Ch.500Episode 18 – Men’s Club

Seasons change, and you feel it on your skin.

The wind blows stronger now, and the temperature has dropped.

The midday sun that once stung fiercely enough to be described as “scorching” has lost its vigor. My senses, sharpened from walking, noticed the subtly chilling air.

The peculiar dampness in the passing breeze suggests the rainy season is approaching. When I take a deep breath, heat haze rises before me.

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

This hotel somewhere on the unfamiliar Mauritanian continent is so quintessentially “African.” It tries hard to look the part, yet there’s something awkwardly artificial about it.

The harmony of brown, light green, and white feels familiar. But I’d rather experience this kind of familiarity only in Kenya.

Morning dawns over the savanna. Watching the sun rise beyond the city with a cup of coffee—

“Meooowww…!”

—CRASH!

With a piercing scream, a cat-person appears and knocks over my coffee cup as they dash past.

Then a pointy-eared shorty holding a broom high like a Roman legionnaire leaps over the terrace with a wild shriek.

“Caer, you damned cat…! You just watched while a rat devoured Charnoi’s cheese!”

“What do you expect me to do about it…?”

“A cat should act like a cat and catch rats!”

“I’m scared of rats too…!”

“……”

I look at the coffee cup, now just a handle, then shift my gaze to the floor.

The coffee I’d meticulously prepared with ground beans (Mauritanian specialty: double customs duty when imported to Abas!) is now generously feeding the hotel floor.

…Damn it.

“Would you two shut up with that racket!”

The handle goes flying—THWACK against Charnoi’s forehead.

The dropped broom—CRACK against Caer’s noggin.

“Hieeeek…”

“Meooow…”

Having suppressed the nymph and cat-person’s rampage with a single coffee cup, I’m still seething when intelligence officers from the Royal Intelligence Bureau and Military Intelligence Agency come running at the commotion.

They find a broken glass, a splintered broom, unconscious Caer and Charnoi, and me snorting with anger.

Matt, the first to assess the situation, wears an incredulous expression.

“Fighting at the crack of dawn? Why is everyone lying around?”

Episode 18 – The Man Club

The training method proposed by the Grand Duchess could be described in various ways.

Human vs. Monster confrontation.

A colosseum where life and death hang in the balance.

A furnace for human modification.

A man club where only the strong survive.

It was like a training regimen straight out of a Chinese novel.

In other words, it was an unfounded training method that combined uncivilized, irrational, and unsystematic approaches.

But despite growing through “unfounded methods,” the Grand Duchess herself is a “person with foundation.”

I’m not talking about being born into a prestigious family.

Alexandra Petrova chose the path of a magician in a distant past when magicians were treated like garbage, which proves that she was and remains a considerable intellectual and enlightened person.

(However, one must always remember that all magicians are mentally ill. Nicholas VI should have assigned his aunt a psychiatrist before dementia set in. Incompetent emperor brat.)

No matter how depraved the personalities of her companions might be, or even if her disciple is a habitual arsonist with multiple prior convictions.

The 100-year-old woman with dying brain cells still retained enough judgment to distinguish between public and private matters!

What does this mean?

“What? Boss, weren’t you captured by the Imperial Grand Duchess?”

“She said I should still handle official duties since it would be troublesome if my income was cut off.”

She wasn’t a psychopath who would detain a foreign civil servant all day and work them to death. That’s what I’m saying.

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

“What about the others?”

“They all went back to the refugee camp. They’ll sleep one night and then go after the arms dealer.”

“Really? Wow, they must be exhausted. Congratulations on your early release.”

Pippin and Jake took turns congratulating me. They mentioned how beaten up I looked and how emotionally draining it must have been.

But when Golden Sun mentioned the word “released,” tears began welling up in my eyes.

“I’m not released…”

“What? Did I hear wrong?”

“I have to go back…”

“Oh.”

I thought I was discharged, but when I opened my eyes, it was just a dream. The analyst and intelligence officer sighed simultaneously.

