Ch.309Episode 13 – There Is No Country for Wizards

# Despite returning home after a long time, it was a day like any other.

Though not fully spring yet, the slightly warmer weather was pleasant.

The midday sunlight tickling my skin, the clear breeze blowing gently.

Snow crunching underfoot and the busy noise of the city.

“Ah, I can’t remember the last time I had to debrief after returning. Want to grab a drink after work?”

“Sounds good to us. Are you buying, Section Chief?”

“I’ll put it on the corporate card.”

“The accounting department won’t like that.”

My day begins by leaving my ID at the main gate security post and scanning my access card.

“But this debriefing is going to be pretty tough.”

“Northern Kiyen has been uncharted territory for the past five years. The investigators have been pushing hard. They practically yell at you if you say you can’t remember something.”

“Still, Section Chief, you’ll probably be released early. Otherwise, you might be stuck at the office all week.”

Despite arriving at an odd hour, there were many people coming and going.

Teams heading out for lunch, investigators returning from field work, analysts with earphones engaged in calls, intelligence officers sighing while carrying binders thick enough for hundreds of pages and takeout coffee, security personnel standing guard with rifles propped up and pistols holstered…

I catch an elevator and press the button for my destination.

The destination is a small multipurpose conference room in the Military Intelligence Bureau building.

There, I’m scheduled for a brief interrogation with senior intelligence officers from the overseas division of the Military Intelligence Bureau and several analysts present.

“I heard from the seniors that the information collected this time will be passed on to other agencies through the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“Where’s it going?”

“Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Intelligence Department, Prime Minister’s Office, Intelligence Committees of both Houses, Defense Committee, Foreign Affairs Committee…”

“That’s quite a fuss.”

“You get called around a lot after visiting conflict zones. It was the same when I was in special forces. But Section Chief, have you really never met the Grand Duchess? I’m curious about how beautiful she is.”

“Jake, could you please shut up?”

“What’s wrong, Pippin? Logically, wouldn’t anyone be curious about a grandmother over 120 years old who maintains the appearance and figure of her prime?”

“I can’t talk freely about matters related to the Grand Duchess. They told me not to discuss it carelessly.”

“Of course. This place treats even today’s cafeteria menu as classified information.”

Honestly, I’m not too worried. Debriefing is just one of the routine paperwork processes after returning from overseas assignments.

It’s not like I’m being summoned to the Inspection Office, so the debriefing should only take a few days at most. After that, I’ll get some leave. I’ll probably be sprawled out in a military hotel managed by the Abas Ministry of Defense in about a week.

That prediction turned out to be exactly right.

I left the conference room in less than half a day.

The investigators who had compiled the results of the intelligence operation conducted over the past month and detailed data on the northern conflict sent me away saying, “That’s enough, go home and rest.” Afterward, I was summoned by Clavins, my former superior, who was filling in for the absent Leoni, and received vacation orders.

However, there was one thing I hadn’t anticipated.

“…Where did you say I’m going?”

“The Republic of Fatalia.”

The fact that my vacation destination was abroad.

## Episode 13 – There Is No Country for Wizards

It took me about 15 seconds to calm my surprised mind after being momentarily dumbfounded.

“…Wait a minute. Fatalia? Did I hear you correctly…? Are you telling me to go to Fatalia?”

“Yes, you heard correctly.”

Clavins nodded.

“The Republic of Fatalia. Our friend and ally.”

The Republic of Fatalia is, as he said, a friend and ally of Abas.

As you can tell from those game developers’ terrible naming skills (just look at how they placed Abas, an Islamic empire, in a Western Europe-North America position), Fatalia’s motif and name were both taken from Italy.

“It’s known for its wine and cuisine, and has many great tourist destinations.”

“I know. Didn’t you go there yourself last year?”

The annual exchange event between the Abas Military Intelligence Bureau and the Fatalian Integrated Intelligence Department. The mutual exchange between the military intelligence agencies of both countries was always popular within the company.

Clavins visited Fatalia last year as a representative of the domestic division of the Military Intelligence Bureau for the exchange event.

I, who was his assistant at the time, couldn’t accompany him due to a family matter, but I remember that the event was successfully completed by sending a substitute who was fluent in Fatalian.

“They say there’s no food at a famous feast, but when I actually went and looked around, I found that saying to be wrong. I still think it would have been much more comfortable if you had been there to interpret for me.”

“My Fatalian skills aren’t that great. You know that.”

“True, they certainly fall short of your Kiyen language skills. Of course, if we fired everyone whose skills were inferior to yours, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the Fatalia branch.”

