Episode 3 - A Fantastic Vacation
The Hero appointment ceremony was over. Camilla Lowell had become the officially recognized Hero of the continent's largest religion. Now she was free from her trophy status and could engage in normal activities.
In an era where swords and bows had fallen into obsolescence and bullets flew everywhere, what could so-called Heroes, mages, and shamans possibly do?
-Kaaaaaaaack!
The monster with a bullet lodged in its eye socket went into a berserk frenzy. Its tough hide shrugged off pistol rounds like they were nothing. Surviving a headshot unscathed? This bastard had a skull the size of a goddamn watermelon.
Three o'clock. A monster with indigo skin charged in, flaunting its massive bulk.
"Hey! Three o'clock! Three o'clock direction!"
I sprayed bullets while calling out the direction, and crimson flames erupted from Camilla Lowell's hand.
-Whoosh!
"Nice shot!"
"Heck yeah!"
We high-fived while eyeing the monster, now reduced to firewood.
Even in this moment, when soulless machines dominated the battlefield, people like her thrived for one simple reason.
They were useful.
"Good work!"
"You too, Hero."
"Thanks!"
Camilla Lowell bowed deeply to the holy knights in thanks, and their stern faces in full plate armor softened with pleasure.
"Captain, should I just mark the location?"
"Yeah, the Church will handle body retrieval."
"Roger."
Jake set up a signal device near the well-charred monster corpse. It was a sort of mana-wave GPS—basically just a beacon that relayed positions. Nothing more.
"Alright, everyone! Moving to the next site!"
A priest finished installing the device and took the lead. We left the bodies behind and followed the procession at a leisurely pace.
*
Camilla Lowell had been officially recognized as the Hero. Today, we marked the start of her journey by hunting monsters alongside her. It was her debut, a showcase of the Hero's abilities.
The venue was the Uninhabited Zone between the Church and the Kingdom—a lawless wasteland claimed by neither outlaws nor monsters, beyond any national administration.
Right after her summoning, detailed info on Camilla Lowell—her background, abilities—was classified and shared only with top brass across nations. Now anyone could glean her powers from the news or papers.
"Basically, the classified status is lifted."
"Not everything's public, though, right?"
Of course not. Like any intel, only fragments had leaked.
"Even I, her companion, didn't know her abilities until now."
"State secrets don't just spill out easily."
"Exactly."
Her powers were classified to protect her from demons and terrorists. Sure, plenty would scoff—what could anyone do with just ability intel?
"Knowing her powers makes countermeasures easier."
Even the leak itself was deadly. Modern nations hide missile specs, tank armor, aircraft performance for the same reason. Leak a tank's plating? Enemy states develop new shells. That's why you hear about defense labs hacked, military secrets spilled.
Information is national power. Knowledge is strength. No wonder intel agencies snag all the budget.
"Yo, you see that fireball earlier? Insane performance."
"Took out three house-sized monsters in one go."
"That's why it's badass."
Camilla Lowell wielded fire. Pyro-mancer, pyrokinesis, flame sorceress—call it whatever. A few priests fainted in shock when she incinerated a dog-sized beast in seconds.
"Hero's got some real talent. On par with a seasoned mage."
"Her growth rate's abnormal for a newbie."
"Heroes all level up fast."
The title "Hero" carried weight. She'd matched elite military mages on her first try—mages with years of systematic training. Imagine a raw recruit matching a special forces sergeant's marksmanship on day one.
Not just raw power—growth speed and limits were off the charts.
But one glaring issue.
"Has Camilla Lowell come to yet?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Sigh."
She passed out mid-use.
*
In an age where swords and arrows were a bad joke, mages still fought on the frontlines for good reason. Like tanks persisting despite anti-tank missiles and attack choppers—no perfect replacement.
In modern warfare, armor counters armor, air beats air. Here, mages countered mages. Smart officers—academy grads with field experience—had institutionalized it.
