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Job preferences vary slightly from country to country.

Especially for civil servants.

Why? Because it’s a lifelong job packed with the perks of retirement, work-life balance, and early leave. It was even more attractive in a world where finding a job was tough.

However, once appointed, the reality often turned out to be less appealing than imagined, as the nature of being a civil servant is inherently far from productive work.

Isn’t the main job to keep doing what you did last year, and the year before that? If Charlie Chaplin were awake, the setting of “Modern Times” would have shifted from factories to city halls.

A monotonous daily grind, non-existent work-life balance, neglected early leave, and a long, treacherous wait for retirement.

Junior civil servants faced a crossroads when confronted with the abyss.

To fall into a rut or to resign.

And in my case, it was clear.

“No, Colonel Frederick! Why did you come in at 9 today? We have a ton of work piling up.”

“Eh? Isn’t 9 AM the regular start time for civil servants?”

“Huh…?”

It was the former.

Episode 20 – Who Threatened With a Sword?

It was the 113th day since the little one, who had just escaped a dark phase of life, accidentally revealed that they got a job in an information agency.

Witnessing Ayla’s catastrophic mishap was a sight I could hardly bear. I was dispatched to the Royal Intelligence Department in her place and had been on operations for nearly three months in the eastern part of the Mauritania continent.

Though I volunteered for the dispatch, living abroad wasn’t easy. The weather was troublesome, and everything from work, food, security, and traffic was challenging.

Of course, I could endure the grind, but there were problems that even seasoned veterans couldn’t just overlook.

Especially with people.

“Ugh~ It’s sweltering hot, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s bearable.”

“Oh dear, you young folks have it tough. Everyone, meet our dispatched employee from the Ministry of Defense. This here is our staff.”

When I was first assigned to this dispatch site, I didn’t see any immediate problems.

The warm-hearted uncle who welcomed me at the Warp Gate wasn’t a muscled, sharp figure like Colonel Frederick or Matt from the Royal Intelligence Department.

He had the demeanor of a friendly neighbor who took his dog for a morning stroll, and the other staff at the office also had an impression as soft as reeds.

“So, the Ministry of Defense is Military Intelligence?”

“That’s right.”

“Feel free to speak casually. Even though we share an office, we’re from different departments. By the way, how old are you?”

“Wow – you’re much younger than what I’ve seen on the news! Are you married? You must have been quite popular at Kelsere Military Academy. Speaking of which, isn’t that whole area a student district? I used to see cadets go out on weekends during my undergrad.”

“Is it your first time on a dispatch here?”

They were a curious bunch. Should I say they were friendly? Maybe because they were older, but they asked a lot of questions.

Not realizing it at the time, as I went along answering their inquiries, an odd thought suddenly crossed my mind. Typically, information officers sent abroad are usually in their mid-20s to early 30s, but all the office staff seemed to be in their late 30s to mid-40s.

There were only two young people: myself and one junior information officer who seemed to be at a low rank.

I glanced around the office, looking to see if there were any employees out, but saw no vacant spots.

It was quite strange, but I initially shrugged it off, thinking they must have kept the seasoned ones in an area with staffing shortages.

But that wasn’t it.

“Hey! Why were you so slow to pick up the phone? It’s been over four hours since the local police station in Kamphale got torched by rebels! Are you not the officer in charge?”

“How many times do I have to say not to write the report like this? What? Rules? If you’re just going to be a parrot and do only what you’re told, then why are you even collecting a paycheck from the company?”

“What time is it right now? The sun is directly overhead, and you’re just waltzing into the office? Didn’t I say you should come an hour early to organize what you’re doing today? Huh? You need to summarize the situational reports to manage your morning tasks. Honestly, young people never want to face challenges on their own….”

The warm-hearted uncle was just a damn cantankerous old geezer.

The Royal Intelligence Department team leader I met at my first dispatch site was an unimaginably cantankerous manager. It was rare to see such elderly criticism even in the military.

If the top brass were simply old-timers, I might have just muttered behind their backs, but after days of working there, I realized something.

This office was just a gathering of old fossils.

Even worse,

“Hey there. I have no idea how you ended up here, but you should get out while you can….”

“Why are you suddenly saying that to me…?”

