Episode 5 - Reporter, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

Traffic control was over. Through Veronica, I'd secured concessions from the Church. Through Sophia, I'd confirmed Patalia's stance. The Church's Secretary of State, the Kien Empire's Imperial Household, Patalia's Presidential Palace, Abbas Kingdom's Prime Minister's Office, the Magic Tower's Oracle Committee, and more. I'd oiled the gears diligently to help the Abbas government untangle those razor-sharp conflicting interests. Using information, of course.

Honestly, it felt impossible. Time was way too tight. Still, I thought I'd done what I could. The rest was up to the government and Foreign Ministry. I figured it'd take about a week to wrap up.

But somehow, it all resolved in a single day.

"Sir, we've got the official notice on the visit schedule."

Traffic control complete in the blink of an eye. Success.

Episode 5 - Reporter, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

The results were a resounding success. The Church, the Empire, Patalia, Abbas. With every government stepping back just one pace, a warm breeze began to blow through the diplomatic storm.

The Church secured solid protection from the Magic Tower and showed flexibility on protocol issues. Patalia promised political and diplomatic support for future issues, in exchange for Abbas keeping its distance from the alchemists. As a bonus, the Empire—having received a favor from the Church—eased up on preliminary arrests to soothe domestic and international opinion. The Magic Tower managed to calm anti-government protests that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had been giving them hell. Or rather, they spun it as a diplomatic win. Thanks to that, police were set to negotiate with protest leaders soon.

War and diplomacy are extensions of politics, and in the political arena, backroom deals are par for the course. Politics, diplomacy, economy, society, culture, defense, security—you name it. To untangle those fiercely intertwined interests, countless blank checks worth more than numbers could measure had clearly flown between governments.

Not a bad outcome, all things considered. That's just what diplomats do, right? And the reason this creaky diplomatic machine started humming with goodwill? Someone rolled up their sleeves and poured in the oil.

"Thank you, sir."

"Nah, the diplomats did the heavy lifting."

Not empty flattery. The diplomats had genuinely busted their asses cleaning up the mess I'd made by stirring up Veronica and Sophia. I'd greased the wheels all I could, but things moved so fast they couldn't even clock out. Still, since it all counted toward their records, they didn't get totally screwed. Meaning I wouldn't get official credit for this. At least, not on paper.

And sure enough, Clevins brought up commendations.

"A commendation, sir?"

A commendation. Not uncommon for intel agents with big wins. Back home, it'd go through the Ministry of the Interior for vetting whether NIS or intel command. Here, it seemed to route through the Prime Minister's office. Whatever—going that high up meant it was a government-level award, not just internal. Fine by me. Good things are good things.

"Ah... got it. Thank you, sir."

"Prepping to receive our guest first."

*

Definitions of fire vary wildly. From scientific takes on oxidation reactions to practical applications in daily life and industry. Even conceptually, it's the same. Fire holds prime symbolic spot in culture and religion—a grateful bringer of warmth, intense impressions from color and form, deadly beauty. Like the Greek myth of Prometheus stealing fire from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the gods for humanity, it's been worshiped across eras and faiths since time immemorial.

Strip away the complexity, and isn't it just straight-up beautiful? That's why campfires are a staple at retreats.

Camilla Lowell's thoughts ran similar.

"...Whoa."

Flames radiating clear warmth, yet not scorching hot. Hold paper to the fire cloaking her finger, and it'd ignite—but weirdly, her other fingers stayed fine. Normal here, but to her, pure magic. She was testing limits, shoving anything handy into the blaze: paper, cloth, snacks (toasting was old hat), even meat. She picked up stray hairs from the floor, teased a loose thread. Hell, with nothing left, she even poked her tongue in.

That's when,

"What're you doing?"

"Heuk...!"

The sudden voice from behind made Camilla jolt, shoulders twitching. She'd bitten her tongue.

"Playing with fire again? I told you no indoors."

