Ch.386Episode 15 – Life is Beautiful

It was a picture-perfect house.

The sound of crashing waves echoed as white foam bubbled up, and intense sunlight swept across the moisture-laden rocks.

On the coastal cliff where waves surged, there stood a villa with a red roof.

The red villa built on a gentle hill looked like a watercolor painting. It held even more meaning because it was based on untainted childhood memories.

The owner of the red villa on the coastal cliff.

Francesca gazed out the window with indifferent eyes.

“……”

The area around the villa was filled with people.

Tall statures and sturdy builds. The men dressed in stylish suits were unmistakably security guards. With more than a dozen such men surrounding the villa, anyone unaware of the situation might think, ‘Someone important must live in that house.’

However, if one noticed the capes draped over the men’s shoulders, observers would quietly slip away. After all, capes were symbolic attire for magicians.

The alchemist let out a nasal sound as she observed the tower magicians encircling her villa.

“Hmm….”

Episode 15 – Life is Beautiful

Fundamentally, Francesca does not trust people.

It was a natural distrust born from being betrayed by those she had believed in.

The academy classmates she had trusted as friends turned their backs when her family fell from grace, and the academy teachers ignored their student, pushed away by the glares of the suited men who frequented the main building.

The suited men who had been watching her from a distance gradually approached as she advanced through the grades. First at the academy gates, then at the main building, and during festivals or observation classes with many outside visitors, they would even enter the lecture halls. Though they never directly harmed her, the attention from security and the gazes of those around her were quite burdensome for her to bear.

So, as she was about to graduate from the academy and study abroad, she had a meeting with a professor. It was the first and last personal conversation she had with her supervising professor since entering the academy.

There was no special reason for her decision to study abroad. Simply put, even as a young girl, she knew Fatalia was not a place worth living in.

It was also born from the thought that while there was no place for her in her ancestors’ homeland, perhaps things would be different in the homeland of magicians.

But the magic tower that faced the young girl had the appearance of a gutter.

Descendant of the great magician. Daughter of the Ranieri family.

The behavior of people who focused on the value of a name was hardly different between Fatalia and the magic tower. Fatalians focused on her background as “a relative of a security offender” or “a person under surveillance,” while magicians were interested in her bloodline as “the descendant of the great magician.”

It was then that Francesca finally realized.

This place isn’t for me either, she thought.

The obsession with bloodlines among magicians was the behavior she despised the most. Though they might pretend to be disinterested to her face, she always heard their whispers when they turned away.

Of course, she no longer locked herself in her room and cried as she had in the past. To her, the world was already a giant cage. She was accustomed to the gazes of those around her, who expected and guarded against her regardless of her own will.

So Francesca decided to step out into the streets and fight back with dignity.

She earned a degree from the magic tower’s university. The papers and research results she produced, fully utilizing the knowledge and abilities she had made her own, became solid credentials.

Being of Ranieri blood, it was easier than breathing to be favored by the most renowned professors. When honorifics like “mentor” or “teacher” came from her lips, professors would fall head over heels and provide letters of recommendation.

The prestigious university diploma and recommendations opened the path to Rome, and in the year she graduated, Francesca passed through the doors of the Secretariat.

But that wasn’t enough.

Position? Just a civil servant. While the Secretariat that assisted the Oracle was a workplace everyone aspired to, anyone could enter with effort and luck.

If she was going to rise, it had to be to a position that not just anyone could easily covet.

As luck would have it, a good opportunity came her way. She heard rumors that the Oracle was racking their brains trying to find talent to manage their slush funds.

Francesca stepped forward to be that talent.

The Oracle, judging that a descendant of Ranieri could be trusted, chose her over formidable applicants. The bloodline of the great magician served as her solid guarantee, and Francesca expressed gratitude to the ancestor who had left behind such a detestable lineage.

As she approached power, power came into her hands. Of course, countless gold followed as well.

But desire was like an unquenchable thirst, and Francesca was not satisfied.

Money? Power?

Unless one was an emperor who could move the empire with a single finger or a family that ran a nation by selling magic stones, such things were useless. After all, the Ranieri family hadn’t fallen because they lacked money or power. If she wanted to achieve something with her own hands, whether revenge or anything else, she needed to at least surpass her family.

So Francesca looked upward. Vowing that someday she would surely reach that high place.

