Honey Trap Operative
I took a light deep breath, steeling myself for the moment, then knocked on the door twice with the back of my hand. "Lieutenant Yura Konstantia reporting. I have information that requires your attention, Dean. May I come in?"
"Ah, Miss Konstantia. Please, enter."
The soft reply came from beyond the door. The dean's refined voice resonated gently. I cautiously opened the door and stepped inside, revealing the familiar spartan interior of the dean's office. Naturally, there she was, seated behind that sturdy desk.
Soft golden hair cascaded down to her hips. Though gold in hue, it was more the pale, warm tone of ripened wheat fields than gleaming metal. She wore a short military skirt—a rarity on anyone these days—revealing toned thighs that tapered into band stockings. Higher up, silver-rimmed glasses rested lightly on her brown-skinned face, framing eyes that sparkled with a pinkish glow.
Glasses don't just suit her—they elevate her beauty. People who look that good in specs are rare. Or, to be precise, maybe not "people."
I glanced at her ears, which twitched ever so faintly. Long, pointed ears and vertically slit pupils—the hallmarks of a dark elf.
Myurvel. One of only two elf officers in the Angras Empire, alongside my superior, Eski Jeongnyeong.
My gaze naturally drifted to her arm. A bright yellow armband bore three black stars. And beneath them, no doubt, three silver stars gleamed. With no rank of lieutenant general in the Empire, her substantive and nominal ranks aligned.
Marshal Myurvel. The pinnacle for any soldier not of noble blood.
Well, as the head of nuclear weapon development and production, she deserved no less.
Still, why did vice-marshal translate to deputy general, but marshal jump straight to full general? I'd pondered that, but never found an answer.
"Long live Her Imperial Majesty."
"Long live Her Imperial Majesty. So, what is it you need to report, Miss Konstantia?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's regarding the Lady of Groomha County."
The dean, saluting from her seat with a tap to her chest, asked with a gentle smile. I summarized my recent conversation with Riley and reported it to her... and Dean Myurvel nodded, her smile unwavering.
"I see. Please wait a moment."
She then lifted the telephone from the corner of her desk—a dial-style landline that would have been an antique in my old world. But in the Empire, it was cutting-edge. Manual switchboard calls were the true standard, reserved for the wealthy anyway. Dial phones like this were just starting limited urban rollout.
"Long live Her Imperial Majesty. Marshal Myurvel speaking."
No dialing, no operator—the line connected instantly. It looked like a rotary phone but was likely a dedicated hotline to one specific place. And for a marshal to report upward to someone...
"Yes, shall I inform Her Highness? ...Ah, long live Her Imperial Majesty. Marshal Myurvel speaking. I have a report and am contacting you accordingly."
Of course—it had to be the Marshal or Grand Marshal of the Army. In imperial parlance, Crown Princess or Her Imperial Majesty.
Did this really warrant immediate report to the palace? Well, perhaps. Groomha County was a hot potato in the capital right now.
The conquest of Groomha County. Not the Empire's greatest goal, but a long-cherished aspiration. And now, on the verge of realization—without us lifting a finger. They were kneeling first. Caution was inevitable.
Every scrap of intel must be gold to the higher-ups.
"...Lieutenant Konstantia? Ah, yes. She's right here. Yes."
"...?"
"Miss Konstantia. Her Highness wishes to speak with you directly."
Even so, this turn? I hadn't seen it coming. The dean could relay everything perfectly. Why involve a field lieutenant?
"Long live Her Imperial Majesty. Lieutenant Yura Konstantia on the line."
"...Lieutenant Konstantia."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The receiver carried a voice so young it bordered on childish. It even sounded younger than Second Princess Tina.
"Are you prostrating yourself to take this call again?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"I've told you it's unnecessary."
Damn formalities. You expect me to pass up a legal dogeza chance? Even over a phone where she can't see? Hell, people do phone sex while talking—who says phone dogeza's off-limits?
"No authority, however great, could make me forgo my loyalty to the imperial family."
Of course, I couldn't say "What do formalities know?" to the Crown Princess. I'd wrapped it nicely. No way I'd risk her retorting, "Ask King Yama if you know or not."
"Even face-to-face, you don't bow every casual encounter."
"If I weren't in uniform, I would, Your Highness."
"...True enough. You're that rigid."
A sigh from the receiver. But not reproachful—satisfied, laced with faint amusement. She secretly loves overt bootlicking. She grumbles about the fuss but eats it up.
"So, tell me. What happened with that barbarian girl?"
"Ah, well..."
I repeated the same report for the second time...
"Then stick close, melt her heart, and a path opens?"
