Chapter 32
A priest lived in a modest house in the heart of the Church's central district. He'd served as a Church priest for nearly twenty years, and countless people saw him as diligent and good-hearted. He'd just finished his backlog of overtime and was about to hit the bed for some rest before tomorrow's work.
Knock knock.
That was until the knock echoed through the door. Dragging his weary body to the entrance, the man opened it.
"Who is it...?"
A woman with mint-green hair stood at his doorstep in the dead of night. Behind her loomed at least a dozen people.
"Who...?"
"Are you Vasilio?"
"Yes."
She pulled a wallet from her bosom and flipped it open.
"From the Inquisition. Come with us."
"Heard the Inquisition picked up their package."
I was dozing under a blanket when Jake burst in with the good news. I flicked on the news to confirm, catching a report about explosives found in a Church official's home basement. It quickly switched to breaking news of a Kien Empire politician's sex tape leak.
Right on schedule.
I pulled the blanket higher and told Jake, "Tell them to start the op."
Time to draw steel.
*
In just one week, a barrage of news rocked the continent. The spy world's opening shot had unleashed a media storm.
Diplomat expulsions. Spy hunts. Anti-state group indictments. Black magic cult crackdowns. Corporate illegal funding. Capitalist exploitation. University professor dismissals. Industrial espionage punishments. Bribery scandals. Sex-for-favors exposés. Suspicious deaths reinvestigated. Civil war meddling allegations. Illegal lobbying busts. Apology statements. Sex tapes. Drug scandals. Leaked recordings. Military secrets spilled. High-ranking resignations. Someone's death. A saintess in seclusion.
Suspicions and incidents erupted across every sector of the continent, and the world started going mad. Of course, none got deep coverage—the intel bureau had the news desks wrapped tight.
So it was all just flashy noise, empty thunder. And that's exactly what we'd aimed for.
"Sir, let's get to work."
"Yes, Councilor."
The plan had veered slightly off course, but everything flowed as it should in the end. True to his word, Pedro scooped up all the small fry behind the bomb plot.
We were supposed to tail the guy who took the bombs originally, but with big fish involved, no point chasing minnows.
"Planted an agent near Raoul's close aides. Link up with them."
"Got the meetup spot and time via secure channel yesterday."
"Ah, then we're good. Thanks for the hard work, sir."
"See you later."
We targeted one of Raoul's aides with Kien ties—Veronica had flagged him. Cross-referencing his Kingdom activities with Inquisition files marked him as the link between Raoul and Kien nobles.
So I called in the scary uncles. National Intelligence Special Activities Division.
"The uncles will grab a package. We'll move it to the villa."
"Make him talk?"
"Yeah."
"Our specialty."
Once Special Activities nabbed Raoul's aide, techs waiting at Safehouse 5 would interrogate and extract a confession.
"Been a while since I saw Counterintel folks."
"I've caught you with the colonel plenty."
"Ah, faces I know."
Counterintel techs—interrogation specialists. The colonel sent his best. Turns out they'd worked under him before. We exchanged warm greetings and light chit-chat.
"What's this stuff?"
"Truth serum."
"Makes 'em spill like truth potion?"
"Haha, common misconception. Just clouds the mind."
"Does it hurt?"
"Depends on the type."
Intel bureau small talk. Their bag was a whole new world.
"Ekaterina, right? Imperial Guard counterintel agent."
"She got issues?"
"Doc who came with says her health's iffy."
"Hm, we got all the intel anyway..."
"Overstepping, but how about cutting her loose here?"
Solid advice from a spy-catcher. So I took Ekaterina and met her handler.
"Long time no see. Call you Counterintel agent?"
"...What do you want?"
"Let's make a deal."
We released Ekaterina, handed over three Imperial Guard agent corpses found in the slums to Kien. A warning: we know what you did, don't get cocky.
Not my call, though. Unofficial Military Intelligence-Imperial Guard talks.
We buried their screw-up, got some consolation payout in return.
"Your requested files."
"Church-based Second Bureau agents?"
"More like renegades."
Who even counts as renegade? But I had a local verifier for cross-checks.
So I took the list to Veronica.
"Any servants on here?"
"...No, none."
"Then they're the renegade bastards. Sending to HQ—news soon."
"Thanks."
Veronica confirmed none of her known contacts were listed. Matched against the hotel-room ransackers—none there either. Meant the Guard's legit agents weren't on it. The ones ignoring recall and dosing with poison were our targets.
Found you, you fucks.
Anyway, took Veronica-vetted files to one man: Inquisition Chief Pedro.
"What's this?"
"The assholes who poisoned me. Probably."
"Want me to find 'em or grab 'em?"
