This morning, Jorgen and his team returned to headquarters. Before heading to the Elder's meeting room with the mission report, he encountered his assistant, Aved.
"I instructed you to do something. Did you follow through with it?" Jorgen inquired about Aved's task of informing Dalia.
"I felt it wasn't appropriate for me to meet with Lady Dalia, so I asked Daisy to pass on the message."
Jorgen nodded. Aved was more considerate than he had anticipated.
"Later, while passing by the mansion, I casually inquired about Lady Dalia's well-being from Daisy. She mentioned that Lady Dalia has been calm lately, and incidents of disturbances at the house have nearly disappeared."
"I didn't ask you to do that."
"I apologize; I took the initiative."
"No need to apologize. You did the right thing. I should thank you."
"Lord Jorgen, actually, I think you don't need to worry too much. Oh, I shouldn't have said that. I've spoken out of turn."
"Enough." Jorgen thought of patting Aved on the shoulder but refrained. He turned and ascended the stairs to the Elder's room; this conversation had steadied his steps.
The mission report went more smoothly than Jorgen had anticipated. Overall, apart from Mardias's hesitation at the end, the operation went flawlessly, and Mardias's behavior wasn't Jorgen's fault. The Elder expressed satisfaction with the execution of the two criminals.
"I'll talk to Mardias separately about his actions. You can leave," the Elder stated.
Just as Jorgen turned to leave, he suddenly recalled something and halted, facing the Elder again.
"Do you have anything else to say?"
"I want to know if you have any other instructions for me today regarding my duties."
The Elder furrowed his brows, as Jorgen expected. He knew his phrasing was peculiar.
"You've always understood your assignments."
"In fact, I don't have anything else to do today," Jorgen continued to express himself vaguely.
The Elder leaned back slightly, scrutinizing Jorgen. His gaze, usually probing, now held a harmless curiosity. Despite that, Jorgen couldn't shake the doubt that he might have made a wrong decision or said the wrong words.
"You can go back for now," the Elder said. "Rest a bit and come back tomorrow."
"Yes, Lord Shawl."
As Jorgen descended the stairs, his pace quickened. His previously stable state of mind now experienced strange fluctuations. He had, in a very clumsy and ambiguous way, asked the Elder for leave, and it had been granted. This hadn't happened in the past ten years. It was unusual, but only significant to Jorgen; to others, it might seem like an awkward and ordinary work encounter. He was eager to know what the Elder had observed in his eyes just now and what led to the approval of this seemingly laughable request for leave, accompanied by the phrase "rest." Jorgen knew exactly why he had done this, and the Elder couldn't have missed something so obvious.
However, Jorgen didn't want to dwell on this matter now. He swiftly exited through the Seventh Haven's gate, his thoughts focused solely on returning to Dalia's residence as soon as possible. On this foggy morning, things suddenly became simple: you return from a business trip, eager to see your woman, so you gather the courage to ask for time off from your superior. Even though Jorgen understood that this momentary simplicity was just a phantom amid the chaos of the past decade, like a small piece of glass accidentally dropped into the thorns—it didn't matter. What mattered was that the layers of anxiety that had surged within him by the coastline in the past few days had mostly disappeared, leaving a mixture of relaxation and excitement in his spirit.
Jorgen stood on the street for a while, contemplating whether to call a carriage. At that moment, he felt a hand patting his shoulder from behind—not just a pat, but a forceful push. Turning around, he saw two individuals dressed similarly, both carrying longswords.
"You're Lord Jorgen?" the one in front said. Although he used the title, it sounded more like a formality, as if the term "Lord" had no place in his tone.
"Who are you?"
"We're from the Gallmont House. Ever heard of it? We're the private guards of Lord Deza Gallmont."
Jorgen furrowed his brow. The person in front was from the Gallmont House, but that didn't mean Ivanov; it represented his father. He said, "Prove your identity."
"Look at this, the Gallmont family crest. Satisfied? Come with us."
"Why?"
"Stop being so talkative. Just come with us." The one in front moved to grab Jorgen's collar. Jorgen flipped him to the ground; the man's face hit the pavement, tearing a gash on the side of his nose. The remaining person looked at Jorgen, not making a move, but hastily reprimanded the bloodied companion, then turned to Jorgen and said, "Sorry, Lord Jorgen. This guy is newly hired, and I didn't expect him to be so disrespectful... I apologize, sincerely. Lord Deza is very anxious to meet you, so he sent us—actually, we've been waiting for you for several days. The carriage is over there."