Damn old magician. She’s letting me go for now because cutting off my income would be problematic, but she says I need to come back for training once the urgent matters are resolved.

Pippin, who was analyzing photos taken by an aviation magician, rubbed the back of his neck.

“Maybe you should hide for a while?”

“She said she’d come catch me herself.”

The analyst nodded. The intelligence officer sighed deeply.

“That won’t work then.”

“Seems hopeless.”

“…Would it kill you jerks to say something comforting?”

I never considered sneaking away. She said she’d come after me herself if I ran.

A grand magician who once led a squad-level force to bomb Laterano, the heart of the Church, coming after you is a completely different problem than being harassed by military counterintelligence magicians or arrest teams from counterintelligence agencies.

Those guys would at least shoot to kill. But how do you kill a grand magician? That would be an achievement beyond even the Inquisition’s capabilities.

What can I do? I just have to endure day by day, like a death row inmate hoping today isn’t the day they’re dragged to the execution chamber.

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

I plopped down at my familiar office desk.

Pippin and Jake had been waiting to report, and the first piece of news was quite something.

“A foreign cartel clashed with military police conducting smuggling crackdowns and World Union peacekeeping forces, resulting in casualties. According to local officials and branch intelligence officers, they seem to be groups taking advantage of the ‘vacuum in the black market’ created by successive crackdowns.”

“The number of warlords entering the southern Zamria Federation has increased by 42.6% compared to the same month last year. This is attributed to the end of the Aramad period, the weakening of the Asen-Sanya warlords, and the prolonged security vacuum due to the Nabuktu situation. The problem is the ‘conflict between federal government forces and state government forces.’ Units in the field are experiencing confusion due to unclear command hierarchies…”

“Governments that felt threatened by the recent Al-Khair incident are forming alliances with foreign countries. Officials from nine countries’ diplomatic authorities have contacted their resident Kieyen ambassadors regarding ‘mine development’…”

*

Crime, cancer, mold, and cockroaches share a strange similarity.

No matter how hard you try to eliminate them, they peek out with their ugly faces the moment you let your guard down.

In that sense, the illegal weapons issue on the Mauritanian continent was no different.

“I knew it wouldn’t end so easily.”

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

Even if the DEA puts on all kinds of shows to eradicate drugs in the US, the number of junkies in California doesn’t decrease. Similarly, while North Korean security forces can crack down on South Korean media, they can’t prevent its spread.

It’s not that supply creates demand; demand creates supply.

This is also why efforts to quit smoking, drinking, or self-comforting always fail. Don’t desires spring forth like an endless fountain?

Of course, the 21st century South Korean government might have a different stance.

If suppressing demand is difficult, they’ll crush the supply. Block overseas direct purchases! How will you get items unavailable domestically? Oh ho ho~ That’s not our concern~ The government will sell them to you, so please purchase from the official site~

That’s the kind of policy that would make Xi Jinping panic, Kim Jong-un slap his forehead, and Biden shout, “Heungseon Daewongun! Lift your isolationist policy immediately!”

If America had done that, the White House might have been able to confiscate the marijuana Snoop Dogg was holding.

For reference, America tried to target suppliers—Latin American drug cartels—by having the CIA support “dictators” (who claimed to be fervent anti-communists but were actually idiots who imported drugs through communist countries and sold them in America), only to nearly ruin public sentiment and cause diplomatic disputes.

So one might say, “We tried that, and it didn’t work~”

But what kind of country is America?

The server host of Earth Online’s North American server. A rich country that spends more on defense than China and Russia combined.

If personified, it would be a wealthy, muscular alpha male (though global trends and personal preferences—his lower compass—favor feminization over masculization).

For alpha male America, protest letters are as insignificant as mosquito tears! (Mexican government: Damn bastards!) They’re still doing whatever they want through the back door. (??? ??: Stop it, you Yankee bastards!)

If you don’t like it, you can challenge the US military and win.

