A Dark Fantasy Spy

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I’ve had military experience twice, but I hardly had any chance to eat meals prepared in the field.

Mostly, I relied on vinyl rice or combat rations; my only real taste of field meals was during a few days at KCTC.

Even then, a food truck was raided during a maneuver by the opposing forces, so I didn’t really get to enjoy it. If I recall correctly, one of my colleagues called them ‘commies’ right in front of them, which resulted in a scuffle and we got chewed out by the monitor.

Looking back, it’s amusing, but at the time, everyone was so frazzled that words popped out without their consent. We hadn’t eaten or washed, so everyone was on edge.

Anyway, I hadn’t experienced field meals since then—neither on Earth nor here. To be honest, I’ve probably eaten more retro food from the Korean Mart than military chow.

“What’s on the menu today?”

“Let’s see… spaghetti, boiled potatoes, salad, and mushroom soup… yeah, that’s what it says.”

Camila and I picked up our trays and got our servings from the food truck. Today’s lunch menu was just okay.

When cooking outside, especially if it’s military food, don’t expect it to taste good. With way too many people and way too few cooks, ingredients bought at rock-bottom prices, and insufficient equipment, you can’t anticipate a high-quality meal.

Splat.

Still, looking at the globs of ketchup and clumped noodles sliding off my tray made my appetite vanish.

“…Is this a meal?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Seriously, how can you call this…?”

“I think it’s delicious.”

Camila devoured the sticky noodles, clearly not picky at all. It’s no surprise, coming from a person from a country where they stick herring into pies. Or maybe her taste buds have dulled.

I set my tray down beside her and stood up. Camila, who had been stabbing her noodles to death with her fork, looked up at me.

“Where are you going?”

I silently held up my communication device.

“I’m just going to make a call. You eat first.”

It’s work time.

—

The process of preparing a mission is incredibly complex.

First off, just making the plans is a job in itself. Setting the final goal is easy, but you have to estimate the time it will take to reach it and draft detailed plans for the short, medium, and long term, decide on how to disguise identities and infiltration methods.

You also need to calculate the personnel involved in the operation and their associated costs: food expenses for employees, accommodation, the bribe for the immigration officer and customs officer, rental costs for using an office as a base, and vehicle rental fees.

On top of that, you have to establish communication lines connecting the field with the headquarters desk, routes for logistical and financial support, identify threats like counter-espionage agencies, gather pre-mission intel, and set up escape routes and emergency contact channels if things go south.

All of this is something the operative needs to handle before even starting the operation. Again, I emphasize: before, not after.

This is why everyone finds it hard to trust me.

Even seasoned information agents who were out in the field for years ended up fumbling given actual tasks, so who’d trust me with this when I haven’t even been properly trained?

Of course, this had nothing to do with me, but still.

I spent the last few days sacrificing sleep to prepare for the mission.

I tracked my target using the intel networks of information officers disguised as official diplomats, and I coordinated with public enterprises to assign identities and infiltration routes for staff. On top of that, I stashed initial funds and equipment using a fixed spy within a Dvork.

“I received contact from the swapper, Officer. They said the package was received.”

-‘That’s right. I was worried about the weather at the port, but it seems things went well thanks to the staff at the consulate. Haha.’

This meant that customs inspectors from the Kien Empire, who were supposed to scan the vessel carrying equipment, were bribed by military intelligence agents at the local consulate.

At first glance, it sounded like an ordinary conversation, but given that the people on the line were intelligence officers and operatives, it was anything but mundane.

“Anyway, I’m glad to hear it went well. I’ll visit soon to express my thanks.”

-‘Oh, by the way, how’s that matter going? I heard there were some issues.’

He was inquiring about the agrément.

“It’s under the foreign ministry’s jurisdiction, so I’m not entirely sure… Well, they say it’ll be resolved from above soon.”

-‘The economic department’s telling me that negotiations regarding the mutual dispatch of private enterprise representatives will be held today in line with promoting economic cooperation. Given the current situation, they don’t feel the need to throw water on it, so there’s a high likelihood it’ll be settled positively…’

Apparently, there won’t be any issue with employees pretending to be overseas representatives of a private company infiltrating.

