A Dark Fantasy Spy

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There’s no clear treatment for hair loss.

Whether it’s magic, divinity, sorcery, or even black magic, the consensus in this town’s academia is that none can fundamentally cure hair loss.

This was proven by none other than the current Pope, who had his hat blown away by the wind during mass a while back, so everyone knows. If the Pope can’t escape hair loss, what about a mere cardinal or bishop? Even if Veronica and Lucia were to wield elixirs and cast continuous healing spells for 24 hours, they probably wouldn’t fix it.

Fortunately, most members of the Nostrim Family had lush hair. Not only my father’s lineage, a bureaucrat at the Ministry of Finance, but even my mother’s family, who held prominence in the royal circles, were known for their thick hair.

In other words, it meant that neither side of the family had anyone suffering from hair loss.

But here I was, 28 years old, and suffering from hair loss.

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

“……”

Sitting blankly at my desk, staring into space, Pippin and Jake timidly approached to talk to me.

“Um… Manager, I mean, Colonel. This seems like stress-related hair loss, but it’s not entirely hopeless—”

“Shut it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Episode 7 – Daily Life

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

First and foremost, work was a problem.

Being a diplomat seems like a job where nothing really happens, and while I deal with endless complaints that often go unaddressed, I end up getting scolded for it, but in reality, diplomats are the busiest of all.

“The Minister will be attending a meeting soon, so please prepare some materials regarding the current domestic situation and key issues. A comprehensive report will be needed.”

“Eh? Didn’t the headquarters already brief on that? There’s no need to duplicate similar reports…”

“No, we can’t go empty-handed when the Minister arrives. Let’s just muster some energy.”

“Regarding the ruling party defense committee chair’s statement on territorial disputes, they need the relevant materials fast.”

“Really? Then let’s gather past documents from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Ministry of Defense and start compiling examples. We’ll look into our government’s response cases, the processes, and outcomes. Let’s also investigate the local reactions focusing on the expatriates. Got it?”

“Consul, the attaché has been fined for speeding. How should we handle the traffic fine?”

“Isn’t diplomatic immunity just for show?”

“If we don’t take care of it this time, they won’t grant new registrations for diplomatic vehicles or permits for the embassy’s magical tools.”

“Bring the attaché here.”

Diplomat privileges? A foreign luxury car with a diplomatic license plate? Just a facade.

Even leaving work right at 6 PM is a problem. I must build relationships with local low-ranking officials, bigwigs, and foreign diplomats. As a diplomat, being a foreigner means that if you miss one gathering, it’s easy for you to be forgotten.

No one opens discussions on important matters with people they hardly remember or aren’t close to. And there’s only a thin line separating diplomats from spies.

So naturally, to gather information, you need to build relationships, and for diplomats, appointments equate to work. It’s routine to change into appropriate attire and hit up three or four receptions in the evening after work. If you manage that much, your real clock-out time ends up being around 2 to 3 AM.

This is the story of a “professional diplomat.” Information agencies have it even tougher.

They say embassy work can run smoothly with just three people, but they deploy only one information officer and split up responsibilities for not just the host country but also neighboring non-recognized nations. They drag in personnel from weapon brokers or executives from oil drilling companies under such titles. They also buy equipment and secure safe houses for the dispatched staff. Plus, they send them out for operations rather regularly instead of keeping them in the office…

And yet, when they beg for more manpower, they grit their teeth and ignore them. Even the CIA experiences these issues, making it a chronic problem every intelligence agency deals with.

Of course, there are complex educational structures, overseas dispatch processes, and a shortage of agents which create an intricate internal scenario.

“…Sigh.”

For someone working on the field, the headquarters’ policies can only be disheartening, no matter how well-justified.

Stuffing those feelings down and letting out a sigh, Jake awkwardly smiled and chimed in.

“Cheer up, Colonel. At least we have it better than the other attachés, right?”

“Does it make my pain disappear just because others are suffering too?”

“Well, I suppose you’d feel less stressed that way.”

But that wasn’t the only problem.

Being a resident officer isn’t particularly difficult, so there should technically be no reason to be stressed. Yet, it’s hard to argue that there isn’t some stress stemming from work. It’s not just about the workload or its difficulty level.

“Manager, we have communications coming in at line five.”

“Is it internal or external?”

“External.”