Unfortunately, no alpha male has yet issued such a challenge. More precisely, “there were some, but now there aren’t.”

Saddam Hussein & Muammar Gaddafi boldly challenged, “Fucking America… let’s fight one-on-one without rank!” But sadly, their timing and location were poor.

They happened to provoke an eagle whose eyes had rolled back after having its nipples pinched by the Guinness World Record holder for hide-and-seek (the guy who was caught after 10 years and canoed by American SEALs).

(Especially after September 11, 2001, even Kim Jong-il kept his mouth shut and laid low. Considering this, Saddam Hussein was on a different level. This alone shows that while most dictators who strut around as strongmen can be made to look ordinary, Hussein’s parents unfortunately chose a very wrong delivery date for their son.)

In the end, the dictator duo from Earth Online’s Avaria-North Africa server committed the stupidity of pulling not even the lion’s nose hair but its pubic hair.

After being thoroughly beaten by the North American server host (and Earth’s boss), they were ejected to Allah’s side.

Since then, the global village has become a “shelter for super-cowards”… truly a so-bad-hard-sad story that can’t be heard without tears.

“What are you doing?”

“Just lost in thought for a moment. That friend over there looks just like Hussein.”

“Who’s that?”

There’s something about a man born in the wrong era.

I began in a nostalgic, wistful voice.

“He was an ill-fated man born by mistake of his father and mother.”

“That fits that guy perfectly.”

Matt nodded. When someone who looked like he could delete half the population with a finger snap responded like that, I felt a chill for some reason.

I expressed my infinite respect and gratitude to Matt’s parents for giving birth to and raising their son on this earth rather than in space. Also for giving him white skin instead of purple.

The wind is cool, and the temperature is just right. Matt and I stand side by side, relieving ourselves on the sandy ground with the main gate wide open.

“Damn.”

With a cigarette in my mouth, I cursed under my breath.

Not out of anger, but sheer disbelief.

“Two grown men pissing on the great plains. What the hell are we doing?”

“We’re on a mission, what can we do? Look around. Nothing but sand, trees, and weeds—no bathroom in sight.”

“You mean those bastards didn’t even build a bathroom?”

Far from the Zamria Federation, at the border between another country and yet another country.

There was a warehouse with faint white smoke rising, and criminals kneeling with their hands on their heads. What I pointed to with my chin were those very people.

They were criminals caught red-handed crossing the border secretly, detected by intelligence agency radar.

These weren’t amateurs who could be handed over to the World Union or our companions. They were genuine smugglers who dealt in all kinds of goods across continents.

Intelligence agencies primarily deal with catching such people. (CIA: Heard that? / Mexico: 🖕) Naturally, we were no exception.

That’s why we set out at dawn, took a boat to international waters, teleported to the coast near our destination, and even went diving to catch them. Thinking about it makes me angry again.

Am I some Jeju Island female diver? I’m not even in the navy but the army, yet I have to wear flippers and infiltrate. Honestly, I’ve been familiar with scuba since my time in intelligence, but the spot where I got stung by a jellyfish earlier still stings unbearably.

Still, I understand. Those guys probably didn’t expect pale-faced armed guerrillas (not actually guerrillas) to come after them. I get that a hundred times over.

But honestly, isn’t this a bit much?

“They built warehouses for drugs, guns, wildlife, even illegal magical tools, but no bathroom. That’s the most important thing.”

Indeed.

Our proud (not) and lovable (doesn’t look like it at all) criminals had built warehouses to hide all kinds of smuggled goods.

But they hadn’t prepared even a simple toilet like those seen in refugee camps.

Matt, puffing on his cigarette, shrugged his shoulders.

“They probably didn’t want to leave traces from bodily waste.”

“But they built warehouses?”

“That’s what makes it funny.”

A warehouse visible from kilometers away, yet no bathroom. So much for camouflage.

Do they have udon noodles in their brains? I can’t tell if what’s on their shoulders is decoration or an actual head.

“This is driving me crazy.”

