Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Rain poured down. Torrents hammered the car's hood, and the sharp scent of wet earth filled the air. The alluring hills, once vibrant with green hues, now drank in the moisture. The soft emerald slopes darkened under the deluge, their saturated greenery standing out starkly in the somber atmosphere, evoking an almost reverent solemnity.
"It never stops raining here."
The Magic Tower, legacy of the great ancestors who spoke of its founding fathers' mysterious heritage—a blessing to those who lived there today. People called this phenomenon a mystery. Magic, science, divinity—none could explain it. The southern megaforest, resilient through months of sandstorms, poison gas, and defoliants; the colossal Magic Tower floating in the skies for a century; the origins of magic and sanctity, the cradle of species. Countless scholars had tried to comprehend and prove these enigmas, but failed. The people of this world simply dubbed them mysteries.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
"Yeah, a bit."
"You'll get used to it. Adapt and live on."
The operations officer in the passenger seat muttered as he raised his monocle to scan the road. A desolate stretch with no signs of life. Amid the furious drumming on the windows, we waited. Then, good news crackled over the radio.
'3km ahead. Speed 47 kph. One black SUV.'
I set down the radio and opened the car door. A fierce gust of wind and rain blasted through the gap.
"Let's move."
"Right."
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The raging storm evoked a tempest. The man in the driver's seat draped his arm over the wheel and turned to his friend in the passenger seat.
"How's the real estate market these days?"
"It's bad. You can tell from me holing up here."
They weren't from the same military branch, but both were reservists long discharged. That shared bond linked these men from different affiliations and nationalities. Of course, the real glue was money. They now worked for the same employer.
The driver asked, "Hard to buy your own place in the Empire too?"
"What about Lushan?"
The driver swerved the wheel at the sudden question. "Don't ask. Refugees have turned it upside down. Southern land prices tanked, north and central are holding up okay, but the east is a mess. Drugs too..."
"Sigh. In this day and age, how many folks can actually afford a house with their own cash? Kien's no different."
Their chat on housing prices continued. Against the backdrop of storm-lashed hills, the SUV barreled down the two-lane road. Sure, people lived in this world, but survival was brutal. Monsters closing in by the minute and the flames of civil war shook the continent's economy to its roots. Many factors destabilized it, but as economies crumbled, chaos spread, security and defense faltered—a vicious cycle gripping the continent. Yet their talk skirted such headaches. It wasn't their concern. Survival came first. You had to fill your belly before philosophizing.
So they swapped trivial personal stories.
"Thinking of heading home next week to see the wife's face. You coming?"
"Why would I go to Lushan?"
"Aw, c'mon. That dancer next door? She misses you."
"Lived my whole life in Kien—how am I supposed to fit in there? Plus, I've got a religion now. Even for dating, different faiths mean one converts."
"Who's rushing you to marry? You're already freaking out after a few meetings..."
"I've got looks that work. Unlike you. You'll spend your life grateful to your sister-in-law. Got it?"
"Damn... bullshit everywhere. Don't get married, man. Your mouth's the problem."
The black SUV pushed through the gale.
The passenger glanced at the back seat via the rearview. A girl in academy uniform dozed off, head bobbing.
"Poor miss looks beat. Must've been tough."
His mutter carried clearly, so the driver lowered his voice. "She just got back from a trip. Let her sleep. Don't wake her."
"Once she's out, she wouldn't notice if you carried her. Same as always?"
"She might wake."
"Kids at academy level don't stir even with chaos nearby during breaks."
"Talking like you went to academy."
"Kien mandates education through middle school, dumbass."
"I only did elementary. Don't know."
"Brag much."
In a world where high school dropouts flooded the job market, it wasn't an issue. Who to blame for the madness? Elementary-grad reservists bantered as they drove; the high-school-grad one, lured by recruiters promising tuition aid, griped.
"Fuck. Said they'd send me to college post-discharge, but cut me short on service and bailed."
"You believed that? Should've listened to the adults."
"How's a teacher supposed to babysit me? Hundreds of students. Plus quotas to fill—think they'd waste spots?"
Life had twists, but no one to blame. Hate the temple? Leave as a monk. World sucks? Tough luck—endure it. The high-school grad didn't curse the world that mangled his path or the army that blocked his promotions. Protesting with signs? Cops' batons would end you. So he just sighed and vented.
"At least we're raking it in now. Next life, born rich, fuck this."
"Hey, lights ahead—what's that?"
"...Huh?"
At his fellow guard's words, the high-school grad peered through the windshield. Visibility near zero in the storm. Far off, a goblin-fire yellow flickered.
"...A ghost?"
*
Thankfully, no ghost. The flash in the road's center came from a magic tool.
"Help...! Please...!"
Up close, it was a flashlight—thick, heavy one. Magic abounded, but mages lurked in shadows a century ago. No big deal. Science ruled for millennia; flashlights were fine. Expensive tools weren't for everyone anyway.
But the situation felt off.
"......"
Remote road in raging storm. No other cars. Meeting a suspicious stranger here. Soaked like a drowned rat, pitiful, but strangers warranted caution anywhere.
The flashlight man tapped the window. "Hey...!"
"...What now?"
"Car trouble? Call cops."
"They coming in this weather? Broom can't even fly in these winds."
"Pick him up?"
"See what first. He'll pneumonia out there."
Could've ignored, but the man's wretched state tugged. The driver kept the engine running, headlights on. An old red pickup with hood up; toolbox on ground; man in blanket on back seat.
"Two guys there too. You take 'em. I'll check the flashlight guy."
"Fuck, rain like this is bad."
"You sugar? Melt? Get out. Watch the tools."
"Shit..."
Driver stepped out; passenger followed. Cold rain lashed faces as expected. Storm eased slightly, but mist and downpour hindered vision. Shoes clacked faintly on asphalt—wind louder.
In the hazy view, headlights lit two figures ahead. Leader sharp in flashlight glow; guard's silhouette dim.
Voices carried. "Car...! Broke...!"
Flashlight man shone on hood, yelling trouble. Rain muffled, but audible. Driver, family man car buff, handled basics easy. He took the light, peered in; man grabbed toolbox, hurried over.
Passenger circled, inspected exterior. Tires fine visually. Pressed—good pressure, no nails. Micro-damage invisible, but okay.
Body intact. Weather-worn, clean of grime. Paint chips minor—no performance hit. Bad maintenance? Beyond visual check.
"......"
Driver and passenger—what jobs? Flashlight guy: huge, muscled. Back seat man: smaller. Blanket hid build. Not rich—old car, drenched shivering? Unlikely.
"You okay?"
"......"
Passenger approached blanketed man. Lips blue—soaked bad. Man looked up: black hair, brown eyes. Not striking, sharp-featured, calm gaze unbelievable for drenched state.
"You alright?"
"......"
No reply. Shivering no, but cold storm. Man seemed drained. Pondering warmer stone from car—
"Argh!"
Scream from hood. wrench-wielding man smashed driver's head.
Quick judgment. "You fuck—"
Driver reached waist for defense tool. Then—
"......!"
Blanketed man sprang, grabbed left wrist, tripped leg. They tumbled on asphalt; flashlight man swung raised wrench. Crunch—something crushed.
"F-fuck...!"
Driver clawed for back tool, arm pinned. Trip man mounted, kneed solar plexus, pinned.
Rain fell. Storm hill base. Two vehicles. Puddles mixed blood from cracked skull. Thunder flashed, lit scene.
Driver sprawled. Spy knelt pinning, raised arm.
Spy stabbed driver's gut.
No cinematic flair. Just—
Pfuk!
A quiet, fitting death. One man gone.