A Dark Fantasy Spy

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Like the expression that a myriad of thoughts come to mind, it is said that humans think about 60,000 things in a single day.

It would be impossible to precisely count the ideas that come to mind daily, from what we see and hear to what we feel and think. However, it is undeniable that a vast majority of these thoughts are negative worries, concerns, and anxieties that no one would openly admit.

Zigmund was no exception.

Up until the moment he placed his hand on the doorknob, a multitude of thoughts clearly consumed his mind.

An opened can of beer, sharp as if it were the last lifeline hidden from a wife who despises her drunken husband. Zigmund discreetly concealed the can of beer behind his back.

As is common with all wives’ complaints, the jagged edge was alarmingly sharp, ready to slice one’s throat or mash one’s face at any moment.

Inside the inner pocket of the trench coat hung on the coat rack.

Much like his second wife, the folding knife, who had shared her life with a seasoned information officer.

What is there to hide?

To be honest, yes. The moment the door opened, he thought he would be abducted.

Zigmund was a worker who dedicated decades of his life to his job, a civil servant who traveled abroad, leaving his family behind.

If he were to say he had realized one truth during this time, it would be that “it’s better to discard optimistic views as early as possible.”

Even when calling the names of his daughters, the clutter in his head resembled tangled seaweed ensnaring his feet.

Who rang the doorbell? The Royal Intelligence Department? Or the Imperial Guard HQ? How did they know his room number?

In that fleeting moment that his hand reached for the doorknob, Zigmund repeated a cycle of constant anxious deliberation. It could be that Helen returned safely with their two daughters, but such hopeful optimism had long been buried here decades ago.

-Creeeak…

The quiet of the hallway slipped through the half-opened door.

In the cramped space, where not even a trace of a presence could be felt, Zigmund revealed himself.

He was well aware that nobody was watching, yet a tension began to swell, as if someone would burst from the opposite room and surround him.

“…….”

Zigmund cautiously looked left and right, straining to listen to the muted noises from the nearby rooms.

The silence was so acute that he could even hear the faintest of breaths. The doors remained tightly shut, showing no signs of opening.

The air was thick with stale cigarette smoke and lingering traces of air freshener. There was no sign of anything suspicious.

Had it been just paranoia? It was possible that the excessive tension misled him into hearing the doorbell from another room or floor. If he were to think optimistically.

No, he had definitely heard it. The sound of footsteps fading after the doorbell had been rung. That was why he had first opened the door and glanced left down the hallway.

He hadn’t seen a face. But the evidence left by the mysterious visitor was easily detectable.

In truth, it had required little effort to discover it.

For it lay blatantly before the room.

Zigmund brought the small envelope and phone inside.

Risky behavior, as it could have been a bomb connected to a seal and a priest’s cassock, or upon opening it, vapor from mold could blow out. But Zigmund hesitated not one bit.

If it were the Inquisition hiding a dark agenda behind a priest’s robe, that would be different. At least the Imperial Guard HQ and Royal Intelligence Department weren’t kind enough to send such things to someone they wanted dead.

Of course, if he were dealing with a traitor, that would change the narrative. However, if the Royal Intelligence Department aimed to kill him, there were far simpler and more straightforward methods than this cumbersome package.

And fundamentally, wasn’t the phone here with him too?

“…Hmm.”

He picked up the phone and began rummaging through the planner, diary, messages, and contacts. Everything was spotless. The phone was a complete blank.

He wondered if there was something in the pension records that might turn up anything, but even that had been neatly covered, likely beyond restoration even by an expert. The markings etched into its internal magic circuitry and electronic components were entirely cleared as well; it seemed impossible to trace them back to the factory it originated from.

Zigmund set aside the pristine white phone and hurried to check the contents of the envelope.

He carefully cut one corner with a knife and directed the beam of a flashlight into the darkness.

Gingerly, into the shining abyss.

“Oh, my.”

It was evidence.

Proof shared on a fateful day when a couple vowed and exchanged tokens.

