Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The duties of a spy disguised as a diplomat are varied. Attending diplomatic events. Gathering overseas intelligence. Collecting military information. Protecting local expatriates. Analyzing gathered intel. Safeguarding and escorting defectors. Negotiating with foreign intelligence agencies. Supporting domestic corporate overseas branches. Providing security for high-ranking officials on tour. Backing unofficial undercover agents' activities, and so on. Depending on affiliation and role, the specific tasks differ, but no one disputes that there's a fucking ton of work.
Among them, second only to intelligence gathering in importance is "protecting local expatriates." It's not particularly difficult. Just drop by now and then to check if they're doing well, negotiate with the foreign government over improving their treatment if they're facing discrimination or unfair treatment, occasionally pick up some intel, help absentee voters or overseas electors cast ballots, inform them of changes in Justice Ministry or Foreign Ministry policies—stuff like that. I seem to recall that National Intelligence Service agents dispatched to diplomatic missions usually handled those tasks. Especially for North Korean defectors, who are both Republic of Korea citizens and refugees, NIS agents in Southeast Asia would visit them, confirm their intent to defect, and explain how to get to South Korea.
In any case, official cover agents have an insane amount of work. Too much to count.
That was the problem.
'You handle it.'
"Pardon?"
'I'm telling you to look after Saintess Lucia's safety, you idiot. Why pretend you don't get it?'
At Clevins' curt command, I just blinked, phone pressed to my ear. I was in the middle of packing for the medical outreach—what the hell kind of nonsense was this?
I stopped what I was doing and pressed him. "Is protecting foreigners' safety actually in the regulations? I don't remember it being in the military attaché duties."
'Not official duties, no. But the Inquisition made a request. No diplomatic mission here, so they want us to protect the saintess instead. As you know, the Church and the Magic Tower aren't on speaking terms.'
"Who the hell...?"
'Oh, right—there's a cardinal in the entourage, isn't there? Bernard or whatever.'
Clevins succinctly summarized the conversation between the Abbas prime minister and Bernard, the Inquisition's safety director. The Church and Magic Tower had no diplomatic ties, so there were no diplomats (i.e., intel officers in disguise) to protect their expatriates at the Tower. They wanted Military Intelligence to step in and look after Saintess Lucia. In return, they'd help tilt the ongoing trade agreement slightly in Abbas's favor.
'We're swamped pushing economic cooperation anyway—this works out great. Puts the Church in our debt. Plus, the saintess is the Hero's companion, and you're a fellow companion as military attaché, right? And you're joining the medical outreach? Perfect picture.'
Justification overflowing. Clevins shoved the choice at me.
'So. You doing it or not?'
With a sliver of hope, I whispered desperately. "Do I even have a choice...?"
'Of course not. Quit yapping and get to work if you want that pension and a national cemetery plot.'
"You handle it."
"Pardon?"
"I'm telling you to look after Saintess Lucia's safety, you idiot. Why pretend you don't get it?"
After wrapping up the call with Clevins, we arrived at some district in the Magic Tower. As soon as I stepped out of the vehicle, a cool breeze rustled through.
"Whoa... the wind here's luxurious. All magic?"
"Yes, exactly!"
The Tower staffer assigned as our guide flashed a proud smile. Well-paved roads were dotted with autumn leaves. Each step crunched red and yellow foliage underfoot.
"A tower floating in the sky, wind blowing inside, and now falling leaves too..."
"All thanks to the wisdom and efforts of our great forebears. Especially the three sages, who poured in tireless work!"
"Ah, yes... I see."
The sudden state propaganda caught me off guard. Government flunkies praising the homeland in front of foreigners was common, but this felt ironic with Church folk right behind the guide. Close enough to hear every word, yet the guy didn't lower his volume—like he wanted them to hear.
But no arguments broke out between the Tower official and the Church group. The nuns, friars, and priests escorting the saintess could keep their emotions in check.
"......"
"......"
Of course, their faces weren't exactly beaming. Not your average believers—these were Inquisition agents with a history of clashing hard with the Tower. Even without mind-reading, I could tell they harbored no warm fuzzies for the place.