“…Who is it?”

“It’s the Magic Tower Police Department.”

*

“I’m sorry, but since the Hero is not an Abas national, there aren’t any laws or regulations on compensating on our representative’s side. I must clearly convey this.”

-“Attaché, we understand the circumstances. However, there is considerable protest from civic organizations and local governments. We just recovered from the anti-government protests not even a month ago, and if the orcs start rioting, we’ll have no way to handle it.”

“It’s truly unfortunate. However, I’m not in a position to discuss our representative’s official stance.”

-“Three buildings were burned down. No matter how reckless a magician is, the Hero is in a different category. If we fail to clarify accountability now, you can be sure this will escalate later.”

“As much as I regret to say it, the matters you mentioned require discussions with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I can’t provide answers on the spot.”

-“Are you really going to keep this up?”

“In fact, I’ve only recently started my post. I think it would be best if you reached out to the other departments first…”

-“Should you continue to respond this way, we will have no choice but to lodge a diplomatic protest.”

Plop.

I hung up after what felt like a 10-minute call with the Magic Tower Police Department, collapsing into my chair.

Though it was just over ten minutes on the phone, my limbs trembled, and I felt tears welling up.

“Thank you for your effort…”

Pippin put down the receiver and gazed at me with concern.

Dealing with complaints.

This is one of the reasons for my stress lately.

You might wonder why a diplomat would be handling complaints as if he were an office worker at a district office, but there’s a rather plausible reason for it.

For starters, I’m a colleague of Camila. Since the oracle has named me, and the cult has vouched for my identity, that’s a fact without room for dispute.

So far, so good. However, the issue arises because I hold a civil servant status.

Camila is a guest from another world, Lucia is one of the only two saints in the cult, and Francesca is a high-ranking bureaucrat from a renowned magical family.

And that’s where the problem lies.

If Camila, Lucia, or Francesca cause a ruckus or get involved in any trouble, they must be held accountable, but those three are in positions that mere ‘politicians,’ bureaucrats, or local bigwigs can hardly confront.

Complaining to a saint probably results in getting stabbed in the street, and if you complain to an administrator, people will chatter behind your back about the prestige and authority held by the renowned Raniere family. Yet, it’s not possible to pin the blame on people from another world, is it?

Thus, when Camila accidentally causes property damage while slaying monsters, landlords, tenants injured in the fray, PMC executives abruptly losing jurisdiction while participating in crowd control, hospital directors burdened with medicine costs from treating people for free, civic organization leaders desperate for compensation, and public servants tormented by them find themselves practically bereft of any avenue for lodging complaints or receiving reparations.

However, as always, humans are resourceful and will find ways to cope.

As soon as word got out that someone from the Abas representative office was working as a resident officer, countless calls flooded in.

This was a phenomenon unexpected even by the Military Intelligence Agency, Royal Intelligence Department, and even the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Of course, they probably wouldn’t have predicted that my hair was thinning too.

“…….”

“Are you alright, Manager?”

“…No, not at all.”

Jake awkwardly placed a document on my desk with a smile.

“This comes from the company maintaining security in District 19. They want to schedule a meeting, presumably related to the Hero.”

“…They want money, I suppose?”

“Whether it’s complaining or lobbying to regain territories, it all amounts to the same, doesn’t it…?”

“Ugh.”

Wearing a sour face, I checked the document on my desk. It briefly encapsulated a request from a PMC executive to meet with me.

Honestly, as an information officer, this is good news.

Whether for better or worse, starting a relationship with someone means laying the foundation for gathering information.

But I wasn’t happy at all.

“So how many appointments are lined up for tonight…?”

“After work, you’ll immediately attend a dinner with politicians from the Magic Tower elemental faction. Then, you have to meet with officials from the Ministry of Justice and the police at a hotel.”

“What? That’s not too many, is it?”

“And you need to meet a public official from the Magic Department dispatched to the Empire concerning the Hero, along with executives from an international medical organization wishing to deliver a letter to Saint Lucia.”

“…Is that it?”

“Yes, and you must also meet with representatives from defense contractors who participated in the bidding for the surveillance equipment to be installed in No Man’s Land, and after reporting it back to headquarters, that will conclude your agenda for today.”

“……”

What the actual hell.