“So why are you sending me there?”

Clavins grinned and shrugged.

“As I said earlier, it’s a vacation.”

“…You’re giving me a vacation abroad? From a company that ignores requests for new supplies because there’s no money?”

To my question asking if he was serious, he opened his mouth as if to say, “Why are you asking something so obvious?”

“As you well know, it’s not that uncommon for the company to send employees abroad.”

Like all occupations in the world, once you take a job, there are things you have to give up, but there are few workplaces where you have to give up as much as in an intelligence agency.

Among the many things to give up, one is the freedom to travel abroad.

“When you join an intelligence agency, it becomes difficult to travel abroad. The company rarely gives permission, and schedules aren’t flexible enough to take vacations.”

“Even lieutenant colonels barely get to go home two or three times a week, so it feels awkward to take a vacation.”

“Even if you somehow manage to go, there’s a problem. You can’t relax and rest comfortably…”

“From a counterintelligence agency’s perspective, they can’t tell if you’re on vacation or on assignment. Of course, local spies will be on alert too.”

“It would be fine if only the intelligence officer was being marked, but it becomes a problem when they target the family too. Imagine taking your child and having investigators lurking around your hotel room. Could you even sleep properly?”

Therefore, intelligence agencies tend to provide many opportunities for employees to go abroad, such as exchange events, commissioned education, and training institution programs.

The official reason is “to provide opportunities to develop skills necessary for the job through obtaining degrees abroad and gaining new experiences,” but it also serves as a reward, allowing them to catch their breath after all their hard work.

Of course, many employees go abroad for other reasons, but that’s primarily because they’re going for ‘work.’

If I had to make a comparison, the difference between the two is like “playing with intelligence officers from friendly nations on a beautiful beach frequented by tourists” versus “touring a Russian Federation military base frequented by nuclear-armed submarines, accompanied by guides who are also monitors.”

Anyway.

To put it simply:

“The company has ordered you to take a vacation. As a reward for your hard work, they’ve authorized an overseas trip so you can rest comfortably for a few days in a friendly country.”

It’s called a vacation ‘order,’ but it’s essentially telling me to go have fun.

And for free, at that.

“I’ve already booked accommodations at a resort. Security checks have been completed, so there shouldn’t be any issues with surveillance or wiretapping. The costs have been paid in advance, so don’t worry.”

“Can I order room service?”

“Of course you can. If your wallet can afford it.”

So it’s not free after all.

I nodded while bobbing my head, then a thought occurred to me and I asked a question.

“But is it okay for me to take a vacation right away? I don’t know when I’ll be going back to the north, and I understand that the incidents in the north haven’t been sorted out yet.”

“Ah, that’s true.”

Clavins calmly acknowledged it, as if there was nothing more to hide.

“The rift attack, the killing of the inquisitor and imperial wizards, the appearance of necromancers, undead, demons, battles in major cities, the Grand Duchess showing herself after years… There’s so much to pay attention to that none of the data has been organized. The situation is complex. The officers in charge were fine at first, but they started losing it when the demon stories came up. Like reading a novel?”

Yes, honestly, even I thought that the events of the past month could easily fill a Chronicles of Narnia-sized novel.

However,

“But this isn’t something you need to worry about.”

Clavins rose lightly from his chair and picked up an envelope of money and a ticket from the desk. Then, in his usual calm voice, he said:

“Work can be done anytime, but vacations are rare. What you need right now isn’t overtime, but rest.”

“……”

“You’ll be busy without a moment to breathe for the next few months, so prepare yourself.”

He tucked the envelope into my inside pocket and handed me the ticket. I watched quietly and accepted the ticket.

After patting my shoulder, Clavins sat back at his desk, flipped through some documents, and concluded:

“Check into the hotel, get a good three or four hours of sleep, and then contact me. After you’ve had some sleep, had a meal, and looked around the resort. When you feel your mind is clear enough, we’ll talk about the northern issues again.”

*

Three hours later.

I was standing in front of the warp gate from the Republic of Fatalia to the Kingdom of Abas.

Before me was the entrance to Fatalia’s immigration office with guidance signs in various languages, and a neatly dressed immigration officer sitting in a sophisticated booth.

The officer, who looked strict at first glance, greeted me briefly and asked for my passport. Though she tried to hide her cracked lips with makeup, I could sense fatigue in her voice.

“Welcome to the Republic of Fatalia. Signor, may I see your passport?”

Slightly nervous, I placed my passport on the tray.

