomed man is someone who draws attention wherever he goes.

Unlike the khaki combat uniforms donated by the Kiyen Army 20 years ago (Grade A standard – produced in the 70s), or the forest camouflage from neighboring peddlers (pre-faded with the optional feature of being stripped from dead soldiers), his desert three-color combat uniform looked fresh off the factory line, starting with its overbloc.

You know how it is.

That envious look soldiers give during joint exercises to the well-equipped, well-built American troops. To the Zamria Federal Government forces in their shabby combat uniforms, the desert three-color uniform gave exactly that impression.

Of course, the vast majority of federal troops didn’t think much of it.

They were simply fascinated by the sight of a pale white man throwing an unreasonable tantrum.

Like European imperialists who herded Africans into zoos, they just stared with curious eyes.

“But why do you keep causing incidents—ack!”

And here, coincidentally, was a descendant of European imperialists.

“Why are you shouting?”

“Do I look like I shouldn’t be?!”

Camilla Rowell. A magical girl born to a British bourgeois family.

Despite her irritating behavior, she was hardly someone with an ordinary background.

In England, where the class system openly persists, to produce politicians, bureaucrats, journalists, barristers (England has two types of lawyers), and intelligence agents requires at least middle-class status.

She herself had broken through Cambridge’s barriers on her own merit and even interned at a British intelligence agency, so she could certainly be called exceptional (or more precisely, an exceptional woman).

The problem was her innate rebellious nature.

“What did we do wrong? Nobody died!”

Camilla, an arsonist who had burned down the warehouse with magic (with multiple prior offenses), raised her eyebrows and retorted. Her attitude was beyond shameless—it was downright audacious.

“We’re on day 27 without accidents, so why are you yelling? No one died, no one got hurt.”

“…Without accidents? Are you talking about military-style ‘no accidents’?”

“I don’t know! I never served in the military. Hehe.”

My jaw trembled. Just as the spy in the desert three-color uniform was turning red-faced,

A chuckling sound interrupted as someone naturally joined the conversation.

“Don’t get too angry, Officer. High blood pressure won’t do you any good.”

Francesca. A civil servant from the Magic Tower Secretariat and current Magic Tower delegation leader.

The woman who appeared, shaking her purple hair, was no ordinary person either. Starting with her appearance, which was far from common.

Add to that her development of a mysterious alchemical weapon that eliminated the desert monsters that had been a nuisance for thousands of years, and the free alchemical potions provided to tens of thousands of unofficial casualties.

Many were suspicious about her inexhaustible wealth, as if she’d found some golden fountain somewhere. But her alchemical skills were a masterpiece of the century.

Even the haughty alchemists of the Ivory Tower praised her!

Starting with the local Defense Ministries of the Mauritani continent, she was signing contracts with all sorts of governments, and her already high stock value was hitting the ceiling daily.

And she was reaching marriageable age too.

According to a reporter well-versed in entertainment news, “The moment she declares she’s looking for a husband, men with something between their legs will start running delusional circuits of ‘Maybe I have a chance…?’ and flock like clouds to the Red Desert where she is”—a sort of backhanded compliment.

(Of course, this was just the brain-spill of a romance columnist—or pseudo-journalist—who had never been to Mauritani or interviewed Francesca, so it had nothing to do with the person in question.)

Francesca kept smiling brightly.

“Is there any reason to be angry? We successfully resolved another case today.”

“That’s right.”

A gentle voice softly affirmed her statement.

Lucia. The 59th Saint of the Order.

That description alone was sufficient. No one on the Mauritani continent was unfamiliar with the “golden-haired, blue-eyed saint.”

“There were no injuries, no casualties. All weapons were recovered, and both the black market merchants and buyers were arrested by the peacekeeping forces. Now they only have to face court.”

Lucia blinked, her golden hair gleaming. Her eyes, as blue as the sea, had the charm of bringing peace to anyone who met her gaze.

However, my gaze moved past her eyes to what was behind her—specifically, to the mace hanging on her back.

“……”

I couldn’t help but sigh. Unfolding a crumpled wad of paper, a bundle of clipped articles appeared.

With a deflated voice, I began reading the underlined passages that Pippin and Jake had marked.

“Controversy erupts as locals in Murunga, Eastern Province of the Zamria Federation, receive diagnoses of fractures and burns requiring eight weeks of treatment due to excessive force by the hero’s party. On the 9th, 46 members of a criminal organization arrested in Mingpoko, Kingdom of Nurinu, on charges of smuggling, illegal weapons trading, and drug possession, reportedly suffered identical injuries including fractures, burns, and drowning-induced pulmonary edema during the arrest process.”