A wedding ring crafted from an emerald found with great difficulty on a business trip, symbolizing the desire for their child to be born with green eyes.

The ring he had slipped onto Helen’s ring finger long ago was contained within that envelope.

With it, the three neatly wrapped fingers remained unnaturally stiff.

—

Episode 20 – Who Brandished the Knife?

—

Upon discovering his wife’s wedding ring and a severed finger in the envelope, Zigmund picked up the finger without hesitation.

The cut surface was clean. There were no signs of being sliced by a tool like a saw. The likelihood of having used a heavy and sharp instrument to sever the skin and muscle tissue, vein, and bone in one blow was high—perhaps an axe or a meat cleaver.

Zigmund tilted the finger, scrutinizing the side of the cut surface. The tip of the severed finger had curled inward just a bit.

This was a result of the elasticity of the skin tissue, indicating that the cut area could not withstand the elasticity and rolled inward.

To sum up succinctly.

A third party had severed the victim’s finger while they were still alive.

“Ha….”

The wedding ring that Helen always kept was now a clue pointing toward her. But was the owner of the finger Helen?

Zigmund gripped the severed ring finger tightly, his mind swirling with confusion. The hand clutching the severed finger swept roughly across the table.

Who could have done this?

The Royal Intelligence Department? The impeccably primmed Suit Men wouldn’t do that.

The Royal Intelligence Department was a group that acted like gentlemen on the outside while breathing in sewage. Even if they dealt with a traitor, they would likely disguise it as a neat suicide or accident. They would avoid any messy physical altercations.

Zigmund knew this all too well.

Could it be the Military Intelligence Agency? The intelligence officers from the Ministry of Defense he knew would never resort to such actions. Although the Military Intelligence Agency was as ugly as the Royal Intelligence Department, at least Colonel Clevenz Hendrik was not someone who would favor such extreme measures.

He was like a carriage leisurely cruising down a country lane, and his gentlemanly demeanor was widely recognized amongst foreign intelligence officers.

Above all, there was no way for Clevenz to interfere with a matter involving the Royal Intelligence Department.

Even if Clevenz Hendrik showed enthusiasm for investigating security breaches within the Royal Intelligence Department, the Military Intelligence Agency Chief would never allow it, duly valuing the balance between agencies.

Leoni Risha? Yes, she could do that.

The woman who had become the first female division chief since its founding was notorious in both the Military Intelligence Agency and the Royal Intelligence Department. Zigmund recalled seeing it just a year ago.

It remained vivid in his memory. Rumors spread that the elderly residing in the Magic Tower were concocting some dubious scheme, and without hesitation, she proposed the assassination of the Oracle.

Seated in the 2nd room of the State Operations Agency, Leoni coldly suggested options to eliminate the upper management of the Magic Tower without so much as a hint of discomfort on her face.

Her nonchalance was so uncanny that even the head of the State Operations Agency, her direct superior, tried to dissuade her, stating, “That plan is not something we can consider right now,” but Leoni showed no signs of disappointment. Instead, she left to have a private meeting with the Information Chief to propose a new plan.

How Leoni managed to convince the Royal Intelligence Department Chief remains a mystery to all. It’s just that the Operations Agency Chief remarked that her second plan was somewhat ‘more constructive.’ Thus, Zigmund—or rather, the senior intelligence officers of the Royal Intelligence Department—expected that her new plan was ‘less aggressive and significantly more peaceful.’

But when the operation commenced, news of the explosion that easily dispatches over twenty Magic Tower intelligence agents shocked everyone. Zigmund was among those who received a telegram about it from his usual tavern.

It was a violent incident where a war could easily break out. Yet, the planner of the operation, Leoni Risha, appeared at the meeting with a nonchalant demeanor.

Despite the briefing that those eliminated from the Magic Tower had turned to meat chunks due to the explosion, the 2nd room chief did not bat an eye.

Instead, he chided the division chief for the poor handling of the situation, asking why the surviving targets from the explosion were still on respirators at the hospital and whether it wasn’t his responsibility to resolve the matter before they were escorted to the secured ward.