The current situation was complicated due to intertwining political and diplomatic matters, but as the magic tower hadn’t limited private investments, this was feasible. Had we frozen the magic tower’s assets or declared default on the national bonds it held, then economic cooperation or infiltration would have collapsed. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case.

After finishing the call with the information officer, I reached out to someone else.

“…Operation officer, it’s me.”

-‘Ah, Manager. What can I do for you?’

“The identity cover is finished. I just confirmed there’s nothing unusual.”

-‘That’s a relief. We just finished shooting photos to be released as articles, but that could have been a close call regarding faces being revealed.’

Participants in the operation from military intelligence were disguised as representatives from private enterprises, but that alone wasn’t sufficient.

With the cooperation of the Trade Promotion Corporation, we released an article detailing supposedly credible information about a private enterprise’s overseas investment. To be precise, we fabricated a story stating, “A certain conglomerate is reviewing a market study for entry into the magic tower.”

-‘But would cars even sell in the magic tower? I thought everyone flew around on broomsticks.’

“Well, not every citizen in the magic tower is a mage, right? Ordinary people, international students, and business people live there too. And I’m sure there are mages who need cars somewhere.”

Of course, it was a lie.

But since we had to cover our tracks, we actually called in a real journalist (one who gets pocket money from the domestic intel of military intelligence) to take photos. We even spread a rumor through the stock market before the article was published.

Moreover, since that rumor was gulped down by institutions, foreigners, and individual investors alike, it was the perfect disguise.

Stock manipulation? I wouldn’t know. If you didn’t want to lose money, you shouldn’t have traded stocks.

In any case, the cover identity was perfectly completed. Now all that’s left is for the staff to infiltrate, scout the office, set up our telecom network, and retrieve equipment and funds. By then, I should also be in the magic tower.

“I’ll continue to keep an eye on incoming intel from headquarters.”

-‘Preliminary work will take about two weeks. Where will the target activity be monitored?’

“Local staff will handle that. I’ll upload the data daily in the database so that the responsible parties can check it.”

-‘Thank you. So, regarding the briefing…?’

“I’ll formally conduct that upon arrival in the field. There aren’t even all the people yet.”

-‘Yes, understood. See you at the operation site.’

“Take care.”

—

Once I finished the business agreement and returned to my seat, I noticed that mealtime had already started to warm up.

Irregular eating patterns and meals are the root of all disease, but I’d been so busy with work that I didn’t even think anything of it when I missed a meal.

I quietly sat down and asked Camila, who was propped up on her chin.

“Have you finished eating?”

“Uh? Where did you go?”

“I just went to make a call.”

Surprised, Camila’s eyes widened for a moment, but then she tilted her head.

“Why did you take so long to make a call…?”

“Well, there are just way too many people calling today…”

Although I was the one who made the call, that wasn’t important.

Looking at my tray, I found that my spaghetti had completely bloated and turned into a mushy mess. It wasn’t even clumping together nicely before, but now it was hopelessly cold and stuck together. As I poked it with my fork to see if I could eat it, I debated whether I should go for a refill.

“Do you want me to heat it up?”

Camila conjured a tiny flame at her fingertip and said to me.

“Isn’t it going to burn? If the fire touches it.”

“I think it’ll melt if I just hold it near the fire.”

“This isn’t ice or anything…”

If we heated the spaghetti up on the flame, there was a high chance we’d end up completely burning it.

But I also couldn’t simply ask for another container with a dish, and begging for more food just because we matched the meal quantity seemed rude.

“…Hmm.”

Yet no matter how I thought about it, I couldn’t come up with a good solution. The only option left was to ask Camila to heat up the spaghetti.

With her flame reduced to a minimum, Camila concentrated hard on melting the spaghetti noodles. Tiny bubbles started emerging around the edges of the sauce, which gave a real impression that it was heating up.

“Oh, that’s cool. Have you done this before?”

“No? It’s my first time.”

Maybe it was part of her experience from roasting marshmallows and melting chocolate, but the spaghetti, which looked like a waterlogged corpse, was genuinely turning into a meal fit for human consumption. While the sauce wasn’t bubbling, I could at least manage to toss it around with my fork.

