Elin stopped and took a step back, making sure his body was hidden in the darkness along the wall. He did this because the person ahead of him had stopped and was conversing with the grocer who was preparing to close for the night. Elin couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was clear that the grocer was in a good mood, happy to chat with this person after a long day of work.
Thirty-one years old, a dentist, once served some politicians. He comes from a well-off family and wasn't severely affected by the earthquake. Friendly and warm-hearted, almost everyone on the street knows him. He's always been one of the organizers of Halloween festivities, well-liked by the children. Another identity: a senior member of the True Prayer Society. Elin felt that this description wasn't entirely accurate, as the Prayer Society didn't have a clear hierarchy. It would be better to describe him as a spiritual mentor or a proponent. There was nothing in his past to suggest he would take on this role. The only noteworthy detail was that he had volunteered at the church for five consecutive years before suddenly stopping and no longer identifying as a follower of the Holy Light.
It had been a long time since Elin had done any tracking work, but fortunately, the target wasn't aware of being followed. However, he did show some caution, as there were hardly any members of the Prayer Society on this street where he lived. The grocer didn't know that this person had been loudly condemning the church's corruption at a secret meeting just half an hour ago. The Prayer Society was no longer just a protest organization; the mentors had started selectively quoting the Holy Light scriptures to justify their stance. They had begun recruiting members outside of Stormwind.
This was the third consecutive day of tracking. Elin's goal was to find out if this person was involved in any other suspicious activities besides the Prayer Society. He wasn't sure if he would have the patience to continue the same work tomorrow. He had to resist the urge to drag this man back to MI7, beat him up, and force him to spill all the details about the Prayer Society. Time was running out.
He had never imagined that Jorgen would face the death penalty. It wasn't that he couldn't conceive of the idea, but he hadn't convinced himself that things had escalated to that point. Whenever he faced danger in his work, when death was a possibility, he never allowed himself to feel dejected, avoiding the buildup of pessimistic thoughts in his mind. He believed he could get through it: the current situation wasn't as frightening as running into an ex while trying to flirt in a hotel—that was worse. Ever since being with Glocara, that had become a rhetorical comparison rather than a real one. The problem now was that the person facing death wasn't him, but Jorgen. And the likely cause of death wouldn't be an attack by a criminal, but rather execution on a gallows set up by national decree.
"This cannot happen," Elin said when he first heard the news from Mardias. "We can't let this go. Mardias, you have to do something useful. You must have some ideas, right? Tell me what I should do now."
"Continue your work, Elin. Investigate the True Prayer Society."
"No, you're not understanding me…"
"Calm down and think about why the Council would make such a decision. A secret execution doesn't offer much benefit to them. The public won't see it, so the only audience they have is MI7 and the Church. Executing Jorgen is a one-sided warning. If they did it publicly, it would be like formally declaring war on us, which they can't afford to do. This means there's still room for maneuver."
"Fine. I get your point. You don't want them stepping on Section Seven's toes. But that has nothing to do with me; I'll soon be out of this hellhole anyway. I just want to understand one thing, Mardias. Does what you're asking me to do now have anything to do with saving Jorgen?"
"It's the only possible way. Ten days isn't long, and the Council could change their plans. Precisely because time is short, you must not act on your own."
So he carried on with his task. The outcome couldn't be guaranteed. Out of a sense of necessary responsibility, Elin changed his mind and informed Glocara of the situation.
"A hanging?" she said.
"Yes."
They were silent for a few seconds. Glocara had quit smoking a long time ago, but she tapped her fingers on the table and looked around as if searching for a tobacco box.
"This is… I told you long ago, I didn't want to have anything to do with what you people are doing, and look at the news you bring me."
"According to Mardias's orders, I'm now supposed to track some lunatics who keep shouting that the Archbishop has turned into a ghoul, and that's supposed to help him. What a brilliant plan."
"Don't blame that kid. He's been through enough. And I'm not trying to scold you, Elin. You claim to be Jorgen's friend, always wanting to help him, but after all this time, you still didn't notice…"
"See, you still said it."
Her right hand reached across the table and held Elin's.
"I'm sorry. What are you thinking now?"
"Gather up all the little punks we've looked after and break into the prison."
"Be serious."