"Find 'em."
"Done."
Some grumbling in Inquisition ranks about foreign military meddling—resentment from me sticking too close to Pedro. Dumped assassination plot files from the cabinet to shut 'em up. They made the mess, they clean it.
Thus formed the bizarre Military Intelligence-Inquisition-Imperial Guard triangle. Mutual concessions smoothed everything.
Guard buried scandals, safely extracted agents; indicted ones freed. Bloodbath brewing internally.
Inquisition torched a few fabricated black mages, gained momentum. Bolstered Raphael's base. Pope seemed pleased.
Military Intelligence got terror ringleaders and Kien renegades. Bonus: Guard internals exposed, high-value informant acquired.
All stayed under wraps. Dozens of spies indicted then released at the border. Self-proclaimed black mages dying in torture cells. Kidnappings and disappearances in Church heartland.
Who cares when news blasts a 60-year-old tycoon and pop star's affair?
Everything flowed smoothly.
And then,
"Hello?"
"Techs received the package."
Time to swing the blade.
*
Magic mirror. Peering through the one-way glass, the interrogation room looked brutal. Walls splattered with blood, floor soaked in water and gore. Raoul's aide slumped unconscious in the chair, agent mopping indifferently.
My take: simple.
"First time seeing a scene like this."
Interrogation room after ~30 years felt savage. Counterintel agent wiping glasses from the desk chuckled.
"Might see it more often now."
"You're used to it."
"It's the job."
He grinned, blood-flecked glasses in hand. Blood on his cheek too—kinda scary. Normal-looking guy, abnormal work.
"Spy work's all the same, huh."
"You from ops?"
"Yeah."
"Figures. Field agents don't see this much."
True. Only if captured by enemies or branded renegade.
I slowly read the handed-over interrogation report.
"Raoul's definitely in bed with Kien. How long to crack this?"
"About an hour."
"An hour?"
"Yeah."
Counted on fingers, but confirmed.
"How the hell do you break someone in an hour?"
"Ways exist."
Took me over a month to link Raoul and Guard renegades. These guys did it in 60 minutes. Where'd my time go?
Seeing my hollow look, the agent laughed heartily.
"Don't take it hard. Your intel made it easy."
"Average time?"
"Solo? Years."
Spy hunts take a decade. Proving it eats time, money, manpower.
We wrapped in a month and a half—should I be thrilled?
"Got confession, evidence from house search."
"You found the docs?"
"Your agents did. We just confessed him."
Agent donned glasses, stood.
Gestured to the room.
"Our turf ends here. Not foreign soil."
Blood gone already; only the aide stayed red. Agents entered with tape and plastic.
I glanced at papers, asked him.
"Confession and evidence enough for hard time?"
"Eh... probably not."
"Why?"
"Confession weighs heavy; hard to convict."
Pointed at the aide.
"Thorough bastard—shredded most docs."
"Light on evidence, huh."
"Yes. Sorry, sir."
"Nah, you did plenty."
Pocketed papers, straightened clothes. Mirror now plastic-covered. Agent loaded live rounds, asked.
"We report?"
"Just log it. I'll bundle tonight."
"Thanks."
"No prob, we help each other."
He smiled. I returned it, shook hands.
"Heading out. I'll square it upstairs—rest after."
"Haha, appreciate it."
"See ya."
"Safe travels."
Escorted out by him. Brief pause, then he entered the room. Eye-contact farewell in the hall.
Turned for the surface. Concrete felt stark. Boots echoed in the silence.
Climbing stairs, distant gunshot.
Bang.
Counterintel wrapped up.
*
"Good work."
Short from the colonel. Routine daily report done, call ended.
Embassy terrace view: Church as usual. Sunset, holy knights withdrawing. Shift end.
Guards locked main gate, opened side. Diplomats back with briefcases post-talks; plainclothes agent grabbed them on the hurry.
Everyone grinding. Diplomats and spies blurred; embassy shadows matched room agents.
Hard to tell. Game world or real? Memories true or fake? Past life, this one—no diff. Still a soldier. Name, age, nationality, unit changed; uniform stays.
Op winding down, stray thoughts piled. Relief, emptiness, faint pride.
Ding.
But road ahead.
"Talk."
"Raoul Cardinal and Second Bureau runaways located."
Flat tone, but resolute. I played it casual.
"Grab the tools."
Time to smash.
*
One week later, Inquisition spokesman announced 16 black magic kidnappers of Raoul Cardinal killed. Cardinal dead; mages linked to recent bomb terror and assassination plot.
Scene yielded guns, explosives, poisons—matched terror and hit materials.
Officially solo Inquisition op.
All missions closed successfully.