Episode 2 - Heroes of the Continent
An assassination attempt unfolded at a major Church event honoring the continent's heroes. Nerve toxin was the weapon of choice. It failed, but the fallout was massive. The Church and the Inquisition took a beating. Unofficial petitions demanding Director Pedro's resignation piled up on the Pope's desk. For good measure, Cardinal Raphael's political foundation started to crack.
The Kien Empire expanded its emergency martial law nationwide. Officially to counter the demons' fierce offensive, but with political scandals bubbling to the surface, it looked more like a purge. Still, swift action prevented any deaths—just one victim—so the incident wasn't spun negatively in the press. Articles praising the rapid response even popped up now and then. My guess? The Inquisition censored the media, and some political deal was struck between the foreign powers and the Church.
Of course, an assassination attempt couldn't just vanish quietly. The Kingdom expelled a few Church officials, and the Military Intelligence Agency put captured spies on trial. The Church sent envoys to soothe the Kingdom, while the Empire tried backchannel contacts. It's one of those situations that's hard to put into words. Feels like the powers are shifting on their own, without us.
And then I say,
"An unfamiliar ceiling."
Where the hell am I?
I came to lying in a bed. Not a hospital room—more like a hotel suite. Camilla Lowell was at my side, tears streaming down her face, clutching my hand and sobbing pitifully.
Priestess Lucia returned to the room, leading a group. White priestly robes and doctor's coats. Healer priests and physicians. They prodded every inch of me. When the doctor pointed to a spot, pure white light touched it, and the pain melted away. Incredible. I'd seen it a few times in field hospitals, but the method still amazed me.
With the pain gone, the doctor brought out a syringe. Painkiller, he said. I grabbed his wrist like I was about to snap it and shoved him away. Get doped up, and who knows what I'd blab. Security first. Occupational hazard, a compulsion.
He rubbed his wrist, nodded at my firm refusal, and left with his team, ordering absolute bed rest.
Pain vanished, tension eased—my body went limp. Sleep tugged at me. I slowly closed my eyes.
Military Intelligence agents moved me to the embassy. A discreet doctor examined me—no health issues. Rest up and return to duty when better. Fat chance. I got a painkiller prescription and jumped back into work. Back at the office after about three days, clearing the backlog.
Reports on the assassination probe. Circulated sketches, issued warrants. Read Ekaterina's psych profile. Ordered investigation into the dead advisor. Sent reports to HQ.
Meantime, visitors poured in: Camilla Lowell, the ambassador, intel analysts, Priestess Lucia, Raoul, Raphael, and more. Diplomats offering condolences, reporters sniffing for interviews, Inquisition reps begging forgiveness with investigation files. One even tried kowtowing—I yanked him up, startled. Gotta bank that debt for later leverage. Not ready for apologies yet.
Imperial Guard's Second Division sent the bomb and needle, but the Church took the blast. No clue who detonated it. Filing that away for when I need ammo.
No sign of Pippin or Jake. Word was they headed to Church HQ—hoping no trouble.
Fueled on bland hospital slop, gathering intel from news, when the phone rang.
"Yes, Major Frederic Nostrim speaking."
"You still with us?"
"Died and came back, sir."
"Heard you took nerve toxin—thought you were goner. Heaven's on your side."
"Sorry, sir..."
"Nah, you're alive. That's what counts."
People die in intel all the time. Especially in an era where lives are cheaper than flies.
"Reminds me of that Moritani bombing."
"Ah... the bomb delivered to the embassy..."
"Precisely: terrorists killed the guards, broke in, and blew it."
The world's a madhouse. Moritani's the southern continent's Middle East knockoff—dark fantasy style. Shudder to think.
"Anyway, reason for the call? Trouble?"
"Hmm... close enough. 'Delayed by meetings' fits."
"Don't you have comms in the intel conference room?"
"Parliamentary Intelligence Committee meeting."
"...The Intelligence Committee?"
Kingdom's parliamentary oversight body. Like Korea's National Assembly Intelligence Committee or the US Senate one. Standing committee of expert lawmakers reviewing issues pre-floor vote with knowledge and law.
King and cabinet run the state; parliament checks and supports. Separation of powers exists—country's just a mess.
If they're convening, it's serious. I straightened up, listened intently.
"Heard some juicy stuff in parliament."
"What?"
"Imperial Guard Second Division chief is dead."
Head of Imperial Guard's external ops died. Natural causes from old age, they say. No one knows if it's legit, suicide, or forced. Only the Guard and Emperor know.
"Empire messaged via unofficial diplomacy: no imperial link to the terror."
"..."
"Officially heart attack, but timing screams purge."
Familiar drill. Even modern world, heads roll for scandals. Here, daily routine.
We don't know Guard internals—tried, lost agents. Can't confirm natural or sacrificial.
But clear: official denial of imperial-terror link from counterintel and unofficial channels. Emperor's intent. Who knows what the distant Emperor thinks? Just accept it.
Empire didn't stop at words.
"Foreign Ministry offered tariff cuts, debt forgiveness. Easing export limits, bulk essentials."
Gifts to shut mouths.
"Treasury says it'll revive economy. Foreign Affairs sees paths for our firms into Empire."
Intel supports national biz abroad—I'd been cramming economics for it.
"Church offered perks too—later on that."
"..."
"Major."
"Yes, sir."
"Disappointed?"
"...No, sir."
Lie. I knew intel's ways, lived it twice. Grab national gain, no holds barred. Covering bomb and hit creates benefits: food inflows, biz expansion, debt drop, trade boom, jobs, stability, happiness, growth.
People starving now—could save them. As diplomat, soldier: nation first. Why Kingdom eyes the Hero? Why make me advisor? Save the country.
Accept, nation grows. Good. Not clean, but intel's like that. Wrap neat, get medal, promotion. Good news. Patriotic.
Camilla said so.
"Frederic."
"Yes..."
"Your thoughts?"
Ideally, accept. No patriotism, but conscience. Utilitarian? Save lives first.
But nagging: suffering Camilla, overworked Pippin and Jake, running agents, my charges, 63 civilian casualties, buried secrets, pride, conscience. All to forfeit.
Trade 63 casualties and filth for patriotism? Ignore terror victims and dutiful troops for justice? About to nab perps—tail between legs?
Humans are emotional. Pride and conscience warred. Lost. Asked superior.
"...Sir, your view?"
"Hah."
Deep sigh. Frustrated too.
"Committee voted continue op."
"...Pardon?"
"Deaf? Keep going."
"Wait, then... economy?"
"Why worry economy? You're military."
"Ah..."
Chuckle over line.
"Told you: overthinker."
"...Proceed as is?"
"Yes. Remember my order?"
I echoed: "Stop terror, find backers..."
"Exactly."
"Exactly..."
"Good memory."
"Kingdom collapse sans Empire? No."
"..."
"Doubt you, wouldn't make advisor. Confidence, tsk."
True. Could puppet a figurehead. Clevins promoted me, appointed.
"Gave black ops command—chew Guard and all."
Even semi-illegal ok.
"I'll handle mine. Go catch bomb-and-needle bastards now."
Ignore rest, kill terrorists.
Clevins Hendrick. Next intel chief. Loyal elite. Eccentric bastard. Lays table like this, refuse? Idiot.
"...Yes, sir. Understood."
Time to dance with knives as wanted.