Ch.128Episode 7 – Daily Life

# Hair Loss Has No Clear Cure

It’s the established theory in academic circles here that neither magic, divine power, shamanism, nor even black magic can fundamentally cure hair loss.

The current Pope himself proves this, as everyone knows from those times when his hat occasionally flew off during Mass due to sudden gusts of wind.

If even the Pope can’t escape hair loss, what hope is there for mere cardinals or bishops? Probably not even Veronica and Lucia could fix it by hammering healing spells 24 hours a day with an elixir in hand.

Fortunately, members of the Nostrim family generally had abundant hair. Not only my father’s side, who worked as a treasury official, but also my mother’s side, who wielded influence in the royal family, were blessed with plentiful hair.

In other words, none of the elders on either side of the family suffered from hair loss.

But hair loss has come for me. At 28.

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

“……”

As I sat at my desk staring blankly into space, Pippin and Jake awkwardly approached and spoke to me.

“Um… Manager, I mean, Major. This looks like stress-induced hair loss, so there’s still some hope—”

“Be quiet.”

“Yes, sir.”

## Episode 7 – Daily Life

Sitting in the office, I realized there were many reasons for my stress.

First, there’s the job issue.

People think diplomats don’t do much work, always respond sluggishly to complaints, and can even be unfriendly, earning them plenty of curses. But in reality, diplomats are among the busiest professionals.

‘The Minister will be attending a meeting soon, so please prepare some materials on domestic political trends and key issues. A comprehensive summary should do.’

‘What? Hasn’t headquarters already reported all that? There’s no need to duplicate similar materials…’

‘Come on, the Minister is coming, and as diplomats, we can’t show up empty-handed. Let’s put in a little effort.’

‘The ruling party’s defense committee coordinator made comments about territorial disputes, and headquarters wants relevant materials ASAP.’

‘Is that so? Then let’s gather past cases from the Foreign and Defense Ministries. First, our government’s response examples, processes, and results. Check the differences between similar cases and the current situation… And let’s survey local reactions, focusing on expatriates. Got it?’

‘Consul, the Counselor received a speeding ticket. There’s a traffic fine—how should we handle it?’

‘What’s diplomatic immunity for then?’

‘If we don’t pay this time either, they won’t approve new registrations or transfers for diplomatic vehicles and embassy equipment.’

‘Bring the Counselor here.’

Diplomatic privileges? Imported cars with diplomatic plates? Those are just pretty facades.

Even leaving at 6 PM sharp is problematic. You need to build relationships with host country officials, from low-level bureaucrats to heads of state, local influencers, and diplomats from other countries. As a diplomat, you’re fundamentally a foreigner, so missing one gathering means being easily forgotten.

No one discusses important matters with someone they barely remember or aren’t close to. And the line between diplomat and spy is razor-thin.

So to gather information, you first need to naturally build relationships, and for diplomats, appointments are extensions of work. This means after leaving the office and changing clothes, attending three or four receptions is just routine. After handling such schedules, the actual time you get off work is around 2 or 3 AM.

For reference, this is the story of a “career diplomat.” Intelligence agencies have it even worse.

They say embassy operations can run with just three people, but they send only one intelligence officer. They make you handle not only host country duties but also divide responsibilities for neighboring non-diplomatic countries. They create fake identities like arms dealer or oil drilling company executive due to personnel shortages. They purchase equipment and safe houses for dispatched staff. They tell you not to just stay in the office and occasionally involve you in operations…

Despite working people to the bone, when you beg for additional personnel, they grit their teeth and ignore you. Even the CIA faces this issue, making it a chronic disease that all intelligence agencies live with.

Of course, there are complex internal reasons behind this—complicated training systems, overseas dispatch procedures, and the number of intelligence officers failing to meet demand—but still.

“…Sigh.”

For field practitioners, headquarters’ policies, regardless of the justification, can only feel annoying.

As I suppressed those feelings and let out a sigh, Jake awkwardly smiled and spoke up.

“Cheer up, Major. At least we’re better off than other military attachés.”

“Does others’ suffering make mine disappear?”

“Well, you might feel less stressed, I guess.”

But that wasn’t the only problem.

The military attaché’s work isn’t particularly difficult, so there shouldn’t be much stress, but I can’t say there’s absolutely no work-related stress either. This isn’t just about workload or difficulty.

“Manager, there’s a communication on line 5.”

“Internal or external?”

“External.”

“…Who is it?”

“The Magic Tower Police Department.”