"Auuu...."

"You didn't just bite your tongue, did you?"

"...Eh."

"Aigoo...."

I sighed deep, handing her a potion.

"Spread this on with your finger. Nice and even."

"Wha, wha ish ish?"

"Medicine."

I'd come with a message, only to catch her red-handed with indoor magic. Why use spells inside? She wasn't a kid.

I undid my jacket button, eyeing her sternly.

"Wanna practice? Pool on the roof—water makes it safe."

"Nueh."

"Bored? Hotel grounds are secure. Take a stroll."

I got it, though. Newbies react like that. Magic's a lottery—blooms anytime. Some babies cast with umbilical cords attached; others discover it late in academy, switch careers. Most awaken pre-school, and immature minds can't resist. They cast nonstop: freezing utensils mid-meal, sparking baths, telekinesis on toys, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even animating family shadows at dawn for scares.

Camilla was at that "just awakened" stage—pure wonder. Or maybe insatiable curiosity. Either way, my line was simple.

"Be more careful next time."

"Y, yesh, shir."

"Tongue's better, huh."

I folded my jacket neatly, sank into the sofa. Resort-town hotel lived up to the hype—dreamy decor, top-shelf furniture.

Camilla, vitality restored, eyed me.

"What brings you?"

"Message to pass. Lucia's coming too—whole crew, then brief."

Telling Camilla about Francesca Lanieri first wasn't bad, but double-dipping was a drag. One and done, minimize mix-ups.

"So, what'd you do today?"

"Same old. Magic practice, books, news, papers."

Her routine. Newbie mage daily grind. No issues—textbook for beginners, especially with firepower rivaling elites after weeks. Uninhabited Zone ops peaked her growth. No clue why, but monster-slaying marathons leveled her daily.

Hmm.

Game-style mob grinding for XP? Or muscle-building persistence? I'd know if I'd majored in magic.

I watched her clean charred debris, tossed a question.

"Not stir-crazy? Holed up here?"

"Nah. Not tough."

Fair enough. I grabbed a stray paper from the sofa arm.

Politics and international pages first.

"Whatcha reading?"

"World news. Anything fun today?"

"Umm...."

She dusted hands, pondered, chin on palm. Stumbled opening.

"Tha, tha, that? Word's gone."

"Ratmen?"

"Yeah! That Jerry-on-drugs-lookin' critter!"

What metaphor? Ugly, got it. She sidled over, flipped to society page, stabbed a sub-article.

"This?"

"Ratmen infesting sewers, causing havoc. Hazardous rodent?"

"New to me."

"Ah...."

I glanced away, recalling Pippin's basics. Magic Tower chems ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dumped illegally + escaped lab animals = this mess. Tower saw it as major social headache.

"Environmental issue. Complicated details."

"...Bitin' ankles, kidnappin' kids—and it's 'environmental'?"

Camilla gawked. I shrugged.

No romance in this world—what'd she expect?

"Pollution's the root."

"...Can't we hunt 'em? Easier than monsters."

"Sewers? No dice without permits—plus contractor guides. Weird shit pops besides ratmen. Prep heavy."

"Weird like?"

"Plenty. Man-eaters, slimes, ratmen, gators... Walkin' corpses sometimes. Vast too—tons vanish."

Tower reality. No romance-fantasy tower vibes. Slight exaggeration—maze sewers + Camilla = disaster. Lost? Worse.

But her eyes sparkled.

"Where's permits?"

"...You're goin'?"

"Yup."

"Why tho...?"

"People get hurt."

Ridiculous. Questions swirled, but out came dumb.

"Not gross?"

She shrugged casual.

"Pfft. Huntin's my hobby."

Hunting? Noble sport, no?

I mulled UK culture. Dad's army junior did defense attaché there—knew basics. Sports birthplace: soccer daily on TV, riding, polo, cricket, hunting. Soccer/cricket national; rest elite.

