Jorgen-15

Three years ago, Tony submitted the stolen information from Tusha to Lawrence with anticipation.

"You've done well, son. I'm proud of you."

Lawrence not only said this but even smiled cautiously. The caution was due to their topic at the time—the secret mission involving deception. It wasn't like a son handing over his first month's salary to his father. This also happened to be the last time Lawrence spoke to his son in the next three years. Holding the documents, he hurriedly walked to the other side of the dim corridor, brewing the scholar's nest of dignity and madness; he locked the door.

Tony stood there, feeling a strange calmness. He began to doubt what he had anticipated earlier. Was he expecting his father's approval? Lawrence had already reacted to that. If a simple acknowledgment was warm enough, Tony would feel satisfied; if it was too cold, he would feel disappointed. But now, there was only a blank calmness in his heart, like a handkerchief floating on the water's surface in a windless moment. He thought, maybe he never had any expectations. Perhaps his expectations were somewhere else.

He returned to the Seven, reporting the mission. Stepping into the old man's office, a sudden urgency seized him. The silver badge on his left chest had the perfect weight—not burdensome but enough to make him feel it was right above his heart. In that moment, he recalled praying towards this badge when executing missions, not considering his father for even a minute.

"Tony Romano, I officially appoint you as a direct detective," the old man said. "What you've accomplished proves you're qualified for it. From this moment on, you'll need to continuously prove you deserve it. I haven't said this to any previous direct detective, except you. Do you know why?"

"I don't know, Lord Shawl."

"Because of your father. Although we've been long-term collaborators, there are always things about Lawrence that make me uneasy. As his son, whether you like it or not, your actions will always be closely related in my eyes. The position of a direct detective can only be given to those I can trust continuously. Being Lawrence's son, you are more unstable than other direct detectives because you may oppose me for him."

"I would never, Lord Shawl, I swear…"

"Swearing is useless. Moreover, I've heard such oaths too many times. For most people, family is the most important, and Lawrence is your only family member, no matter how you swear now, it's unreliable. The only way is to prove it through actions."

"How do you want me to do it?"

"Go back to Arathi, monitor Lawrence, and find any traces of him possibly contacting the outside world. You don't have to do these things alone; I'll arrange some people for you. Avoid any contact with Lawrence throughout the entire mission, prevent him from becoming suspicious. There's no deadline for this task. How long the badge stays on you depends on how long you can hold on to this mission."

The phrase "family is the most important" sounded like a malicious joke coming from the old man, as he proceeded to ask Tony to target his "only family member" as an intelligence subject—or an enemy. Most Seven agents had a broken family or a dim background, and this wasn't by chance. Considering the old man's request at the moment, Tony felt no resentment or disgust, only joy and excitement. He guessed that perhaps the old man would never make blind bets or issue orders that might face resistance. The old man knew he wouldn't hesitate to monitor his father, which was why he said such things.

Returning to Arathi Highlands, Tony found himself essentially continuing someone else's work. The previous detective was attacked for unknown reasons during a nighttime patrol, losing their head. Whoever the killer was, they were likely targeting "Seven agents," as some items proving identity disappeared from the remains. Tony immediately understood the key reason why the old man assigned him this task: he was a natural impostor. Making such a foolish mistake as exposing his identity and getting killed wasn't something he would do. Thinking that the old man was using him to rectify past errors in hiring decisions, Tony suddenly felt unusually confident. He ordered the men arranged by the old man to stay in Stromgarde, monitoring Lawrence's movements, while he himself stayed in the wilderness outside the city day and night, watching for suspicious figures seemingly targeting Stromgarde's people. Often, he would disguise himself as a refugee or adventurer, infiltrating camps of passersby to gather information.

One night, half a year later, he met a lone female mercenary while patrolling. Even though Tony was conversing under a false identity, they hit it off. Tony, sipping on his drink, watching the white powder floating around the almost burnt-out firewood, felt a comforting satisfaction spread through his chest. He liked the mercenary in front of him—the way she laughed, the motion of her automatically placing her thumb on her face after drinking too much strong liquor, her closeness with smooth-kneed legs forming a gentle curve. She sounded not very intelligent but spoke with genuine words. They entered her tent.