“They may look like amateurs, but they’re sizeable players. Big organization, as they say.”

That means we’ve caught a good one. It’ll make a nice addition to our record.

Still smoking, I casually asked a question.

“A lot of foreigners have been coming to the Mauritanian continent lately. Criminals and corporations alike.”

“You already know from the briefing. Government friends are trying to cozy up with foreigners.”

“I know.”

“So?”

Matt asked what I was worried about, and I took a drag of my cigarette and exhaled smoke mixed with a sigh.

“Criminals and businessmen…”

Surely they’re not the only ones entering the region.

*

After masking the acrid smell of gunpowder with cigarette smoke and marking our territory on the great plains (a high-ranking privilege; if you’re jealous, get promoted), Matt and I returned amicably to the scene.

This intelligence operation was a joint effort. It was a social gathering just for Abas intelligence agencies, not one where we’d share a table with local intelligence agencies or law enforcement.

Military Intelligence Agency and Royal Intelligence Bureau staff were divided into several teams, each performing their duties. In fact, the flashy (box office-worthy) infiltration and shooting had ended long ago, leaving only cleanup work.

On one side, an operations team with rifles monitored and interrogated the criminals, while data was being extracted from the criminals’ vehicles, warehouses, and offices.

I approached the sprawled smugglers to check their identities. Since they all had cloths over their heads (which we put there), I checked them one by one, from left to right.

“Don’t know this one. Another stranger. Oh, this one’s quite young.”

What’s interesting is the age range of the captured smugglers. All in their early twenties. The oldest were only in their 30s or 40s.

Occasionally, teenagers appeared like rare beans in a drought, but being cartel members rather than warlords, they seemed to have chosen the path of crime themselves. A common case I’d seen in both Latin America and Africa.

These rookies are just low-level operatives, so I’ll pass. At most, they’re delivery boys who’ve gained enough experience to act as leaders (though still just team leaders). It’s better to focus on the older veterans.

Removing masks, grabbing hair, checking faces.

“First time seeing this one.”

Not in the database either.

Laborer #1, move along. Next. A man in his mid-30s, jackpot.

“What’s with this guy? His chin is so smooth?”

Al-Yabd believers all grow beards, and growing facial hair is a local custom. An interesting fellow, but confirmed to be of no significance, so he’s passed over too.

While diligently checking identities, I came across a familiar face. The ill-fated man, Hussein (not really)!

His face alone was enough to make me smile, but unfortunately, he’s a nobody. How strange that the man who once ruled Iraq couldn’t prosper even as a smuggler. He gets a special pass to Allah’s side.

“Let’s see… huh?”

When I removed the mask from a new guy, a strange face appeared. While all the others were clearly black, this one was oddly Latin-looking with lighter skin.

Checking his identity, he was listed in our database. A mid-level executive from a cartel across the sea.

Having heard the news, Matt appeared from the smugglers’ office where he’d been examining pension record cards, whistling cheerfully. He removed the mask I’d loosely placed over the executive’s face, grinned, and smacked the back of his head.

“Someone you know?”

“Yep. A guy I almost caught during a local assignment two years ago. We nearly had him, but the police officers made a mistake.”

“Fumbled and let him go, huh?”

“Something like that. The police chief who was communicating with us was an informant. He leaked information to the cartel.”

Matt laughed, and I laughed too.

There are so many ridiculous people out there.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Matt poked the cartel executive and instructed his operations team.

“Take him and gather the materials. Burn the entire warehouse with the goods. Don’t forget to erase all traces.”

“Yes, team leader. What should we do with the rest of the smugglers?”

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

Click.

“……”

The operations team leader turned to his subordinate. Then he casually remarked:

“They’ve seen our faces.”

*

The beardless and testicle-less Hitler (completely different in gender, eye color, and hair color) Grand Duchess Alexandra Petrova is a serious troublemaker.

Concerned about our unemployment, she released us temporarily, but didn’t set a “deadline” for when to return.

