After the observation of the competition concluded, most of the people left, and Mardias also departed under the escort of his guards. One of the old man's guards approached Jorgen and said, "Please wait here. Lord Shawl wishes to speak with you."
Jorgen glanced in the direction of the old man. Some observers, mainly those from outside the MI7, were engaging him in conversation. From their expressions, it was clear that they were eager to express their opinions, trying to position themselves on safe ground. They had widened eyes, downturned mouths, and wore somewhat negative smiles. Some individuals spoke to the old man for a moment and then exchanged opinions with others, but essentially, they were all repeating the same words. The old man didn't nod or speak; he just sat quietly.
"Understood," Jorgen replied. He estimated that the people gathered around the old man would not disperse anytime soon.
"Lord Shawl wishes to speak with Jorgen alone?" Elin asked the guard.
"He only asked me to inform Lord Jorgen."
"Are you sure?"
The guard didn't say anything more and turned away.
"It seems the old man still doesn't like me. That's okay; I don't like him either. I'll be on my way," Elin said as he patted Jorgen's shoulder. His hand lingered for a moment. "You seem a bit emotional. Don't dwell on it too much. I'll find a way to make sure Dalia doesn't hear any rumors."
"Thank you."
After most people had left, the room on the top floor of the tower started to feel empty. Someone knelt on the platform, cleaning up the pool of blood. The metallic scent still lingered in the air. Jorgen believed in the existence of geniuses; he knew that Dean was one of them. However, he wouldn't use that term for Mardias. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because the cruel aspect of it distorted the positive connotations associated with the word "genius," turning it into something unsettling.
Fifteen minutes later, the old man called Jorgen over. There was a middle-aged nobleman standing beside him, hands clasped behind his back, bowing his head. As Jorgen approached, the man quickly glanced at him and then averted his gaze.
"Lord Shawl," Jorgen said, stopping about five steps away from the old man.
"How do you assess Mardias's performance?"
"Absolutely impressive. Precise actions, and..."
The old man raised his right hand to interrupt him. "Say something I haven't heard before. I need your assessment as a senior agent."
"Too many unnecessary forceful strikes. Given the actual situation, this might provoke the adversary during apprehension, leading to more danger. After the arrest is completed and we move into the interrogation phase, the suspect might also refuse to cooperate due to the insults they've received."
"You've never had much faith in the deterrence of force."
"No, I just think that Master Mardias is still too young. Given enough time, he can transform force into deterrence."
"Too young?"
This question caught Jorgen off guard, but he answered truthfully, "Yes. Fourteen years old is still too young."
"Did any of you hear what he just said?" The old man turned to his guards. "'Too young.' Such an obvious conclusion, but until just now, not one person was willing to point it out in front of me. Such a simple fact, I needed a senior agent to honestly tell me. Jorgen, I'll ask you again. Why were so many people who watched the competition unwilling to acknowledge this in front of me? Some even described him as 'mature.'"
"I think it's because 'too young' is almost equivalent to 'immature,' and they clearly didn't want to leave a bad impression on you," Jorgen said.
There was another reason that Jorgen couldn't mention. To believe that Mardias was "too young" also meant doubting whether he could grow into a suitable successor in the few remaining years of the old man's life.
"Very well said. Jorgen, come closer. Let me introduce you to someone."
Jorgen moved closer, and the nobleman standing beside the old man lifted his head, showing a nervous smile.
"This is Count Stan, a member of the Stormwind Council."
"Hello," Jorgen extended his right hand. The man looked at the ground while shaking hands.
"Before coming here, Count Stan proposed a temporary suspension of your duties," the old man said.
"No, I just..." Stan began.
"Is that so?" Jorgen interrupted him. "Why?"
"No, it was just a misunderstanding, my misunderstanding. I mean..."
"He said because of your misjudgment during the mission in Darkshire, where the safety of Council Envoy Dalia was not given priority, she suffered both physical and mental injuries, so you should receive a suspension. Those were your words, right, Stan?"
"Yes, that was just an immature, poorly considered proposal, Lord Shawl."
"You see now, among all these people, he is the first one to speak the truth. You proposed disciplining one of the most important members of the MI7, a loyal agent who dares to voice his opinions."
The latter part of the statement caught Jorgen by surprise. If it was merely to intimidate poor Stan, the old man had no reason to say this. But his following words shifted the situation in another direction.
"And your reason for the suspension, it's just a woman with some flesh wounds," he said.
