Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent

"…."

My mind was a mess.

'Major. Your hunch is probably right.'

I couldn't tell anymore if this was really the game world or reality.

'It's just circumstantial evidence, but I think it's safe to assume the 2nd Bureau agents were purged. Betrayal is treated like high treason, so if the charges stuck, they'd have been executed without trial. Could be some other reason, but what do we care?'

"…."

The colonel let out a deep sigh.

'Frederic. Don't dig too deep into this one.'

"…Yeah, I think that's best."

'No reason for us to meddle in Imperial Guard internal affairs. Just keep monitoring the situation and resume official duties when the time's right.'

Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent

The kingdom—no, the entire continent—was plunged into chaos.

The bomb terror in the heart of the Church and the ensuing shootout had the bigwigs and civilians shaking in fear. As the specter of war loomed over the continent and terror spread, hell broke loose.

"…The Empire's declared martial law."

"Fuck."

Jake spat out the curse. Even a twenty-something fresh out of college couldn't hold back in a situation like this.

Pippin, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, started her report.

"HQ's considering reserve mobilization right now. The Empire's troop movements have the whole military on high alert."

Shit. I flipped on the news to get a read on the situation.

A stocky general with patches of white hair read from a script on the screen.

With a shootout in the Church and the Empire slapping down martial law, they were clearly using this as an excuse to tighten internal security and put an end to the border skirmishes.

"What's the Inquisition saying? No official statement yet?"

"Just boilerplate responses. Doesn't look like they have time for a press release."

I flipped channels, and the Inquisition's press room came up. Reporters shouting questions, the spokesperson scrambling—it was chaotic.

The zoo would be quieter. I changed channels again, and an interview rolled.

Subtitles pegged him as a bishop. Looked familiar, but not someone who'd stuck in my mind.

The bishop's face flushed, his calm tone turning aggressive. The rhetoric was skyrocketing like Bitcoin.

"Hey, what's that guy's deal?"

"No clue. Probably some spotlight hog latching onto the scandal."

Pippin gave a prickly reply, hung up, and slumped into her chair.

"Just got a wiretap report. Comms to the embassy spiked right after the shootout, then went radio silent."

"Wireless silence."

Jake jumped in with his take.

"Probably treating wounded and regrouping. With martial law, their higher-ups might've ordered them to go dark."

"Bet that counterintel guy's grabbing collars and throwing punches with his team right now."

"Given the stakes, yeah. You don't stay cool when your guys are getting shot."

"Any contact with the embassy?"

"Nah. Ambassador's direct line goes unanswered. They're probably cut off from outside comms under alert."

"What a clusterfuck. Why the hell shoot up someone else's turf?"

"Internal power struggle?"

I shook my head at Jake's suggestion. Even bitter rivals in the same agency don't shoot each other. If it was 1st vs. 2nd Bureau for the top spot, they'd compete on merits, not murder.

Purge made more sense. But something felt off from the start. Counterintel aside, why was counterespionage abroad? And handing over terror intel? Suspicious.

I racked my brain, but no clear answers. My head felt fogged with mist. So I let out a hollow laugh and cracked a dumb joke.

"…Guess they fought over lunch."

Pippin and Jake shot me trash-tier looks. Joke bombed. Buncha humorless kids.

Then the intercom on my desk started blinking. Someone wanted me.

I slipped out, leaving Pippin on her call and Jake reviewing reports. The hallway swarmed with embassy staff dashing around clutching files.

"Excuse me, coming through."

"Major!"

"Yes?"

I turned at the urgent voice. Camilla Lowell came running up.

"A-are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Schedules are canceled for now—cool with that?"

"Huh? Of course! But you…."

"I'm good. Just following orders anyway."

Camilla's face fell, gloomy. Her psych eval said the shock hit hard. She'd perked up at events lately, but this dragged her down fast.

Bombs and downtown shootouts topped headlines here or on Earth. No wonder she was rattled.

I chuckled and patted her shoulder.

"Your safety first, Camilla Lowell. Don't worry."

"…."

"Go rest. I'm off."

I left her standing there. Best to give her space to process.

"Major."

Her voice echoed as I walked. I turned—Camilla stood in the bustling hall, smiling faintly.

"What's up?"

"…Stay safe."

She vanished after that. Baffled, I muttered at her retreating back.

"…What the hell."

No answer, naturally.

*

A cafe near the embassy. Dingy outside, but inside was posh—soft lighting, scented candles, rich coffee aroma sealing the cozy vibe.

"Long time."

No relaxing sip here, though.

"Likewise, Director Bernard."

Bernard, Inquisition Safety Director. The sycophant who'd tested me with Pedro last time sat across, all obsequiousness gone. Just a stone-cold face now. Reminder he ran counterespionage.