Oblivious, the Tower official kept extolling the great wizards from the Liberation War at every tree and alley.
"The street you're walking now was built by the Druids. Infused with their philosophy of art and nature, you'll often see bards, Druids, or illusionists performing as you pass..."
Even I, with no stake in Tower-Church drama, found it grating. The guy just talked way too much. This level of propaganda? Only heard it from North Koreans.
In this mess, the calmest was Lucia, medical bag in hand, surveying the surroundings.
"Medical outreach here today?"
"No, just a bit further down that alley."
The official pointed to a shady corner with a grin. Obvious dodgy backstreet. A goblin puffing what might've been mana weed or something glanced our way, spat on the ground, and shuffled inside.
"......"
"......"
"......"
The shocking slum—dungeon or shantytown?—left us spies gaping like fish.
Whatever. Lucia casually shouldered her bag.
"Let's go, then. No time to waste."
"...Uh, no, that place."
"Problem?"
"No... let's go..."
*
Thankfully, my worst fears didn't materialize. The medical outreach in the Tower's slums went off safely and successfully.
"Thank you! Truly, thank you!"
A patient who'd just been treated bowed at 90 degrees to Lucia. He chucked his splint and— no lie—hopped around like a kid.
"Next."
"Um, excuse me..."
A kid with bandaged eyes shuffled up timidly. Lucia tsked softly, gloved hands gently unwrapping the filthy bandage.
"Oh..."
"My god."
As it fell away, gasps erupted. One side of the kid's face was horribly burned and twisted. Flesh sloughed off in places, blackened dead tissue elsewhere—infection, clearly.
Lucia examined carefully. "How'd this happen?"
"F-fire..."
Nearby cops muttered.
"Big fire around here, right?"
"Yeah, some alchemist blew up making drugs, spread to the shacks. Lots of dead."
"Drugs? Why would an alchemist make that?"
"Broke, probably. Heard he was an apprentice—no connections, no cash, no lessons."
They thought they were whispering, but it carried crystal clear. If you're gossiping, do it quietly—or not in front of the kid.
Damn world. Twenty-eight years in, still hard to love.
Lucia ignored it, smiling kindly, hand hovering near the kid's face. Bright holy light flowed from her fingers, slowly engulfing the wound.
Moments later.
"There, all better. Can you see okay?"
The burn scars vanished cleanly. Instant miracle. Cops, officials, even the healed kid—all stared, speechless.
Sorting bandages behind her, I muttered, "Still amazing every time..."
"Sir Attaché. Amazing, sure, but this...?"
"Ah, right. Sorry."
A grim-faced friar eyed me pitifully, lugging a heavy crate. Inquisition agent. Caught slacking, I scratched my head sheepishly and took it.
"Ugh...!"
"Careful. It's heavy."
Stacking it nearby per his warning. Beside the pile, other Inquisitors handed out meds and holy water with charts.
Thought medical work meant light duty—turns out it's manual labor hell. Those holy water crates weighed a ton.
Should've blown off the attaché office and Clevins' orders, holed up hotel guarding Camilla.
Like a Chuseok temp unload grunt dragged to hell, I hauled endless crates. Cool breeze outside helped, at least.
Repeating this, I wondered if I was a diplomat or a delivery guy.
"How'd you even bring all this?"
"Magic tools. Reduce weight, expand capacity."
"Fucking hell—you're religious folk, right?"
Inquisition using Tower gear? Maybe they were the real heretics.
Half-questioning their faith, half-bitching about extra work from good gear.
"Think we don't use cooling breeze tools in summer?"
"Fair... can't argue with AC."
Losing my mind, bantering nonsense with Inquisitors while shifting crates. Lucia, reattaching a finger, glanced back laughing.
"Tough? Take a break."
The agent gritted teeth. "No...! Still good...!"
I'm not, you psycho.
Couldn't say it—front-page international news fodder. Zipped it.
Yeah. The real killer with Lucia's outreaches? Not the gear or patients.
Foreign press.
*
"All done. Good work."
The endless-seeming outreach wrapped treating a beastman with a nearly severed tail.