“……”

“Yes. It ended safely. Not a single person was injured, right? Right?”

I don’t know what they all ate that messed with their heads, but the incidents just wouldn’t stop.

As Camilla’s eyeballs rolled around, Lucia timidly raised her hand and offered an excuse that wasn’t really an excuse.

“I treated them all, though.”

Flip! I quickly turned the page and read the next article.

“Criminal J, who received treatment for deeply lacerated fingers, later discovered at the police hospital that foreign objects remained embedded when his skin was sutured. J complains of persistent pain in eight areas including his fingers, but the Vatican Foreign Ministry spokesperson only stated that they are still investigating the facts…”

“……”

“Do you have anything else to say?”

“…Yes. Actually, I reopened the skin, removed the remaining glass fragments that I missed, and then sutured it again.”

They were really tiny pieces that I missed.

Lucia, describing glass fragments much smaller than closely trimmed fingernails, finished her explanation of the medical accident (performed without a license) while nervously watching my reaction.

After that, I pulled out numerous incidents and accidents caused by the group. So many and so varied. A continuous stream of cute little disasters.

“Assault, aggravated assault, group assault, and so on. These are all bullshit claims from criminal bastards, so we’ll ignore them.”

But what about intimidation?

As I looked up from the report, everyone’s gaze fixed on one person.

Blue eyes rolling from side to side, cold sweat streaming down—Camilla couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Her suspicious behavior was telling. I narrowed my eyes and read the police report.

“…According to a bank robber wearing a mask and paper bag: ‘Suddenly, the red-haired woman I saw on the news pointed her finger at my forehead and started chanting a spell I’d never heard before. Phase, twilight, eye of wisdom—'”

What the hell is this?

“What exactly did you do?”

“Hehe…”

Camilla started twisting her body awkwardly. She also scuffed the ground with her shoe tip. As if she was too embarrassed to know what to do.

I moved on to the next item.

“Unauthorized use of magic in residential areas, aviation law violations, property damage, trespassing…. You’ve all been busy. And what’s this ‘violation of management laws regarding unauthorized magical tools’?”

“Ah. That would be me.”

Francesca naturally confessed. Well, the only people who use magical tools are Camilla and Francesca, and all of Camilla’s tools are registered.

When I asked for specifics, she gave an absurd answer.

“What? You were testing a new magical tool?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you test it on people?”

Francesca tilted her head in confusion.

“Because it was made to be used on people?”

“…Do you think safety inspections are a joke?”

“I’ve done countless basic tests long ago. I even got approval from the Magic Tower. Military weapons are tested in actual combat too, so why not magical tools?”

“Yes, it would have been great if you had consulted with the local Defense Ministry beforehand.”

Because you used an unauthorized magical tool, the Abas Defense Ministry thought it was a new weapon test and went ballistic. Thanks to that, I was sleeping peacefully when I got a call from the Defense Ministry guys, had to call an interpreter while half-asleep, and it was a complete mess.

Though the misunderstanding was quickly cleared up.

Francesca gave a slight smile.

“Let’s move on.”

“Yes. Next we have unauthorized possession of bladed weapons due to miscommunication with the local police station, unauthorized use of Class 2 explosives, destruction of public property, arson…. Sigh! Fine, let’s say that’s acceptable too.”

The law is whatever you want it to be. Is it really news that Camilla used her abilities and got complaints? Hasn’t the Magic Tower received complaints about this too?

But.

“Speeding, crossing the center line, driving against traffic, and so on. Why did you violate traffic laws?!”

When I demanded an explanation, Francesca offered a reasonable justification.

“The gang crossed the median with their car. We briefly broke the law while chasing them.”

Camilla quickly added:

“I thought the enforcement devices were just decorations!”

“That’s nothing to be proud of!”

I pulled at my hair. Why were they acting like this? Did they eat something bad?

Although Camilla, Lucia, and Francesca had caused chaos across various countries, fortunately they hadn’t been involved in any legal disputes yet.

However, there were hundreds of complaints from residents about explosions, gunfire sounds, screams, and fires near their homes (surprisingly, these were filed by idiots who didn’t evacuate despite local police issuing evacuation orders).

Dozens of news articles claimed we used excessive force, and clueless tabloid bastards were shouting everywhere: “Look at this! Foreigners are beating up our citizens!”

It wasn’t just politicians who were the problem.

