The Red Baron's Last Opera
Must stop it.
Click.
Berba. The capital of the Dache Republic, a nation under the Yurna Kingdom Federation. The Dache Republic was one of the largest countries in Yurna and, just a few years ago, had plunged not only Yurna but the entire continent into a frenzy of violence and slaughter.
It was the perfect example of yesterday's ally becoming today's enemy—Dache and the Red Federation.
In a mad bid to create a pure human nation, Dache had systematically massacred over six million beastkin and other subhuman races. To halt this lunatic regime, the Red Federation and the Cardran Empire had joined forces—but only briefly. Now, Dache was one of the Empire's most heavily backed blood allies, all to curb the Red Federation's expansion.
Why? After the war, Dache had been neatly divided between the Red Federation and the Cardran Empire. A single wall separated imperial law from federation law, creating an extreme divided state.
To the Cardran Empire, the Dache Republic was the front line against the Red Federation; they had no choice but to support it, like it or not. To the Red Federation, Dache was the ideal spot to monitor the Cardran Empire and Yurna Federation—and vice versa for the Empire and Yurna.
And so it was born. A nation teeming with spies and informants.
Even in spy-infested Dache, the capital Berba was ground zero. And among Berba's heavyweights, one stood above the rest: the shadowy puppet master unknown even by face to the Cardran Empire and Yurna Federation. Commonly known as the Red Baron, Ivan Petrovich entered the opera house dressed like an ordinary gentleman.
Opera. To Ivan, it was the repulsive, filthy high-society culture born from exploiting the masses for the amusement of noble pigs. Yet the opera house itself was the perfect venue. It let him mingle naturally with the elite, eavesdrop on conversations for intel, and—being an old, sprawling building—hide items or make secret contacts in its nooks and crannies.
Where are you? Where the hell are you?!
Normally, he'd prowl the house with leisurely poise, executing his ops. But today, he was on edge.
Sleeper agent list exposed. This was one crisis he'd stake his life to prevent.
No chance it was fake. Point Zero had sent their final shortwave transmission before Argos rounded them all up. And it wasn't hearsay—the Empire's emperor had mentioned it personally.
Who? Yuri? Mikhail? Dmitry? Which of the three?!
Ivan Petrovich was gripped by extreme paranoia. Betrayal from his inner circle was one of his greatest taboos.
They were too competent—and unfortunately, that bred his distrust. Their loyalty to the Federation was questionable, but they were indispensable. They could betray him at any moment, and the fallout would be catastrophic. If these three were the culprits, he couldn't delegate the hit; he was the only one who knew all their faces. He'd have to handle it himself.
"The opera is about to begin. The Barber of Seville starts now. Ticket holders, please proceed inside."
In the opera house lounge, sipping and gaming out worst-case scenarios, Ivan straightened his clothes at the staffer's polite, velvety voice and cautiously entered the auditorium.
The Red Baron lightly brushed his concealed pistol and the hilt of his aura blade—just the handle at his waist—over his clothes, hearing the updates in his earpiece.
For the Federation and the people.
Using a spell that transmitted thoughts without speaking, he issued orders to his subordinates, then entered the auditorium. His eyes lit with fire—not on the stage, but scanning the audience seats neurotically.
Where are you, you little rat? Show yourself.
For this op, he'd mobilized every asset in Berba. Worst case, he was prepped for all-out battle: elite combat agents and knights willing to die for the Federation, plus mages on standby.
As he tensely scanned the crowd, the opera began. Act 1 ended, Act 2, finale—no changes. No sneaky audience exchanges, no one slinking to corners during intermission. After over three tense hours, not even a glimpse of his inner circle, let alone a lookalike.
Ivan's brow furrowed.
What the hell?
A lie? But the emperor himself had spoken. Ivan was convinced: betrayal confirmed.
This couldn't be happening. Why nothing? Why so quiet?!
