Ch.55Episode 4 – Why Are You Only Picking On Me

# Tears and Bread

I stuffed the tear-soaked bread into my mouth and dashed to the Military Intelligence Bureau building.

Returning to my unit in less than an hour, I felt my strength draining as if I’d been injected with some truth serum.

“Shit…”

If I’m that upset, I should just write up my discharge papers. What else can I do?

With a deep sigh, I turned on my communication device.

“Yes, Colonel. I’m in front of the building now.”

-“You’re here already? Good. I’ve got an aide waiting downstairs. Come up.”

“Where are you, sir?”

-“Room 503.”

Military Intelligence Bureau, 5th floor conference room.

-“Take your time coming up. We haven’t started yet.”

I’m screwed.

## Episode 4 – Why Are They Picking On Me?

After careful consideration, I was pretty sure I was screwed.

The reason was simple: Clavins had summoned me to Room 503.

Our Military Intelligence Bureau consists of several buildings.

The East Wing houses the domestic divisions: Security, Information, and Counterintelligence. The West Wing contains the foreign divisions: Foreign Intelligence and Foreign Operations. The North Wing is home to various support departments including the Technical Division. Finally, the Main Building houses the Director and all the staff departments that support him.

Among these, the Main Building’s 5th floor was a place all employees dreaded.

That’s where the Director’s office and conference rooms were located.

The highest point of the Military Intelligence Bureau.

Room 503, officially known as the Director’s Small Conference Room.

It’s where the Director conducts morning meetings and debriefings, receiving intelligence reports. It’s also where he gathers commanders to chew them out. Usually colonels attend, with lieutenant colonels and majors occasionally called in to make presentations.

Generally, field operatives like me (lieutenant colonel or below) are summoned there for only two reasons: either to be praised for exceptional work or to be torn apart for screwing up.

And being called to Room 503 without any prior notice, presentation materials, or reports meant only one thing.

“…”

“What’s wrong, sir? You look unwell.”

“…Hey, do you know why I’m being called to Room 503?”

“No idea, sir.”

Useless bastard.

“Well, enjoy your life then.”

“…? I beg your pardon?”

I wiped sweat from my dress pants and took a moment for self-reflection.

Did I submit a report without correcting typos? Absolutely not.

Since joining this branch of the military, I’ve never been sloppy with paperwork. I’ve been chewed out so many times for missing typos in PowerPoint presentations that checking for errors has become second nature.

Did someone falsify reports or embezzle operational funds? Not that either.

I managed all the operational funds, and only three people were active in the cult: me, Pippin, and Jake. We didn’t have any superiors besides Clavins, so there was no one who could have stolen funds. And our performance wasn’t so poor that we needed to inflate reports or lie.

Could it be that our operational results weren’t satisfactory?

Hmm. This seemed most likely.

Of the initial missions Clavins assigned, we’d only succeeded in getting rid of the flies (diplomats) buzzing around Camilla Rowell. Though conditions weren’t favorable, we still failed to achieve results. Someone had to take responsibility.

-Ding.

“Let’s get off here.”

After finishing my self-examination, I stepped out of the elevator.

“You’re here?”

“Good morning, Colonel.”

“Morning? It’s already lunchtime.”

Clavins greeted me with a bright smile. Standing in the corridor looking out the window, he dismissed his aide with a casual gesture.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, sir. Have you had your meal, Colonel?”

“Not yet.”

That meant he’d been in marathon meetings without eating. Maybe I should have just said I hadn’t eaten either.

My stomach felt a bit heavy from eating and then running. Or maybe it was from the sudden recall to base.

Sure enough, Clavins looked me over and bluntly asked:

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Yes.

But saying that would probably earn me a lecture, so I just said no.

“No, sir. Um, I have a question.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Why did you call me here…?”

“That? Nothing special, just wanted you to attend a meeting. Can you prepare a presentation?”

“You mean right now?”

“Yes. Right now.”

Ah, life.

As I stood there with a lost expression, Clavins smiled kindly and started walking.

“It’s not a difficult presentation, so don’t be too nervous.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“You might want to manage your expression. There are a lot of people inside.”

At Clavins’ words, I twitched the corners of my mouth and tried to relax my facial muscles.

Watching me, he added with a strange expression:

“Attending this meeting will be good for you too.”

“…Sir?”

“You’ll understand when we go in.”

*

My first impression of the Director’s Small Conference Room was that it was surprisingly ordinary.

