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I couldn’t muster any strength in my body.

I couldn’t speak or move.

Even when I opened my mouth, no voice came out, and my limp limbs trembled violently.

It was a seizure.

Thus, I collapsed onto the table in a grotesque position.

My head hurt.

I felt dizzy.

I couldn’t breathe.

My vision blurred, and convulsions began.

This felt strangely familiar.

Hemolysis symptoms. Blood coagulation. Subcutaneous bleeding. Anemia. Organ damage. Headache. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. Abdominal pain. Total paralysis. Blurred vision. Speech impairment. Convulsions. Seizures. Blood vessels. Lymph nodes. Acetylcholine. Neurological invasion. Respiratory paralysis. Atropine injection. Oxime injection.

An endless stream of keywords flashed through my mind.

Simultaneously, a few words popped to the forefront.

VX. Sarin. Soman. Botulinum toxin. Novichok.

I instinctively realized it. The knowledge I learned over two lifetimes supported my clear thinking.

So, I was—

Poisoned with a nerve agent.

—

Episode 2 – Heroes of the Continent

*Clatter.*

Camila Lowell put down her utensils. She was full, and drowsiness washed over her.

When asked if something was wrong, she only smiled and replied no.

While she outwardly smiled, her heart was a jumble.

It was no wonder; just a month ago, she was an ordinary university student.

She was born in a household in London, England, attending university as a student.

Considering the average real estate prices in London and the prestige of her university, she was far from ordinary in others’ eyes. But Camila Lowell thought of herself as an ordinary person.

Camila Lowell was a 23-year-old university student.

She was an ordinary person.

Therefore, she found it hard to accept the situation unfolding before her.

“Hey! Don’t let him close his mouth! Stop him from committing suicide!”

“Shut up, you brat!”

Just moments ago, people quietly sipping wine were now pinning someone to the floor and cuffing him.

“Get a healing priest here!”

The soldier who had been chatting until just a moment ago had his face planted on the table, shaking violently.

No, he was having a seizure.

His darkened skin and purple lips felt like a corpse frozen in death, and his grotesquely contorted form resembled the transformation of a zombie from a movie.

Just a minute ago, he was laughing and chatting, now he was dying.

He was the one responsible for his protection.

A colleague.

—

It seemed I had been hit with a nerve agent.

A poisoned dart disguised as a pen. Such a romantic weapon.

Someone mentioned it was often used by reds. Was it my grandfather? My father? Or perhaps an instructor?

I couldn’t remember.

It had been over 30 years, and now it was all a blur.

Someone approached from behind and jabbed a poisoned needle into my neck. Judging by the symptoms, it appeared they had used a nerve agent. Assassination. Probably one of the bastards who had detonated the bomb. I had half-heartedly thought it wouldn’t be me.

Whoever it was, they were impressive. An assassination at a banquet? Clearly, they had waited for hours until I was completely off my guard.

Yeah. What a phenomenal bastard. With this level of effort, I’d almost be willing to die. Of course, that bastard was probably dead by now after swallowing the poison. See you in hell.

Who would commit such an act? Could it be the Imperial Guard HQ? Regardless of the nerve agent, a pen disguised as a poisoned needle would be hard to procure. It had to be an operative from the Imperial Guard HQ.

Why would they initiate a terror attack? Had I rubbed them the wrong way?

Perhaps, it was a political play by the emperor to simultaneously engulf the cult and the hero.

Or perhaps it was an overzealous loyalty of the second division of the Imperial Guard HQ trying to gain the emperor’s favor.

Maybe the first and second divisions were conspiring together to take me down.

Or maybe Saint Veronica, or someone from the cult, considered me an obstacle and wanted me dead.

Or maybe.

Even as my consciousness began to fade, I tirelessly sought to comprehend the intentions of the terrorist.

I imagined a terrorist without a face, name, or affiliation.

Amidst this, a sense of futility suddenly struck me.

What good does it do to think of such things? I would be dead soon anyway. Having been hit in the lymph nodes, I would die in no more than a few seconds.

My vision was already darkening, with only consciousness lingering.

It hurts like hell.

It’s as if a greatsword were cleaving through my entire body. My head throbbed, my insides twisted, and I could hardly breathe.

I was on the brink of death.

In truth, if an antidote existed, I could save my life. If I’m unlucky, I may suffer permanent damage to my central nervous system, but either way, I could survive.

As long as there’s atropine and oxime injections.

But those things don’t exist in this world. If I want treatment, I need to find a healing priest at least at the bishop level.