Soccer/cricket from a buddy's UK stints—legal betting, Premier League wins ate his paycheck.

Riding/polo/hunting? Pricey, "posh."

"......"

Camilla: rich kid. But why poke Africa?

I eyed her puzzled; she beamed innocent.

"......"

"......?"

Awkward silence—knock, door opens.

"Oh, all here."

Lucia, soot-streaked.

"...Chimney dive?"

"Supply shift—dusty warehouse."

"Take it slow."

"Gotta sort for quick deploy."

Blink blink. Speechless.

"...Medical aid again? Now?"

"No reason not."

"......"

Why only masochists around me? I pinched brow; Lucia greeted Camilla warmly.

"Always nice seein' ya. So, why'd you call?"

Snapped to, rose slow.

"Francesca Lanieri visit's set. Security brief—pay attention."

"Yes."

"Listening."

I kept voice even.

"Local cops and intel say unexpected threat possible on visit day."

"Unexpected threat?"

"What’s that mean?"

Grinned at their confusion.

"Terror."

*

Ask continent insiders best intel agency? Debates rage. Best counterintel? Clear winner: Imperial Guard.

Emperor's fave ruling arm and intel hub. Name alone keeps dissidents sleepless. Agency with clout no one questions—not intel rivals, not foreign civvies. Rep legendary.

But here, one sees 'em as chumps.

"Why should I help? I gave as good as I got."

Church's 58th Saintess Veronica. Recruited young by Guard as asset, post-saint: Empire's lobbyist vs. governments. Undisputed Guard masterpiece, Emperor's #18.

If Raoul Cardinal hadn't pushed pope run, she'd lobby till death.

Her intel prowess: elite tier. No overseas officer or case agent matched.

Thus, once Guard's prized asset. Past tense now.

She puffed pipe, slouched, eyed suit.

Suit: nominal embassy counselor, real 3rd-grade deputy director. Branch chief. Fifties, eyeing retirement post-term—quiet HQ planning/policy till end.

Now groveling to young punk.

"No."

"Told ya no. Hands off Tower."

"Soldiers to Tower. Why me for military? Domestic watchers aren't slack. Remember counterintel vs. military over surveillance?"

"Anyway, done meddling."

Less business, more simpering suitor. She stonewalled. Pride stung at his age, but family/man to feed—he begged.

Retirement near, but rank tenure left. Fired? Nowhere. Career classified—no bragging. Parachute spots taken by domestics; trade firms for overseas retirees filled post-noble purge. No think tanks either—overseas lost power struggle.

"Then leave? Busy official."

"Spiritual cultivation?"

She knew. She'd sparked the power struggle. He knew too. Desperate to reclaim rogue asset; he faced sacking if fail. 16 rebels shat the bed, overseas bore winds. Nets lost, agents sacked. Innocents suffered.

She knew—she'd sunk overseas.

Clean cutoff.

"Guard!"

Raised hand, bouncer tossed suit.

Her fave spot, top client—no questions.

Peace returned. Veronica hookah-slouched, puffed.

"Ahh... deflating...."

Sighed fate.

"Lucia's ghosting, attaché all biz...."

Stress max. Especially old fogeys nagging decorum. Bishops: "Donate big? Pray fields." Cardinals: "Successor tours peace—when's your warzone?"

Duty crushed her. (She played hardest.) Tough world.

Predictably, waitress hurried with receiver.

"Call for you."

"State Sec? Say out."

"Tower, ma'am."

Snatched phone, waved her off. Checked ears clear, then earpiece.

"Hey, lil sis. What's up?"

She spoke Kienese native; fluent Patalian reply. Seamless.

"Shoot. Lil sis curious 'bout what?"

"Hmm... The someone you meet—is it who I think?"

Silence affirmed.

Veronica smiled.

"Advice: prying too much? Bad habit. Got it?"

She laughed.

"Francesca."