Large screens mounted on the walls, a veneer conference table with chairs arranged around it—it looked like any command headquarters meeting room.

With fewer people than seats, it seemed to be break time.

However, the high-quality hardwood table and chairs, along with crystal water bottles placed throughout, reminded me that this was indeed a world of entrenched class hierarchy. Still, this was relatively modest.

In this dark fantasy world, there were plenty of people who lived in luxury while others starved to death. Not everyone was like that, but considering that the supposedly virtuous religious institution had coated the interior walls of the Papal State Office with ground pearls, this world seemed properly screwed up even in its decline.

Why the hell did I ever play this shitty game?

I got fooled by that wine-snob bastard once or twice. Why did I spend good money on such a stupid game?

As I was regretting not cutting off my fingers earlier, Clavins entered the conference room and made his presence known.

“I’m here.”

All the commanders in the room turned their heads toward us.

“Hendrick, you’re here. Who’s that with you?”

“This is the fellow I mentioned before.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Frederick Nostrim.”

“Ah, nice to meet you too.”

A colonel with a prominently balding crown returned my salute and greeted me warmly. Wondering who he was, I stood awkwardly until Clavins whispered in my ear.

“He’s the Security Division Chief.”

“Ah.”

The Security Division is a practical department that monitors to prevent military secrets from being leaked.

It sounds like they do something cool, but the main job of the Security Division is to monitor the military. From the perspective of those being monitored, it might feel more like surveillance. They even compile reports on the movements of key personnel. Since this affects promotions, the division often receives cold stares from outside.

Of course, this has nothing to do with me. Our staff aren’t monitored by practical departments like Security, but by the Inspection Department, which is a staff division.

As I was exchanging greetings with the balding colonel, another colonel with a hairline aggressively retreating toward Pyongyang approached leisurely.

“Is this the guy? The one who submitted the report last week?”

He pointed at me but wasn’t asking me. I stood there confused until Clavins answered.

“That’s right. This is the Information Division Chief.”

Information Division Chief.

If the Security Division is for domestic use, the Information Division is for foreign use. Simply put, it’s a practical department that collects information related to military security by moving through the National Assembly, media, corporations, administrative departments, and courts.

“I enjoyed your report. It was easy to read.”

“Thank you…?”

The Information Division Chief patted my shoulder in praise.

I’ve submitted so many reports that I wasn’t sure which one he’d read, but praise is praise.

In terms of internal hierarchy at the Military Intelligence Bureau, the Information Division Chief ranks around third. For reference, the second is the Chief of Staff who commands all staff departments, fourth is Security, and fifth is Counterintelligence.

Normally, these gentlemen would be engaged in an uncomfortable power struggle with Clavins, but looking at them, they didn’t seem particularly uncomfortable with each other.

This was entirely expected. After all, it was Clavins who was being promoted to general, not these two.

There was an insurmountable wall between the bamboo (colonel) and the star (general), and failing to be promoted to general in the Intelligence Bureau, where there were no more positions to advance to, meant it was time to retire. So the conversation flowed in a very soft and comfortable atmosphere.

At least on the surface.

“How’s Lena doing?”

“She’s been bored lately. Says she wants to go to the sea, but we need a decent number of monsters first.”

“The fish-folk must be quiet these days. This time last year, they were always attacking the harbor.”

“That’s what the police say, but the Eastern Fleet tells a different story.”

“I haven’t seen any reports from the security team there. Why don’t I know about this?”

The two colonels started chattering about sea monsters and fish-folk. I wondered why the conversation had drifted that way after asking about a wife’s well-being. Their thought process seemed slightly different from others.

Meanwhile, I still had no idea why I’d been summoned here. I stared at Clavins, but he just looked at me and said:

“Not everyone’s here yet.”

“I see, sir.”

The Security Division Chief, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, suddenly spoke up.

“The Director went to the smoking area with the Chief of Staff earlier, so they should be back soon.”

How long does it take to smoke? Looking at the head of the table, I saw two cactus-like formations made of cigarette butts.

Chain smokers, these guys.

At this rate, I wondered if they might die of lung cancer before retirement. Then it occurred to me that a few proper healing sessions from a high priest would probably cure cancer too.

As I filled my head with these useless thoughts, the conference room door opened and people entered.

“The Director is here.”

“Yes, yes, everyone sit down.”

“The meeting will start soon, please be seated.”

First to enter were the Director and Chief of Staff, both with fatigue etched into every wrinkle of their faces.

