Episode 1 - The Gray Man
I blinked, imagining the president's shock upon hearing about the twin towers collapsing while reading a book at kindergarten. It felt like everything had gone to shit.
It had been a week since the Hero was summoned, and I'd been thinking it was weird that nothing had happened yet. Then this bullshit went down: "Captain Frederic Nostrim, you've been chosen as the Hero's companion."
The moment I clocked in, Colonel Clevins Hendrick summoned me to the conference room and dropped the bombshell that I'd been selected as the Hero's companion.
"First off, I know it's hard to believe, but you've been chosen as the Hero's companion."
This couldn't be real...
I desperately denied reality and opened my mouth. "I-is that so? But why me of all people...?"
"Beats me. The Church knows the oracle's contents, not our intelligence agency."
Ah, damn it. Right.
Of course. In the game, after starting and completing the initial palace quest, a letter from the cardinal arrives announcing the oracle about the Hero. I'd completely forgotten about it since it was the very first event—naturally, I'd assumed our intel agency would know the details. Verifying the cardinal's personal letter was tough anyway.
He probably omitted the key parts and only shared the names of the four designated Hero companions. The priestess who's a saintess candidate from the Papal State, the alchemist heir from the Magic Tower, the barbarian Hero from the plains, and the world tree guardian elf archer.
Yeah, now I remember.
I nodded like a maniac. Mentioning those companions here and asking why I was lumped in with them would be suicide. I'd just learned I was chosen as the Hero's companion. Spouting nonsense like that would definitely make Colonel Clevins—the expert at sniffing out pretenders—suspect me.
"I get it's hard to accept. Until just now, you were a regular intel agency grunt."
The way he said "until just now" implied I wasn't anymore?
Probably. If the Hero's companion was tied to a specific nation or group, that was one thing—but a military intel officer? Politicians would be foaming at the mouth. Sure, international society was a place where power let you blindfold the idiots and get away with anything, so they could squash controversy with wordplay like "saintess candidate." But that worked because it was a saint from a religion most of the continent believed in. An intel officer? No dice.
With world-ending doom looming, why was I worrying about international relations or diplomacy? Simple: this shitty game's dark fantasy world was packed with morons who'd spark civil wars over the crown even as doom rained down.
And leaving intel meant nowhere to go. That was the real kicker.
Soldiers needed affiliation—unit, HQ, instructor gig, whatever. No affiliation? No promotions, and you'd be stripped of your uniform. Especially without 20 years in, your pension vanishes. No unit would take an intel guy, and as the Hero's companion, I'd be heading abroad—who'd handle my backlog?
Still, it wasn't set in stone. An intel elite like the colonel could cook up a solid fix.
"What happens to me? Do I have to leave intel?"
"Probably. Worst case, you might have to ditch the uniform."
Colonel Clevins grinned and continued. "But don't sweat it too much. Faking an identity's a breeze."
"Thank you, sir."
"You've got a lot ahead—head home early today."
I shut the conference room door and stepped out. My energy drained instantly, shoulders slumping. My plan to suck honey safely in the kingdom's capital while the Hero saved the world? Shattered.
Worse, the thought of losing my job made the future terrifying.
Thud. Thud.
The silent corridor echoed only with my boots—perfect for brooding. Walking the empty hall, lost in thought.
Of course, years in intel sharpened my mind.
I'd become the fifth Hero companion—who shouldn't exist. No clue how it tied to my reincarnation into this game world. Instinct screamed I was trapped, no escape.
The future was a black box. My involvement could derail the plot entirely, or it might flow on unchanged. Hell, the Hero might be a troll needing me to drag them by the hair.
Endless hypotheticals, but pointless. Unproven speculation—brain farts or delusions.
I shut down the fantasy circuit and got pragmatic.
Key point: my situation had flipped. From praying the Hero saves the world, to rolling in the mud beside them.
Military status might not hold. Politics could force me out of uniform or intel. But the colonel said not to worry, so I'd trust that. He was the elite vet.
After agonizing, I decided.
I strode out of the intel building to my quarters. Up the stairs, into the room, flung open the locked cabinet.
Piles of files filled it—28 years of Dark World hero intel.
I rummaged and pulled a slim stack on the ultra-early palace arc.
What mattered now: the Hero was in the palace, and we had time before shit hit the fan.
My 28-year plan was toast, but...
"Haa..."
Still worth a shot.
*
"...Done."
Finally. Finally over.
I tossed the dead pen and gazed out the window. Starlight seeped through pitch-black night.
Stretching, I flopped onto the floor. Rustling paper crunched with every shift.
The room floor was buried—no space to step. Days of non-stop organizing, near-prophetic summaries.
I hadn't just prayed for 28 years. Scraped newspapers, rumors, books, interviews—everything on characters, nations, groups.
Intel agency hauls dwarfed my 20 prior years—quantity and quality. That's why I joined.
I dragged over a stack. Top sheets had photos, names, DOBs, residences, recent activities: Hero companions.
I flipped slowly. Worn pages—I knew them cold, but review never hurt.
Familiar faces: the saintess's attendant priestess, ousted Magic Tower alchemist, desert-roaming barbarian avenging his slain father, world tree elf guardian.
Filled gaps beyond kingdom reach with recalled lore, updated as intel flowed. Memory fuzzy—better safe.
Scanning them, I pondered leading these knuckleheads to save the world.
Then one file caught my eye.
"...Lucia."
Papal State saintess candidate priestess. "Candidate" meant handmaiden to the current saintess, really. Saintess wasn't divine—recommendation by cardinals, bishop vote threshold.
This girl gets cardinal backing post-selection, becoming official candidate.
True saintess? Whole other league—needs majority bishops. In this corrupt dark fantasy clergy? Bribery, smears, ghost votes, coercion galore.
Poor girl in game suffers smears, fails election, joins as candidate. Sparks endless events.
Priestess and alchemist dominate companion events—half the pie. Church hates new candidate; Tower sees alchemist as rival.
Nicknamed walking time bombs. Community guides ditched them for clears—no force to keep, optional.
Following? They die miserably. Player? Just a planned discard—no sweat.
Here? Death's real. Pre-HQ frontline: corpse mountains. Feel, stench, grief—uncodible. Even Skynet couldn't fake it.
Risk it for them? Or ditch guilt-free?
I stared at the star cluster, brooding.
"...Sigh."
Thoughts raced; decisions weighed.
Day 13 post-Hero summon. Day 5 as companion. Dawn.
After five days' torment, I decided.
Just give it a shot.