No one understood how the cabinet had pursued such a violent operation.

Only that Leoni had unearthed a collaborator from the Executive Board of the Magic Tower and handed them over to an intelligence officer sent to the scene was information even Zigmund had heard.

There was an attempt to figure out exactly who the collaborator from the Executive Board was and which department’s intelligence officer was operating under them. Specifically, that was the doing of Zigmund.

Although not officially requested by the Imperial Guard HQ, if Leoni Risha had indeed handed over such an asset, it would certainly have to be one of the senior officials within the Royal Intelligence Department. Thus, it piqued his personal interest.

With the authority of the Chief of Intelligence, Zigmund could resolve his curiosity within days—at most, it would take a few weeks. As the Chief of Intelligence, he had access to mountains of information, and because of that, the Imperial Guard HQ placed unfathomable trust in him.

Yet, despite thorough investigations, he could not find the rumored protagonist within the Royal Intelligence Department.

Months passed without having any leads.

What reignited the interest that seemed to dwindle was a single telegram and a visitor.

To be more precise….

“Finger.”

The deeply bowed head shot up. It was right after a forgotten memory surfaced in Zigmund’s mind.

“Yes, the finger. It was the finger.”

One day, as they were swept away in swiftly changing currents, Leoni of the Royal Intelligence Department’s State Operations Agency had come to visit the Chief of Intelligence’s office.

“Zigmund, I have a request.”

“What kind of request do you have? You’re busy with the Magic Tower project, so what brings you to the Chief of Intelligence…?”

“I came because of the Magic Tower. One we’re working with is tied up in a troublesome matter. Because of the Empire.”

“It must be the Imperial Guard HQ or Reconnaissance Command? Or perhaps the Counterintelligence Agency? It could even be the Imperial Police.”

“I’d say it’s likely the military side—documents were uploaded to the company’s network, so you should check them out.”

The documents passed from the State Operations Agency were delivered to Zigmund’s desk.

The same day, identical documents were delivered through another channel.

“Reconnaissance Command operation unit of five went missing. Presumed deceased. Request for data. Royal Intelligence’s Chief Intelligence personnel in the Magic Tower. Urgent.”

The note from the contact person who connected the Imperial Guard HQ with Zigmund.

Recognizing the orders had come from the Imperial Guard HQ via the yellow pushpin stuck to the fifth tree on Gebi Road, Zigmund hinted in the nearby shopping district’s ground-level parking that the letters left by the contact person implied that someone had taken the Executive Board of the Magic Tower and that an intelligence officer attacking the Oracle could be behind the deaths of the Reconnaissance Command’s operation group.

If the 2nd room chief had direct links with a trusted person and that person was engaged in issues with enemy intelligence officers, there was a chance the chief would personally take care of it.

Of course, it would be inevitable, given the prominence of the intelligence officer.

Zigmund mobilized his powers as the Chief of Intelligence, yet he never found the intelligence officer linked to Leoni Risha within the Royal Intelligence Department.

And so he began tracking down the traces of the intelligence officer over several months.

Even during meals with Helen, dropping off his daughters at school, or in a soundproofed meeting room, or lying in bed staring at the ceiling, all his thoughts were consumed by that.

The exploration that started as a curiosity was investigated through notes and gradually progressed to collection as the issue of the Magic Tower slowly calmed down.

The Imperial Guard HQ no longer sought to find the missing intelligence officer.

Whether it was because they no longer had to consider the military’s situation, or perhaps due to the Lord’s visit to the Empire keeping them busy, he couldn’t say. Regardless, the focus of the Imperial Guard HQ had shifted elsewhere, along with the tasks assigned to the “Domoboy.”

Zigmund was different. His mind was solely fixated upon the unresolved puzzle.

So, several months later.

Like every other day, he found evidence of contacts left by the Imperial Guard HQ’s messenger at the subway storage, and there, as if fate would have it, he caught a new hint.