“Sorry for the delay.”

“Not at all. It’s fine.”

“Heh heh.”

“Who’s this major?”

Commanders I’d seen in passing a few times. Several field-grade officers entered the conference room one by one, and the last lieutenant colonel to enter closed the door, signaling that everyone who was coming had arrived.

“Now, let’s begin the meeting.”

*

The meeting was remarkably calm and quiet. With everyone being older and higher-ranking, the overall atmosphere was gentle.

Of course, this was partly because it wasn’t an intelligence briefing or budget meeting, but rather a meeting with a meal.

“Let’s start with the meal and talk comfortably.”

The Director said with a kind smile. Participants began with pre-meal bread and soup to settle their stomachs, followed by a warm meal that further softened the atmosphere.

Perhaps due to their age, most of the menu items were easily digestible.

Of course, I had no intention of eating here. I’d already had lunch, and more importantly, the situation was too intimidating.

How could I eat in front of superiors? Especially in a conference room with people I’d just met. So instead of eating, I carefully read through the reports placed in front of me.

For reference, all the reports were ones I had written. Reports on key personnel movements while moving between the Cult State Office and the Inquisition Office, reports on the internal structure of the Imperial Diplomatic Mission, reports from meetings with Imperial Guard agents, reports from tracking the background of terrorism, operation plans before assassinating Cardinal Raoul, and post-evaluation reports, etc.

For a moment, I felt my mind go blank. Had I really written so many reports in two months? When would I have time to read all this?

Most of the information was in my head (after all, I wrote the documents), but there was just too much. To present this, I needed to organize the information in my head at the very least.

As I sat crumpled in my seat at the end of the table, struggling alone, I heard the Director’s voice from the head of the table.

“Major Frederick.”

“Yes, Director.”

“It seems Hendrick has scared you, but there’s no need to be so nervous. We didn’t call you here to scold you.”

The Director laughed and tried to reassure me.

It seemed I wasn’t going to be torn apart. However, I couldn’t relax completely—if I messed up the presentation, I’d definitely be roasted and then summoned by my superior for a scolding.

But ignoring the Director’s words and continuing to read the reports would make me look like an idiot, so I had no choice but to close the reports, which I hadn’t even read half of, with an awkward smile.

As I tried to organize my presentation based on memory, the commanders began to speak one by one.

“How is the northern part of the Empire these days?”

“It’s terrible. The artillery deployed at the front is firing at a rate that ignores ammunition control supply rates.”

“Are they being pushed back by the demon folk?”

“Thanks to the mountainous terrain, the front line isn’t being pushed back, but they’re struggling with special operations units that have infiltrated the rear. Headquarters is in relatively better shape, but regimental and lower command posts seem to be under attack.”

The first topic was, of course, the status of the Empire-Demon Realm conflict zone.

The Empire is traditionally a military power, and with rugged mountains as its border, the front line wasn’t easily pushed back, but special operations units were disrupting the rear and causing considerable damage. Though the nationwide state of emergency had been lifted, the north was still under martial law, so it seemed the Counterintelligence Command would soon conduct a major counter-espionage operation.

The next topic was the refugee problem.

“Is the south alright? I heard refugees are flooding to the border.”

“The Border Guard failed in their security, but the situation was resolved by disciplining the commander and replacing them with a rear unit.”

“What about the epidemic?”

“Currently, under the control of the Health Department, medical units and chemical units have been dispatched to isolate all infected nationals.”

“That’s for citizens, but what about foreigners?”

“Foreigners who entered legally are being isolated and treated separately. Those who entered illegally have been forcibly deported by the Justice Department.”

According to Clavins, while some rebels were mixed among the refugees, most were civilians fleeing civil war.

Having forcibly deported them all, they would likely be eaten by monsters in the uninhabited areas, drown while crossing the strait, or be killed by coastal patrol gunfire. Even if they made it back alive, they’d probably be massacred by government forces.

Just then, Clavins, who had been listening to the conversation, spoke up.

“The refugee issue is more the Justice Department’s concern than ours, so I think it’s best not to worry too much about it. Don’t we have other issues?”

“What issues are you referring to?”

“The laboratory matter.”

“Ah, you mean the witch spy?”

A familiar topic emerged as an agenda item.

I momentarily stopped my thoughts and turned my head slightly toward Clavins. Just slightly, so it wouldn’t be noticeable.

Clavins put down his fork and knife and quietly began to speak.