Just for reference, ‘at least’ means someone at the bishop level.

The information agencies aren’t complete idiots, developing nerve agents that are hard to detoxify by sending math nerds to work.

Of course, if a healing priest of bishop caliber or higher were to shower me with healing magic, it would be a different story. But it’s not easy to call upon someone with that much divine power.

Unless I am extraordinarily lucky enough that such a healing priest is right beside me, I might just have to die.

If someone realizes that I am poisoned and rushes to find such a person before I suffocate, then I might live.

But I doubt it.

—

“Please…! Just…!”

Lucia held the collapsed colonel tight, pouring her divine power into him.

She had experience in serving as a healing priest and had often treated patients with critical illnesses or poisoning.

So, she realized he was poisoned and poured her divine power.

It didn’t work.

“Why…! Isn’t this working…!”

Lucia had no expertise in medicine. It wasn’t that she was foolish; all healing priests of the cult were like that.

With just a twitch of a finger, a paraplegic could rise, and a patient on the brink of death could jump out of bed and do a tap dance, so there was no need to study medicine. That’s why medical professors and healing priests constantly criticize and insult each other.

In any case, she didn’t know what kind of poison it was. Thus, she mistakenly thought it was a poison commonly found in nature.

Lucia had a significantly high level of divine power compared to her peers, but it was inadequate to handle the situation alone.

Someone shouted to get a healing priest, while another shouted to get outside, causing chaos.

Only the operatives of the information agencies felt something was terribly wrong, realizing the severity of the situation.

In that banquet hall filled with screams and shouts, as someone was dying,

“Step aside.”

A hero arrived.

—

Is this my first time dying from poison? My consciousness flickered in and out.

Is this what it feels like to be under the influence of sleeping pills? It seems like a good sign.

Even though the nerve agent paralyzed my breathing, the return of my consciousness indicated that something was being treated.

Honestly, I want to live, but fear overshadowed my desires. Stopped breathing means oxygen supply to the brain was cut off, which significantly raised the chance of permanent damage.

Well, I don’t want to worry too much about things that haven’t happened yet.

I can deal with those issues when they arise.

Holding onto my fuzzy consciousness, I pondered.

Why the hell is this happening?

Why are they trying to kill me with a bomb?

Why are they resorting to a poisoned needle to take my life?

Why did they push me away to save their own life?

Why did they warn me of the impending terror?

I thought.

I kept on thinking.

Then suddenly, one question struck me.

Terrorism.

Ekaterina intervened exactly at the right moment just before the bomb detonated, saving my life. This means she was fully aware of the methods, means, timing, and location of the terror.

In other words, she already knew the details of the terror plan.

But,

Why did she lack any information about the second terror attack?

—

“Who are you…?”

“Oh my, are you Camila Lowell?”

A woman in a white priest’s robe smiled gently, her black hair flowing like a waterfall.

As gentle rays of light emanated from her palm, the blackened skin gradually restored itself to its original state.

The treatment, which had shown no signs of improvement when Lucia poured her divine power, was rapidly progressing with a mere gesture.

A miracle.

A miracle was happening.

Before long, the skin regained its color, and a hurriedly-arrived doctor began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

The nameless woman who had completed the emergency treatment slowly rose from the floor.

She spoke.

“I am Saint Veronica of the cult’s 58th generation.”

The saint smiled.

A radiant smile like that of a picture-perfect painting.

“It’s nice to meet you, hero.”

—

Something.

Something is happening.

Amidst the bomb terror, countless individuals are intricately connected like a web.

The Imperial Family. The Royal Family. The Cult. The Military Intelligence Agency. The Inquisition. The Imperial Guard HQ. The Counterintelligence Department. The Public Security Department. The Overseas Operations Department.

Three nations.

Three agencies.

At the swirling center of diverse desires is the hero.

The more I think, the more it feels like I’m being swept away into the tumultuous currents.

My head aches.

My perception doesn’t translate into thought, and unformed judgments swirl around in my mind.

I feel dizzy.

Unnatural thoughts keep creeping in.

…In hindsight,

Everything had connected in a bizarre manner.

…Clearly, during the bomb terror, the first division agents calculated the timing precisely to save my life.

As someone who searches for information but not a mind reader of human psychology, I can’t discern Ekaterina’s intentions for saving me. I couldn’t grasp the goals of the Imperial Guard HQ.

One thing is certain.

During the bomb terror, the first division knew the terrorists’ detailed terror plans inside out.

