Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
My body wouldn't respond. I couldn't speak or move. Even when I opened my mouth, no sound came out, and my limp limbs trembled uncontrollably. A seizure. And just like that, I collapsed face-first onto the table in the most pathetic pose imaginable.
My head throbbed. The room spun. I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred, and convulsions began. It felt familiar. Hemolysis. Blood clotting. Subcutaneous hemorrhage. Anemia. Organ damage. Headache. Dizziness. Respiratory distress. Abdominal pain. Full-body paralysis. Visual disturbance. Aphasia. Seizures. Convulsions. Blood vessels. Lymph nodes. Acetylcholine. Neural infiltration. Respiratory failure. Atropine injection. Oxime injection. A flood of keywords raced through my mind.
Then a few more surfaced. VX. Sarin. Soman. Botulinum toxin. Novichok.
I knew it instinctively. Knowledge from two lifetimes fueled my clear thinking. I had been poisoned. With a nerve agent.
*Clink.* Camilla Lowell set down her utensils. Her stomach was full, and post-meal drowsiness hit her hard. When someone asked if she was okay, she just smiled and said no, everything was fine. Outwardly cheerful, but inside, she was a mess.
Just a month ago, she'd been an ordinary university student. Born into a comfortable family in London, England, studying at a prestigious uni. Sure, by average standards—considering London's insane property prices and her school's rep—she wasn't exactly "ordinary." But Camilla Lowell saw herself that way. A 23-year-old student. Perfectly normal.
That's why the chaos unfolding before her was so hard to accept.
"Hey! Gag him so he can't bite his tongue! Make sure he doesn't kill himself!"
"Stay down, you bastard!"
People who'd been quietly sipping wine moments ago were now pinning someone to the floor and slapping restraints on him.
"Get a healer priest in here!"
The soldier she'd just been chatting with was face-planted on the table, shaking violently. No, seizing. His darkened skin and purple lips made him look like a frozen corpse, his body twisting in a grotesque parody of a zombie transformation from some horror flick.
A minute ago, he'd been laughing and talking. Now he was dying. He was her bodyguard. A colleague.
Looks like nerve agent. Disguised as a pen—poison needle. Romantic choice. Who was it that said commies loved that trick? Grandpa? Dad? Instructor? Hell if I know. Over thirty years on, memories fade.
Someone snuck up, jabbed my neck. Symptoms point to nerve agent. Assassination. Probably one of the bomber bastards. Half-expected it, but the target was me. Whoever it was, goddamn impressive. Assassination at a banquet? They must've stuck it out for hours till I was wiped. Yeah, impressive motherfucker. With that kinda effort, maybe I should die gracefully. Bet the prick's already choking on his own poison by now. See you in hell.
Who pulled this off? Imperial Guard? Nerve agents are rare, but a pen-disguised needle? That's their style. Why the terror attack? Did I piss 'em off? Maybe it's a political play to swallow the Church and Hero whole for the Emperor's plan. Or overzealous loyalty from Guard's Second Bureau to win favor. Or First and Second Bureau tag-teaming me. Or Veronica—or someone in the Church—seeing me as a roadblock.
Even as my mind faded, I kept dissecting the assassin's motives. Picturing a faceless, nameless terrorist. Then doubt crept in.
What's the point? I'm dying anyway. Hit a lymph node—minutes at most. Vision's blacking out; just consciousness left. Fucking hurts. Like a greatsword gutting me everywhere. Skull stabbing, guts twisting, can't breathe. Right on death's door.
Truth is, antidotes could save me. Might leave permanent neural damage if unlucky, but survivable. Atropine and oxime shots. But not in this world. For real treatment, you'd need at least a bishop-level healer priest. Minimum. Intel agencies aren't idiots; they engineered nerve agents tough for healing. A bishop or higher dumping holy power could fix it, but those powerhouses aren't on speed dial. Unless one's right here by miracle, I'm done.
If someone clocks the nerve agent, grabs a top healer before asphyxiation... maybe. But fat chance.
"Please…! Hold on…!"
Lucia clung to the collapsed major, pouring holy power into him. She'd served as a field healer, treated poisonings and severe illnesses before. She spotted it, unleashed her power. No effect.
"Why…! Why isn't it working…!"
Lucia knew zilch about medicine. Not that she was dumb—Church healers didn't need it. Wiggle a finger, cripples walked; terminal patients tap-danced. No incentive to crack textbooks. Hence the beef between med profs and healers: eggheads vs. specs.
Anyway, she didn't know the poison type. Assumed common natural toxin. Her holy power outstripped peers, but solo? Not enough.
Chaos: shouts for healers, demands to evacuate. Only intel folks grasped the doom, faces grim.
In the banquet hall of screams, as one man died…
"Step aside."
The Hero arrived.