“Colonel Frederick Nostrim. Military Attaché at the Kingdom of Abas Embassy in Petrogard. Currently meeting with three traitors. Suspected of exile attempt. Request for data concerning internal personnel records of Military Intelligence Agency’s agents assigned in the homeland. Urgent.”

An intelligence officer he had been unable to find by the authority of the Chief of Intelligence. An intelligence officer he had not discovered within the Royal Intelligence Department.

If it was from the Ministry of Defense, it would explain everything he had been unable to find up to now. It would elucidate why Leoni Risha handed her assets over to an employee of another agency and why she personally attempted to resolve the issue concerning an intelligence officer.

If the protagonist of the rumors was among the military intelligence officers active at the Magic Tower at that time.

All his questions would be answered.

A year ago, Zigmund stumbled upon documents he had long forgotten in the special records and archives. That year, documents regarding the Reconnaissance Command operation group assumed to have been killed by military intelligence officers emerged.

The record-keeper carefully documented how extensively the scene commander had left evidence concerning the enemy agents they killed.

Live teeth still tethered to nerve and gum tissues, fingerprints extracted from all ten fingers, hair strands that hadn’t detached from the root, and photographs of ears that couldn’t be altered even through surgery or magic, and much more.

And today, Zigmund finally recalled the memory he had long let slip.

The intelligence officer, who had collided with the Reconnaissance Command operation group at the scene, kindly sent evidence over to the Royal Intelligence Department.

Teeth that looked as if they had been cut, clumps of hair plucked from their roots, dozens of photographic films.

A finger preserved in preventative treatment for fingerprint preservation.

“…Yes. It was the finger.”

As Zigmund absentmindedly toyed with the ring on the table.

-Ding ding ding!

The phone rang, jolting him from his reverie.

—

When the bell began to ring, Zigmund instead of promptly reaching for the phone, checked the time first.

About 15 minutes had passed since the unexpected guest rang the doorbell and disappeared; ample time for a suspicious person to examine the envelope’s contents, yet woefully insufficient to plan post-action strategies.

Gripping the phone, Zigmund took a deep breath repeatedly. Inhale deeply, then exhale deeply.

“Hello?”

With all his nerves tuned solely to his hearing, he pressed the call button and focused intently on the voice coming from the phone.

– ‘Domoboy?’

Kien.

The reply that came through the line was undoubtedly in Kienan.

He had asked a question in Abasian, and the responder replied in Kienan—using Zigmund’s code name.

That couldn’t be a tease, could it? Perhaps it was mockery. If intimidation were the goal, merely having found the correct room number, ringing the bell, and leaving the ring and finger inside would have sufficed. Or it might be an attempt to destabilize him one last time by reciting a code name.

“Is this from headquarters?”

Zigmund bravely responded in Abasian, asking if it was from the Royal Intelligence Department.

The voice on the other end answered.

This time, it was in Abasian.

– ‘You’re no longer working for that organization, right?’

“Of course, that’s the case.”

Narrowing his slanted eyes, he honed in on the voice of the Royal Intelligence Department officer.

It was not a man. Without a doubt, the high-pitched, frail voice belonged to a woman. He was certain it was a pure vocal recording with no alterations.

Psychological warfare department? Most likely. Given that they were calling, it must be personnel dispatched from that side. Intelligence officers responsible for negotiations, interrogations, and operations, tasked with analyzing the psychological states of expressions.

There was no way to discern exactly which department she worked in, but Zigmund considered her to be a quite eloquent intelligence officer.

– ‘Don’t worry, Zigmund. Your wife and children are safe. Henya told me to send her regards to Daddy.’

“Is that certain? That my family is safe.”

– ‘The daughters are feeling a bit ill due to overeating ice cream. Other than that, they have no external or internal injuries.’

Neither too slow nor too fast.

A moderate pace. A leisurely voice smoothly flowing, almost like a warm-hearted counselor easing the listener’s tension while refraining from giving up control.

