The afterglow of the sunset made the abandoned fields more lonely. A gust of wind blew down a dead tree growing on the cliff edge.
Following the information provided by Mardias, Jorgen found a small mound under the dead tree - the place where little Gothalo Van Cleef's remains were buried. It looked like just a pile of mud accidentally stepped on.
Jorgen recalled everything. It was a story about a dagger and a little boy.
Fifteen years ago, he was chasing an escaping fugitive in the Old Town. The fugitive grabbed a boy, wanted to use him as a human shield, but was stabbed in the shoulder by the dagger engraved with Jorgen's initials "J" thrown by Jorgen and captured.
The boy looked at Jorgen, who had saved him, with reverent eyes, as if he were looking at a god. He was a boy with unclear speech, but Jorgen intended to leave the dagger with him as a memento - this was the first time he had received respectful eyes due to his dangerous work, so it was also a memento for himself.
"You need courage enough to accept it," Jorgen said.
The boy had some difficulty speaking, just nodding vigorously. When he took the dagger, his face was full of joy and hope.
That little boy was Gothalo Van Cleef.
It was a sacred ceremony, like a king passing his scepter to the crown prince, like a grandfather passing an antique watch to his great-grandson.
At this moment, how could Jorgen have imagined that this sacred handover ceremony would eventually become the fuse for a series of murders and conspiracies.
He did not want to blame the children who besieged Gothalo, because they were too young to know what respect for life meant. He did not want to blame Mrs. Greshana, because she was just a pitiful woman who went mad for maternal love.
But in the end Gothalo still died in Throat Slitting Alley. Fifteen years later, several more people died because of him.
Jorgen did not want to blame himself either.
"I did nothing wrong," he said to himself.
He dug the mound open a little, dug it deeper, buried the dagger with the "J" in it, closed the soil and patted it down with his hands.
"It belonged to you, now I return it to you, Gothalo," he said.
The wind turned cold. Jorgen stood up, rubbed his hands and stepped onto the road home. The sun cast his shadow long and long on the abandoned fields.