"What does he want with me?"
"We don't know the details, but from the looks of it, it must be something important. Lord Deza has emphasized several times that we represent his sincerity and shouldn't offend you..." He turned to the injured man, who was now standing, holding his face, and said, "Quickly apologize to Lord Jorgen! Otherwise, you might as well quit this job."
The injured man mumbled something, but Jorgen ignored him.
"How long will it take?"
"Ten minutes, and Lord Deza also mentioned he only seeks to delay you for a moment. Once the matter is settled, we'll ensure to get you back home at the fastest speed."
The surrounding pedestrians increased, and Jorgen could feel most eyes fixed on him. "Let's go," he said. Although he understood the significance of Deza's invitation, it was the previous conversation with Aved that allowed him to calm down a bit, delaying the time to return to Dalia.
Although the claim of "ten minutes away" was a bit exaggerated, Deza Gallmont's residence was indeed not far. Once an extremely prominent house, it had been forgotten in the wash of time, overshadowed by its own past grandeur. In terms of scale, Dalia's residence was just a summer cottage compared to it. Jorgen had passed by several times before, vaguely remembering how, during Deza's peak, attending events held here was considered an honor. Now, the mansion that could accommodate over a hundred people overnight was always deserted.
The butler led Jorgen to a room on the third floor. From the front door to entering this room, besides two elderly maids scrubbing the floor, he didn't see anyone else.
The room resembled an exhibition hall for the wine industry; cabinets against the walls held various bottles. Deza Gallmont stood in a corner, his right palm flat on the table. His body was in a stable yet fragile posture, as if a rock enduring the constant erosion of a waterfall. Due to his age, his right eye seemed to have trouble fully opening.
"Lord Deza Gallmont," Jorgen said. Before becoming a direct investigator, he had a few conversations—or more accurately, interrogations—with Deza. They were discussions about the excessive interrogation methods used by the Seventh Haven, which led to the imprisonment of two investigators.
"You still recognize me." After saying this, Deza, who was about to pour wine into a cup, suddenly stopped, then looked at Jorgen. "Want some?""No," Jorgen replied.
Deza nodded and continued the previous action, filling a goblet with crimson-colored liquid. He picked it up, and just as the rim touched his lips, he revealed a hesitant expression. Without taking a sip, he placed the cup back on the silver tray. Placing his hands behind his back, he looked at the floor, sighed, and then gazed at Jorgen, his eyes revealing a kind of pure professional dignity. Although he had stepped down from the position of Chief Prosecutor several years ago, he hadn't forgotten how to command respect from strangers through his demeanor. However, in Jorgen's eyes, Deza's already bent spine and shrinking shoulders were melting away, mercilessly dissolving the efforts of their owner to construct a facade of spirit, polluting this artificial spirit into an annoying neuroticism.
"So, what do you want with me?"
"You're a smart man, Jorgen. You're a smart man with some thoughts."
"Probably... related to your son, Ivanov."
Deza didn't speak, walked to the window, and looked outside with a resentful expression—an odd resentment, considering the emptiness below the window, the long-neglected backyard, offering nothing worth seeing. He shook his head tremulously, then pulled the curtains closed, turning back while waving his right hand in the air, simultaneously addressing Jorgen, "Yes, Ivanov. You've surely met him. What do you think of my son?"
"I've only met him once, and we haven't had a proper conversation. It's hard to say I know him."
Deza nodded, then glanced at the window that was now closed, as if forgetting that nothing could be seen from there.
"Come here." He coughed, repeating, "Come here."
Jorgen took a few steps forward.
"This," Deza picked up a newspaper from the table and handed it to Jorgen. "Read it. Read it now."
Jorgen took the newspaper and read the article Deza showed him. It covered more than half a page, first detailing Dalia and Ivanov's "frequent meetings" and provocatively suggesting the possibility of an illicit affair. It then speculated about "hidden connections between the Seventh Haven and the judiciary" by emphasizing the two individuals' special identities. It was still the Canal Morning Post, and the author was the same as the one who smeared Dalia's charity organization.