Indeed, this was unmistakably the voice of a trained person. The audio keepers from the Royal Intelligence Department’s Sociology Survey Bureau, which bore the ridiculous title of ‘Cultural Center.’ The psychological warfare operatives from that place often babbled with such voices over the phone.

It was a voice Zigmund heard countless times from the audio recordings of the Sociology Survey Bureau that he had exported for his Chief of Intelligence duties. The woman contacting Zigmund sounded like a figure emerging from that kind of department.

Zigmund spoke clearly.

“Shouldn’t I at least be allowed to have a conversation? I want to hear my family’s voices.”

The sound of shoes passing over the rug, and the voice on the other side of the phone began to satisfy his curiosity.

– ‘If you wish, we can connect the call right away. However, it will be difficult to do so because they must be in a stable condition.’

“Cutting off a finger and talking about stability doesn’t seem right. Are you giving me some medicine along with the pain?”

– ‘As I mentioned earlier, your wife is unharmed and safe. If you examine the fingers, you will see that the severed finger is that of a man, not a woman.’

Indeed, the finger was not Helen’s. In fact, Zigmund himself had been skeptical right after confirming its contents. Yet, as he had meticulously observed the finger on his palm while answering the call, there was a peculiar sense of familiarity; however, it was not his wife’s finger.

This, he noted, as he continued looking closely at the finger placed on his palm.

Therefore, Zigmund checked once more for confirmation.

“Is William safe? My contact person.”

– ‘He’s still alive.’

William. The contact designated by the Imperial Guard HQ, William. The former Foreign Affairs official who had played chess while smoking cigarettes at the café daily. The finger with a tiny scar from oil splatter resembled the ones he had seen countless times when William moved chess pieces or shuffled a card deck.

Should he feel relieved? Or should he feel unfortunate?

At least if he was alive, they would meet again someday.

After confirming the life or death of his contact, Zigmund demanded to speak with his family. Despite being creatures of deceit, there seemed to be no reason for either side to lie in a situation like this.

The deal was about taking something the other side had without having it themselves, and what the Royal Intelligence Department sought was to prevent leaks of confidential information. If they were to harm the family members held as hostages, the opposing side knew well that Zigmund could strike back any time.

– ‘If everything is fine, we can speak in just a moment.’

“Then what about seeing their faces? When will I be allowed to meet them?”

– ‘Currently, that is not possible. There are a few requests you need to fulfill for us to help you.’

“Naturally.”

Zigmund muttered, as if anticipating this. He shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the closet, chuckling dryly.

“Since you’ve taken my family as hostages, I expect you have requests. Oh yes, of course.”

They weren’t hostages. Such syrupy words wouldn’t come back.

There wouldn’t be any words bragging about protecting citizens within enemy territory or revealing thoughts about not disturbing unrelated kin. Zigmund knew this, and the Royal Intelligence Department knew this too.

There was no way they couldn’t. Especially not Zigmund, who had once been in a position to offer someone comfort. Even when reassuring, “Everything will be fine,” he’d known deep down that it was a lie.

Stories shared with the generals who leaked information on citizens’ aspirations toward a republic, or bureaucrats revealing their disillusionment with the secret police during royal rule—they all painted pictures of rosy futures about starting life afresh as exiles, or remaining in the republic as repentants for a second chance.

Yet, all those futures ultimately became fantastical illusions.

And those who understood everything well always regarded the crux of the matter as paramount, skipping past any pretexts.

“State your demands.”

Zigmund inquired about their requests while the woman provided straightforward responses.

They were people who likely understood each other well since they were about to waste no time with anything but the essentials.

– ‘There will be a spa on the 25th floor of the annex. Please make a reservation.’

“What time, course, and location?”

– ’21:30. Book for 90 minutes and enter room 3.’

“What’s the safety signal?”

– ‘A brown slipper indicates a safe situation. A green slipper indicates danger.’

“What will I have to do there?”

– ‘You will understand once you arrive.’

The woman answered.

– ‘We hope you arrive safely and on time.’