It’s an annoying notification. Not knowing the return date? It’s like having a leave pass without a return date.

If I were a soldier, I could blame the administrative staff, but our opponent isn’t the Ministry of Defense but an old magician.

When even 50-year-olds can be frustrating to talk with, how much more difficult would it be to communicate with a 100+ year old from the magical society where the concentration of old-fashioned thinking is at its peak?

Even if we brought Veronica, the old-fashioned counterpart and anti-old-fashioned ultimate weapon, she would jump out the window and flee if faced with the Grand Duchess. (For example, Veronica once hid under my hotel bed to avoid being scolded.)

Anyway.

Since the Grand Duchess might come after me at any time, I need to handle my work as quickly as possible.

That’s why I urgently sought out the Hassan warlord.

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

“Peace be upon you too. Good to see you, Asud.”

The Hassan warlord is one of the three major warlords in the Zamria Federation.

Centered around the Hassan tribe, it’s a warlord group formed by several tribes, and the other two major warlords, the “Asen warlord” and “Sanya warlord,” were formed similarly.

For reference, Asen and Sanya are currently at war. Because I stirred things up.

More precisely, the Sanya tribe, which received support from the Kieyen Empire (weapons+ammunition+intelligence, etc.), was so disgusting that I provoked the Asen tribe to fight them. Meanwhile, I joined hands with the Hassan tribe and played games.

Of course, that’s still ongoing.

Both the war between Asen-Sanya and the cooperation between me and Hassan.

It’s been a while since we sat face to face. I asked the leader of the Hassan tribe, “Sheikh Nasir al-Hassan,” how he was doing.

“Have you been well? Things were quite turbulent for a while.”

“It’s always peaceful here. And you?”

“Me?”

The seasoned warlord leader nodded.

I took a sip of tea with a pleasant jasmine aroma rising from it. I merely moistened my lips with the tea and gave him my answer.

“Nothing special.”

“Let’s leave it at that.”

That was the end of small talk. Although the period we’ve known each other is short, the depth is not shallow.

We moved on to the main topic, gradually unfolding the conversation we hadn’t been able to have.

“The fight between Asen and Sanya has dragged on. Just as we expected.”

Leoni, the planner who designed the Asen-Sanya conflict, had anticipated a prolonged dispute from the beginning.

She had been active in this region since the time when the Kieyen Empire was deeply involved with the federal government. She knew better than anyone how deep the conflict between Asen and Sanya was, and even actively encouraged it by disrupting ceasefire negotiations.

Although the situation changed slightly, forcing a plan modification… anyway.

I quoted exactly what she had said.

“Until now, it was just a bomb that wouldn’t ignite because the fuse was wet, but once it caught fire, it would explode big. It was a bomb that would explode someday. Asen and Sanya.”

“That I know as well.”

The leader of the Hassan warlord, Sheikh Nasir al-Hassan, exhaled a long breath filled with complex emotions.

“The Asen tribe and Sanya tribe had good relations from ancient times… but the Asen ‘warlord’ and Sanya ‘warlord’ did not.”

“Because their interests clashed sharply. It started when Sanya claimed ownership of Asen’s phosphorus and nitrate mines.”

The conflict originated from a mine ownership dispute between Asen and Sanya.

“Phosphorus” and “nitrate,” raw materials for gunpowder, are very valuable strategic resources for warlords. Even if they import cartridge cases, bullets, and primers, self-producing gunpowder allows for dramatic cost reduction. Plus, they can control production volume as they wish.

Then one day, phosphorus and nitrate mines appeared in the territory of a subordinate tribe under Asen. The Sanya tribe, needing ammunition, rushed over and attempted to buy them: “Neighbors! Sell us those mines!” But the subordinate tribe flatly refused.

The reason? As everyone knows.

“If they had sold the phosphorus and nitrate mines, Asen would have wiped out that tribe.”

Nasir muttered in his usual voice. He seemed to suggest that he would have made the same decision. As expected of a warlord leader.

“So they refused.”

“They did what they had to do.”