But after the bomb terror, the intelligence-gathering capacity of the first division markedly declined. They didn’t even know when or what means the next terror would occur.

Timing is critical.

Their intelligence-gathering capacity deteriorated ‘after’ the bomb terror.

The ‘why’ is no longer important.

The ‘how’ is critical.

How was the bomb detonated at the cult’s headquarters, and how was an assassination possible during a cult event?

How did Ekaterina know about the terror plan? And how did the operative from the Counterintelligence Department remain oblivious to it?

They are from the ‘first division’.

The ones who catch spies. Public security.

Though I am from the Overseas Operations Department, I know well that the public security folks can masterfully manipulate their puppets. So, they are the infiltrators. In our terms, they are ‘straws’.

The first division must have embedded infiltrators into the terror group. Whether they had sent their agents or bribed supporters with money, they did something.

Real valuable information is based on trust, and reliable information comes from a ‘trustworthy’ source.

In reality, Ekaterina behaved as if she knew everything about the bomb terror plan. Considering the panic faced by the Inquisition and Military Intelligence Agency, the intelligence-gathering and analysis capability of the Imperial Guard HQ is astonishing.

Yet, their ability faltered in predicting the second terror. They lacked knowledge regarding means, methods, date, and time.

If I were a terrorist, I would suspect information leaks immediately upon the bomb terror failing. I would hunt down the infiltrator and kill them. I would do the same.

If the first division had been parsing information about terror activities through the infiltrator, it makes sense. When the assassination attempt failed and the infiltrator was killed, their operational capability would inevitably be crippled.

The infiltrator must meet at least four criteria.

Someone who has been trusted by the Imperial Guard HQ and the terrorists for a long time.

Someone with authority to approach the terror plan.

Someone who knew the terror involved a bomb.

And someone purged after the terror failed.

…There is only one person who fits that description.

Someone who ‘brought in’ the bomb, ‘handed it off’ to a cult member, and had ‘high’ access to read the terror plan.

A person executed after the failed terror.

The agent found dead in the sewer a week after the terror.

Neither black nor white, but an ambiguous gray.

An operative from the second division of the Imperial Guard HQ responsible for ‘Locust Publishing’, Yuri.

—

“Your breathing has returned to normal.”

The doctor wiped sweat from his brow as he explained the condition.

“Although the treatment is complete, we should monitor the patient’s condition a bit longer after consciousness returns, since the poison was injected via a blood vessel in the neck. We need to check for any abnormalities in the brain…”

“Hoight.”

Veronica poured her divine power at the head area. A brilliant light filled the room, and the doctor’s jaw dropped in shock.

Let me reiterate. Healing priests have no medical knowledge.

“Now you should be alright.”

Veronica said in a calm tone. Anyone would mistake her for a specialist given her confident demeanor.

Camila Lowell bowed her head to her, while Lucia gave a half-hearted salute, and Veronica received their greetings with a bright smile.

Only Pippin and Jake felt that something strange had occurred.

“Ah, are you the colonel’s subordinates? Nice to meet you, I’m Veronica.”

Pippin and Jake shook hands with Veronica in a daze.

Veronica briefly greeted the people in the room and then exited.

As she gazed at the door she exited from, the two spies opened their palms.

A note was inside.

—

I could now breathe properly, but each breath felt like my body was being torn apart.

My abdomen throbbed as if burnt by fire, and my lungs felt as if every fiber was being ripped apart. The area around my neck where I was poisoned felt excruciatingly painful.

It hurt.

“…!”

What now?

Will I wake up with my limbs intact?

I seem to have unearthed important information that needs to be communicated. If only I could talk.

“C…!”

Are the kids okay?

I’m worried about Pippin, not Jake. It’s obvious she can’t fight.

Was Camila Lowell not surprised? She’s been struggling lately. She can’t be shaken by something like this.

Was it Priest Lucia who treated me? In games, leveling up increases divine power quickly; I wonder how it works here.

“Colonel…!”

It felt like someone was calling me.

Is it my mother? Or perhaps my grandfather? Could it be my father?

…Somehow, I don’t think so.

They are people I will never see again.

“Colonel…!”

My eyes opened.

“Colonel….”

Camila Lowell was weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Priest Lucia hurriedly dashed somewhere, and distant commotion could be heard.

I wanted to say something, opening my mouth, but no voice emerged.

“….”

“Yes…?”

Camila Lowell leaned close to my ear.

Grasping my hazy mind, I fumbled to speak.

“It hurts, damn….”

It hurts like hell.

 

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