A Surprise Visit

Flint Shadowmoor woke up at four in the morning and quickly ate some leftover bread before working continuously for eight hours. As he sorted and annotated the pile of intelligence materials in front of him, he felt more like a hired worker for a goblin trading syndicate than a special agent of MI7's strategic division. His assistant brought him a cup of coffee, and Flint took a sip before placing it on the table, only to quickly pick it up again. It was too late; there was water at the bottom of the coffee cup, and it had stained the lower-left corner of a document. He cursed and vowed never to write a recommendation letter for that assistant.

Since the fall of Andorhal, his workload had increased even more compared to before. During the siege, his primary responsibilities included assisting in strategic planning, coordinating and participating in small-scale raids and assassinations, and gathering intelligence on the Scourge. These were tasks that suited his personality better, and in fact, he had joined the strategic division in the first place to be able to fight on the front lines. However, now that the Alliance and Horde each occupied a third of Andorhal, with another third filled with adventurers, refugees, and pockets of unchecked Scourge presence, not to mention the involvement of organizations such as the Argent Dawn and Cenarion Circle, every interaction and analysis between these factions needed close attention. The avalanche of information was overwhelming him.

Flint massaged his temples, feeling the dense text before him start to blur. Great, a twenty-nine-year-old MI7 strategic agent wearing glasses—what he least wanted was to be forced to return to headquarters and become a full-time clerk. To rid his mind of this dreadful thought, he decided to go out in the afternoon and handle some hands-on work that required physical activity.

But before that, there was one thing he needed to prepare.

He opened a drawer and took out a small package wrapped in a black handkerchief from the inside, gripping it tightly and weighing it in his hand. Just as his assistant entered, he hurriedly stuffed it into the pocket of his leather armor.

"Lord Flint, there are two gentlemen from the headquarters' security department here to see you..."

At first, Flint thought that headquarters had finally decided to send him some competent colleagues, but the second half of his assistant's sentence dashed his hopes:

"...from the security department."

"The security department? Security personnel should be hiding in bars, catching drunkards. What are they doing at the front lines? I won't see them... No, wait, come back! Just find them a place to stay for now and tell them I'll see them once I finish what's on my hands."

"But... they have 'Silver Badges.' Both of them."

Flint wanted to say something, but swallowed his words. It was known that there were only four people in all of MI7 who possessed the Silver Badges representing direct agents under Shawl's command. However, the specifics had never been made public. He had intended to go out and greet them, but the frustration of dealing with paperwork all morning made him decide to maintain a bit of dignity as a member of the strategic division.

"Bring them in."

Half a minute later, the two direct agents entered the office. Seeing that they were around the same age as himself, Flint firmly remained seated and looked at them with an appraising gaze.

"I am Flint Shadowmoor, a senior agent in charge of intelligence operations in Andorhal. And you two are...?"

The person with brown hair spoke, "I am Jorgen, and this is Elin Tias. We are direct agents under Shawl from Stormwind."

The two of them displayed their Silver Badges. It was the first time Flint had seen them in person, and they were much simpler in design than he had imagined. Although they had a dazzling silver appearance, as a field agent who had seen all kinds of weaponry, he couldn't discern the material it was made of. How much of an age gap was there between these two and himself? Three years? Five years? The one with black hair might even be younger than him. While feeling an inexplicable annoyance, he also began to imagine how it would feel to possess a Silver Badge.

"Now that you know our identities," Elin interrupted him, "let me remind you, as a direct agent, to pay attention to the courtesy between colleagues. Lift your behind from that silly high chair."

Flint had no choice but to stand up. The two individuals before him—one intensely observing his every move, as if scrutinizing a criminal, while the one who had reprimanded him seemed more focused on the objects in the room, frequently glancing around—made him feel quite uncomfortable.

"Apologies for the rudeness," Flint said. "It's my first encounter with direct agents, so I couldn't fathom the purpose of the two of you coming from comfortable Stormwind to this chaotic frontline. Whatever it is, please just say it."

His shallow sarcasm had no effect.

"It seems like you work diligently, Flint," Jorgen said. "But your working methods are not intelligent. Look at the state of your desk. Efficiency won't be high like this."

Great, you two came all the way here just to nitpick at me. This is the reward for working a hundred hours this week. Flint said, "Both of you are direct agents, the most qualified to give instructions, but to be honest, there is no written regulation that states I must accept all the opinions of direct agents. However, there is one clear regulation, and that is the strategic division and the security division do not interfere with each other. This is the frontline, and the working environment is different from the security division, so the methods of operation are also different. You should understand this."

"You're good at defending yourself, Flint. But you've got one thing wrong," Jorgen paused and continued. "The meaning of being a direct agent is that we act as agents for Lord Shawl. Do you understand?"

Flint could sense that the man's tone was calm but carried an irrefutable power. As a member of MI7, no matter how dissatisfied he was with the work, there was one bottom line: When it came to Panthonia Shawl, respect had to be maintained. Due to this, even if he was highly disgruntled, he could only reply, "Understood."

"Very well. You can rest assured that we're not here specifically to pick a fight with you, but rather, like you, to work. You were right about one thing: the strategic division and the security division do not interfere with each other. Coming here, we are actually exercising the internal functions of the security division."

"But this is the frontline..."

"In the decisive battle against Arlaki Summoner Arlaki, our forces captured, or rather, rescued, an important member of the Bloodscar Crusader. We have differences in how to handle this matter. Elin and I are here to resolve this disagreement."

Those words left Flint feeling drained. He would rather the two direct agents had come just to pick a fight.