First time dying from poison? Consciousness flickers. Like being drugged on sedatives. Good sign, maybe. Nerve agent paralyzed breathing, but awareness returning means treatment's underway.
Wanna live, sure. But fear's bigger. No oxygen to brain means likely permanent damage. Whatever—cross that bridge later. No point fretting hypotheticals.
Grab hold of the fog. Why this shit? Bomb to kill me. Poison needle now. Why shove me to safety? Why tip off the terror?
I pondered. Relentlessly. Then a question hit.
Terror. Ekaterina dove in perfect timing pre-bomb, saved my ass. Knew method, place, time exactly. Means she had the full plan.
So why zero intel on the second hit?
"Wh-who are you…?"
"Oh? You're Camilla Lowell, right?"
Cascading black hair. White priestess robes. The woman smiled softly, tear mole crinkling. Gentle silver light from her palm touched him. Darkened skin regained color. What Lucia's torrent couldn't fix, one gesture mended swiftly.
A miracle. A true miracle.
Skin flushed healthy; rushing doctor started artificial respiration. Finishing first aid, the nameless woman rose slowly.
"I'm Veronica, the 58th Saintess of the Church."
The Saintess smiled. A painting come alive, radiant.
"Pleased to meet you, Hero."
Something's up. Bomb terror webs everyone like a spider's trap. Imperial Guard. Royals. Church. Military Intelligence. Inquisition. All three nations' agencies. Counterintel. Security. Overseas Ops. Desires swirling. At the center: the Hero.
Deeper I think, more it pulls me into the rapids. Head hurts. Perceptions don't chain to logic; thoughts drift unresolved. Dizzy. Unnatural flow keeps coming.
…All circumstances connect unnaturally.
…Bomb time, First Bureau timed perfectly to save me. I'm intel hunter, not mind-reader. No clue Ekaterina's motives or Guard's game. But clear: First Bureau knew terrorists' detailed plan cold.
Post-bomb, their intel tanked. No clue on next hit's when, how. Key: timing. Intel collapsed after bomb.
'Why' doesn't matter. 'How' does. How bomb in Church heart. How assassination at Church event. How'd Ekaterina know the plan. How'd counterintel miss it.
Ekaterina: First Bureau counterintel. How'd she know? Embassy agent: First Bureau security. How'd he predict?
Both 'First Bureau.' Spy-catchers. Public security. I'm overseas ops, but I know they run assets masterfully. Informants. Straws in the wind. First Bureau had a line into the terror cell. Planted agent or bought one.
Valuable intel rests on trust; trusted intel from reliable mouths. Ekaterina acted like she knew the full bomb plan. Inquisition and Military Intel panicked—Guard's collection-analysis was god-tier.
But stopped at second terror. No details on method, date, time. If I were terrorist, bomb fail? Suspect leaks, hunt informant, kill. I'd do it.
Makes sense if First Bureau tracked via asset. Assassination fails, asset dead—ops crippled.
Asset fits four: Longtime trusted by Guard and terrorists. Access to plans. Knew bomb use. Purged post-fail.
…Only one. Imported bomb, handed to Church contact, high access to plans. Executed post-terror. Found in sewer week later. Neither black nor white—gray. Second Bureau 'Locust Publishing' handler: Yuri.
"Breathing's stabilized now."
The doctor wiped sweat, explaining. "Treatment done, but we'll monitor post-consciousness. Poison via neck vessels—need brain checks…"
"Ho!"
Veronica blasted holy power at his head. Room blazed white; doctor yelped.
Healer's ignorance of medicine, again.
"All good now."
Veronica stated flatly, exuding specialist confidence. Camilla bowed; Lucia nodded awkwardly; Veronica beamed back.
Only Pippin and Jake sensed trouble.
"Ah, you two his subordinates? Nice to meet—Veronica."
They shook hands dazedly. Veronica greeted briefly, exited. Staring at the door, the spies opened fists.
A note inside.
Breathing fine now, but each inhale rips my body. Gut radiates fire-stab agony. Lungs fibers tearing. Neck wound screams. Hurts like hell.
"…!"
What now? Wake intact? Crucial intel—must pass it. If only I could speak.
"Ma…!"
Kids okay? Jake fine; Pippin worries me. Looks non-combat. Camilla shocked? She's been struggling. Can't break on this. Lucia heal? Game stats easy; here? No clue.
"Major…!"
Someone calling. Mom? Grandpa? Dad? Nah, wishful. Gone forever.
"Major…!"
Eyes opened.
"Major…."
Camilla sobbed, tears dripping. Lucia dashed off urgently; distant commotion.
Mouthed words—no voice.
"…."
"Yes…?"
Camilla leaned ear close. Grasped fog, rasped.
"Hurts… fuck…."
Fucking hurts.
Midsummer night. Sleepless dawn. Emergency wire hit Military Intelligence HQ.
Assassination on operative: failed.