“Ah, I just… I’m planning to leave this quarter too….”

The only junior information officer remaining in the office had quietly pulled me aside to lament how he couldn’t take it anymore.

Listening to his tale, it was quite a sight.

“There used to be several seniors, and many colleagues and juniors in this office, but after the new team leader started acting all bossy, everyone transferred out.”

“So, the staff wasn’t low at first?”

“Of course not. We were covering a large area…. I was stuck here because I had nowhere else to go, but now it’s getting too tough so I want to go somewhere else. Thanks to a senior who’s an alumnus, we got an open position.”

By the way, this team leader was known in the company as a personality wreck with two failed marriages (his reputation was in the dumps). The other people weren’t much different either.

With this kind of jerk, it’s no wonder he’s been divorced twice.

“Huh….”

Who in the world hired such terrible hybrids? Destroying an entire office with their boomer behavior!? I was beginning to suspect sabotage specialists sent from the Protection Agency.

Still, being an outsider meant the geezers couldn’t mistreat me freely, which was a blessing.

The junior information officer, who had been getting worn down day by day, soon transferred to another department, and I too received a call from the Royal Intelligence Department’s HR officer, moving me to a new dispatch site.

“Welcome. Is this all your luggage?”

“Yes.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m the operation leader, Casey.”

The second dispatch site was a coastal city in eastern Mauritania.

Although it was called a dispatch site, there wasn’t a fixed position, and I moved to different regions as needed.

In other words, it meant I was running around like crazy.

“Abu Halim. He’s the leader who commands about 5,000 members of UNLA (Ushah National Liberation Army).”

“Currently wanted by 28 countries for trafficking illegal magical tools categorized as the 6th illegal magical tool decided by the World Alliance, the Magic Tower, and Ivory Tower, and was identified as a holder of synthetic drugs and illegal weapons detected during searches across the Kuraka Strait in November, making him publicly wanted in four countries of the Mauritania continent.”

“Based on the interrogation report from the UNLA contact in your branch and information provided by the Ratwan Information Authority, it was confirmed that Abu Halim’s brother, Muhammad bin Abdul Hakhan Al-Badi, knows his whereabouts.”

“However, we still don’t have information on Muhammad bin Abdul Hakhan Al-Badi’s location.”

“So, you’re saying we should raid either UNLA or UCLA or whatever to drag him back?”

“More accurately, it’s to eliminate him. Not to abduct him. The relationship between him and Muhammad is terrible, so even if we abduct him and conduct a thorough interrogation, it’s predicted by headquarters analysts that we won’t extract meaningful information. They’re in a tenuous state of estrangement.”

“But you want him dead?”

“He’s estranged from his brother but hasn’t severed ties with his parents. He’ll need to attend the funeral since they’ll call him.”

Here, too, the team leader wasn’t exactly normal.

Seeing as he was in charge of quasi-military operations, he must be a quasi-military operative similar to Matt. Nonchalantly suggesting to lure a target across the border and kill someone was nothing short of art.

“Hey Matt? Can I talk?”

-‘Oh, go ahead. What’s up?’

“Uh, do you happen to know an employee named Casey at your company? The one in charge of Mauritania?”

-‘Casey? Ah- she’s quite famous. Known for her fiery personality. I heard from the juniors that she’s already been promoted to operational team leader. Sounds like a real piece of work.’

“…Damn.”

I thought I might enjoy a bit of sweetness after leaving the boomer office, but now I was getting a workaholic? This is maddening.

I had an inkling she would be a few years older than Ayla since she was already a team leader. Like Matt said, this Casey was a real piece of work.

“Team Leader! The raccoon has passed checkout line 3 at the market.”

“After 2 hours of rest, move to checkout line 9 and give instructions.”

“Excuse me, but Team Leader? The kids haven’t slept properly for two days. Isn’t 2 hours too little? You know it’s tough moving along the river.”

“Got it. Then let’s make it 4 hours. We’ll rotate them for rest, but no more than that.”

After crossing the desert for two days and infiltrating, the team members only got 4 hours of rest, and that too in shifts.

“Team Leader Casey?”

“Yes.”

“Are you not sleeping? Now that we’ve crossed the border, you could afford to take a nap.”