*

Hearing the sheer number of appointments made me want to submit my resignation, but regrettably, I was a soldier. Orders from higher-ups were absolute, and I was somebody who had to carry them out one way or another.

Immediately at 6 PM, I headed to the hotel, changing clothes and then boarding the diplomatic vehicle to reach my scheduled venues.

After wrapping up more than five meals, I returned to the hotel sometime later. The clock read 3:41 AM.

“…I should really wrap this up…”

I reported back to Clevenz about the information collected throughout the day, advancing the debriefing date. Returning to the Military Intelligence Agency was the only way to escape this hellish routine, even for a moment.

Fortunately, upper management saw my deteriorating state in real-time and allowed it. Once I finished the debriefing, I’d be granted a short vacation to recover my health.

Desperately wishing to return to my home country, I dragged my exhausted body into the hotel.

Just as I swallowed an antacid, unexpectedly, I ran into someone.

“Oh?”

“Good to see you, Attaché. What a surprise to find you here.”

Francesca, the administrator from the Magic Tower Secretariat, greeted me. She had a heavy travel bag and a passport in hand.

“Administrator, no, what should I call you now?”

“For now, I’m still an administrator.”

“Oh, I see.”

Francesca was an informant providing information to the Abas Information Agency. At the same time, she was a collaborator in operations conducted by the Abas Information Agency at the Magic Tower.

Of course, she was now my informant, passed down officially from Leoni—more like shoved onto me.

“Busy, are we?”

“Things are a little hectic… but where are you headed?”

“I’m heading home for a bit.”

“Home…?”

My drowsy brain struggled to comprehend Francesca’s situation.

A top student from a prestigious magical institution, an administrator about to be promoted, the second daughter of the Raniere family, monitored by the National Security Agency, and an informant for the Abas Information Agency.

Francesca was under surveillance by the National Security Agency because of her connections to public safety offenses. Looking back at what Leoni had said, Francesca was forbidden from contacting her family on the condition that she studied at the Magic Tower.

But now she was saying she was going home?

As I pondered the inconsistency in her words, Francesca softly smiled and spoke up.

“I’m going to see my brother.”

“…Ah.”

“It’s just a tomb in my hometown.”

Francesca’s brother, the eldest son of the Raniere family, was deceased.

The cause was suicide. He had jumped into a river, and once bystanders notified the police, the body was recovered and handed back to the Raniere family.

No one knew why he died. The specific reasons for the eldest son of the Raniere family’s suicide were never revealed in the media, nor did the Royal Intelligence Department documents Leoni provided contain any information about it. Only rumors floated around.

Considering the capabilities of the Royal Intelligence Department, very few would know the real cause behind his death. However, Francesca might have known something as a family member. Perhaps that was related to her decision to go abroad for study and become an informant.

However,

“…How long will you be staying?”

“I’ll probably be back in about three days.”

“Please be careful while you’re away.”

It wasn’t polite to pry into her matters, so I didn’t hold her back.

Moreover, the moment she departed, an information officer would report to Leoni, and the Patalia branch would step in to ensure her safety, so I didn’t stop her from leaving. The National Security Agency would likely be aware of her departure too.

Thinking about the fact that I would need to manage her going forward gave me a slight headache, but at least she seemed easier to predict than Veronica, so that was some relief.

Yeah, managing informants was part of my job. It was certainly easier and more convenient than dealing with complaints. Though, of course, it wasn’t entirely stress-free.

“Should I bring back a souvenir for you when I return? I’m not sure if I’ll have the means to do so, though.”

“No need to overdo it. Are you leaving today?”

“Yes, I’m taking the first Warp Gate.”

“You better hurry.”

Noticing the Magic Tower police information officers beginning to glance over, I decided to wrap up the conversation and take my leave.

“Oh, wait.”

As Francesca was about to leave the hotel, she turned to me and said.

“I’ve heard the Hero is waiting for you. Do you have some sort of appointment?”

“…No, nothing planned.”

“I see. Then I’ll be off.”

Francesca gave a brief bow and walked toward the direction of the Warp Gate.

I watched her walk away, then shifted my gaze to the hotel above.

The central hall, towering around the lobby, reflected the architect’s meticulous sense, showcasing elegant curves on the railing, and from up high, a familiar girl was looking down at me.

She waved her hand high in the air.

“…Sigh.”

The third source of my stress.