Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The Royal Intelligence Department's offer was straightforward. Full support in exchange for switching over. Director Leoni had mentioned it only vaguely, but the suit who accompanied her brought me the concrete proposal. For the record, it was the same Royal Intelligence Department staffer who'd handed me his business card.
"……."
Sitting on the sofa in the Military Intelligence Agency office, I reviewed the proposal from the Royal Intelligence Department. Treatment equivalent to a Grade 4 section chief—two ranks above the major grade corresponding to a Grade 6 civil servant. Matching physical and non-physical support. Increased operational funds. Access to the Royal Intelligence Department's overseas intelligence database. Authorization for secret operations from the director himself. Perks on par with a director's level. Protection for my family's safety, and so on. It was a long list of fine print, but it boiled down to one thing.
They were offering me a chance to work under far better conditions than what I got at the Military Intelligence Agency.
Each item was not just groundbreaking—it was revolutionary. What especially caught my eye was the support aspect.
In intelligence agencies, a section chief typically means a Grade 4 civil servant. The size of the team under a section chief varies by department, but in operations, it's a mid-level management position. Roughly between branch head and team leader. A role where you could command at least twenty people.
A very enticing offer.
And that made sense, because right now, the only people I could directly command were Pippin and Jake.
Special Operations officer, Counterintelligence investigator, Technical Intelligence technician, Overseas Intelligence officer. The people involved in this operation weren't subordinates who took my orders. They were more like partners cooperating for a single mission's success. And once the op ended, the team would disband, so they were basically passing acquaintances.
But if I transferred to the Royal Intelligence Department, I could command agents on the same scale. And not a temporary team like now, but a permanent one. As long as I stayed in the Royal Intelligence Department, I could move a team of that size anytime.
That alone made it worth serious consideration.
Still, "…Hmm."
In the game story, Clevins was clearly about to become the next director of the Military Intelligence Agency, and that nagged at me. Sure, the director position was a three-year appointment, but a director was still a director. As long as Clevins stayed in the Military Intelligence Agency, the support flowing my way wouldn't dry up.
The problem was what came after. If Clevins finished his term and retired, what then? Could I keep getting this level of blanket support and focus on operations without him in the Military Intelligence Agency?
If not, maybe transferring to the Royal Intelligence Department now and securing my position would be the smart play.
"……."
I was deep in thought. Switching to another intelligence agency was uncharted territory for me—I'd never done it in my life, so stepping into it wasn't easy. But all this was about an uncertain future, and I wasn't a fortune-teller or astrologer who could peek behind the veil.
In the end, it was a gamble against probabilities.
They said to call the number on the card once I'd made up my mind, but I just couldn't decide.
"…Damn it."
As I sat there on the sofa, clutching my head, the door burst open. It was Jake.
"Sir—no, Section Chief."
"Yeah, what's up?"
"Time for dinner, sir."
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The Military Intelligence Agency was an intelligence outfit, sure, but at its core, it was under the Ministry of Defense's command structure. Like any military unit, it provided meals to officers, NCOs, civil servants, and enlisted at set times. Miss the window, and you might not eat. Especially on popular menu days—if you were even a little late, the food could be wiped out.
But the Military Intelligence Agency wasn't just any unit. It was a military intel outfit—an intelligence battalion. Overtime was daily life, late nights were breaks. A place where you had to be prepared to lose all your hair to stress by your thirties. With workloads that heavy, not everyone could eat on time, and the mess hall didn't serve during late shifts. Couldn't pay civilian contractors extra overtime from the agency's budget.
So late-night workers had to go out for dinner. But that wasn't easy. Finding a place open late was hassle enough. And with pressure to wrap up and get home, eating out just delayed that. On drinking party nights, people would bail with lame excuses like dreaming of succubi the night before.
Anyway. So when working late, most folks got takeout delivered or ordered to the gate and ate at their desks.
We were no different.
"Late-night grub's here."
Jake returned to the office, arms full of bags wafting savory fried aromas. Pippin poured drinks from mugs (agency supplies, lowest bidder) and passed them around.
"Where should I set it down?"
"Right here. Clear the desk."