"This is a hanging, Glocara. Do you know how humiliating that death is? Hands tied behind your back, body stiff as a carrot. I should be sad, but honestly, I'm furious. If Jorgen had accidentally gotten stabbed in the heart, that would've been better, but a hanging… Listen to this, too: treason against the king, undermining national institutions. What kind of nonsense is that? If what Jorgen did really deserved such grand charges, they should give him a crown encrusted with diamonds and weave gold threads into the noose…"
"You really shouldn't joke about this. But I know this is how you keep your head cool."
"To be honest, Mardias said there's still room for maneuver, and I agree. But if there's absolutely no hope left, do you know what I'll do? I'll go to the prison and say to him, 'I'm disappointed, Jorgen. Looks like no one can save you. And yes, part of that's your own fault. You should've told me the truth earlier, you bastard. Now there's only one thing left for you to do: make it less ugly and don't let the Council get too smug. Kill yourself, Jorgen.' What makes me even angrier is that he might actually listen to such advice."
"But you don't have to do that. You can still save him."
"At least I won't be idle."
"I… can I go see him?"
"You can apply, but I don't want you to go."
"Why not?"
"Because the nature of this application is to visit someone before their execution. It's to see him one last time."
"I see."
"That's why there are some people who should know about this, but I haven't informed them. So if we fail to save him, I've already ruined their chance to see him one last time."
"Don't think too much about it. I was just asking casually; Jorgen probably doesn't want to see anyone right now. Anyway…"
"If we get him out, you probably won't be in such a hurry to see him. You've always disliked him."
"That's hard to say."
"Don't tell Elaine."
"You don't need to remind me."
Gathering people for a jailbreak and persuading Jorgen to end it all himself weren't just jokes to relieve anxiety. These were thoughts Elin would only share with her.
Maybe he really would choose one of those options.
But now wasn't the time.
Elin knew he wasn't the best person for tracking work. He had only one eye and wasn't calm enough, especially given his current state of mind. Elin had never been obedient to Mardias and had even punched him once; Mardias had every reason to replace Elin with someone else for this task but hadn't. Because of him, Elin had the chance to fight for Jorgen's rescue.
Maybe Jorgen's protection of him wasn't entirely misplaced.
The target ended the conversation and started walking. Elin followed, stepping through the few remaining moments of time slipping away into the night.
Tony walked along the path, wearing a black cloak one size too large. Five people followed beside and behind him—though that's not entirely accurate. They were merely objects, tools to assist Tony in completing his task. In Tony's eyes, only those with independence and a strong presence could be considered people. These weren't.
Now, many colleagues in MI7 agreed that Tony was a master of disguise. Tony didn't think so. They misunderstood what he was skilled at. A guest getting drunk alone on the cheapest wine in a hotel, a homeless man on the street, a small-time gambler scraping by—these were the identities Tony could impersonate. He often didn't need complicated makeup. He viewed them as objects. Objects have no will, moving according to their nature and the pushes of others. He could blend in with them in an instant, becoming an object himself. The reason he could do this, Tony believed, was because he was just as lowly as they were.
To him, the lower-level members of the True Prayer Society were typical objects. In their secret gatherings, their faces, gestures, spirits—there wasn't an inch of skin or personality that wasn't under influence. Blending in with them didn't take much effort.
"How much longer till we arrive?" one person behind him asked.
"Soon," Tony replied.
"Is it really not dangerous?" another person asked.
"I've never promised that. Who can? All I know is that the Light teaches us not to focus on the consequences of our actions but to embrace the faith that drives them."
When the word "trial" is interpreted as physical pain, Tony finds it all too easy to understand. One of the greatest crises he ever faced in his work was when a small-time gangster caught him and threatened to cut off his thumb as repayment for gambling debts. Tony couldn't afford to lose a single finger; that would make his physical features too distinctive. So he grabbed the knife and plunged it into his own abdomen. "This should do, right?" he said, trembling from the pain. "So much blood... enough to pay the debt. Please, let me keep my fingers. I still need to work." The debt collectors, disgusted and horrified, immediately left. They thought they were dealing with a madman. Tony didn't consider himself insane; he was just doing the only thing he was good at, the only thing that made him valuable to MI7.
Jorgen is in prison. Jorgen is more than just a person; he was the first to make Tony believe he was doing something worthwhile. Jorgen must be saved. This isn't just his personal plan—it's Lord Mardias's plan as well. Sacrificing a few "objects" to save Jorgen doesn't matter.
They continued walking. Their destination was the cemetery where Benedictus was buried.