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It was a picturesque house.

The sound of crashing waves resonated as white foam bubbled up, and the blazing sunlight swept across the waterlogged rocks.

On a coastal cliff where the waves crashed, there was a villa topped with a red roof.

The low hillside villa looked like a watercolor painting. It held even more meaning as it was based on the untarnished memories of childhood.

The owner of the red-roofed villa.

Francesca gazed out the window with indifferent eyes.

“…….”

The area around the villa was teeming with people.

Tall and robust men donned in dapper suits were unmistakably bodyguards. With a dozen or so of them surrounding the villa, anyone unaware of the situation would think, “A high-ranking individual must live there.”

However, if one noticed the cloaks resting on their shoulders, those observing the villa would slowly back away. The cloak was akin to a symbol of a magician.

The alchemist scoffed while looking at the magicians of the Magic Tower encircling her villa.

“Hmph….”

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Episode 15 – Life is Beautiful

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Fundamentally, Francesca does not trust people.

Having been betrayed by those she trusted, distrust had naturally taken root within her.

Her once-believed friends from the academy turned their backs as her family’s downfall began, and the professors at the academy were pushed away by the scornful glares of the Suit Men frequenting the main building.

The Suit Men, observing her closely from a distance, gradually approached as the years went by. First at the academy’s main gate, then again by the main building, and during festivals or observation classes with many outsiders present, they even entered the classroom. Although they had never directly harmed her, the attention from public security and the scrutinizing gazes from those around her became burdensome.

So, nearing her graduation from the academy and on the verge of studying abroad, she met with her professor for a discussion. It was the first and last personal conversation she had with her advisor since enrolling in the academy.

There was no extraordinary reason for her decision to study abroad. Simply put, even a young girl could see that Patalia was not a livable place.

Having no place in her ancestors’ hometown, she thought perhaps things would be different in the homeland of magicians.

But when confronted with the Magic Tower, it looked like a cesspool.

A descendant of the archmage. The daughter of the Ranieri family.

The behavior of those focused on her lineage was much the same whether in Patalia or at the Magic Tower. Patalia residents regarded her as “a relative of a public security criminal” or “a person of interest,” while magicians took interest in her bloodline as “the descendant of the great archmage.”

In that moment, Francesca truly realized.

Here too, I don’t belong, she thought.

The obsession with bloodlines among magicians was the most detestable thing to her. Though they pretended not to care in front of her, whispers always followed as soon as their backs were turned.

Of course, she no longer acted like before, hiding in her room and shedding tearful sorrow. For her, the world had already become a massive cage. She was accustomed to the gazes of those around her, which scrutinized her without regard for her own will.

Thus, Francesca resolved to step out confidently and confront them.

She graduated from the Magic Tower’s university. The thesis and research she prepared with knowledge and abilities she could call her own became a solid career for her.

As a member of the Ranieri bloodline, receiving favor from the top professors was easier than breathing. When terms like mentor and teacher escaped her lips, the professors would blink in amazement and readily provide recommendation letters.

The prestigious diploma and the letters of recommendation opened the path to Rome, and that same year after graduating from university, Francesca passed through the doors of the Secretariat.

But that was not enough.

What status? Just a civil servant. The Secretariat serving the Oracle was a coveted job that anyone could land with adequate effort and luck.

If she was going to rise, it had to be to a position that wasn’t easily grasped by anyone.

Just then, a good opportunity presented itself. She heard rumors that the Oracle was struggling to find talent to manage their slush fund.

Francesca stepped forward, declaring herself that talent.

Judging that a descendant of the Ranieri would be trustworthy, the Oracle chose her, dismissing formidable applicants. The archmage’s lineage became her solid guarantee, and Francesca expressed gratitude to her ancestors who left behind such an absurd bloodline.

As she approached power, power entered her grasp. Of course, untold riches followed.

Yet, desire was like an unquenchable thirst, leaving Francesca dissatisfied.

Money? Power?

Besides the Emperor who could manipulate the Empire with a mere finger or the family running the state selling magic stones, those were of no use. The Ranieri family did not fall due to a lack of money or power. If she wanted revenge or anything else, she had to at least surpass her family.