“I’m fine. Reporting comes first.”

Out in the field on a mission, instead of sleeping, sitting curled up in a corner of a vehicle with a tarp over her, she was busy writing reports on her device.

In the office, when everyone else was off work, she’d stay behind doing something. Once, as I was about to finish up and pack to leave, I felt her watching me so I just sat back at my desk, twiddling my thumbs for a while.

I once asked the colleagues near me if the team leader often stayed late, and their response was.

“Our team leader? It’s not often. This is how she normally is.”

Wasn’t she truly a workaholic?

“How can anyone live like that? Seriously….”

“She drinks about ten cups of coffee a day. Do you think she’d ever sleep?”

“I heard she’s going to be transferred to the graduate school soon. Not domestically, but probably overseas?”

“She’ll have more than enough.”

From what I heard from the office staff, she seemed to be a decent person. The only issues were her tight schedule and the rigorous treatment towards her subordinates.

To me, that was definitely the case.

Her work was impeccably neat and efficient, and she performed way better than her peers. With no flaws in assessments, skills, or experience, it seemed like she’d rise to a high position in no time.

The problem was,

“Let’s eat. Today we’ll all eat in front of here.”

This team leader’s taste in food could aptly be described as ‘devastatingly bad.’

The team leader thought it was crucial for everyone in the office to have meals together, regardless of whether they were in or out of the office.

However, the one with the power to choose the menu was the team leader, and she was an individual whose taste buds had been utterly shattered, claiming that even African mud cookies tasted good.

Ultimately,

This lady routinely brought back ‘Mauritania local-style’ food that was absolutely dreadful in taste, nutrition, and hygiene.

*Bang! Bang!*

The scene of cooking the ‘grilled cow innards’ that the team leader had recently discovered as exceptionally delicious left the office staff in shock.

The grill, covered in grease and muck, had turned a dark, sticky color. The innards sizzling on top mixed with a liquid that was either mold or oil had reached unforgivable levels. I wasn’t exaggerating; it was a fact. Right now, the wooden board and the food were on that same grill.

“…Um.”

“…Mmm.”

“…Oh mom.”

The innards, charred to a crisp on a fire reminiscent of hellfire, were picked up barehanded by the vendor. The innards were then transferred to a chopping board (the cleanliness of which was questionable; a health inspector would likely be horrified), chopped with a knife (who knew when it was last washed).

And the pink plastic container with a strong African vibe, full of grease, had the ‘kachumbari’ made of onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, and chili slathered on it!

“…….”

Suddenly, nausea surged from the depths of my stomach. The queasiness clawed its way up my esophagus, beating against my uvula like it was trying to punch a punching bag displayed in front of the game arcade.

I recalled having eaten something similar once, which landed me in the ER.

Should I consider whether I should avoid this for the sake of my health, or should I force myself to eat? Just as I was cautiously pondering that, the Team Leader who dragged everyone into this hellish pit suddenly began babbling nonsense.

“The goat roast is also really tasty, aside from the intestines. It’s skewered, you should try it.”

Since that day, I never shared a meal with the Team Leader or any office staff again.

While I was sitting in a motel, stuffing myself with cheap instant ramen, my phone buzzed with a call from my housemate.

“Why are you calling, you moron?”

—‘Oh, what now, oppa?’

“Who’s your oppa? I have no younger siblings like you. Where are you?”

—‘Lushan Federation.’

Right after I took over the field duties as a substitute, Ayla was missing from the Mauritania Continent. She had been with headquarters for a while, but recently got sent to Lushan Federation.

I wasn’t quite sure if it was a mission, but given that she was tracking drug and arms deals and chasing terrorist organizations, it sounded like she was now a part of some international organized crime or anti-terrorism work.

What’s funny is that Ayla, who just joined the Information Agency, now worked in a much better environment than I did.

“Isn’t Lushan a well-off area? They have oil and gems there, right?”

—‘Yeah. It’s crazy nice here. The accommodations are comfy too.’

Ayla sent me pictures of the place she was staying and local houses. They were filled with pictures of palaces typically inhabited by the rich oil tycoons you think of when you hear ‘Arab.’ Wow. Are leopards and tigers roaming that mansion?