A woman. The old man didn't even mention Dalia's identity, let alone her name. It was as if he was discussing a complete stranger, someone they had never met and who would never have any connection to them, as if acknowledging her gender was a favor. But it was this "just a woman" who had loved his son, nurtured his grandson, and still bore the same surname as him. This didn't seem like something meant for Stan. The old man wanted Jorgen to hear this.
"I deeply apologize for my rash and shallow judgment, and I won't bring this up again," Stan said. His hurried tone was like a stone thrown into mud, splashing a string of mud beads.
This man before him had misjudged the situation and didn't understand the severity of his mistake. People who made such mistakes were safer siding with MI7. His mistake wasn't in requesting discipline for Jorgen, but in assuming that the old man would agree with his values. Dalia Shawl was far more important than Agent Jorgen, so Jorgen had to be disciplined, that was his view. But presenting this idea to the old man meant he thought the old man also agreed with this view. The conclusion was straightforward and clear, but it left Jorgen uneasy. Boiling it down to the old man trusting him a lot was simply evading the issue.
"Jorgen," the old man said, "do you accept the apology?"
Jorgen should have said, "I accept."
"You don't need to apologize, Lord Stan. I should have prioritized Lady Dalia's safety, but after all, everyone makes mistakes in judgment."
The old man gazed at Jorgen with his grayish eyes for a moment and then said to Stan, "You may leave."
Stan seemed like he wanted to make some more gesture, but a guard escorted him out.
"Lord Shawl, may I be excused?" Jorgen asked. If there was nothing else, he was eager to leave.
"You should already know who brought Mardias back," the old man said.
"Yes, it was Farad from the Ravenholt Manor."
"Have you had any dealings with their people?"
"No, I haven't. I have never been involved in any missions related to them."
"They have always devoted a lot of effort to combatting the Syndicate organization. So, have you had any contact with the Syndicate people, Jorgen?"
"No," Jorgen hesitated for a moment before adding, "None at all."
"Jorach Ravenholt used to be my friend, but not Farad. He's requesting a negotiation."
"What is it about?"
"I want you to do two things," the old man didn't answer Jorgen's question directly. "Tomorrow morning, assemble enough personnel and vehicles secretly and escort the people from the Manor to headquarters, without a leak. You should also be present when the negotiation begins."
"I understand," Jorgen sensed the reason why Farad hadn't shown up today. As the leader of an independent thieves' organization, it was not suitable for him to appear in gatherings with many official figures. However, the real reason was that he needed a secret meeting with the head of MI7.
The guard by the old man's side provided him with the address.
"However," Jorgen said, "I'm not very familiar with Ravenholt. Are you sure you need me to be present at the negotiation?"
"This is an order, and I believe you will know what to do. Now, you may go."
Jorgen stepped back a few paces, allowing the old man and his entourage to depart first.
This order had come unexpectedly. It was the first time the old man had allowed him to participate in high-level negotiations. Jorgen temporarily disregarded the subtle elements of probing and hostility in their conversation, including any discussions regarding Dalia. He left the tower and began to prepare.
The next morning, he arrived at an inconspicuous mansion in the western part of the city with his guards and a carriage shrouded in black curtains. He reported his purpose to the Seven, and then he waited. Five minutes later, a group of individuals emerged from the house. The leader appeared to be around forty years old, with a steady gait. Jorgen had seen this face in internal Seven profiles.
"Lord Farad," Jorgen approached and said, "I am Chief Investigator Jorgen of MI7, here to escort you to headquarters as per orders."
Farad, who was considerably taller than Jorgen, tilted his head slightly in an unexpected manner as he examined Jorgen.
"Are you... Jorgen?" he asked.
"Yes," Jorgen confirmed.
Farad continued to size him up. The underlying tone of provocation in this unnatural demeanor prompted Jorgen to instinctively extend his right hand. He wanted to see if Farad was willing to sacrifice some of his thief's vigilance to shake hands with a stranger. However, in the next instant, a black figure suddenly darted out from behind Farad and struck Jorgen's right wrist joint with something hard. The blow was quite heavy, and he nearly lost his balance.
"Ah, I apologize," Farad said. "My bodyguard tends to overreact."
Jorgen's entire right wrist felt numb, and his brain throbbed with dizziness. He took a deep breath, looked up, and saw the person who had attacked him. Wrapped in black clothing from head to toe, with a metal mask on their face that defied description, emitting a muffled and coarse breathing sound. The assailant's right fist was encased entirely in steel. Everything was identical to the Undertakers from his memory.