*

“I regret the situation. However, since the Hero is not an Abas national, I must clearly convey that there are no relevant regulations or laws requiring the delegation to provide separate compensation. I’m making this absolutely clear.”

-‘Military Attaché, we understand the situation. But there are significant protests from civic groups and local governments. It’s been less than a month since we suffered from anti-government demonstrations, and if the orcs rise up, we have no way to handle it. No way at all.’

“It’s truly regrettable, but I’m not in a position to discuss our delegation’s official stance, so I have nothing more to say.”

-‘Three buildings were completely burned down. No matter how accident-prone mages might be, the Hero is different. If we don’t clearly establish who’s responsible, this will definitely escalate later.’

“I’m also very sorry, but the issue you’ve raised requires consultation with the Foreign Ministry, so I can’t provide an immediate answer.”

-‘Are you really going to be like this?’

“Actually, I’ve only been appointed recently, so I think it would be more appropriate for you to contact other departments first…”

-‘If you keep responding like this, we’ll have no choice but to lodge a diplomatic protest.’

Click.

I collapsed into my chair after finishing the call with the Magic Tower Police Department’s foreign affairs officer.

The conversation lasted just over ten minutes, but my hands and feet were trembling, and I felt like I might tear up.

“Good work…”

Pippin put down the receiver and looked at me with sympathetic eyes.

Handling civilian complaints.

That’s one of the sources of my stress these days.

You might wonder why a diplomat would handle civilian complaints like a local government clerk, but there are plausible reasons for this.

First, I’m Camilla’s colleague. The oracle designated it, and the religious order stepped forward to guarantee my credentials, so this is an undisputed fact.

That part is still manageable. But the problem is that I’m a government employee.

Camilla is a visitor from another world, Lucia is one of only two saints in the religious order, and Francesca is a high-ranking civil servant from a prestigious family that dominates the magical community.

That’s where the problem lies.

When Camilla, Lucia, or Francesca cause accidents or get involved in problems, affected parties need to complain, but those three are in positions that “mere” politicians, bureaucrats, or local influencers would find difficult to confront.

Complain to a saint, and you might get stabbed on the street; complain to the administrative officer, and people would whisper behind your back about the legitimacy and authority of the prestigious Ranieri family. And you can’t exactly hold someone from another world responsible, can you?

So now, building owners or tenants damaged when Camilla fights monsters, PMC executives who lose jurisdiction while suppressing protests, hospital directors stuck with medical costs when Lucia treats people for free, civic group leaders desperate for compensation, different races, and civil servants harassed by them—they all have virtually no way to complain or seek compensation.

But as always, humans are resourceful creatures, especially when desperate.

As soon as rumors spread that a colleague of theirs was working as a military attaché at the Abas delegation, all kinds of calls flooded in.

This was a phenomenon that neither Military Intelligence, the Royal Intelligence Service, nor even the Foreign Ministry had anticipated. Of course, they also hadn’t anticipated my receding hairline.

“……”

“Manager, are you alright?”

“…No, not at all.”

Jake placed some documents on my desk with an awkward smile.

“These are documents sent by the company responsible for maintaining security in District 19. They want to schedule a meeting, and it seems to be related to the Hero.”

“Do they want money?”

“Whether they’re complaining or lobbying to get their jurisdiction back, it all amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it…?”

“…Damn it.”

I sat at my desk with a grim expression and checked the documents. They contained a brief request from some PMC executive wanting to meet with me.

Honestly, from an intelligence officer’s perspective, this is good news.

Whether for good or bad reasons, establishing face-to-face contact with someone means creating a starting point for building connections for information gathering.

But I’m not happy about it at all.

“What does headquarters say…?”

“They see it as beneficial to make contact with a company we don’t have connections with. They’ve instructed that you attend with an intelligence officer from the military attaché’s office.”

The Defense Attaché’s Office—more precisely, the Military Intelligence Agency’s overseas division—decided to actively utilize this phenomenon.

Although I wouldn’t be staying at the Magic Tower branch for long, it would be advantageous if intelligence officers stationed there could establish new information networks through me. Moreover, these people would continue operating in the Magic Tower after I left.

However, connecting potential informants (complainants) with intelligence officers was my responsibility.

That was the source of my overwork and stress.

“So how many appointments do I have this evening…?”

“After work, you’ll attend a dinner with politicians from the Magic Tower’s Elemental School, followed by a meeting with Justice Department officials and police representatives at a hotel.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem too bad.”

“And then you need to meet with a Magic Ministry official dispatched to the Imperial delegation regarding the Hero, and an executive from an international medical organization who wants to deliver a letter to Saint Lucia.”