Why? Magic was convenient and effective.
Nations investing in defense ran dedicated military magic R&D labs—think Defense Science Institute under the Acquisition Bureau, U.S. Army's high research command, DARPA equivalents.
R&D guzzles cash, so even with labs, they sputter. Tech leaks and poaching are standard; raids on docs routine. Intel agencies guard those facilities and talent.
Smart folks don't join civil service—they're corporate researchers. Anyway, magic's damn useful.
And the Magic Tower monopolized it. A few Imperial Guard mages got expelled recently—shows they take security seriously.
"You awake?"
I opened the door to find Camilla Lowell on the bed, tended by Lucia.
"Welcome, Captain."
"How long have you been here?"
"About an hour."
"Thanks for your help."
I dragged over a folding chair and sat bedside. She'd blacked out eight times mid-power use, collapsing on the last. Even cardinal-level healing from the on-call priest didn't rouse her. Hospital scans showed no health issues, cause unknown.
What the hell was this?
"Lucia, any ideas?"
"About the fainting?"
"Yeah."
Lucia had priested in wars—two years on frontlines. Maybe similar cases.
She pondered, blonde locks falling.
"Not certain, but mages sometimes collapse from exhaustion."
"Mana depletion?"
"Yes."
In games, skills cost fixed mana. Reality? Overdo it, cramp like a sprinter or drop a heavy load when strength fails. Unskilled mages push limits unaware, collapse. Even pros slip—bad days happen.
"Mana exhaustion, then?"
Lucia frowned.
"I'm no mage."
"Got it."
Church and Tower weren't buddies—history of witch hunts and demon labels before magic formalized. Mages fought back, Tower rose. Magic civil jobs followed.
Ask a mage, then. Her powers screamed magic-related.
Silence fell until Lucia spoke.
"Heading back to the Kingdom soon?"
"Yeah. Military reporting, plus checkups."
"Feeling okay?"
"One heal fixed me."
Neurotoxin scans clear. Veronica's cardinal-plus healing ensured no issues.
I gripped the doorknob, leaving word to call when Camilla woke.
"What about the monster corpses?"
"Merchants buy the byproducts."
"Ah, wanted some blood."
Monster blood made potions—mana-processed meds, beyond antibiotics or cold pills. Byproducts had endless uses: aphrodisiacs, paints, hair growers, junk. Science wasn't my forte.
Uninhabited Zone ops? Monsters tough, endless numbers. No clue where they spawn. Rare breaches to villages? Buffet for them, bloodbath for guards. Cities without mages? Evac and call army.
To prevent: bounties to freelance mages and "adventurers"—day-labor mercs.
Thus, army drafts high-mana-affinity folk, often NCOs. Service: five years. Dodgers fill barracks; MPs chase 'em. Seen MPs charging bars with batons—pitiful.
Untrained, they resist and magic flares—100% casualties, mage shot. Still, walking bombs flee.
"I'll head out."
"Take care."
*
Back at the embassy days later, packing for repatriation. Knock.
"Packing?"
"Analyst?"
Intel analyst.
"What brings you?"
"Quick message."
"Sure, have a seat."
He declined.
"On return, your subordinates—Lt. Pippin and Lt. Jake—get blanket leave."
"Nice. How long?"
"Week."
Generous. Jake's family near capital; Pippin planned city fun with friends. Colonel handled my hint well.
"Hero takes a break too."
"Fainting?"
"Classified."
"Sorry."
Her blackout: top secret. Colonel mentioned vaguely, clueless on cause. Labbed it—results in two months?
"Hero gets full checkup on return. Two days."
"I guard her?"
"No, you have separate orders."
What? Pulling me from protection detail?
I tilted my head suspiciously. He whispered:
"In-person debrief."
"Ah."
Forgot reports. Nodded knowingly.
"Anything else?"
"Not that I know."
"Huh?"
"Direct handoff on return."
Colonel had tasks for me.