Regret and Anger

Jorgen arrived at a blacksmith's shop in the Dwarven district. The owner, Henrik Stone, set aside his work to look at him and said, "You've come," but seemed uncertain about his next move.

"I received a letter from your father," Jorgen said. "He asked me to come."

"Oh, yes. I knew he sent you a letter," Henrik instructed his assistant to watch the shop, then turned to Jorgen. "Follow me. We've got a better-ventilated room for him."

He led Jorgen upstairs in the building, their footsteps muffled by the sound of the blacksmith's work below.

"I'm not sure why he insisted on writing a letter," Henrik said. "Sending a verbal message would've sufficed."

"Holmyr doesn't know where I reside. He could only send a letter to the MI7 headquarters."

Henrik mumbled a response and then stopped in his tracks, lowering his voice. "Did he tell you...?"

"I already know," Jorgen said. "I'm sorry for the timing of this visit."

"It's nothing. It's his wish, after all."

They reached the room at the center of the hallway. Henrik didn't knock but turned the doorknob. However, he didn't immediately open the door. "I won't go inside. But I'll wait here. If you need any help or if something happens..."

"Excuse me."

Jorgen entered the room and closed the door behind him. Even though Henrik had mentioned the room had better ventilation, the street view outside the nearby window was still veiled in thick, smoky fumes. On the bed in the center of the room lay a man with sparse hair and a weathered face. He looked frighteningly thin, devoid of the vitality of life, as though he might vanish into the gaps in the bedsheets at any moment. The room was filled with a sour, decaying smell.

"Holmyr," Jorgen said, "I received your letter."

There was no response from the other man.

Jorgen raised his voice and repeated, "Holmyr, I received your letter." Holmyr then opened his right eye, slightly turning his head and said, "You've come. Sit."

In the room, apart from the bed, there was only an empty space and a low chair behind the door. Jorgen pulled over the chair and sat down by the bedside.

Holmyr pushed himself up a bit, his movements slow and laborious, as though he was not lifting the upper half of his body but rather a heavy sack filled with sand. Jorgen propped up the pillows to help him sit back.

"Thank you," Holmyr said. "I didn't expect you to come so soon."

In truth, it hadn't been very soon, Jorgen realized. He'd received the letter from this dying man a week ago. He had contemplated postponing this visit, especially during the days he had been waiting for the old man's response to Farad. He didn't want to add more mental burden to himself.

Holmyr was the man who had crafted the J-dagger in gratitude for saving his life. Over the past few years, they had met about three or four times a year, allowing Holmyr to maintain the dagger and have some conversations. They weren't exactly friends, but when he received the letter, it didn't feel out of place. Holmyr had written, "I'm seriously ill and beyond curing. I hope to see you one last time before I leave this world." It was clear that writing was a struggle for him.

He was only fifty-four, but his skin was ashen, like the remains of burnt-out embers, and his face was etched with deep wrinkles, as though they might slice open his visage. Jorgen didn't know the nature of his illness, but it didn't matter. Even though he had seen dozens of unconventional deaths compared to natural causes, he could easily tell that the man before him had just a wisp of life left. For those who would die of illness, their moment of passing was known. He wasn't sure which scenario was easier for the dying.

"I don't want to," Holmyr wheezed, making an effort to say the entire sentence in one breath. "I don't want to die in a hospital, so I came back home. My son moved me from my attic to here."

"He did the right thing," Jorgen said. "The attic doesn't get any sunlight."

"I've seen more firelight in my life than sunlight," Holmyr said, slightly raising both of his hands. His palms bore numerous scars and burns. "Let me see your weapon."

Jorgen drew the dagger and handed it to Holmyr, making sure he had a firm grip before letting go.

With a trembling right thumb, Holmyr traced along the edge of the blade, squinting slightly as he examined it, his breathing growing louder.

"This is my masterpiece. I knew it from the beginning when I crafted it."

"I agree. I felt it from the very first time I used it."

"My worthless son can't maintain it for you. He doesn't have the skill." He turned the dagger to inspect the other side. "Tell me, how many people have you killed with it?"

"I don't know. If you mean 'people' specifically, maybe around ten."

"But it's been through a lot. It doesn't become like this from only killing ten people. Every time you end someone's life... do you save others in return?"