Given the prevalent tribalism in the region, village elders and headmen were elderly people who naturally wouldn’t look kindly on pale white people beating others up.

The important thing is that these “elderly people” are involved not just in local communities but in national governance. Elder councils like the “jirga (جرگہ)” in Afghanistan-Pakistan exert enormous influence on governments, and many officials in the Middle East and Africa support the positions of their tribal elders. Mauritani is no different.

And suddenly, the Mauritani tribal elders…

????:Hey, what are those white folks doing?

????:Aren’t they beating up the second wife’s son from Kasam’s family in the next village?

????:How dare they set fires on our sacred territory!

????:Hah! Drive those creatures out immediately!

Just imagine the chaos. What happens next?

Government officials start scolding us.

How many mountains have I had to cross, how many times have I had to bow to grandfathers because of this?

So I can only suppress my indignation and resentment and cry out:

“Please! Try to be at least half as decent as that tattooed pig! Please, just a bit!”

“Hmm…?”

The tattooed pig soup bone stock insect. Alias “Shamir” Akande.

Sprawled on the ground plucking weeds, he responded with bright blinking eyes to the sound of his name.

“Me. Called?”

“Yes, I called you. What are you doing there? Why are you pulling weeds?”

“For goats to eat. Very cute sight. Need to make. Plump.”

Despite his size, he was selecting weeds for goats. But why are you fattening goats? Those are being raised by government troops for their own consumption.

Anyway.

Believe it or not, that hulking Akande was the most diligent and least troublesome person in the group.

Let me emphasize again—not “causing no trouble” but “less trouble.”

(One-third of the “assaults” claimed by arrested criminals were Akande’s doing. The rest were all Lucia’s, with Francesca and Camilla making occasional appearances.)

“Honestly, I still can’t believe it.”

Looking at Akande feeding weeds to goats, I shook my head in disbelief.

“That guy who looks like he could punch a bull to death with his bare hands. Who’s been nearly arrested multiple times by police suspecting him of being a serial killer just based on his appearance. And he’s the most harmless person among you all.”

“You shouldn’t judge people by their appearance.”

Camilla scolded me with a deliberately stern attitude. She was right.

Painfully right.

“Camilla.”

“Yes?”

“Snacks confiscated for a month.”

“…Gasp!”

Startled, Camilla collapsed sideways like a cardiac arrest patient. Francesca tried to catch her but, apparently surprised by her weight, let go.

“Oof!”

Ignoring Camilla rolling on the ground, I gathered Camilla, Lucia, and Francesca and cried out:

“Please! Just for one moment! Please!”

Stop causing incidents!

“Is this some kind of man’s club? Huh? What’s the idea behind beating up criminal bastards? Are you trying to get us all screwed?!”

“……”

“They’re so bruised and blue that if Smurfs saw them, they’d think they found friends and crawl out of the TV!”

“……”

“If you really need to beat someone, either take them somewhere hidden or hit parts that don’t show! There are plenty of areas that don’t bruise easily or aren’t visible. Thighs, buttocks!”

All three let out simultaneous exclamations of realization.

“…Ah.”

“…Oh.”

“…Such a method.”

“If you’re not confident you won’t get caught, don’t even try in the first place!”

Oh, this is driving me crazy. Why are they like this? Have they all lost their minds?

Ever since they clashed with the old man of Al-Khair, they’ve been completely off the rails. Are they waging some war on crime? Have they declared a war on terror? Looking at their behavior, they’re no different from Duterte, Bukele, or Bush Jr.

“…Haah.”

I sighed deeply enough to make the ground sink. Bubbling emotions and endless despair were dragging me into a quagmire.

What am I supposed to do with them? I feel like we’re going to get real complaints soon.

“Well… if you all understand, then dismiss. I need to go now.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get a whipping.”

I have a meeting scheduled with a government official.

I’m already tired.

“Haah…”

I let out what felt like my hundredth sigh of the day and headed toward the local Foreign Ministry building.

*

To be honest, when the embassy contacted me saying “a local Foreign Ministry official wants to see you,” I had some expectations.

Here it comes.

The day to settle the karma I’ve been putting off. The moment to pay the price.

On the way to the capital, I found out who had summoned me. They said it was the Foreign Ministry Director.

Wow… When I heard that, everything went dark before my eyes.

Is today the day of my funeral?

I never thought I’d live to be cursed out by a foreign Foreign Ministry Director.

Of course, being a professional diplomat, he wouldn’t actually curse, but diplomatic euphemisms can be more vicious and insidious than Tai Chi. Being beaten with those for hours would surely leave me dazed.