“…That’s it, right?”

“Yes, after meeting with representatives from a Magic Tower defense industry company participating in the bid for surveillance equipment in the uninhabited zone and reporting to headquarters, today’s schedule will be complete.”

“……”

This is insane.

*

As soon as I heard the number of appointments, I wanted to resign somehow, but unfortunately, I was a soldier. Orders from above were absolute, and I was someone who had to carry them out one way or another.

After leaving work at 6 PM sharp, I went to the hotel to change clothes, immediately requested a diplomatic vehicle, and headed to the appointment location.

By the time I returned to the hotel after more than five meals, the clock showed 3:41 AM.

“…I need to return to headquarters soon.”

I reported the information collected during the day to Clebins and moved up the debriefing date. I needed to return to Military Intelligence to escape this hellish daily routine, even if just temporarily.

Fortunately, the higher-ups, seeing my withering appearance in real-time, granted permission. After completing the debriefing, I’m scheduled for a short leave to recover my health.

I desperately wished for a swift return to my home country as I dragged my exhausted body into the hotel.

And just as I was about to pop an antacid into my mouth, I encountered an unexpected person.

“Oh?”

“Nice to see you, Military Attaché. Fancy meeting you here.”

Francesca, the administrative officer of the Magic Tower Secretariat, greeted me. She was carrying a heavy travel bag and a passport.

“Administrative—no, what should I call you now?”

“I’m still an administrative officer.”

“Ah, I see.”

Francesca was an informant providing intelligence to the Abas intelligence agency. She was also a collaborator in operations conducted by Abas intelligence in the Magic Tower.

Of course, now she’s my informant. I took over (or rather, was dumped with) her from Director Leoni.

“You seem very busy.”

“Work has been a bit much… But where are you going?”

“I’m briefly visiting my hometown.”

“Your hometown…?”

I racked my sleep-stiffened brain to consider Francesca’s situation.

Graduate of a prestigious Magic Tower university, soon-to-be-promoted Secretariat administrative officer, second daughter of the Ranieri family, surveillance target of the National Security Bureau, informant for Abas intelligence.

Francesca was under surveillance by the National Security Bureau as a relative of a public security offender. And according to what Leoni had said, Francesca was prohibited from contacting her family as a condition for studying abroad at the Magic Tower.

But now she’s going to her hometown?

As I tilted my head, puzzled by her inconsistent statement, Francesca gently smiled and spoke.

“I’m going to see my brother.”

“…Ah.”

“Just his grave in my hometown.”

Francesca’s brother—the eldest son of the Ranieri family—was deceased.

Cause of death: suicide. He jumped into a river, and police responding to a witness report recovered the body and handed it over to the Ranieri family.

No one knows why he died. The specific reason for the Ranieri family’s eldest son’s suicide wasn’t revealed to the media, nor was it in the Royal Intelligence Service materials Leoni gave me. There were only rumors.

Considering the Royal Intelligence Service’s capabilities, few people probably know the true cause of the eldest son’s death. However, as a family member, Francesca might know something. Perhaps that’s related to her decision to study abroad and become an informant.

However,

“…How long will you be staying?”

“About three days, I think.”

“Travel safely.”

It wouldn’t be polite to pry, so I didn’t press Francesca further.

Also, the moment she leaves the country, intelligence officers would report to Leoni, and the Fatalia branch would step in to protect her, so I didn’t stop her departure. The National Security Bureau probably knows about her travel plans as well.

Thinking about having to manage her in the future gave me a slight headache, but at least she was more predictable than Veronica.

Right. Managing informants was also part of my job. It’s much easier and more comfortable than dealing with complainants. Not that it’s completely stress-free, of course.

“Should I bring you a souvenir when I return? Though I’m not sure if I’ll have the opportunity.”

“There’s no need to go out of your way. Are you leaving today?”

“Yes, I’m taking the first warp gate.”

“You should get going then.”

Noticing Magic Tower police intelligence officers starting to glance our way, I was about to wrap up the conversation and leave.

“Oh, by the way.”

Francesca, who was about to exit the hotel, said to me.

“The Hero has been waiting. Do you have an appointment?”

“…No, I don’t.”

“I see. Well, I’ll be off then.”

Francesca briefly bowed her head and walked toward the warp gate.

I watched her walk away, then turned my gaze upward toward the hotel.

The central hall rose high above the hotel lobby. The railing, reflecting the architect’s meticulous sensibility, formed elegant curves, and from that height, a familiar girl was looking down at me.

She enthusiastically waved her hand.

“…Haa.”

The third major source of my stress.