Thus, Francesca looked upward, vowing that one day she would surely reach those lofty heights.

And now, years later.

Few remained above Francesca in the magical society.

“……”

The civil servant of the Secretariat thought as she gazed out the window, realizing that people were indeed untrustworthy.

In that context, the magicians guarding the villa appeared to her as an unreliable lot. After all, they were loyal to the Magic Tower. They had originally been sent by the Oracle.

Considering that no one had ever entered the villa, those magicians loitering outside were undeniably bothersome. How on earth had such individuals come to her villa…

Francesca pinched her forehead and groaned.

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

If they had just claimed to have killed the demon themselves, why go around proclaiming that it was the hero and his colleagues who did the hunting? The excessive attention from the public was essentially an obstacle for her operating in the shadows.

With a deep sigh, Francesca focused her gaze on the paperwork. It had already been five months since the northern issues had been resolved, yet she was still busily managing business connected to the North.

She loaded the items ordered by the Palm Tree Trade Guild onto a ship and sent them to a warehouse prepared by an orc from the Empire. Payment for the transaction was disbursed through a shell company set up in a tax haven while managing the Oracle’s slush fund.

In illicit dealings, trust was as vital as life itself, leaving no room for even minor mistakes. Fortunately, she was quite adept at shady business, and her contacts were equally sharp.

So, smoothly managing the funds, relocating items, and exchanging messages for business, it happened one day.

While examining documents and calculating figures, Francesca received a call. It was a mobile phone equipped with a backdoor function to bypass eavesdropping.

“Oh my.”

Sensing the number on the screen, Francesca allowed a gentle smile to emerge.

There were business matters to discuss, and since communication had been sparse lately, she had been waiting for this call to come through.

Closing her ledger, Francesca washed away her long-standing fatigue with a smile and greeted the familiar voice warmly.

“It’s good to hear from you, Colonel. It’s been a while. What brings you to contact me?”

“It’s said they exported it to a dictatorial country.”

“Find out who the local executives are, the representatives of partner companies, and the owners of the ships that carried the cargo.”

“Manager, an executive from the United People’s Party has appeared in the eastern region. The embassy has pulled out to avoid the civil war, and it seems access is difficult due to rebel hotspots. What should we do?”

“Air Force!”

Most of the operations were about gathering intelligence and analyzing information. Managing the information coming from the Mauritania Continent was my duty.

Of course, there were also times when there was a need to monitor and track some rebel recruitment agents or political figures. They were the gentry listed on the Abas Information Agency’s assassination list.

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

In those cases, I solved problems in an elegant and clean manner.

Airstrike.

“Manager, I’ve confirmed the target’s death.”

“Are you sure?”

“They got caught up in that explosion, there’s no way they’re alive.”

“Return the pigeon and move on to the next screen.”

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

The airstrikes by the Abas Information Agency were mostly conducted this way. A bird loaded with explosives would soar through the sky, and a pigeon carrying a video rig would gather visual intelligence before returning.

The expensive budget spent to raise and train these animals for kamikaze missions could make even a hardcore nationalist gasp and animal rights organizations scream in horror at the animal abuse.

But the Abas Information Agency was shamelessly doing something even the 1980s intelligence agencies wouldn’t have dreamed of.

This was the first time in my life I had assassinated someone through an airstrike, and it was pretty strange to be eliminating targets using live birds instead of drones. It felt somewhat suffocating, to say the least.

Though it was embarrassing, it definitely worked. If the success rate had hit rock bottom, I would have been wrapped up in self-loathing, wondering, “Did I become an information officer for this?”

“Ugh…”

In a mission that threw away respect for animal life and ethical considerations, Charnoy, the nymph of the ditch water, was shedding tears.

“My beloved Sparrow No. 1 has died today… Truly a nymph-hating operation… Watching the sacrifice of Sparrow No. 1, tears simply won’t stop for Charnoy…!”

The official name was ‘Gryphon No. 417’, but Charnoy insisted on calling it ‘Sparrow No. 1’.

