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The old bar, a place frequented by rednecks. Jazz flows from the jukebox. Tired, aging white men gulp down whiskey from shot glasses.

I push the door open and step inside.

*Ding.*

The customers momentarily glance at the Asian guy entering at such a late hour, but only briefly. They quickly return their attention to their drinks.

Having arrived at the destination specified in the security email, I joined a solitary white man sipping his drink across the table.

“It’s been a while, Michael.”

“Oh, look who it is!”

My American friend greeted me warmly with a gentle smile.

“Great to see you here in America, Mr. Kim. Or should I call you someone else today?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I take a look at your ID?”

I pulled out my driver’s license from my wallet.

My American friend examined the faded California license, chuckling as he raised his beer glass.

“Eugene Choi. Who the heck is that? An old Russian rock singer? Or maybe the protagonist of a Netflix drama?”

“I guess you wouldn’t know. Just a Korean-American who got a passport issued from our embassy, or a fool who dropped his ID on the street.”

“That’s hilarious. Anyway, welcome to America, my friend.”

A former U.S. Army guy fluent in Korean welcomed me home.

I knew nothing of his hometown or background, except that he served at the Pyeongtaek military base and his name was Michael. Those two things were probably the truth.

Probably.

“Is this your hometown? I thought you were from Virginia.”

“Well, hometowns change all the time. But Texas is pretty nice. You’ll like it here.”

“But I’m not a cowboy.”

“Why not get a hat? There’s a farm nearby owned by a colleague’s father where you can pet horses. Do you know how to ride?”

“No. And you’re not exactly a cowboy, either, are you?”

“Actually, I’m a redneck. I’ve got an ex-wife, a shotgun, and above all, I live with my mom in a trailer.”

“Don’t kid around. You drop off the kids at school every morning.”

“Touché.”

Michael chugged his beer, relishing it as he leaned back in his seat.

“How was your trip to Cuba?”

“Good. Didn’t get out of base, though.”

Buzz. An alert. An email.

I opened my phone to check the email and quickly dove into the main topic with Michael.

“I need a favor.”

“A favor? Sure. Buy me a drink.”

I ordered two glasses of bourbon from the bartender. The bartender flashed a bright smile and served the whiskey with practiced hands.

After the bartender, pocketing the tip, left, Michael took a sip of bourbon and savored it.

“Nice. Really nice… So, what can I do for our 70-year alliance?”

“I need to make a trip to South America. Weapons and funds are ready, but the local situation is tricky.”

“You want to use our company’s resources? Sounds good. But where exactly?”

“Caracas.”

Michael’s face, which had just been relaxed with bourbon, stiffened. It turned cold.

“…Venezuela? You’re kidding, right? I hope?”

“No.”

“These guys are nuts… Hey, buddy. That country is tight with North Korea. What do you think will happen if you get noticed there?”

“The target isn’t Venezuela, it’s the Reds.”

I opened my phone to show Michael the recently received email.

“North Koreans are scheming in Venezuela. You know well that countries like Venezuela, Cuba, and Iran are friendly with North Korea, right? With the U.S. tightening sanctions, they’re trying to band together.”

“…Yeah, I know. Very well.”

“South America and the Middle East issues don’t concern us, but North Korea is a different story. I’m going to investigate that. If I find out what they’re doing in Venezuela, I’ll let your company know.”

“…Are you going solo?”

“No.”

“…Joint operation then.”

“So, will you help or just keep drinking?”

Michael stroked his thick chin with his big hand and nodded his tipsy head.

“Why not? Let’s give it a shot.”

“Thanks, Michael.”

“Stop by Germany when you finish. I’m on a trip, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Sounds good. Where do I go?”

“Ramstein.”

“I’ll contact you when it’s done.”

I shook Michael’s thick hand with both of mine, bidding farewell. The surroundings blurred as his smile twisted like a black hole. The table seemed to flip as it rose to the ceiling. The world turned upside down.

“I’ll see you in Germany, buddy. Don’t get hurt.”

My vision darkened, and my ears filled with a ringing.

It’s blackout.

***

I lay on the bed, receiving IV fluids. Camila and Francesca stepped out to check the surroundings.

Left in the infirmary were Lucia and me. After the brief commotion died down, Lucia assessed my condition while injecting fluids into my vein.

“Umm…”

“What’s wrong?”