Frustration demanded a drink. Post-curtain, he headed to the lounge.
"Cognac, one."
The waiter soon approached cautiously, handing over the cognac. Ivan downed it, left a tip, and walked out of the opera house.
Maybe the traitor had sniffed him out and stayed away. He'd eliminate his three inner circle members. Their talent had been tolerable until now, but proven risk meant no mercy.
As he sent the order, a sharp scream pierced his earpiece.
The Red Baron—Ivan Petrovich's face went paler than ever.
He needed to bolt, but for the first time, Ivan stood frozen, mind blank. These agents, painstakingly planted and nurtured over a decade of hardship—compromised already? Had the traitor passed the list elsewhere?
Then—
Comms cut.
Citizen screams. Heavy tremors. Explosions.
The worst-case scenario had come true. Worse still—
Yuri, Mikhail, Dmitry terminated? Then who? Who leaked it?!
He had no clue why this nightmare had unfolded.
My job was simple.
"Put on this comms device, watch an opera at the theater, and that's it. Spot the Red Baron in the audience and point him out—we'll handle the rest."
A magic artifact enabling thought-based comms without speaking. I practiced a bit; the usage wasn't tricky, and soon I was transmitting.
Next, the disguise team fitted me with a face mask straight out of a wuxia novel, then transformed me with makeup into someone else entirely. Mirror-perfect quality; even I couldn't believe it.
"Your name is Hans Müller, 45-year-old opera buff. Memorize this—that's all. No need to contact or talk to the Baron. Just read intel and relay it to us."
"Got it."
"Four of Argos's master knights, highly trained, will disguise as audience members and sit around you—left, right, front, back. No stray bullets or spells will touch you. I guarantee it."
The Argos Chief looked exhausted. Mirien had flipped out when she heard I'd be in on a covert op. He and I had visited her, persuading for over an hour before she relented.
"If so much as a scratch mars Kaien's royal envoy, Empire and Kaien go to war that day. Heed my warning."
Mirien's chilling voice still echoed; the Chief's expression was grim.
"We've got 9th-circle strategic mages and special forces on standby for contingencies. You won't be harmed, Great Sage. Don't worry."
"No worries. You've got it covered, Chief. I trust you."
The Chief chuckled dryly.
"Then let's begin."
And so began a spy flick. A goddamn boring one.
Enter opera house, sit, scan crowd—easy to spot the Red Baron. Read his full intel, transmit via thought-comms to the Chief. That was the whole movie. No plot, no climax—just tedium.
Real theaters would've gotten an earful. But the Chief loved this snoozer.
Each intel drop had the Chief—who'd once oozed charisma—giddy like a kid.
The Chief laughed—blissfully happy. Crude as it sounds, it was the kind of laugh from back-to-back climaxes.
I relayed most of what I gleaned. So much intel, the opera ended by the time I finished.
Curtain down, I stood and exited. The Baron was at the lounge bar, drinking.
Never dreamed the Empire's intel chief would grovel with joy. I blended into the exiting crowd, slipping behind the theater to a waiting Argos mage. He chanted; space tore open—a portal.
"Step in. Well done, Great Sage."
"Yes."
I leaped through. Comfortable warmth—Yurtel, my room. The disguise team swiftly stripped my makeup.
What a... letdown.
"Ivan Petrovich?"
Explosions and quakes sent Berba's citizens screaming and fleeing. Streets emptied in seconds.
The Red Baron turned to four men approaching openly—no hiding. Aura blade hilts. Bare handles erupted in blue aura blades, forming perfect swords.
"Finally meeting the infamous Red Baron. Do you know how many Argos brothers you've gotten killed?"
The Baron laughed, drawing his hilt. It hummed, spewing a red aura blade.
"Имперские ублюдки (Imperial bastards)."
No more pretense. Five master knights glared—then aura blades clashed, humming fiercely.
To some, today was a dull spy flick. To them, just the opening of a violent action blockbuster.