After a long period of concentration, Camila extinguished the flame and wiped off the sweat that had formed on her forehead.

“All done!”

“Can I eat now?”

“Yes!”

I took that seriously and flipped the spaghetti over with my fork.

Splat!

“…….”

“…….”

“…Camila. Are you a humanities major or a science major?”

“…Um, it’s conflict studies…”

“…That sounds like a humanities major.”

The spaghetti was indeed well-heated.

On the top only.

—

It turns out that two humanities majors failed at heating spaghetti. We didn’t distribute the heat evenly and only toasted the top, so it was expected that this would happen.

This clarified why my mother insisted I go for a science major instead of humanities. I recalled why she said to ignore human studies unless I was aiming for business administration.

But thankfully, no one got hurt, and no one was around to witness this mess. That in itself was a relief. I almost thought I’d die of embarrassment. Not from the flames, but from the very shame of it.

“I’m sorry…”

“As long as you didn’t get hurt, that’s all that matters.”

I picked up a new tray and sat next to Camila. Fortunately, the supply office had prepared more than enough meals and managed to keep them warm, so we could have a nice and toasty meal. As it turned out, the cooking equipment was supplied from an order placed with the magic tower.

Eating off the same equipment as a group of spies feels a bit ironic, but hey, that’s how the world works.

I tossed my spaghetti noodles in the sauce and started the conversation.

“Camila, are you planning on continuing to participate in the wasteland operations for a while?”

“…Yeah, I suppose? It’s good for practicing magic.”

“Then let’s draw up a contract.”

I pulled out a contract from my pocket and handed it to her. Camila’s eyes widened as she asked what this was all about.

“It’s a contract made by the Ministry of Defense. It’s a payment for participating in the wasteland operations.”

“To me?”

“Yes. You’re not a soldier, right? Even if it’s the Ministry of Defense, it’s a significant problem if they exploit civilians without offering payment.”

To put it precisely, I didn’t want to face a political controversy for using a civilian, especially a heroine, like a slave. But that was something that Camila didn’t need to know.

What’s important is this.

“Uh, think of it this way. The Ministry of Defense places orders for construction project management services every year.”

Facility management, whether on Earth or here, is contracted out. The South Korean Ministry of Defense is short on personnel, so they outsource too, and this place is no different. Right now, even the buildings of the Royal Intelligence Department and the Military Intelligence Agency were constructed by domestic giants. The same goes for foreign diplomatic offices.

It’s fine if they contract with local firms, yet due to security issues, it’s generally best to use domestic materials and labor whenever possible.

Thus, the Ministry of Defense is signing a contract with Camila for participating in the wasteland operations, to alleviate political responsibility—and also to use the Public Relations Office for image-making to Congress and the media.

“I believe there aren’t any poison clauses in there. But just in case, you might want to have a lawyer look it over.”

“I don’t have money for that.”

“Then take it to your hotel and check it out. There’s a lawyer among the guests from the cult.”

If this contract leaked to the outside, it would be a serious problem, but given my experience with the Inquisition, I could talk circles around Director Bernard or even contact Director Petrus if necessary.

Camila examined the contract carefully. Then she said,

“…Hmm, alright!”

I asked her as she gathered up the contract.

“What do you feel about signing a contract with the nation? I’m curious.”

“…Not particularly. It’s not a big deal to me.”

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to act tough or if she genuinely didn’t care. It didn’t matter much, anyway, so I twirled my spaghetti. I was hungry.

Just as I was about to take that late lunch,

Bang!

“Cough-!”

“Huh? Are you okay?”

“W-went down the wrong way… need… some tissues…!”

A distant honk triggered my coughing fit.

In the meantime, as I hastily cleaned the sauce that splattered around my mouth with a tissue, Camila gently patted my back. Coughing fits kept bursting out like crazy. After a moment, I stood up like the others.

What kind of nutjob honks their horn while people are eating? I felt like I had to see who it was.

And soon enough, I found out who had honked.

“It’s nice to see you again.”

“……”

“Could you come over here for a moment to talk?”

It was the Royal Intelligence Department.