Lucia removed the blood pressure cuff from my arm, letting out a strange hum.

“Your blood pressure is returning to normal. However, I can’t ascertain your exact condition, so you mustn’t overexert yourself for now.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘not overexerting’?”

“I think it likely aligns with what you’re imagining.”

She was telling me not to fight. Damn.

I sighed heavily, covering my forehead with my newly healed left arm.

“I don’t even know how many terrorists are left or when I can get out, and you expect me not to fight? Do you think this makes any sense?”

“You seem to listen to my words just like those who are carried into a field hospital.”

Lucia, a healing priestess on duty, was tidying up her tools as she scolded me.

I opened my mouth, intending to respond to her reprimand but was reminded of the scene where one punch made the table shake, and I shut my lips tight.

“So when will you tell me about black magic?”

“For now, just rest. Don’t think about anything.”

“And how long am I supposed to rest?”

“Until all the fluids are administered.”

I decided to follow Lucia’s instructions without further complaint. This was not because I was scared; it was due to Lucia’s concern for my well-being. Probably.

As she tidied up and finally took a seat, she gazed at me thoughtfully before suddenly asking,

“Why do you fight?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was just wondering if there was any need to fight the terrorists.”

I turned my head slightly, meeting Lucia’s gaze. Her eyes were blue, like Camila’s, but a bit brighter.

Staring into Lucia’s clear, autumn blue eyes, I glanced away and replied curtly.

“Am I supposed to just sit back and die? Do you know what they’re capable of?”

“Fighting is not always the answer.”

“That might be true. Depending on the situation.”

Conversing with someone of a different mindset is tiring. And Lucia and I were on different wavelengths.

I didn’t want to engage in a lengthy discussion on this topic with Lucia, but unfortunately, she was a saint of the cult. Thus, I stammered out a non-answer.

“Trying to justify everything people do is a tiring business.”

“…”

“However, if you insist on wanting an answer, all I can say is that this is my job.”

Lucia fell silent. More accurately, she seemed to want to say something but only moved her lips without speaking.

After a moment of hesitation, Lucia finally spoke with a voice filled with concern.

“You really could be heading back soon.”

“…”

“This is the third time you’ve escaped death, isn’t it?”

Three times. That was certainly true.

First, when carelessly getting poisoned.

Second, during the gunfight with the Recon Command that ambushed us.

Third, inadvertently getting caught up in a terrorist attack while on leave.

Interestingly, Lucia had been involved in all three incidents to some extent. She was right beside me when I got poisoned, noticed when I got shot after drinking chemicals, and now she was fully embroiled in this terrorist affair. What a bizarre connection. Writing it like this would earn me disdain from readers.

When I think about it, I seem to ruin my life every time I get involved with saints.

Not only Lucia, but Veronica goes without saying. Had it not been for Veronica, I would have never been deeply entangled with the Imperial Guard HQ from the beginning.

“…”

As I sat quietly contemplating my connections with the saints, Lucia posed a curious question.

“Aren’t you afraid of dying?”

It was quite a philosophical question. At the same time, it was a familiar one. After all, death was rampant in this world.

Lucia stared at me without a hint of movement as I caught her gaze and sunk into thought.

Drip. Drip. The fluid collected in the IV drip descended the tubing. New fluids dripped slowly.

“Well, I haven’t really thought about it much. But isn’t it just a part of life?”

“You seem surprisingly calm about it.”

With that, Lucia fell silent. She appeared to be lost in thought.

Watching Lucia’s profile as she contemplated, I smiled gently and answered her question.

“Well, maybe I’ve already died once.”

It meant being aware of others, whether you liked it or not.

So even Veronica, who held considerable power in the cult, along with the cardinal and the bishop, did not bring alcohol or cigarettes to official gatherings. That was an unspoken rule.

I stepped in to save Lucia’s face.

“That’s a cosmetic product. It’s used to remove odors before applying perfume or after removing makeup. Think of it as a type of basic skincare.”

“Ah, I see. I didn’t know such a thing existed here. How convenient.”

Fortunately, Camila took my lie at face value. It was half-true since it was indeed used for makeup.

Lucia, who nearly lost her composure from my blunder, let out a sigh of relief, while Francesca smiled at Lucia’s reaction.

I placed a band-aid over the injection mark and shifted the topic.