—‘I’m having dinner right now, invited by the company folks. What about you? Have you eaten?’

“…I’m in the middle of eating. I have to go back soon, so I’ll hang up.”

Looking at the luxurious mansion in the pictures and the grand feast compared to my dilapidated motel room that looked like a bombed refugee camp and my exploded ramen, I sighed.

The first place I worked was with grumpy seniors. The second was a workaholic’s office that had crushed my taste buds. Getting hit twice felt like hitting the ‘hell’ jackpot, and I started to lose hope. I began to desperately wish for a return.

Please let the next assignment be a good one. I prayed and prayed.

And then—

“Hello?”

—‘Is this Mr. Frederick?’

“Yes, that’s me.”

The phone call came in saying that I’d be assigned to an area that required crossing the border roughly three times.

At that moment, I finally reached a state of enlightenment.

*

“Is the Attaché here?”

“Yes.”

“Could you help me with this?”

“What is it?”

“It’ll just take a minute. Really, just a minute….”

A civil servant peeked over the partition, placing a binder down with a thud.

“This is a report from the Petrogard branch.”

The civil servant laid the information document on my desk and explained each point, summarizing that it was related to the Kien Empire’s military.

“Since it’s military-related, I think you should handle it, Attaché.”

As the civil servant pushed for help instead of assistance, I was left blinking in confusion before finally speaking up.

“This?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know about this kind of stuff.”

“…Huh?”

The civil servant looked puzzled. I blinked rapidly in response.

“Well, I am technically military, but I have limited field experience. I only spent one or two years as a Squad Leader, so I don’t really know…”

“Still, it doesn’t make sense that you can’t analyze this since you’re military.”

The civil servant dismissed my excuse as unreasonable, but I retorted with an innocent voice.

“No, but the materials you brought are about artillery, right? I’m from intelligence and even had a branch transfer. How am I supposed to analyze foreign artillery?”

Though I was talking nonsense, nonsense cloaked in the right wrapping had a bizarre persuasive power, evidenced by numerous con artists living off it.

“You were originally a diplomat, right?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“When you first started working as a diplomat, did you know how other diplomats in different embassies operated?”

“Not my field, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Then why do you think I would know?”

“…Oh, really?”

If someone tossed a picture at me, I could figure out if it was a Soviet or Chinese artillery piece and trace the smuggling routes for ammunition down to sellers and buyers, but that intelligence officer was gone.

Now, I was just a regular office worker clocking in at 9 and out at 6.

I wasn’t looking for work, and even when ordered to, I would come up with all sorts of excuses to sneak off and shop in the office while waiting for payday.

That wonderful shining job security nickname was an epitome of monotony.

“Anyway, that’s not my concern, so please inquire elsewhere. The embassy’s attaché department might take care of it.”

Finally, I was reborn as a proper civil servant (not really).

*

As one civil servant reached Nirvana and began their official salary thievery, everyone was in an uproar.

On-time arrivals and clocked-out departures were expected, but—

“Was there any trouble last night?”

“The branch and field teams experienced no issues. However, the Attaché…”

“Why?”

“Lately, the Attaché has been shopping downtown after work.”

“A grown adult can’t shop a little? You guys should go out too. There’s nothing to see around here, it’s barely a town. What’s your problem?”

“That’s not it, Chief. The problem isn’t that the Attaché is out shopping, it’s that… well, apparently, they’ve been having goods delivered to the hotel where they’re staying.”

“What’s wrong with delivery? If it’s for security reasons, I’ll just change hotels. Surely I can handle it.”

“It’s been two weeks straight at the same hotel.”

“Tell the Attaché to come in right now.”

Not only was the Attaché having food and goods delivered, but—

“Attaché! I need to find something on the terminal, could you please unlock it?”

“Is it mine?”

“Yes!”

“Just look beside the drawer; the password is written there.”

“…What’s written where?”

“Just type in 12344321. That’s the password.”

This was the kind of shockingly lax security sense that could rival any historic passwords of public institutions!

“Attaché? About the materials I mentioned yesterday.”

“What materials?”

“The pictures for the analysis team. Apparently, they have them at the Ministry of Defense.”

