2.3 Seconds
Soldiers describe a three-day leave like this.
'2.3 seconds.'
Four days, three nights? '3.4 seconds.'
Obvious at a glance, but that's how fast the time flies.
And it's the same even after becoming an officer.
No, it doesn't even feel like 2.3 seconds anymore. More like 0.23.
"Son, did you pack everything you need?"
"Yeah, sure."
A few novels worth reading, a wristwatch, some high-end underwear.
Honestly, combat uniforms are unavoidable, so he'll wear them. But the issued underwear? Total garbage.
'No one's seeing my panties anyway. Who's gonna bitch if I wear something else? That's just training camp bullshit.'
Even back as a grunt, he'd worn custom undies.
"Alright, be sure to write letters."
"I will."
He hugged his mother and boarded the carriage.
'Heading back now. To hell.'
Still, it wasn't like he was returning from that three-day leave unchanged.
"Status window."
'Second Lieutenant in Intelligence Command. Just a pile of bad shit crammed together.'
It's like a menu designed to give you indigestion.
Anyway, moving on.
The two new specialties he'd gained this time were way more useful than expected.
Truth Eye
A fine commander must discern the true face behind any mask.
Ability: Use points to view target's information.
Sword Mastery
To a soldier, the sword is a second life. Never let it go until your dying breath. Think of it as one body with your hand.
Ability: Increases sword proficiency. Unlocks shop 'Bookstore - Sword Manuals'.
The descriptions are long, but in short: target's info access and a sword skill booster.
'And the bookstore opening is huge.'
He'd peeked yesterday, and it was stocked with manuals for every sword style imaginable.
At hefty prices, though.
'Cheapest was 50 points.'
Too pricey, so no buys yet.
"Young master, we've arrived."
The coachman politely opened the door with both hands upon reaching the destination.
And there, the pub sign caught his eye.
Arvion
Exact match for the memo.
"This the place?"
"First time for me too, but looks like it."
"Fancy a drink before heading in, young master?"
"I'd like to, but after yesterday? Nah, can't."
He wanted to come clean, but that'd spell trouble for sure.
"Haha, back in my day, I could go a week straight without a break. You sure you're not being soft?"
"Impressive. Anyway, meeting friends to head west together, so gotta go. Say hi to Mom for me."
His perfect fabricated lie: riding with buddies going west in one carriage.
"I could take you."
"We did rock-paper-scissors, I won. Scram."
"Stay safe, young master."
"Yeah, got it."
He shoved the hesitant coachman away and entered the pub.
"Beer here!"
"Cutie, what's for dinner tonight? Bro's free."
"I'm not that kinda girl! Go hit on someone else!"
"Nah, check it. War's breaking out. Where you investing?"
For a neighborhood dive, the place was huge inside.
Famous spot, apparently—packed to the gills, ears ringing from the noise.
'Spy flicks usually have quiet pubs, secret signals with the bartender, right?'
Something felt off from the jump.
"There you are. Holiday go well?"
As he pondered his next move, Captain Eden appeared out of nowhere.
"Sir!"
"Tons to teach you. No salutes for now. Unless you want rumors of a soldier."
Eden sighed, and yeah, he had a point.
"Sorry, sir."
'Did the op already go sideways?'
Spy flicks: pubs full of enemies. That salute might've blown it.
"Watch it next time. Follow me."
He matched the captain's stride into a hidden room inside.
"Rackley bottle, decent snacks."
"Right away."
Captain ordered like a pro, shut the door, and the outside noise vanished like magic.
'Soundproof magic tool.'
Ceiling confirmed it: blue-glowing artifact, ornate as art.
'Not your average pub install. Owner's loaded.'
Even high-end noble restaurants rarely had 'em.
"Surprised by this? Oclo family could afford one per private room."
"Fair point, sir, but weird in a regular pub."
"Owner's a music nut. Plays here after closing, probably."
"Ah."
Made sense.
"Anyway, why I'm a regular. Cheap booze, total privacy. Only spot like it."
"Your drinks and snacks."
As Eden spilled pub trivia—kinda TMI—the staff set up booze and food.
"Figured a noble like you could handle premium over usual. Right?"
"Sure... I drink cheap stuff fine too."
Mouth tuned to Korean beer back home—not exactly refined.
"Didn't expect that. Cheers."
"Thanks."
First day on the job, boozing before work? Questionable, but he accepted.
'Looks brutal.'
Bottle to aroma screamed strong whiskey.
'Damn, gotta drink it.'
Gulp.
He topped Eden's glass, hesitated, then downed it.
"Ugh."
Way harsher than expected—grimace slipped out.
"Too bitter for a kid's palate?"
"Not a kid, sir."
Legal marriage age here; Korea aside.
"Can't handle this? You are."
Eden refilled and slammed two back-to-back.
'That stuff's vicious.'
Smokes harsh too—life-hardened type.
"Curious what a second lieutenant does in Intelligence?"
"Whatever ordered, sir."
"Smart. Army's just follow orders. Especially now."
Eden lit a smoke from his pocket.
"Your take: war gonna blow up for real?"
"Tense, but diplomacy'll patch it, right?"
Two empires with too much to lose.
"Wrong. War's already on. Just underwater."
Eden dropped the bombshell casually, exhaling smoke.
"And the ones fighting and dying on the front lines? That's Intelligence Command, where you've stepped in."
Beat around the bush: you're fucked.
"Uh... people die?"
"Think war's kid games? In intel, ID'd? Survival odds near zero."
"Ha... haha."
Shit.
From coastal guard to this? Hell's got levels.
"I'd help if skilled, but I know nothing. Shame."
Figured no real work for a green second lieutenant. But Eden was nuts.
"Nah, you've got talent. Split personalities clean, right?"
"Pardon...?"
Since when?
Stunned, Eden smirked, poured.
"Me? Don't care about training folks. They die before peaking."
Bitter face, like he'd seen it plenty.
"You're solid, though. Sweet noble background, adaptable personality."
"Ha... haha, thanks, but I'm not that guy."
"You might not see it. My eye's sharp. Our intel's solid."
Eden tossed a paper on the table.
"First mission: Head to 3rd Division, contact Major Olmen, secure traitor list."
"Me...? Sir?"
Shaky hands unfolded the ominous sheet.
Olmen
Rank: Major (3rd Division Ground Ops Regiment, 1st Infantry Battalion CO)
Age: 34
Interests: Soccer, booze (whiskey), gambling
.
.
.
Dense dossier on this Olmen guy. Everything but panty color.
"Intel's top priority: probe turncoats. This guy's our latest find."
Eden jabbed the name.
"First field-grade traitor we nailed. More out there, but they're ghosts. Hard to pin. Sigh."
Deep drag, exhale thick with fatigue.
"Plan B: direct approach. You're on it."
"A rookie like me...? Send pros, sir."
Why dump prime op on him?
'They dodging it themselves?'
Suspicious.
"Truth? Don't fully trust you. But they're paranoid. Sent two already—spooked, pulled back before bonding."
"They that jumpy? Me?"
"Might flop. But you fit: natural all around, background Olmen'd dig."
"Really...?"
"Hate it? Say so. Got backups."
"Then that."
Traitor wrangling? Suicide. Switch.
"I'd prefer you take it, but..."
Eden pulled another sheet—shocker.
Albein Fortress, Infiltration Op
"Fake ID ready. Pull troop deployment intel. Note: caught, torture. Never spill on us..."
"N-no, 3rd Division it is. Rethought—perfect for me."
"That so?"
Eden smirked, mission accomplished.
'These demon bastards.'