What’s worse, the Foreign Ministry official asked me to bring my companions too. The Director wanted to meet them personally. Hearing that, I knew it. They’ve really got me this time.

Turning the car around, picking up my companions, and heading back to the capital Umsalga.

I just stared out the window, filled with worry.

All sorts of thoughts crossed my mind.

Will we be able to return alive?

Are we really going to be deported?

Should I, as a diplomat, put on a tearful show?

I thought it wouldn’t be strange if the Director yelled at us. Our incidents had been quite dynamic. Would he start with shouting instead of greetings?

That’s probably what would happen.

But why didn’t it?

“Thank you. Overwhelmingly thank you.”

“Excuse me?”

The middle-aged Black man who was supposedly a Foreign Ministry Director took off his rimless glasses and smiled warmly.

Not only that, he offered a handshake with both hands, then grabbed and shook each of our hands in turn.

“Thank you so much. Thanks to your efforts in blocking weapons trafficking, local security has visibly improved.”

“Excuse me?”

“Criminals are all running scared. They say they’re afraid that building-high pillars of fire, maces, stone golems, or tattooed warriors might rain down on their heads or come looking for them at home.”

“Excuse me?”

“Haha! Surprised? We were shocked too. We didn’t think this would actually work. Honestly, we were skeptical!”

Even as I was making dumbfounded responses, the Foreign Ministry Director didn’t stop smiling. He was genuinely happy.

“Hahaha!”

“……”

Not even aware that my hand was being vigorously shaken, I just stared blankly into space.

“The warlords’ sons are still holding out because their interests are at stake, but personally, I think that won’t last much longer. Peace will soon come to the Federation. It’s a blessing from the Earth Mother Goddess. Of course, without your efforts, even today’s small victory wouldn’t have been possible.”

So, to summarize…

My companions had been raiding black markets indiscriminately, taking down both sellers and buyers.

→They couldn’t eliminate weapons trafficking across the entire Mauritani continent, but in “some regions” of the Zamria Federation, weapons trading had decreased.

→The warlords maintained a “Regulations? Fuck off” stance, but the smaller criminal organizations were lying low.

→Why were they lying low? Because they knew they were small fry. They were keeping quiet at least during this intensive crackdown period.

→Whether this would end as temporary peace or lead to permanent peace, nobody knew. But either way, weapons trafficking had decreased.

The Foreign Ministry officials seemed very satisfied.

True to their devout Al-Yabd faith, they even mentioned the Earth Mother Goddess’s blessing.

They had even prepared a party.

“Come, come. We’ve prepared a modest party, so let’s all end the day pleasantly. We’re treating you as both guests and benefactors, so please enjoy yourselves.”

The Director guided us to the Foreign Ministry annex where they occasionally invited resident ambassadors.

He said that as Al-Yabd believers they couldn’t touch alcohol themselves, but they had prepared drinks for us since we had no such restrictions, and encouraged us to eat and drink freely.

Strange.

Despite the havoc Camilla, Lucia, and Francesca had wreaked, the Foreign Ministry Director made no mention of it.

When I indirectly asked if my companions’ incidents had caused any trouble for the government, he understood my hint and burst into laughter, offering this answer:

“Ah, don’t worry about that. The Elder Council has decided not to make an issue of it.”

“…The jirga too?”

“Oh, you know about the jirga?”

Actually, there had been issues, but the elders had agreed not to make a fuss. The reason was simple:

Akande wasn’t a foreigner but a native born and raised on the Mauritani continent, a devout believer in Al-Yabd, and if they criticized the other three’s conduct, Akande wouldn’t be free from responsibility either.

In other words, the “aren’t we all family?” spirit based on tribalism had activated, and we were saved thanks to Akande.

Though it wasn’t a result he had intended.

As I nodded with a bewildered look, the Director lowered his voice slightly.

“Of course, your diplomatic courtesy played a major role too. The Elder Council didn’t expect to receive an apology.”

“Ah…”

So my efforts crossing mountains on mules weren’t in vain after all.

While the local government officials were overjoyed, for me it was a somewhat—no, very—absurd outcome.

Wait… If crackdowns could improve things, why haven’t Africa and the Middle East…?

I was too dumbfounded to finish my thought.

“Frederick?”

Tap tap. Someone tapped my shoulder, and I turned to find Camilla standing there.

With an expressionless face, she quietly gave a thumbs up pointing behind her.

“Lucia and Francesca want to meet on the rooftop for a moment.”

“……”

“Follow me.”

That evening.