“Oh? I forgot about that.”

“What?”

“Oh dear. I’m really sorry about that. I’ll get it to you right away.”

Every time someone asked me for something, I’d casually forget while chatting away.

I even went to the area that the Royal Intelligence Department and the Military Intelligence Agency insisted I stay away from (imagine Korea Town) and stuffed myself full of food.

“Oh, I’m stuffed.”

“……”

“The food there was great. The pie was simply divine.”

With all the praise ringing in my ears, my anticipations grew, yet the disaster was unmatched.

Employees in the Royal Intelligence Department seriously suspected whether the Ministry of Defense mistakenly sent someone else, but from the perspective of the Military Intelligence Agency, it was utterly unfair.

Why suddenly was there chaos when they’d just sent an officer of high rank?

The distraught staff in the Military Intelligence Agency clicked their tongues, saying those Royal Intelligence Department folks were stuffed to the brim. Of course, the Royal Intelligence Department staff felt equally wronged.

“Why don’t you come over and see? Is this an intelligence officer or a tax thief?!”

Yet, right now, the most unfortunate person wasn’t the Military Intelligence Agency or the Royal Intelligence Department; it was Frederick himself.

“…Why am I not getting fired?”

For the first time in his public service life, the spy, enjoying the sweet life of 9 to 6, muttered to himself.

“It’s about time I should be sent back.”

When Frederick was first deployed to the Mauritania Continent, he chose to adapt. He thought he could just do his job quietly and eventually return; surely he wouldn’t be stuck here for months.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that was a huge misconception.

The more he worked hard, the longer his escape became apparent. Thus, Frederick resolved to fully embrace mediocrity.

Yet, for some reason, rather than being sent back, no disciplinary action had come his way?

“This is strange… I thought I was just lying around with the mind of ‘If you don’t like it, then tough luck.’”

Frederick frowned seriously. He never predicted a situation like this; what on earth was going on?

While he might have wished to be fired, from the perspective of the local office, the Attaché wasn’t just ‘External Employee A.’

How could they casually get rid of the parachute Leonie had personally placed? Moreover, Leonie wasn’t retired; she was an active duty officer with a high rank!

In other words, from the local employees’ perspective, Frederick’s behavior looked more like, “Can I get disciplined already?” rather than “Aren’t you going to discipline me? Wow, this is tough, isn’t it? LOL”

And he hadn’t made a grand mess like Ayla had! It wasn’t like that. His seasoned experience from all those years ensured he was rubbing their nerves just enough to avoid major penalties.

He truly felt like giving someone a good whack but simply couldn’t kill them.

He desperately wished someone would take him away.

“Should I just slip a USB in my drawer for tomorrow?”

Civil servants at the Mauritania Continental office were diligently praying to the heavens again today.

And—

Whether the civil servants’ prayers reached the heavens or not, I honestly didn’t know.

But finally, a ray of light to rescue the beings floundering in the mire had appeared.

*

Another day of the monotonous routine of clocking in on time and clocking out on the dot.

First, I headed to my usual joint for takeout, then went for a leisurely stroll around the park. As the sun began to set, I charged into a bar for a quick drink, then browsed the department store for clothes and accessories, sending any that caught my eye back to the hotel.

After mulling over dinner options, I’d settled on a decent-looking restaurant. I slipped extra cash to the owner, who claimed he couldn’t deliver, instantly making his son a delivery driver, and arranged for my food to be delivered ahead to my hotel room.

Casually walking back as usual, I found—

“What’s this?”

“…Ugh, um, how’ve you been?”

Someone had already entered the brightly lit room.

Fortunately, it was someone I knew.

“…Camila.”

“Yep!”

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you—”

I scratched my forehead and looked at Camila with a dumbfound expression.

“Why are you eating the food I ordered?”

Camila, having barged into my hotel room and cuddled my pizza box, looked at me with a tilted head while munching on cheese.

“I paid for it?”

“What are you talking about? That was food I pre-paid for. Do you think this is New York? Where a college student in sweatpants delivers pizzas and collects money?”

“…Oh? Then what was the money I just gave…?”

“What do you mean, what for?”

You got scammed.

“Get out quickly. I have to catch that scammer.”

 

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