The officer took the tray through the transparent partition, opened the passport, and quickly scanned the personal information, entry and exit records, and documents including the visa issued by the Fatalian Embassy in the Kingdom of Abas.

While the officer was reviewing the documents and typing, I heard the sound of military boots from behind.

Instinctively, without turning my head, I looked at the reflection in the mirror inside the inspection booth and the nearby glass, and saw two security personnel with retention-strapped pistols passing by with a security dog.

“……”

As I always feel, immigration inspection is always a tense moment.

Whether for official reasons or overseas assignments, there’s always the possibility of being denied entry at the immigration checkpoint before even setting foot on foreign soil.

It’s not common for an intelligence officer on an overseas assignment to be kicked out at the local airport’s immigration checkpoint, but it happens often enough to be memorable. We jokingly call it an “entrance cut” or “airport cut.”

“Signor?”

While I was watching the security team walking away, I heard the immigration officer calling me.

“…Yes?”

“You didn’t answer when I asked you a question.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought… Could you repeat that?”

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

I answered that it was for tourism.

The officer examined the tourist visa issued by the Fatalian Embassy, located a few blocks from the Prime Minister’s residence in the capital of Abas.

After confirming that there was no problem with the visa, she put down the documents and continued her questions.

“Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes.”

“You’re traveling by yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“For someone who says they’re here for travel, your luggage is quite sparse.”

The immigration officer tapped my loose backpack. After checking its meager contents, the inspection became a bit more rigorous.

“Which region are you planning to tour? Do you have any means to prove your tourist activities?”

She had now started asking questions in Abasi. Since the passport itself was issued in Abas, she seemed to be accommodating me.

The officer’s Abasi language skills were quite good, but her pronunciation wasn’t the best. It had a distinctive Fatalian accent.

During the brief exchange for the immigration inspection, I sensed that the questioning might go on a bit longer. So instead of continuing the uncomfortable conversation in Abasi, I decided to switch to Fatalian.

“I don’t have plans to visit any specific region. Actually, I came for tourism, but I haven’t prepared anything except for the hotel reservation.”

The officer seemed momentarily surprised by the sudden flow of Fatalian. But soon, her face brightened.

“Ah, you speak Fatalian?”

“A little.”

The officer opened her mouth with a delighted expression. Her lips were curled up, and her voice, which had sounded tired, was now bright.

“You said you came alone?”

“Yes, I’m traveling solo.”

“And you have no plans?”

“No plans is the plan. Oh, here’s my hotel reservation confirmation and 5,000 ducats.”

“Meraviglia Hotel reservation confirmation, 5,000 ducats in cash exchanged in Abas. All confirmed.”

The officer, smiling softly, began to jot something down on a notepad with her pen.

Meanwhile, I looked around.

A man of draft age sitting in a nearby café drinking coffee, a couple in their 20s or 30s posing as tourists taking pictures from the second-floor railing. The woman, perhaps noticing an awkward angle, gestured to the man to prepare for another shot.

Below them, a middle-aged man putting on sunglasses as he exited the immigration office, and a woman pretending to make a phone call while glancing at a folded newspaper.

The officer, having finished writing, looked up to check behind me, then smiled and started talking.

“I often see people who speak Fatalian, but it’s been a long time since I’ve met someone as fluent as you.”

“There are many people better than me.”

“Still, your skills are good. Where did you learn? At an academy? Or university?”

“I have a friend who’s Fatalian.”

“Ah, a friend. Is it a woman? Or a man?”

“A woman.”

“What does she do?”

She’s a spy.

“I think she just works at a company. I’m not sure where exactly.”

“Then, are you here to meet that friend during your vacation?”

“Ah… no. She doesn’t even know I’m here. This vacation was arranged by my workplace.”

“By your workplace? What kind of job do you have that sends you on overseas trips?”

I pretended to think for a moment before answering the officer’s question.

“Just a job, you know. I’m a civil servant.”

The officer looking at me shook her head slightly. There was a smile on her lips.

Tearing off the note, she typed a few keys and began:

“I’m actually a civil servant too. But my workplace doesn’t send me abroad like yours does. Maybe I should have worked for a travel agency instead.”

“A travel agency. Not a bad job. Can’t say it’s good either.”

“Seems like you’ve worked at a travel agency before?”

I did work as a travel agency employee for about a year. It was a British agency with an office in China, if I recall correctly.

It was officially approved by the Chinese government, but the travel agency sign was just a front; it was actually one of the Intelligence Command’s Shanghai branches in China.

Of course, that’s not something I could talk about, so I brushed it off as something I’d heard somewhere.

My immigration inspection proceeded quite leisurely.