"Not necessarily. In the long run, perhaps. But who really knows?"

"You won't think about it either."

"No, I won't."

"My intention was for you to save more people with its help."

"Don't judge my work, Holmyr."

"I'm sorry." Holmyr handed the dagger back to Jorgen. "After I'm gone, you don't need to keep it. I lied. It's far from a true masterpiece, and I could have done better. I wanted to express my gratitude with a good piece, but it seems like a dull gesture now."

"What I do is a hundred times more dangerous than what you do in your workshop, Holmyr. I won't keep the dagger just for some sentimental reason. It's a good weapon, or else I would have thrown it away, or I'd already be dead."

"Well, when it's no longer useful to you... throw it away."

"We'll see."

Holmyr chuckled briefly, then immediately turned it into a coughing fit. Henrik's voice came from outside the door, "Dad, are you okay?"

"I should go," Jorgen stood up.

"Wait." Holmyr reached out his right hand as if to hold Jorgen, but it fell weakly on the edge of the bed. After his coughing fit, his voice became weaker and more intermittent. "Tell him, tell him I'm okay. I have something more to say."

Jorgen raised his voice to respond outside the door, "He's okay, we need more time," then sat down again.

"I can stay a few more minutes. I have to get back to work later."

"I'm really thankful that you came."

Although Holmyr initially wanted Jorgen to stay longer, he fell into silence immediately.

"Is there something you want to ask me?"

"No... nothing. Nothing." Holmyr's speech started hurriedly and then gave way to a deeper, more exhausted tone. "Ah, I'm dying soon. So many things... left undone. All these things, becoming irrelevant to me. Jorgen, have you ever thought... no, that's just my issue. I could have done so much for someone. But I didn't get the chance, or I thought I didn't get the chance. To feel anger instead of regret because you didn't get that chance, that's a vile emotion... when I realized it, regret sprang up from under the anger. But it's all too late."

"You sound really unwell. Don't speak anymore."

At this point, Henrik, who was standing outside the door, asked if there was a problem. Jorgen didn't intend to linger.

"Jorgen," he heard Holmyr say at the end, "you gave me a second chance at life, but I squandered it. I was a fool."

After leaving the blacksmith's home, Jorgen walked through the alleys of the Dwarven district, which were permeated with the scent of rust. He didn't feel good. He thought Holmyr had something to ask him but eventually didn't say it. Jorgen didn't truly care about what Holmyr wanted to say.

But why did I even agree to meet him?

After this encounter he tried to avoid, Jorgen suddenly felt like his mind had cleared. However, this might not necessarily be a good thing.

During this time, he had tried to push aside what Farlad had said, using his busy work as a way to wait for events to unfold. He had quickly returned to the state he was in before Farlad's visit, or at least pretended to be in that state. No matter how many times he rehearsed possible scenarios in his mind, the result was always the same: Dean's death was unquestionable. If Farlad really had something to offer the old man, it could only be related to this matter. Jorgen didn't feel he had a say in this issue. He could only wait.

The rhythmic, resounding sound of a Dwarven blacksmith pounding on an anvil rang in his ears. In this rhythmic and loud sound, Holmyr's weak words resounded in his ears once again, as if they were ghostly echoes attached to the anvil, screaming in pain with every hammer blow.

Not doing what one should have done, feeling anger rather than regret for not getting the chance in the first place — this was a vile emotion. He realized he was on the edge of experiencing this anger, just like when he witnessed Dean's death, that burning feeling in his chest. He still remembered the moment when Renner, under the moonlight of the Eastern Plague, fell into Lake Darrowmere, leaving a pool of blood on the cliff's edge. Then, it was with anger that he cut off the enemy's palm. That feeling was uncomfortable.

Before leaving the Dwarven district, he found a poster on a wall that had just been put up. The main content accused MI7 of being a service organization to the nation, not an intelligence dictatorship, and denounced the practice of an heir being chosen through a predetermined system.

Word had gotten out, or perhaps it was Farlad's scheme. Jorgen tore it down. Instead of pondering who was responsible, he was more concerned about whether Dalia had seen such posters. Perhaps the real reason Jorgen didn't act during his meeting with the old man, just before anger and the subsequent regret overwhelmed him, was due to Dalia. Before returning to headquarters, he planned to go near her residence to check things out.