“Yes, well, that’s true. But the problem is that Sanya couldn’t give up on ammunition, could they?”

Sanya felt wronged. They had clearly expressed willingness to pay a high price. Yet a mere subordinate tribe, not even the Asen tribe that led the Asen warlord, had rejected their offer.

This was a serious insult. Especially in the Mauritanian continent where honor is valued. Particularly since ammunition production was directly linked to maintaining combat power and survival, Sanya couldn’t back down either.

So they threatened. They sent armed forces to demand, “Hand it over now! No, hand it all over!”

What could the other side do? The subordinate tribe, not even the leader of the Asen warlord, had no choice. They scraped together everything as demanded and gave it away. And so Sanya packed up the ammunition and went home.

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

The real story begins here.

I smiled and snapped a prepared snack in two.

“Asen and Sanya were originally in a symbiotic relationship as warlords. A relationship where they maintained certain boundaries even when fighting.”

No ammunition? Buy ours. We’ll sell it cheap.

No weapons? We have extras, want some?

Need to sell drugs? Want us to introduce you to a cartel executive we know?

What! Attacked by cops? Boys, grab your tools. Today we’re sending government bastards to Mother Earth’s side!

Though exaggerated, this was the feeling among the three major warlords of the Zamria Federation. A relationship where they fought and cursed but basically got along. More precisely, “a relationship where they didn’t want to share a table but wanted to maintain face.”

But Sanya floored the accelerator. They forcibly stole the ammunition.

Asen immediately cut off ammunition supplies to Sanya, who suddenly lost one source of ammunition.

The incident didn’t cause the warlord to “collapse!” or decline significantly, but it did sour their relationship.

A little… a lot.

The already accumulated feelings deepened with the ammunition issue. If it had been serious enough, the leaders (sheikhs) from both sides would have met to resolve it, but the leaders’ backsides were too heavy to move for this level of conflict.

The problem was that some pale white man barged in and stirred up trouble.

Crunching on snacks, I reminisced about my past actions.

“Sanya warlord snipers shooting Asen executives, Asen forces blowing up Sanya’s ammunition factory. Opium fields, cocaine factories, gold mines…”

“You destroyed quite a lot. Want to do it again?”

Nasir laughed comfortably for once as he drank his tea. I laughed along and shook my head.

“Why not? I think your skills are quite good.”

“There’s no need anymore. Hasn’t enough blood been spilled?”

“Hmm, that’s true.”

The Hassan warlord leader folded his arms and nodded. A smile still lingered on his face, but shadows covered it.

I made him a proposal. A very attractive one.

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

Nasir slightly raised his head. Then he responded.

“Because of the warlords entering the south?”

“There’s nothing to gain by dragging it out further.”

The Asen-Sanya war brought many benefits to Hassan. Didn’t they gradually take away rights and interests while Asen and Sanya were weakened? Of course, instead of outright plunder, they acquired them through deals with both sides.

That was the reason Nasir joined hands with me in the first place. Eliminating competitors, expanding influence.

But as the war between the two warlords dragged on… and Al-Khair, whether an environmental protection or destruction organization, emerged without reading the room and turned the entire continent into a sea of fire, the situation changed.

“Minor warlords are on the move. From north to south. From east to south. From west to south.”

While Asen, Sanya, and Hassan are the representative warlords of the Zamria Federation, many warlords coexist in this country. It’s not difficult to understand.

Don’t martial arts novels have similar concepts?

There are major factions like the Nine Schools or Five Great Families, but also very small sects within those factions. Existences like supporting characters who pass by rather than protagonists. The southward-moving warlords are just like these.

If this were a story in a novel, the minor warlords might have remained mere background settings. Settings that both author and reader overlook, not knowing they exist.

But reality is different.

The hottest battleground in the African continent, the Sahel Triangle region, is full of rampaging terrorist groups. And all the terrorist groups fighting there are small fry.

