Episode 1 - The Gray Man
The paperwork I’d been grinding through all afternoon was finally approved. The reason I could spend an entire afternoon on a single document was simple: my position had basically evaporated. How was I supposed to continue intelligence work after becoming the Hero’s companion? I had to hand over my duties first.
In the best-case scenario, this was a vacation meant to optimize physical condition. In the worst case, it was suspension from duty. Seeing my desk—built up over years—stripped bare felt exactly like getting laid off. And officially, I’d been removed from Military Intelligence, so calling it “fired” wasn’t even wrong.
Anyway, as the Hero’s newly appointed companion, I had spent the past few days going back and forth between offices, especially Colonel Clevins’s, handing over documents. Each time a new stack landed on his desk, his expression soured a little more. But he still accepted everything.
I requested what I needed, my leave period expired, and the handover was completed. All that was left was: “Captain Frederic Nostrim, we’ll escort you to the palace.”
A meeting with the Hero.
I took a moment to recall the storyline of Heroes of the Dark World. A tale about a Hero summoned to this world to save it. The problem was—this wasn’t just any fantasy. It was dark fantasy.
Kings waged wars, nobles schemed in political games, and priests preached crusades while drowning in gold. If it were only the elite rotting in corruption and excess, it would’ve been a standard fantasy setting. But Heroes of the Dark World was a toxic mix of dark fantasy and apocalypse.
A natural disaster a few years earlier had devastated the entire continent. Demons took advantage of the chaos to probe imperial borders. The sudden threat of war destabilized the economy. Famine triggered riots, social unrest exploded, and scandals, secret organizations, and shadow groups surfaced everywhere.
Most nations were effectively on a death sentence.
To deal with this mess, the rulers agreed to summon a Hero. Historically, it had been treated as a miracle cure-all. While this overwhelming force bought time, they could clean up internal problems and stabilize the crisis.
Whether that would actually work? I had no idea. From a screen, it already looked like a disaster. Living inside it was something else entirely. The world was one step away from Fallout. Or maybe Resident Evil.
The Hero was still in the palace, so full-on apocalypse mode hadn’t started yet. If our Hero actually did her job properly, maybe disaster could still be averted.
"This is it. Please enter."
The palace maid who'd guided me bowed and withdrew. From her name, some baron's daughter from the boonies. No game appearance, no reason to care. I thanked her curtly and opened the door.
The room screamed opulence. Tasteful decorations, a bed that looked plush as hell, mahogany furniture, and rare wines in a display case caught the eye. But the standout was the softly glowing crimson hair. Bright eyes fixed on me.
"Ah, hi. I'm Camilla Lowell."
She greeted me awkwardly. Watching her, it was impossible to think of her as programmed AI. Too natural.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Lowell. Captain Frederic Nostrim. Looking forward to working with you."
Our first meeting with Camilla.
*The Hero who introduced herself as Camilla Lowell didn't leave a great impression. Fidgety demeanor, halting speech, hunched posture. Dropped into another world clueless, sure—but her defensiveness made even me anxious. Maybe that was normal, though.
"Um… should we sit?"
"Yeah, have a seat."
"Okay…"
I sat on the sofa facing her. While the attendants prepared tea, neither of us said a word. Not one. Important, so twice: not a peep. First meeting or not, clamming up after giving her name? Where'd she learn that? Felt like a blind date with someone you weren't into.
I broke the awkward silence first.
"What tea would you like, Camilla Lowell?"
"Anything's fine. And… could you drop the formal talk?"
"Sure. Black tea okay?"
"Pardon?"
"What."
"No, it's fine."
She didn't know black tea, so whatever. Only instant from the Magic Tower anyway—I wouldn't know the difference.
"Hey, how old are you, if you don't mind?"
"Twenty-eight. You?"
"I'm twenty-three."
Holy shit. Older than she looked. Baby-faced? Or were my eyes shot? Probably the latter.
I launched a full background probe. Years in intel as a soldier—tongue like a razor when I needed it. Work under ass-covering pricks teaches you to talk your way out of anything to survive. Short interrogation later, here's what I got on her.
Camilla Lowell. Twenty-three, female. University student from the UK, yanked here mid-semester. Only child. Seemed clueless this was a game world—rambled about movies, comics, novels. Words tumbled out messy, but she knew it wasn't a dream. No memory of what happened right before transport.
"So, you were a college student, Miss Lowell."
"You know about universities?"
"We have them here too."
"Wonder what yours are like… Mine was—"
She opened up, chattier now. Palace maids this, royals that, yesterday's dinner yummy. Laughing mid-sentence—she was adapting.
She'd shed the total loner vibe. For a while, she babbled nonstop about her hometown, Earth landscapes, twenty-first-century life. Not the smoothest talker—got stuck describing, flustered. Made me wonder what face she'd make if I said I'd lived on Earth too, reborn here. Embarrassed? Thrilled?
"Our world has this novel called Harry Potter—kinda like here."
More 1984 than that. I was intel, this was dark fantasy. Dystopia fit better. And 1984 was set in the UK. Brit girl drops into a world like a Brit author's book. Weird.
"The mages showed off spells—super cool."
"Court mages would love hearing that."
"Does everyone here use magic?"
"Lots know basic spells. But trained ones from academies, the Tower, or military? Rare."
She tilted her head, puzzled.
"Difference?"
"Big time. Imagine kids with guns. What happens?"
"Ah… got it."
On battlefields, you'd see green troops or militias slinging spells—friendly fire fests, pure disaster. Nations don't ban unlicensed magic for fun. Back when magic was crude, users got branded witches or demon cultists, dragged to inquisitions. Wanderers like that settled and built the Magic Tower. Hence the Tower-Church bad blood. Episodes on that later—no need now.
Wonder how she'd cleared quests? She'd backed me up with heavy fire support as my Hero companion. Not bad. But too long ago—couldn't recall starting skills. Picked a class or something?
"Pardon, but what abilities do you have?"
"Huh?"
"Abilities. Skills, psychics, magic—whatever."
She tilted her head long, scratched her cheek. Kinda cute loner vibe. But the hesitation sparked bad vibes.
"…Um, I don't think I have any?"
Something was very wrong.