He tilted his impassive mug with a sly smile.

"You look sharp."

Backhanded compliment—probably meant I looked beat.

From my digging, Safety Division handled counterespionage. My natural enemy. No mood for chit-chat.

"Thanks, Director. Why'd you call me here?"

"About the Hero's protection."

"Shoot."

"We get the bomb and shootout threaten her safety. We've doubled your guard detail."

Inquisition guards: knights, inquisitors, healers. Doubling that?

"That's a lot to staff up quick."

Pope's orders or cardinals' meeting, no doubt.

"Manpower's no issue. Lives matter more."

"…Lives matter."

Sounded right, but Raphael and Raoul's chat soured it.

"Appreciate the offer."

"Good. Nice to talk straight."

"Something else?"

"Yes."

Bernard pulled a brown envelope from his briefcase.

I eyed it. "…What's this?"

"Internal docs. You have clearance—no deportation for spying."

He chuckled at his lame joke.

I'd thrown that line at him before.

"Clearance? What's that mean?"

"Chief Pedro asked me to deliver personally. He's quite fond of you."

Fond, huh. Not thrilled—a spymaster's favor wasn't pure upside.

I muttered thanks, flipped the envelope, and dumped the contents.

"Photos."

I picked one up, waved it. "How'd this poor bastard get ventilated in the back of the skull?"

Corpse pic.

"Yuri, 34. Businessman from the Latuan Duchy in the Kien Empire. Ran a publishing house in the Church for years."

"For a publisher, he was big into trade—zinc, coal, steel."

"Church's top exports."

"Yes."

"Just curious—no offense. Heretics and prisoners in forced labor mines, right?"

"Call it penal labor."

Brazen dodge. No different from commie gulags. Religious mine operators—explains the world's mess.

"So why'd this upstanding trader catch a bullet? Bad debts?"

"More execution than assassination."

He shoved more pics: exit wound, bound limbs.

I smirked, tapping one. "Pissed off some bigwig's wife?"

Standard hasty execution for politicals or ideologues.

"Doesn't look like it."

He plopped a resume on the table, stamped with security holograms.

Imperial Guard 2nd Bureau: overseas ops. White agent. Bullet to the head.

Uneasy vibe as I scanned the file.

"When'd he go missing?"

"Week after the bomb."

Bomb terror. 2nd Bureau guy vanishes right after.

"What was his gig?"

"Standard: lobbying, intel gathering, digging into international crime orgs."

"Sounds like you knew him."

"Safety handles global crime too."

Asset, then. Mutual benefit, not one-way.

No reason to squeeze an anti-crime op dry—too useful across borders. Drugs, arms, trafficking: intel agencies team up.

"Digging crime syndicates got him killed?"

"Dunno. But timing suggests ties to the bombers."

I stared at the pics long and hard. Questions burned, but I stuck to basics.

"…Why show me?"

"Told you—Chief's got a soft spot."

"Too kind."

"More docs coming. Don't refuse."

I glared at his deadpan face, drumming fingers, deep in thought.

2nd Bureau cover op. Execution-style hit. Crime syndicates. Lobbying. Bomb.

Spycraft's dirty—whites and blacks alike face this. Security's key; leaks kill teams.

Even pros get burned. No free favors.

"…Hah."

Inquisition handing me this? Motive galore.

"What do you want ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from me?"

"Simple. Find the bombers."

Figured. Inquisition's cornered: failed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on bomb, then shootout.

Politicos should've raged, but Pedro held firm. His record outweighed the screw-up; he'd locked down dissent too.

That monster bet on me—I couldn't fold.

"…I'll try."

Deal.

*

"Took the job. Joint terror probe—why not?"

"Why the sudden worry?"

I got it. Chasing no-notice bombers who iced agents? Rough.

Training a good op costs Earth-millions. Losses hit national wallets hard.

"You gave me the clearance for this."

"What?"

News to me. But he was a counterintel vet who'd bagged tons of spies, some black ops.

Made sense he'd fret.

"You worry too much."

Oddly sentimental. Rumors painted him ruthless, but he treated spies humanely. Counterespionage griped about it.

Elite who jailed hordes but drew lines. Contradictory. Hard to buy him sending assassins in-game.

"Anyway, joint terror hunt it is. Unofficial, so hurdles, but we'll manage."

"Rest easy."

I pocketed the dead comms device. Strolled empty streets, taking in the dying city.

Dark shops, no traffic—like urban death. But curtain-glows flickered like candles, pushing back the dusk.

Tiny embers of life. The city's light chipped at the sky's edge, banishing dark.

Beautiful.

"Right outside. What now?"