Yet people only know major terrorist organizations like the Taliban or Al-Qaeda. Just as martial arts novel protagonists often come from the Nine Schools or Five Great Families. Meanwhile, the ones actually killing people and fighting law enforcement on the ground are groups whose names we’ve never even heard.

But what’s interesting is:

Sometimes.

Those seemingly insignificant groups band together and tear apart the bigger ones.

Like a school of piranhas.

“Hmm…”

The leader of the Hassan warlord, Nasir, frowned with an uncomfortable sigh. I grabbed another snack and continued.

“Asen and Sanya have weakened enough. I believe Hassan could absorb them now without digestive issues.”

Nasir nodded stubbornly. Despite his discomfort, he agreed with that statement at least.

So I could say this:

“Let’s clean them both up.”

The Hassan warlord had planned to take down Asen and Sanya from the beginning.

Even if they pretended otherwise in front of me, their naked ambition was revealed in communications between warlord executives.

And I wanted to fulfill that ambition.

“How about you mediate peace, Nasir? Hassan remained a third party in this war, so no one would find it strange if you stepped forward as a mediator.”

“That’s true. Especially in the current situation.”

Whether Asen or Sanya. Fighting is fine and all.

But what’s the purpose of war? To win and take territory, right? With minor warlords about to raid their empty houses, they won’t have much land left.

Both warlords are already so worried about being backstabbed that they can’t fight properly. The leaders of Asen and Sanya probably want to end the war too.

Even as fighting continues on the frontlines, information has just come in that they’re looking for mediators to end the war in the rear.

And the mediator must be the Hassan warlord.

A good plan came to mind.

“The origin of this whole situation was the dispute over phosphorus and nitrate mine ownership. It started with Sanya coveting Asen’s mines. But wasn’t there a more fundamental cause?”

“Jamila’s incident was the root.”

“The nephew of the Asen tribe leader extorted money from a Sanya tribe merchant. Sanya must have been quite offended.”

Nasir asked what Hassan should do.

“Welcome guests, and confront enemies. In this land where honor is more precious than life, this is probably the longest-standing maxim.”

“……”

“And in a distant island nation, they say this proverb has been passed down: ‘Cut the knot with a sword.'”

I answered.

“Let’s cut it from the root.”

*

Not long after, a meeting was convened.

With the leader of the Hassan tribe, “Sheikh Nasir al-Hassan,” as mediator, the two leaders (sheikhs) of the Asen and Sanya tribes attended.

Security for the meeting venue was handled by the Hassan warlord. The Asen and Sanya warlords brought bodyguards for their leaders, but even combined, they were outnumbered by the Hassan warlord’s forces.

That day, many conversations took place at the meeting.

How to end the war.

How to lay down weapons.

How to resolve conflicts.

After listening to the Sanya tribe leader’s story, the leader of the Asen tribe, “Sheikh Bint al-Asen,” stood up.

Bint called in his nephew, “Jamila al-Asen,” and had a subordinate bring a sword attached to a horse saddle.

Then Bint cut off Jamila’s arm with that sword.

After cutting off the arm that had extorted money from merchants and spread the seeds of discord, Asen’s sheikh sent it as a gift to Sanya’s sheikh. Sanya’s sheikh gladly accepted it, and the meeting ended there.

There was no more reason to fight since they had cut off the troublesome arm that caused the conflict.

The Sanya tribe returned with the wrist and declared a ceasefire, and the Asen tribe also officially declared a ceasefire. Both tribes expressed infinite gratitude to Hassan’s sheikh for helping with the “mediation.”

It was a unique reconciliation scene in a culture where honor is valued more than life.

“…I’ve seen this in the Middle East, but now here too.”

I removed my headset and turned off the terminal screen. The magician flying above the meeting venue packed up the magical video recording device and turned his broom around.

The sheikhs’ meeting concluded that way. Leaving behind one corpse without an arm.

Considering that Sheikh (شیخ) is a title attached only to “male leaders.”

It was truly a reconciliation worthy of the men of the Mauritanian continent.