This hybrid creature was raised with love and affection by Charnoy. Though the actual care was done by the staff of the responsible department, Charnoy did lend a hand now and then. On days when the lunch menu featured unappetizing greens (salad), she would often stop by the stable to feed it.

Charnoy’s naming sense was truly of an incomprehensible sort. Out of all the nicknames one could choose, why ‘sparrow’?

It was an adorably diminutive name to assign to a four-legged beast with a bird’s head.

I called out to Charnoy while pouring myself a cup of coffee.

“Are you that sad?”

“Of course! Charnoy is a member of the Nymph Protection Foundation… Every animal is a friend of the nymph… I cannot contain my sorrow over the death of my beloved Sparrow No. 1…!”

“Oh, there’s honey candy over there.”

“Honey candy…? Where is it…? Please, give some honey candy to the sad Charnoy…!”

Wiping away tears like chick droppings, Charnoy searched the pantry for honey candy, and I quickly exited the operations room.

At that moment, a nymph’s voice echoed from behind the heavy iron door.

“Ahh…! The Black-haired Beast has deceived Charnoy again…!”

It was the scream of a mascot, now a fixture in our office.

*

Over the past five months, I had accomplished quite a few missions.

Typically, it takes several months for usual projects, but I managed to handle up to two per month, at the very least one.

Despite my aging body, it was a remarkable achievement. The Military Intelligence Agency and the Royal Intelligence Department had noted the surprisingly rapid progress, and the committee showed a satisfactory response.

Yesterday, I assassinated a rebel recruiter, and today I eliminated a warlord leader who had a knack for trading drugs with military funds. By the way, tomorrow I’m slated to take down a scumbag who sold weapons on the black market.

What started as an effort to track down a colleague had turned into a whirlwind of tasks before I even set out on deployment.

There were just too many bad people in the world.

Even I, who made a living stirring up trouble, recognized them as worthless scum, so I personally arranged hellish meetings with the bad guys.

I don’t know if hell exists, but if there’s a VIP seat for those guys, that would be fantastic, I think.

Surveillance, tracking, gathering intelligence, and analyzing. Based on the analyzed data, I would plan operations to eliminate targets and then report to Leoni. After handling my business, I would pick up my identification at the guard post and head home.

“I’m off.”

“You can retrieve your ID up front.”

“Thanks, you all take care.”

I clocked out and stepped onto the street to catch my breath.

Having escaped the confines of work, it was time to briefly put aside thoughts of job responsibilities and savor my freedom.

I placed my briefcase filled with materials on my lap and gazed out at the scenery reflected in the window, pondering, ‘What should I do today?’

I had spoken with Camila the other day, so should I give Lucia a call today? As I settled into the back seat of the bus and took out my phone, I suddenly recalled I had spoken with Veronica and had heard that her younger sibling was busy with cult affairs lately. Since I didn’t want to disturb someone busy, I thought I should call Francesca before going to bed, quietly putting my phone back away.

I thought about calling Pippin and Jake for dinner, but quickly shook my head. They were at the prime of their romance, and what would I be doing crashing that? It was Friday, so they probably would be having dinner together anyway.

That didn’t mean I could call Charnoy either. Once a nymph gets sulky, her wrath is as tenacious as an elfin war veteran’s, and if she caught wind of my honey candy prank, she would probably rip my hair out.

Clevenz and Leoni were busy, and since they were my bosses, it felt a little awkward to invite them out. Nothing is more exhausting than running into a superior outside of work.

While wandering around the city on the bus, I ultimately decided to direct my steps towards the Nostrim Family’s townhouse.

“Sister, Brother! I’m here! If you haven’t had dinner yet, let’s go eat out. I’ll give you ten seconds to dash out from under the bridge—”

“You’re here?”

As I shook off the dirt and dust from the mat, a sudden greeting made me lift my head in surprise.

Standing in the hallway that connected the kitchen and the living room was a middle-aged woman.

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

With her warm voice and a face marked with wrinkles, yet possessing an elegance that rendered time’s effects inconsequential.

She greeted me effusively, calling me:

“My son.”

It was the matriarch of the Nostrim Family.

 

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