And now, after several years had passed.

There weren’t many people standing higher than Francesca in magical society.

“……”

The civil servant of the Secretariat looked out the window and thought. People truly cannot be trusted.

In that context, the magicians guarding the villa were, in Francesca’s view, an untrustworthy bunch. Magicians were loyal to the magic tower, after all. It was the Oracle who had sent them in the first place.

Considering that she had never let anyone into the villa except for one person, the magicians loitering around were truly annoying presences. How did such people end up at my villa…

Francesca groaned, pressing her forehead.

“…If only those religious fanatics had kept their mouths shut.”

If they killed a demon, they should have just claimed they did it themselves. Why go around boasting that it was the hero and his companions who hunted the demon? Too much public attention was just an obstacle for someone like her who ran underground businesses.

Sighing deeply, Francesca fixed her gaze on the documents. Though it had been five months since the northern issue was resolved, she was still busy managing businesses related to the north.

Loading goods ordered by the Palm Tree Trading Company onto ships and sending them to warehouses provided by orcs from the Empire. The payment was made through a shell company set up in a tax haven while managing the Oracle’s slush funds.

In illegal transactions, trust was as vital as life itself, so even minor mistakes were not tolerated. Fortunately, she was well-versed in shady businesses, and her trading partners were equally efficient.

It was while she was safely transferring funds, moving goods, and exchanging business communications that it happened.

As Francesca was looking at documents and calculating numbers, she received a phone call. It was a mobile phone equipped with encryption features to bypass wiretapping.

“Oh my.”

Francesca smiled softly as she confirmed the number on the display.

She had business matters to discuss, and they hadn’t been in touch lately. She had been waiting for this call.

Closing the ledger, Francesca washed away her accumulated fatigue with a smile and greeted with a welcoming voice.

“It’s good to hear from you, Officer. It’s been a while. What brings you to call?”

*

It’s been five months since I was assigned to the Moritani continent.

During these five months, I’ve completed nine operations.

“Sir, intelligence has been received that the Kiyen Empire’s Ministry of Defense is supporting government forces. They’re providing tactics and weapons to the President’s guard.”

“Mark the person in charge. Within 24 hours, collect all information on their lodging, resident personnel, and personal details.”

“Sir, a state-owned enterprise has violated the resolution and exported magic stones to a dictatorship.”

“Track down the local executives, representatives of partner companies, and find out who owns the ships that transported the cargo.”

“Sir, a United People’s Party official has appeared in the eastern region. The embassy has withdrawn due to civil war, and it’s a rebel activity area, making approach difficult. What should we do?”

“Air strike!”

Most operations involved intelligence collection and information analysis. My duty was to manage information coming in from the Moritani continent.

Of course, occasionally tasks like tracking recruiters for rebel forces or monitoring political party personnel would come in. These were individuals whose names had made it onto the Abas Intelligence Agency’s death list.

Dealing with such individuals was the responsibility of another department, but occasionally assassination missions were assigned to me as well.

In such cases, I resolved the issue in a sophisticated and clean manner.

Air strike.

“Sir, the target’s death has been confirmed.”

“Are you sure?”

“How could anyone survive that explosion?”

“Recall the pigeon and move to the next screen.”

As the situation room operator issued the command, the pigeon monitoring the scene began to turn. The intelligence officer waiting several kilometers away from the operation area retrieved the pigeon and boarded a vehicle.

Most of the Abas Intelligence Agency’s air strikes were conducted in this manner. A bird carrying a bomb would roam the sky before flying toward the target, and a pigeon carrying an imaging device would collect video information and return.

This kamikaze operation using animals raised and trained at great expense was animal abuse that would shock Japanese nationalists and horrify animal protection organizations.

But the Abas Intelligence Agency was brazenly doing something that even the ANSP of the ’88 era wouldn’t attempt.

It was my first time assassinating someone via air strike in my life, and using birds rather than drones to eliminate targets gave me a peculiar feeling. A sense of pettiness in my heart, you might say.

At least the effect was certain, despite the lack of style. If the success rate had been rock bottom, I would have been wallowing in self-loathing, saying things like “Is this why I became an intelligence officer?”

“Sob…”

Charnoi, the nymph of the ditch water, shed tears at the operation that had thrown animal respect and ethics to the dogs.