“As everyone here knows, the participation of wizards in intelligence activities is prohibited by international law. This applies not only to wizards but also to sorcerers, alchemists, and spirit masters.”

“Are you referring to the Nastasiya Treaty?”

“Yes.”

As the name of the famous treaty came up, my attention shifted in that direction.

To briefly explain, the Nastasiya Treaty is an international agreement that prevents people with magical abilities, or abilities similar to magic, from engaging in espionage. It’s similar to how people on Earth pinky-promised not to commit atrocities against the wounded and civilians with the Geneva Convention.

Of course, as is often the case with international politics, the ostensible purpose of the treaty was very good. It was created to guarantee the status and safety of wizards by the international community and to prevent wizards from being unfairly exploited for dirty work.

The Cult, which had previously been so eager to kill wizards that they even started a war, had the Pope himself go to the city where the Magic Tower was located and give a speech with the draft in hand. The entire continent applauded and called for the immediate conclusion of the treaty. Even the Magic Tower joined in.

The problem was that the international community had played tricks with a few phrases inserted in the middle of the treaty.

“But is espionage a crime?”

“It’s something necessary for the country. Punishable if caught.”

The clause itself stated “prohibiting the misuse of magic for criminal and other inhumane acts,” but the purpose of the clause was to strictly limit wizards from acting as spies.

I understand the Cult made the direct proposal first. It was less than 20 years after cardinals had been beheaded and inquisitors killed by wizards, so they were understandably wary of wizards.

Anyway, before the treaty was concluded, the Cult lobbied intelligence agencies and foreign ministries of various countries to pass this. And when the wizards rose up, intelligence agencies that had spared no support for the Magic Tower to make the Cult look foolish unexpectedly accepted the Cult’s proposal without any conditions.

Despite instigating a war, the targeted Cult didn’t perish, and instead, a popular uprising led to the establishment of an independent state. So intelligence agencies joined hands with the Cult to crush the Magic Tower before the revolutionary spark burning at their feet consumed the entire country.

Of course, the Magic Tower wasn’t stupid and mobilized all its lines to try to delete the clause, but the situation had already passed the point of no return. There was nothing a marginalized entity in international politics could do. Even the Empire, which had been backing them, turned a blind eye.

In the end, the Magic Tower signed the treaty in exchange for formal state recognition and disbanded its intelligence agency. The formal state recognition was canceled due to fierce opposition from the Empire, but anyway.

The conclusion of the Nastasiya Treaty was a total defeat for the Magic Tower in diplomatic and intelligence warfare, creating ripples strong enough to break the revolutionary winds blowing across the continent. This is still remembered as the “most successful political operation” in the history of intelligence agencies.

I didn’t expect to hear this story again here after learning about it at intelligence school.

As I was indulging in nostalgia and old memories, the Director suddenly asked Clavins a question.

“Division Chief Hendrick.”

“Yes, Director.”

“I clearly concluded in the morning meeting that this matter would proceed in consultation with relevant agencies. Why are you bringing it up again in this meeting?”

The atmosphere in the conference room turned awkward at the sudden question.

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

The conference room instantly fell silent. So quiet you couldn’t even hear breathing.

“…”

I thought he was a toothless tiger about to retire, but a general is still a general. He didn’t even raise his voice, yet these men who strut around the Defense Department were barely breathing.

So I held my breath.

I didn’t want to draw attention and face unknown consequences.

As I quietly sat there counting the pattern numbers on the wall, Clavins suddenly pointed at me with a gentle smile.

“I wanted to mention that this fellow helped catch the spy.”

What the hell, why drag me into this?

Startled, I turned my head sharply to find all the commanders in the conference room staring at me.

“…Pardon?”

“Didn’t you identify the suspect? That’s what the report said.”

Huh?

“This fellow did that?”

“Yes, Director.”

“According to his personnel record, he only has overseas field experience…”

As the Director trailed off, a commander sitting in the middle spoke up.

“He was assigned to the Great Empire, Director.”

“Hmm? Great Empire duties. Where was your post? The Magic Tower perhaps?”

“No, Director. My post was in the Empire.”

“Direct infiltration. Not easy even for experienced agents.”

I sensed the atmosphere changing strangely.

I had a feeling—no, a certainty—that if things went wrong here, I’d be in trouble.

So I tried to open my mouth, pretending to be crazy, to downplay my qualifications.

But I was too late.

“How about assigning this task to him? Tracking down the mastermind behind this spy case.”