Finally, I looked skyward.
"Ughhh..."
Stretching my back drew a groan. Mine or that dying old orc's earlier? Hard to tell.
No time to probe Rebecca the priest for Inquisition dirt—even chatting meant more crates.
Pure madness.
As I groaned at the sky, exhausted Inquisitors hugged, patting backs.
I perched on an empty crate, watching scripture-head bashers comfort each other.
"Unbelievable."
"What's unbelievable?"
"Ah, nothing. Talking to myself..."
Lucia, sorting tools into waste, spoke. Face tired, but mouth and eyes beamed. A saintly smile, truly beautiful.
Click.
A hawk-eyed reporter sweeping the scene caught it. Grinning with a massive Earth-news-camera-like magic recorder.
His creepy vibe made me flinch. Staring blankly as he dashed to a colleague, Lucia asked,
"First time seeing reporters?"
"Nah... seen plenty. Just not used to being photographed."
Official cover as attaché now, but originally NOC. Face shots? Never good.
Spies don't pose for pics. Skipped even my commissioning family photo. Mom begged with her new digital cam. Dad's fault? Family pics felt awkward.
Parents on mind, nose tingled. Rubbing dusty face, Lucia handed water.
"Wash hands before touching face. Please."
"Ah, yes."
War-zone healer—hygiene obsessive. Sprayed disinfectant earlier. Newbie clerics slacked; she was strict, no BS.
Sure enough, packing up: "Another spot?"
Most escorts shook heads. Talking back to saint? Real heretics?
"Whoa, call it today."
"Yes, sun's setting—rest now?"
"He's right. Absolutely."
Just say you're beat, idiots.
Couldn't snap at Inquisitors—more outreach meant me too. Stuck to Lucia, bullshitting convincingly.
"See the clock? Six hours here. Security risks—can't extend. Gotta hit attaché duties."
"Hm... true. Head back."
"Hallelujah."
"Pardon?"
Not Christian, but praised God then. Buddhists, Muslims had similar—forgot.
Wrapped cleanup with cops and officials' help. Sky burned red.
Lucia eyed the sunset. "Magic Tower's wondrous."
"Yeah. Stars, moon, meteors at night—hotel rooftop pool, soak while viewing."
"Camilla'd love this. Shame."
Delirious from fatigue? I straightened. "Eh, maybe not."
No desire dragging Camilla here. Consensus from above: show best face. She'd learn eventually—delay max.
Governments agreed: nice treatment for otherworlder in chaos. Dark fantasy grim—many Heroes proved it.
Church full-tour spoiling; Tower suite-shrine for mage Camilla.
Clevins: governments gagged media on social ills. Abbas downplayed farm protests.
Useless info control, I thought. Politics irrational; world doesn't bend.
Earthling, Brit—monsters eating people, street bombs, banquet hits—what'd she think?
Camilla'd glimpsed the ugly underbelly. Could report "halt folly"—didn't. Followed orders. Bureaucrats ignore anyway.
Sighing nonstop lately.
"Hoo..."
Time passes, sighs multiply. Quit or booze like Gramps.
Dark fantasy spy life sucks.
Packing empties, loading gear—
"Wait! Hold up!"
Man waved, sprinting. Inquisitors tensed; Tower cops blocked.
I fingered my pistol. Terrorist?
Nope.
"R-reporter!"
"Back off!"
"W-wait!"
Flashing ID, pointing. "Attaché! Talk to the attaché!"
Me.
"Hm...?"
Pointed at, I pointed back. He nodded frantically.
Inquisitors bundled Lucia to back seat, blocked door. "Handle business—we'll wait."
"Why me...?"
Shrugged to cop holding him. Released politely.
Panting from run and scuffle, fixed crooked glasses, beamed.
"Frederic Nostrim, right?"
"Yes."
Sweaty business card thrust forward.
"Our boss wants to meet you."
"Boss...?"
Took card. Chuckled.
"...Ha."
All puzzled stares; I held it to light, read name.
"Whoa... this guy's here?"
Dmitri
Journalist • Confidential Source