Konrad had to realize how unprepared he was at the Kyiv International Airport.
It stung more than getting electrocuted.
Finding a stranger in the war zone was already hard, but that he couldn't even start?!
You see, he still had his smartphone from Tokyo and thought he'd search the internet for any info on the go. But his battery died, and the Japanese charger would not fit the local outlets.
Because why would anything work as he thought it would?!
No, of course, he wasn't about to give up yet.
Since the airport had free wifi, all he needed was to figure out how to get his phone to turn on.
Thus, he did what any sensible sorcerer would not, and tried to charge it with lightning bolts.
Tiny ones. He didn't want to fry the thing, after all.
But this must have been the dumbest way to waste his precious essence during his entire life.
He electrocuted himself at least a dozen times and burned through fifty mana to get to half charge. Like, yeah, his gamble worked, but he swore to anything holy never to do it again. Ever.
He needed to buy a new charger, get some mobile internet going, and who knew what else.
The few yen he still had in his pocket were useless. He had no idea what the people here used to pay with, but it had to be something else. So he was already about to waste even more mana.
A lot more, too, straight from his reserves.
Because the first thing he looked up was the nearest pawnshop.
Why didn't he think of this ahead of time and bring some gold or jewelry along?
Halaima wasn't that poor anymore, and they had plenty in the treasure now.
But that would have been too easy.
Instead, he had to sell one of his mana crystals right away, feeling like an idiot.
Ugh. At least the broker identified the Griphlet core as a pure, ten-carat zircon. He offered a hundred thousand hryvnia for his purple gem while Konrad looked up what that even was.
Almost two thousand five hundred dollars.
Well, that seemed like a correct offer.
Enough for the essentials, too. But if he learned one thing from the peddlers of Kasserlane—
He had to haggle. Hard.
So, by the afternoon, he had a charger and internet, sipping coffee in a quiet shop. Yeah, it only took him about half a day to even reach the starting line and take in his surroundings.
Pathetic.
But the Ukrainian capital was not as deserted or wartorn as he had expected.
Sure, there were sandbags and shelter signs everywhere, but life never stopped.
He'd spend two more hours getting his bearings, looking up ways to find a missing person—
And already hit at least a dozen brick walls.
Like, Strelok wasn't missing to start with. And even if he were, he didn't even know his full name. He needed a date of birth, an ID number, and much more to even search for him.
Heck, he had no idea what that guy looked like in the first place.
The Red Cross, the Unified Register, and every official method needed accurate data.
And worst of all, an actual, valid reason for his query.
Like, even if he knew everything about Lucifer's puppet, why would they give him the info?
He wasn't family, had any right, authority, or reason to look for him—
Unless he pretended he did.
His illusions came in handy now. They were much less wasteful than trying to charge his stupid phone with magic, too. Ugh, he was so pissed at himself for even trying.
His fingers still buzzed from earlier.
But anyway. He needed a plan.
And since he didn't know much about Strelok, he couldn't pretend to be a close relative.
Konrad knew better than playing a cop or anything like that, too.
But a journalist chasing a good story? That could have worked.
He looked up every notable Japanese news agency and picked NHK to dig deep into them.
Finding a few discarded business cards and transforming them with magic was trivial.
The real challenge was to orient himself.
This guy got on the plane when he heard about the invasion. Where would he go and why?
Volunteer to fight? How did one do that?
The answer was the International Legion of Ukraine. And their local base wasn't even that far.
They operated from a hotel in Kyiv, and their doors were open for visitors for obvious reasons.
Konrad decided to walk there, putting together a meticulous fake backstory on the go.
He wanted to get all the details and IDs right.
If they had caught him right away, his job would have been much more difficult later.
But by the time he reached the reinforced building, he got everything down to a T.
The early darkness helped, too. He'd only have to get his acting skills together, and—
"Um, hey, yeah, I was the one calling," he said in English to the uniformed receptionist. "Konrad Halstadt from the NHK. My boss sent me from Japan to track down a story, and I hoped—"
"An interview?" a random officer walking by asked. "Oh, great, we do need the publicity."
Uh, what?
Okay, okay. That went smoother than expected.
The guy wore the Legion's badge and the insignia of a captain.
Konrad looked all those up, too—but he never even got to tell his story.
"Yeah, so," he tried again, talking to the officer this time. "I want to talk to Strelok. I know it's a long shot, but there was this very interesting story in my country about this man, and—"
"Sure, sure," the man interrupted. "They're in the back, so go on ahead. But don't take too long."
What? For real?
His plans included a lot of bluffing and luck, but to think he'd be this lucky?!
"Oh, no, it shouldn't take long," he muttered, struggling to suppress his grin. "I wouldn't want to waste your precious time, Captain."
"Good, 'coz they'll be busy tomorrow, and I'd rather you not keep them too late."
He led Konrad to the courtyard with energetic, long steps, finding a platoon of soldiers there.
They were young, tired, and sweaty, panting despite the early winter cold.
So which one of them could he be?!
"Do you want, like, a proper long interview with one of our guys, or talk to each one of them in turns?" the captain asked, stopping by the perimeter.
Konrad's eyes widened.
"W-what do you mean? Which one of 'em is Strelok?"
The captain furrowed his brows at that.
"Well, they all are, of course," he said. "Or you wanted to talk to the sappers? Sorry, but if you're interested in our drone pilots, you'll need permission from higher up. Their identity is—"
"No, no," Konrad interrupted, shaking his head. "I'm only here for one guy named Strelok."
What did he miss? Did he overlook something trivial?
"Ah. Like a nickname?" the captain asked, scratching the back of his head. "You see, Strelok means shooter. Or, I guess rifleman? They're all riflemen. Is that not what you wanted?"
Fuck. Of course, it seemed too easy.
He wasn't lucky at all.
He had to find someone by a nickname alone.
And it happened to be the most nondescript one to ever exist in a war zone.