"Yes. I... Yes?"
That day, Lieutenant Yura Konstantia became a honey trap operative.
×
"I'll be expecting results. If you have more to say, ask the dean to connect us anytime."
"...Understood. Long live Her Imperial Majesty."
"Long live Her Imperial Majesty."
Suddenly saddled with a new mission, I stared blankly for a while. The dean beside me probably didn't notice, since I was still prostrate.
"I've only seen someone call like this twice."
I straightened up after confirming the line dead, and her voice came from above.
"Impressive loyalty."
"Just what any imperial subject should do. Good to know there's one more."
"Around when the telephone was first invented."
"Hm."
So that's why she thought I was some Joseon-era relic. I turned to her—embarrassed and flustered. But her words and looks didn't faze me. No shame here.
Etch this in your mind: Dogeza thrills more with an audience!
"So... how should I approach her?"
No way I'd blurt that out—disciplinary action for violating solemnity. I pivoted casually. The Crown Princess had left it to the dean ("Handle the method yourself"), so planning this honey trap (op) fell to Myurvel.
"Approaching without pretext risks suspicion. Never underestimate their instincts."
"True."
Practically speaking, deferring made sense. Who better than the dean to fabricate a reason for staff-student meetings?
I hinted at pretexts, and after pondering, she spoke.
"Perfect timing. I had a tricky issue myself."
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thick stack of documents, nodding for me to check.
I brushed my uniform knees and approached the desk...
Overnight Stay Application
Applicant: Riley Tiwe Kuntak
Date: [Ongoing, weekly]
Reason: Personal travel
"...Overnight stay applications?"
The academy wasn't a strict military base, so off-base and outings were free—curfew and overnight limits aside. Day trips were the practical max, but prior approval allowed more. Weekends only, 1-2 nights, but rail made most of the Empire accessible.
The top sheet was one such form. Instinct said the stack below matched. All named Riley Tiwe Kuntak.
"Every week, all semester. Without fail."
How much was that? She answered first.
"Not even all of them."
"Not all?"
"Yesterday, the lady brought two stacks. Asked how long she could apply for. Per rules, I said one semester... so she took one back."
"Meaning a full year's worth."
The dean nodded. She'd prepped for a year.
"Is frequent overnights allowed?"
"By regs, yes. If she skips assignments and exams."
This was an academy—grades mattered. No one came this far to fail. Even loose reins had limits.
...Except that one barbarian girl whose graduation even seemed questionable.
"Paperwork issues?"
"None I saw. But handwriting doesn't match hers."
I pictured Riley and nodded. Sorry, but... official docs in imperial tongue? In days? Unlikely.
So, including the reclaimed stack, a year's prepped. Someone ghostwrote and tipped her to submit to the dean. Likely the shadow lurking in Groomha.
But why? Touring the Empire? Speculation swirled, answers elusive.
Of course. If easy, I'd be intel, not band. My talents would've gotten me kidnapped there long ago.
"Can't read intent? Best reject via dean authority."
"I considered it. Just hesitated if it'd resolve cleanly."
"Meaning?"
"First... would they show such obvious moves without knowing we'd block?"
Fingers unfolded—one. Rejection might be part of their plan.
"Sounds like more reasons."
"Second: Would blanket rejection stop her visiting those spots?"
"...Hm."
"She might storm out curfew be damned, pissed at denial."
Hard to deny. My Groomha image leaned chaotic. Empire's domestic might was no joke—even for warriors, Riley alone had limits.
But trouble-free? No. Factoring the shadow's foresight... the uproar might be intended.
"So... give bone, strike flesh?"
"...Isn't that risky?"
"Haha, best against unknown foes."
She chopped the stack's edge.
"Halve them. Weekly jaunts are too much for a student—propose a cultural exploration club, biweekly field trips."
"Blanket rejection breeds grudge, but compromise..."
"Carrot dangles—the lady might bite, even if shadow doesn't?"
Plausible. I nodded.
"Halve candidates, let her choose? Her picks reveal purpose."
"Logical. Bait weeds fakes; otherwise, she keeps mission-critical ones."
They might predict counters, or this whole stack's bait... but overthinking stalls. Assume Groomha's goal, act.
"But... how's this tie to Her Highness's orders?"
Still puzzled there. As I asked...
Dean Myurvel smiled warmly, pointing at me.
"Clubs need advisors. Trips need chaperones, right?"
"Ah."
"Given the lady's interest in you, offering yourself boosts acceptance. Her Highness suggested spending time together anyway."
Odd... why pile duties on a mere lieutenant?
I glanced up at the cruelly serene sky outside.