While the entrants on both sides who had started their inspections with me were leaving the checkpoint, the immigration officer handling my case was in no hurry to let me go.

When I showed a worried expression, wondering if there was a problem, the officer explained that there was nothing to worry about:

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. It’s just that the regulations have become stricter because many suspicious people have been entering the country lately.”

“Suspicious people?”

“Illegal residents. You’ve probably seen it in the news sometimes? People who enter on tourist visas, then go to some provincial area and start earning money. The increase in people staying illegally has made our work a bit more complicated.”

“Ah… you mean the refugees from the Mauritanian continent? I heard they used to cross by boat to the Lushan Federation, but now that the sea route is blocked, they’re coming to Fatalia too.”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s causing us a lot of headaches these days. But you seem quite knowledgeable about Fatalia’s situation. You must watch a lot of news.”

“It’s part of my job.”

I shrugged as I answered.

“So, how do I look to you, Officer? Do I seem like an illegal resident?”

The strict-looking immigration officer looked at me with a suspicious gaze. Of course, it was just playful suspicion; her face was full of mischief.

“Let me summarize. You’re a civil servant, and despite it being Fatalia’s off-season, your workplace sent you on vacation to Fatalia during the busiest time of the year, the beginning of the year.”

“Yes.”

“You’re staying at a foreign hotel that’s frequently visited by business travelers rather than tourists, you’re carrying as much as 5,000 ducats in cash, and you’re fluent in Fatalian. Of course, you also have a girlfriend in Fatalia.”

She’s not my girlfriend. If we dated, we’d both be unemployed.

That was the serious truth, but since this was just a playful exchange mixed with jokes, I decided to let it slide.

After looking at me with a face full of amusement for a moment, the officer blurted out:

“If someone like you, Signor, were an illegal resident, we’d have to accept it even if we knew.”

THUMP! A stamp marking the entry and exit dates was pressed onto my passport.

The officer who approved my entry put down the stamp and said:

“There’s a lot to enjoy near the Meraviglia Hotel. There’s a beach nearby that attracts many foreign tourists, so the entertainment culture is well-developed. The southern region is warm all year round, and the food is good too. If it suits your taste, you’ll enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

The officer neatly organized and returned my visa documents, hotel certificate, cash, and passport, then waved with a bright smile.

“Enjoy your trip.”

*

January in Fatalia is known for being the coldest month with the most wind.

Perhaps because it was the off-season, most hotels in Fatalia had plenty of vacant rooms.

The afternoon tourist spots had just the right number of people—not too many, not too few. Despite being a famous place, there were more locals than foreigners.

“…Haah.”

After leaving the immigration office, I closed my eyes for a while, lifted my head, and basked in the warm Fatalian sunshine with my whole body.

Although January in Fatalia is a chilly time with a lot of wind, it was nothing compared to the northern Kiyen Empire, where engines freeze up shortly after being turned off.

After enjoying the sunshine for a while, I first opened my passport to check if the exit date had been properly stamped. But when I opened it, I found a small note inside.

On the neatly torn piece of paper was a message saying “Call me if you’re interested” along with a phone number.

I stared at the note for a moment, then quietly tucked it between the pages of my passport.

The next thing I did was report in. I immediately took out my secure mobile phone and reported to the Abas Kingdom Embassy in Fatalia.

“Hello? This is Frederick. I heard they sent a document from home saying I’d be departing today—did you receive it? Ah, yes. I just left the immigration office. It took a bit of time. Yes. A pickup? Oh, you don’t need to come pick me up. I saw there were many people being picked up? The pickup is fine. I’ll come to you. Yes. Ah, no. Take care.”

After ending the call, I turned off the phone and put it in my inside pocket.

I took out my sunglasses from their case, put them on, and looked around using the reflective surfaces of mirrors and nearby glass while pretending to check my appearance.

A man of draft age holding coffee, a couple in their 20s or 30s walking quickly with cameras hanging from their necks, a middle-aged man with sunglasses partially hiding his face with a fedora, and a woman throwing a folded newspaper onto the glove compartment before getting into a van, and so on.

“Hmm…”

43 minutes since entering Fatalia.

I was already being followed.

“A mess from the start.”

With my backpack casually slung over my shoulder, I hailed a taxi from the line in front of the immigration office.

The taxi driver, with his tanned skin and impressive mustache, revealed his pearly white teeth as he asked:

“Where to, sir?”

“To the Kingdom of Abas Embassy, please.”

As a heavily tinted van and an old sedan slipped out of the parking lot,

The yellow taxi began to speed down the asphalt road.