Among the Foreign Ministry officials, there was much speculation about the whereabouts of the four who hadn’t returned for over 30 minutes.

But since Akande, nearly two meters tall, was busy devouring an entire camel by himself, the conversation didn’t attract much attention.

*

There’s a saying that good people’s inaction allows evil to flourish.

This line from a movie about the Nigerian civil war remains vivid in my memory even decades later.

I’ve seen countless evils triumph and good people stand by.

It’s the same now.

“Water.”

Carefully, I fill a cup with water. Camilla, who had been eating snacks, gulped it down and then slammed the cup back down.

“Water.”

“……”

After the successful crackdown on illegal weapons, several governments, starting with the Zamria Federation, evaluated the results as satisfactory.

Foreign ministries of various countries issued naive, principled statements saying “while it’s difficult to rule out the possibility that this is a temporary phenomenon, we support the governments’ decisions to eliminate illegal weapons and will do our best to participate if there’s any way we can help.”

“Water.”

But as they say, the devil is in the details.

Whether the local governments were drinking skull water or kimchi soup, the firm commitment of foreign governments to participate didn’t matter at all.

What really mattered was the growing feeling that they were winning something.

That’s why.

That’s why I had been reduced to Camilla’s water shuttle.

There was no intelligence officer or defense attaché here. Just a bio-robot that automatically filled cups when the command “water” was input.

“……”

I stared blankly into space with a soulless expression.

Francesca, passing by, spoke to me.

“Officer, I think my shoulder is getting stiff.”

This time, instead of a water shuttle, I played the role of a massage machine.

My poor, miserable state. This was how I was living these days.

Damn it.

“…Treating someone like a slave just because you got scolded.”

“You conveniently left out the part where you publicly humiliated us in front of hundreds of people.”

I thought I heard Francesca’s curt rebuke, but I decided to ignore it. I felt so wronged.

I was so wronged that I couldn’t even speak properly. Just then, Lucia, who had returned from putting away another arms dealer, announced her return as the last of the group.

“I’m back.”

“Lucia! You’re late?”

“I stopped by a refugee camp on the way.”

“Always busy, Saint.”

“I wouldn’t say busy… Ah.”

After exchanging greetings with Camilla and Francesca in turn, she saw me and smiled warmly.

“There you are. Perfect timing. I was just in need of some help.”

“…What?”

What on earth?

Not even noticing my expression, Lucia smiled and quietly brought me a task. A truly terrible, dirty task.

“The refugee camp toilets are full. They need to be emptied, and when I asked the administrators, they said you know how to handle it. Could you possibly help?”

“……”

I thought carefully. Was there any way out of this? And then I despaired.

I still had toilet cleaning duty left from last time.

As I stared blankly with a lost expression, Camilla silently slipped something into her pocket. It was toothpaste.

“Put it under your nose. I smelled it, and it’s pretty bad.”

“…Thanks a lot.”

“Aw, no need for thanks. What are friends for?”

“Ah, Hero, please come along too.”

“…?”

As if struck by lightning, Camilla’s eyes flew wide open. She turned to Lucia like a flash and asked what she meant.

Lucia explained:

On her way, she heard people worriedly murmuring about a gasoline transport truck that had overturned on a mountain slope.

As the gasoline began leaking, nearby residents who had come to watch started grabbing rubber tubs, barrels, plastic bottles, and even military canteens from who knows where, and took all the gasoline. In short, it was looted.

A typical raid scene in a rural Third World neighborhood.

“So, it would be difficult to light a fire without magic.”

“…Gack.”

At this sudden announcement, Camilla collapsed. She seemed thoroughly shocked.

She trembled like a newborn fawn and shed tear drops like chicken droppings.

“Ah, this isn’t common even in Africa…”

“Really wakes you up, doesn’t it?”

Unintelligible grumbles poured onto the floor. It sounded like English, but I’m pretty sure it was cursing.

Of course, whether she cursed or not was none of my business.

“Chunsik~ Let’s go work. Your name is no longer Camilla but Chunsik.”

“Gyaaaah…”

With a big smile, I dragged Camilla toward the work site.

As they say, when it rains, it pours.

Somehow, today felt like a day I could burn dung for hours.

*

When it rains, it pours, they say.

Indeed, there’s not a single false word in old sayings.

I thought my luck was good today.

“……”

I stared blankly into space, and Camilla wore an expression of having lost everything.

No one could easily speak up.

Not me.

Not her.

Not the other person.

“……”

“……”

“…Child. Why art thou burning excrement here?”