Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
Ekaterina from the Counterintelligence Bureau had spotted the overseas operatives. Having worked in the Overseas Operations Division myself, I knew a bit about the relationship between Counterintelligence and Overseas Ops. Operatives and counterintel agents aren't close enough to recognize each other just by sight. Their operational areas don't overlap much to begin with, so they rarely cross paths. And yet, Ekaterina had pegged them. How the hell did she spot them?
"Major?"
"Y-yes?"
"Are you okay...?"
Camilla Lowell approached me with a puzzled look.
"Ah, sorry. I was just lost in thought for a second..."
"You're scaring people, you know."
She gave a slight smile. Lucia the priestess had sidled up beside her and greeted us warmly.
"It's been a while, Camilla."
"Lucia!"
"Good to see you again, Major Frederic."
"Yes... likewise."
We exchanged greetings, and in the distance, reporters who'd been angling for a scoop with their cameras unleashed a barrage of flashes. Amid the storm of shutter clicks, a voice rang out.
"The heroes of the continent, all gathered in one place."
Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
For two hours, I wandered the banquet hall fulfilling official duties—reviewing schedules with Church officials, checking venue security with Inquisition reps, lining up diplomats on which country to visit first. Middle-aged guys with thinning hair slicked back with wax to fake volume kept hounding me.
"Major, a word, if you please..."
"Sorry, Ambassador, I've got something urgent..."
"Frederic? Long time! Remember me?"
"Ah— uh, right, Consul, of course!"
"Haha, honored you do! As I mentioned last time..."
Every time some foreigner whose name I couldn't recall shoved their face in mine, my heart pounded. Amid endless requests, proposals, and discreet bribes, my options were limited.
"I'll pass it along to the Foreign Ministry..."
"That's outside my authority... Oh! There's the ambassador..."
"No, no! I can't accept that...!"
I channeled my inner bureaucrat, politely deflecting as best I could. Dumping work on another department was a universal hack that worked anywhere. But bribes? No clue why they'd offer those. I blocked every attempt to stuff serial-numberless gold bars and jewels into my pockets. Shoving off guys old enough to be my dad wasn't easy. Still, duty called. I finally extricated myself.
I moved carefully to avoid bumping anyone.
"Eek!"
But these things always happened. Reflexively, I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to the woman.
"You alright?"
"Ow... yeah..."
She winced, frowning at the spilled white wine with a regretful smack of her lips. Come to think of it, this was the face I'd seen a few times in the Inquisition press room. It didn't take a genius to realize she'd orchestrated this. Scoop-hungry reporters pulled stunts like that without hesitation. I shoved the handkerchief into her hand and tried to slip away.
"W-wait!"
The reporter grabbed my hand.
"Come on, miss, why?"
"How'd you—"
"I'm on official duty. Let go."
"Just one interview...!"
I shook her off with a basic agent takedown technique from training.
"M-Major...!"
"Sorry—excuse me."
I quickened my pace, glancing back at the reporter being herded away by plainclothes agents who'd approached quietly. For a moment, I wondered if this was why I'd become an agent. Should've listened to Grandpa and stayed away from intel work. Got nagged into the military by Dad and ended up here.
"Major, I'm from Rohana Times..."
"Please, no."
Back off, you pen-pushing thugs.
*
The pen-wielding thugs eventually got dragged off by Inquisition plainclothes agents patrolling the hall. They resisted at first, but once IDs were flashed in their faces, they paled and walked out on their own. That's the rep counterintel had here. Groups pulling Cold War-era spook shit, with power to match. Even as espionage heat cooled, they held infamy on par with the CIA or KGB.
Pippin eyed the reporters being hauled away. "Inquisition hasn't changed."
"Hundreds of years smashing heretic skulls with scriptures—can't ignore that kind of tenure."
A few plainclothes agents flinched at my mutter. Still heretic-bashers at heart, probably stung a bit.
Jake leaned against the wall, chuckling. "Tenure-wise, every agency's the same, right?"
"Pretty much."
Dark fantasy world—every nation came standard with press suppression and political purges. Centuries ago, they all had secret police or public security outfits. Those evolved into modern counterintel. But continent-wide, few nations could run proper intel ops (collection-analysis/overseas work). That's why folks romanticized agencies. Even 21st-century people idolized them. James Bond wasn't popular for nothing.
Reality? "I hate this job."
"Same."
"You idiots—save the whining for home."
Pippin and Jake burst out laughing at my jab.
"If we could just go home."
"Stuck tailing the Hero for years—how?"
What a pain. "Hey, we'll get leave during stand-downs. Not going home?"
"Wait, we can?"
I yanked their ears and whispered. First overseas op—they didn't know the ropes yet.
"Security briefings mean heading back anyway."
They got it late and gasped. Common misconception: spies don't cross borders willy-nilly. But overseas trips, deployments, buyer contracts—plenty of excuses to make it happen.
"Leave after this wraps. You know our situation's a mess."
Three agents on the op team. Normal teams ran a dozen to dozens, including locals. We were barely a team. Waah. Baby spy here. Gimme people. Gimme budget. Time to chat with the colonel. He'd have full control of Military Intelligence by now, handing off with the chief. By our return, he'd be chief.