“Well, let’s wrap up the small talk. The Administrator mentioned feeling a dark magic presence at the department store. Could you elaborate on that?”

“Ah, yes.”

Lucia, calming down after the initial shock, collected her thoughts.

“Initially, when I heard the screams and the commotion began inside the department store, I sensed something was amiss.”

“Sensed something amiss?”

“The priests of the cult undergo several years of mandatory training before receiving their ordination. It’s a form of discipline. Many drop out during the process, but those who are confirmed to receive ordination become junior members of the Inquisition from spring to fall of the year they are ordained to receive additional training.”

The Inquisition is the only information agency of the cult. It handles everything from maintaining public order, counter-intelligence, security, bodyguard duties, domestic and foreign information gathering, to covert operations, exercising unfettered power under the Pope’s protection.

Of course, that was the perspective if you focused on it being an ‘information agency.’

In practice, the Inquisition would be hard to define as a pure ‘information agency’ like the Imperial Guard HQ or the Royal Intelligence Department.

The Inquisition is the information agency of a theocratic state. The name alone gives it away: the Inquisition.

The Inquisition deals with areas that other information agencies are less concerned about. For example, heresy, cults, demon races, extremists, radical religious terrorist organizations, and apostate clergy. For reference, sorcerers were once included in that list.

The 59th Saint of the cult pointed this out.

“Until the Alhambra Edict was promulgated, magic, sorcery, astrology, and alchemy were considered taboo studies by the Inquisition. Although the cult officially relaxed sanctions on magic-related matters after the establishment of the Magic Tower, dark magic is treated as an exception.”

“Because it is associated with demons.”

The alchemist from the Magic Tower, who had been quietly listening, chimed in. Francesca added while polishing a small sword.

“Actually, it’s a bit complex to define dark magic as always being inherently connected to demons. Not just demons but also foreign beings and magic races have deep ties with dark magicians. Dark magic is an overarching concept that encompasses all of that.”

“I didn’t expect the Administrator to know about dark magic.”

“Dark magic is also a taboo subject within the Magic Tower.”

The Administrator of the Magic Tower Secretariat chuckled lightly while organizing her sword.

“There are times when highly compatible magic users enter investigative agencies — like the Magic Department Investigators.”

“…Aura?”

Camila suddenly cut in with a nonsensical remark. I quickly covered her mouth with my hand and focused on the information Francesca was providing.

“I know that the Magic Department tracks dark magicians or sorcerers who have been expelled from the Magic Tower, as well as those who have committed crimes. But?”

“There are occasionally investigators who are particularly sensitive to magical energies. They can discern who the perpetrator is just by observing the residual magic left at a crime scene. Even if magic is used several blocks away, these investigators can sense it like a ghost. When terrorists appear, you mentioned that the Hero suddenly felt unwell, right?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you have a talent in that area. It’s quite rare to be sensitive to the magic of others and one’s surroundings.”

Francesca said that while softly smiling. For some reason, Camila’s eyes sparkled at the mention of possessing something special.

This was new information. Camila’s ability to react to the fluctuations of magic around her. While it was good news, it regrettably wasn’t the information I was seeking. Simply put, I couldn’t definitively attribute the cause of Camila’s condition to dark magic.

I needed to clarify the exact relationship between Camila’s ability and the dark magical energies. So I planned to organize the newly acquired information and ask Francesca for more details. Or at least, I intended to.

Until the saint suddenly opened her apron and reached inside.

“No, wait. What are you doing right now?”

“Gyaaaah! Don’t look! You shouldn’t look!”

“Ack! My eyes!”

In my fluster, I almost let a curse slip, while Francesca stared blankly with slightly parted lips, and Camila jumped up in surprise, covering my eyes. Regardless, Lucia continued speaking as she rummaged through her own apron.

“When you become a junior member of the Inquisition, you learn how to identify dark magic. More precisely, you learn the difference between dark magic, regular magic, sorcery, astrology, and alchemy. And one of those methods is this.”

Lucia pulled out an object she had carefully kept in her apron, shining with a soft deep blue light like a constellation of galaxies.

“…What is that?”

“It’s an object used to detect dark magic. It’s made from silver obtained by dwarves from rifts, blessed during its creation.”

“…How do you use it?”