“My precious Sparrow No. 1 died today… Truly a nymph-phobic operation… Charnoi’s tears won’t stop as I witness the sacrifice of Sparrow No. 1!”

Officially named “Griffin No. 417,” but dubbed “Sparrow No. 1” by Charnoi.

The bird born through interspecies breeding was an animal raised with affection by Charnoi. Actually, it was the department staff who raised the griffin, but Charnoi did lend a hand. Apparently, on days when unappetizing greens (salad) were served for lunch, she would visit the stable to feed it.

Charnoi’s naming sense was truly incomprehensible. Of all the possible nicknames, why “Sparrow”?

It was too cute a nickname for a quadrupedal beast with a hawk’s head.

I called out to Charnoi while brewing coffee.

“Are you that sad?”

“Of course! As a member of the Nymph Protection Foundation… all animals are friends of nymphs! At the death of my precious Sparrow No. 1, this Charnoi cannot help but feel sorrow!”

“Oh, there’s honey candy over there.”

“Honey candy…? Where is it…? Quickly give the honey candy to the sorrowful Charnoi!”

After confirming that Charnoi had stopped shedding chicken-drop-like tears and was now searching the pantry for honey candy, I quickly slipped out of the situation room.

At that moment, the nymph’s voice came through the heavy iron door.

“Ah! The black-haired beast has deceived Charnoi again!”

It was the scream of the mascot who had now become a fixture in our office.

*

I’ve carried out quite a few missions over the past five months.

This means I’ve handled one to two operations per month, sometimes more, when such operations typically take several months.

Despite my increasingly aging body, it was a remarkable achievement. The Military Intelligence Bureau and the Royal Intelligence Department took note of the unexpectedly fast progress, and the committee also showed satisfaction.

Yesterday I assassinated a rebel recruiter, and today I eliminated a warlord leader. He was a fellow skilled at exchanging drugs for war funds. For reference, tomorrow I plan to take care of a bastard who sold weapons on the black market.

It was work I started to locate my colleague, but there was too much to handle before being officially dispatched.

Because there were too many bad guys in the world.

Even from my perspective as someone who makes a living by stirring up trouble, they were all bastards, so I personally arranged meetings between these bad guys and the divine.

I don’t know if hell exists, but I really hope there’s a VIP seat in hell for those bastards.

Monitoring, tracking, gathering intelligence and analyzing it. Based on the analyzed information, I devised operations to eliminate targets and then reported to Leonie. After handling operations like that, when it was time, I would collect my ID from the security checkpoint and head home.

“Clocking out.”

“You can pick up your ID at the front.”

“Thanks, keep up the good work.”

After clocking out, I stepped onto the street and took a breath.

Now that I was free from work, it was time to set aside thoughts of the job and enjoy some freedom.

With a briefcase full of documents on my lap, I looked at the scenery reflected in the window and became absorbed in the thought of “What should I do today?”

Since I talked to Camilla last time, should I call Lucia today? As I sat in the back seat of the bus and took out my phone, I suddenly remembered hearing that Veronica’s younger sister has been busy with church work lately. I couldn’t disturb a busy person, so I decided to call Francesca before going to bed.

I also thought about calling Pippin and Jake for dinner, but I soon shook my head. They’re probably enjoying their romance, so why should I intrude? It’s Friday, so they’re probably having dinner together anyway.

I couldn’t call Charnoi either. The persistence of an offended nymph is as sticky as the anger of a long-lived elf, and if she saw me, she’d probably start by pulling my hair out for the honey candy prank.

Clevins and Leonie are not only busy but also my workplace superiors, so it feels a bit awkward to call them out. There’s nothing more tiresome than running into your boss outside of work.

As I rode the bus around downtown, I eventually headed toward the Nostrum family’s townhouse.

“Sis, bro. I’m here. If you haven’t had dinner yet, let’s go out. I’ll give you 10 seconds to dash out from under the bridge—”

“You’re here?”

As I was dusting off dirt and dust on the mat, I suddenly looked up at the greeting.

In the hallway leading to the kitchen and living room of the townhouse stood a middle-aged lady.

“You got off work late. Jerry and Adela are inside. Come in.”

A warm voice and a face lined with wrinkles. Yet a dignity that defied the traces of time.

She greeted me warmly and called me this:

“Son.”

She was the mistress of the Nostrum family.