Pippin and Jake nodded, catching on.
"Ah—got it."
"Good, good. Now report."
The three spies huddled. I'd only done official duties, so intel collection was theirs.
Pippin went first—terror-related intel.
"Inquisition says explosives shipped via publisher went to Church contacts."
"ID'd who?"
"No. Eyewitness vague—glimpsed at dawn heading to work. Low credibility. Double books block fund traces; staff searches nil."
Hm. Imperial Guard's 2nd Division must've lavished effort on that front company. Handler executed for some reason—trail's cold. Funny how claims aligned. Guard blamed "Church insider"; Inquisition blamed Guard "operative." 2nd Division delivered bomb; Church received; 1st Division knew terror details. How to connect those dots? Anyway, with Ekaterina in custody, squeezing Church side might yield answers.
"Call witness for composite sketch. Circulate to agents."
"Yes, sir."
Pippin stepped back; Jake advanced—banquet intel.
"Raoul's checking Raphael. Low support, but grinding his image."
"Black propaganda, huh."
Didn't peg Raoul for power-hungry.
"Plots against Lucia candidate worsening. Ringleader unknown."
"Wasn't Veronica?"
"No. Broad attack; Veronica's minor share."
Off-script intel.
"Veronica not hitting Lucia?"
"Direct/indirect: 20% stake."
If conspiracy total was 100, Veronica sourced one-fifth. Expected half—lower than thought. I had zilch on Veronica personally. Just game lore, half fan speculation. Plenty on Saintess Veronica, zilch personal. Worth digging.
"Stick a tap near Veronica. Watch meets."
"She's right here?"
I whipped around. No Veronica nearby. Too serious for casual order. I leaned to Jake's ear.
"Later. Next."
"Saintess election date soon."
Saintess vote—watching, no need to meddle.
"Heard. Hero investiture after."
"Raphael faction pushes fast; Raoul slow."
"Date set, still wait..."
"What? Hero ceremony?"
"Yeah."
I nodded. Even democracies ran elections like marathons. No way this mess sped up. Soon, bribes would flood election staff pockets. Delays profited some financially, others politically. More delay, more Church winners. Cardinals just discussed it. Rough math: vote in a month minimum.
"At least a month to vote. Skip."
"Yep."
Jake briefed rest.
"...Key intel done. Rest in report."
"Got it. Rest up."
They vanished; I stood, strolling casually. Major issues handled pre-brief; left were minor MOUs. Lighter step, I roamed. Signaled our ambassador; secretaries tailed. Korean equivalent: grade 4+ bureaucrats. Officers (captain/lt/jg) were grade 7—I outranked casually. But Hero's ally badge and high backers let me boss them.
Thus, diplomats in tow, I freely navigated tables. Handshakes with earlier ambassadors; passed docs to secretaries. Chatted biz with execs over drinks; joined econ dispatch for trade/continent economy talk. Snapped pics with celeb singer post-performance; handed sticky reporters to agents. Full lap done—breather time.
"Whew... good work, secretaries."
"Nah, Major—just the job."
Suit-clad secretaries grinned, arms full of docs. Grins weren't real.
*
As party mellowed, talk lightened—jokes, chit-chat.
"Employment tanking hard... exports slumping..."
"Domestic slowdown spikes export uncertainty. Real economy suffers..."
"Pirates jacked sea insurance..."
Econ bureaucrats and execs gossiped busted continent economy. That's their chit-chat. Nearby, embassy military attaches carved meat.
"North front breached recently? Demon hordes?"
"Nah, not breached... line pushed back briefly."
"Oh dear. Front okay?"
"Front units fell back, reorganized; commanders punished."
"Haha. Promotion hopefuls galore."
North front. Horde assault. Line retreat. Reorg. Purges. Keywords jammed in brain; checked fountain pen. Defense, economy—core security. Colonel'd pass to higher-ups; shape next quarter policy. Typical white agent work. Overlap with diplomats meant intel-to-ambassador pipelines, vice versa. Diplomats and spies: paper-thin divide.
"Major!"
Camilla's voice. She waved amid Church folk; Lucia beside.
"What're you all up to?"
I slipped in with familiar smile. Scoped faces—pre-memorized report roster. Knew 'em all. Greeted warmly, joined chat. Low-tier—no deep intel. As usual, folks drifted after brief talk. Table left: us do-nothings. Jobless spy. Stamp-collecting Hero. Event-hating candidate. Narrow circles, apathy—we bonded.
Light banter flowed.
"You look tired, Major."
"Haha, thanks, Priestess Lucia. No need to worry."
"Taking supplements?"
"Of course. Food to your taste?"
"Delish!"
Camilla beamed; Lucia watched with soft smile—like doting on a kid. Up close, their bond clear. Lonely otherworlder Camilla; isolated-by-plots Lucia. Shared outsider vibe. Comrades-in-arms. Tight-knit ahead.
Eyeing their chat, report phrasing came; I sipped water-filled wineglass to sort thoughts.
"Frederic Nostrim?"
Someone called from behind. Casual—acquaintance? I turned reflexively. Cold, blunt something pressed my neck.
And—psshk! The ballpoint jammed to my throat whirred ominously.