“If necessary, you can pull it out and check instantly. If it senses the aura of dark magic, it shines deep blue. However, due to resource supply issues, not all priests possess the skill to bless it, so only a select few can be issued such an important item.”

Why the heck is something so important being kept there, you lunatic?

I wanted to express my disbelief, but Lucia showed no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. Rather, her nonchalant demeanor made us feel even more awkward.

Lucia, with a serious expression, continued.

“This morning, when we entered the department store, it was perfectly fine; now it’s glowing deep blue.”

“…Since when?”

“Since the commotion began.”

The saint stated.

“Although I cannot specify the type or the mastermind behind the dark magic, it’s clear that dark magic is involved. It’s likely related to the ominous force surrounding the department store. It indicates a highly intentional and planned terror act.”

“……”

“There might be a dark magician inside the department store.”

*

Terror has struck. The department store has been taken over by terrorists. It is surrounded by a black veil that cuts off access from the outside. Armed terrorists are conspiring on something. Dark magical energies can even be sensed.

The 59th Saint of the cult, Lucia, claimed that all of this was meticulously planned.

Her assertion made sense. There is clear evidence (the deep blue shining dark magic detector).

However, it seemed that the Administrator of the Magic Tower Secretariat had a different viewpoint.

Sitting in her chair, she crossed her legs and began to speak.

“No. That’s unlikely.”

“Administrator, what do you mean by unlikely?”

“I can’t agree that there’s a dark magician inside the department store. Magic doesn’t operate like that.”

The alchemist from a prestigious magic family discussed the mechanics of how magic operates.

“Basically, magic is a technique where something acts as a mediator to operate and unleash magical power. It doesn’t matter if it’s a human, an orc, an elf, or a demon race.”

“A mediator?”

“Think of it as a filter.”

The alchemist explained that magic is the result of ‘drawing magical energy from the outside, passing it through an intermediary (filter), and then expelling it again.’

“Of course, this isn’t an entirely accurate explanation. It doesn’t take into account the energy of the magical user or the characteristics of the external magical energy, the user’s physical condition, and training state.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll keep that in mind while listening.”

“Depending on the school and the race, those who use magic have limitations. In short, there’s a threshold that the body and mind can handle when using magic.”

This was something I knew. Camila had been experiencing similar symptoms.

In the past, during the era when magic began to be used militarily, there had been reports of sorcerers suddenly feeling immense pain and fainting or falling into a comatose state when deployed on the battlefield.

Later studies revealed that this had occurred because sorcerers who had not properly understood their limitations kept using magic, but at the beginning of the research into magic, this was simply dismissed as a mental problem. So, I’ve heard that the issue was temporarily resolved by supplying stimulants (drugs) to frontline units.

Of course, nowadays, it’s rare to prescribe stimulants unless under special circumstances. A little training and better magical energy management should suffice. It would be a relief if Camila’s condition improved, but sadly, there still seem to be no clear solutions.

Anyway.

The alchemist from the Magic Tower mentioned the limits that sorcerers individually possess.

“Filters can be changed when they wear out, but it’s not the same for sorcerers. If a magic user using magic collapses, another magic user can fill in, but they cannot stop the magic from being interrupted. There will be a gap.”

It’s a simple logic.

If a part-timer working at a logistics center runs away, you can hire another part-timer to fill the void, but a person who flees during an exam can’t have the person next to them solve the problems for them.

I don’t know exactly what this logic entails, but Francesca explained firmly that one magic user cannot pass their magic on to another.

“That’s why, in the past, the Protection School valued teamwork as a crucial virtue. If someone beside you collapses, you need to deploy a new barrier to cover the gap before it appears. But this too has its issues.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I mentioned earlier, every sorcerer has limits. The amount of magic they can handle has a maximum, and even if that limit is said to be infinite, if their focus wanders, even slightly misallocating magic will ruin the spell.”

“……”

“So, maintaining a massive barrier without any gaps in a situation like now is impossible, no matter how many sorcerers you bring. It’s similar to how a person can’t always run at a consistent speed.”

“…Unless it’s a machine.”

The alchemist smiled.

“That’s right. Unless it’s a machine.”

“……”

“What you saw, the cargo, perhaps it’s a device maintaining the barrier?”

The moment I heard that hypothesis, a decision was made.

“Let’s go to Atria Hall. The cargo must be there.”

 

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