While my subordinates set up the food, I stacked the scattered documents on the floor. Kept the bundles of Grade 2 and 3 military secrets far from any oil splatters.
With that, the three of us soldiers gathered around the desk and dug in.
I dragged over a chair, sat, and shot a question at Jake.
"Man, didn't you say you were sick of chicken? So why'd you get fried chicken?"
"No other place open this late."
"Jake, put the pasta aside and the fried chicken in the middle. I'm not eating it."
"Allergy?"
"Nah. Weight control."
"But why eat fried chicken if… Ow, ow, don't hit me."
"You're kicking up dust. Cut it out."
I tuned out their bickering, turned on the TV, and flipped to a news channel. Perfect timing—the report on that morning's Uninhabited Zone barren lands op was playing.
Jake, mid-bite of mashed potatoes, glanced at the screen and muttered.
"Heard the Hero joined today's barren lands op."
"Yeah. There she is."
Footage from the Ministry of Defense PR team started rolling: massive flames engulfing the forest, wolf-like monsters screeching as they burned. No filters—they aired it raw.
Official news, and they show this? Cool. As I thought that, Pippin let out an admiring gasp.
"Whoa. Shouldn't that be artillery territory? She just torches it…."
I remembered the Kien Empire embassy's defense attaché coming to watch that too. His reaction was priceless.
I muttered nonchalantly.
"Empire's attaché lost his mind watching it."
"For real?"
Before I could answer Pippin's question, Jake murmured.
"She's pretty."
"Dude, you're killing the vibe…."
Pippin and Jake started squabbling again. Amid their noise and the anchor's intermittent voice, I peeled off a piece of fried batter and popped it in my mouth. Licked the grease and said to them.
"All the agents infiltrated? They left this morning, right?"
Jake paused the bickering to answer.
"Yeah. Entered the Empire's south via warp gate. Picked up two weeks' ops funds and Magic Tower IDs from the local consulate intel officers."
"They'll head into the Tower in two days. Gear status?"
"In customs warehouse now. Once offices are set, disguise as office supplies and ship to the Tower."
How they managed shop talk while eating, I'll never know. Civilians would freak, but it was routine for us. So we kept munching and chatting business as usual.
Pippin, sipping from her mug, said.
"Ops funds coming through Foreign Ministry channels. Something about joining a company…."
"Ghost company. No real match for covers, so using ministry assets. No issues?"
"Coordinated with the Tower's Foreign Ministry intel manager—no audits or security checks."
Foreign Ministry talks wrapped smoothly. I stabbed my pasta and spoke up.
"Good. Like I said before, Pippin, you handle support from the delegation office."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't poke around the field. Get nabbed, it's an international embarrassment. Got it?"
Pippin nodded, drink in hand. As an analyst, she'd collect open-source intel with the team and crunch data—no real danger.
The risks were on me and Jake. He'd run the intel collection team controlling the Overseas Intel agents waiting in the Tower. Highest chance of Counterintel spotting him first among us three.
"You stay low. Field's unpredictable—bail and report if it smells off, hand to Special Ops."
"Got it. What about you, sir?"
"Me? Same as always."
Chewing pasta, I pondered. Personnel, gear, funds—this op dwarfed the Church one. Empire and Tower infiltration meant Military Intelligence agents dipping toes in. Real-time intel sharing morning and night, already trickling in.
Royal Intelligence was sniffing around, but still playable. Just solve the agent network issue.
That thought crossed my mind as I snatched Jake's chicken leg. Then Pippin, having drained her drink, grumbled.
"Man, do we always talk shop over meals? Can't we chat normal stuff like everyone else?"
"This ain't normal?"
"Our jobs aren't normal to begin with…."
Not your typical agent banter. But what else to talk about? No big social circle, not close with family. Didn't even carry a phone—clueless on their lives lately.
"Fine, boot camp stories? Oh yeah, Pippin, that time in sea training when you grabbed the instructor by the hair…."
"Shut your trap."
"Okay."
Pippin and Jake yapped about their inside jokes. I flipped channels with the remote, checking others.
Click.
The emperor had drawn his sword.
Full-scale war between the Empire and the Magic Tower had begun.