After removing their clothes, she discovered the almost ubiquitous scars on his back.

"How did you get these?" she asked.

"Just... I've been wandering around for a long time, inevitably getting some injuries."

This was a lie. All these scars were left during the Seven's detective training, not because of the course itself. Some fellow trainees bullied him, both publicly and in secret. Pouring hot soup on his back intentionally during lunch, stealing his clothes, hiding iron nails in them, then returning them, or openly venting on him during combat training. Due to his special family background, he could participate in Seven's training with completely unsuitable physique, unwillingly bearing all the consequences of this life path. Now that he had stepped out, countering his father under the old man's orders—someone should be responsible for these scars, but they would never disappear from him. Perhaps he took on the old man's task to erase their existence.

"You're talking nonsense, aren't you? I can see through it," she said. "You're not some kind of spy, are you?"

She said these words with a smile, indicating that she wasn't concerned about this small deception. Being naked was one thing; expecting people encountered in the wilderness to completely expose their souls was too naive. However, Tony fell into panic. She was doubting his true identity—the sign of an impostor heading towards a grave. Tony's first thought was: Kill her. Almost simultaneously, another thought popped up: Maybe I can't do it. Tony knew he didn't have enough strength; trying to strangle the female mercenary wouldn't succeed, and the dagger was too far away. Her sword was closer, but Tony couldn't grab it and strike before she reacted.

He was in a dilemma. He couldn't act, not because he thought he would fail. He thought if the old man found out about this, he would punish him for not killing the woman. This thought gave him a turning point—the old man must not know about this. I don't have to worry. As an impostor, he never deceived himself, as that was the only way to clearly shape a personality different from his own. At this moment, he understood that he didn't want to harm her. He wanted to sink into her warmth rather than extinguish the dream in front of him with blood. "Kill her" was the thought of Detective Tony and Impostor Tony; he couldn't help but want to temporarily abandon these two identities.

Tony hugged her, but due to the panic and psychological struggle he just experienced, he couldn't do anything. "It's okay," she said, "you can stay here." She fell asleep beside him. Due to shame, he turned his back to her and secretly picked up his clothes before leaving the tent before dawn. The next afternoon, he came here again; she was gone, leaving only a small pile of ashes.

Later, when he recalled this incident, he tried to consider it from a work perspective. It was a mistake. An impostor should never expose himself at any time.

The days in the wilderness continued for hundreds of days. He knew everything about what kind of person would choose what kind of route and how to identify the identities of passersby. In such circumstances, capturing the contact person of Ravenholt was not accidental. The contact person had hidden on the essential route of Stromgarde cavalry led by Varokar for several days, and Tony had been monitoring him until he took a small note from a deserter's hand during break time. At the moment his gaze fell on the note, he immediately understood: his father was in contact with Ravenholt. His long wait wasn't in vain.

The next thing to do was to extract more information. Tony locked the contact person in a small cave and interrogated him using all the methods he could think of, but he gained nothing. Asking the men arranged by the old man to help was also useless. He felt anxious because his father's contact with Ravenholt was obviously not a one-time thing. If the contact person disappeared for too long without getting enough powerful information, the mission might fail. Moreover, capturing an important clue but not obtaining useful information—he dared not think about how the old man would view him after learning about it.

At this moment, Jorgen came to Stromgarde and approached Tony, announcing that she would supervise his work. Tony still vividly remembered their brief meeting several years ago: he remembered how he nervously sought Jorgen's approval but was blocked back by Jorgen, who was clearly in a bad mood. Many years had passed, and when he heard Jorgen say, "I'm here to supervise you on behalf of Lord Shawl," Tony almost couldn't hide his admiration, even though there was inevitably an element of jealousy.

Tony reported everything to Jorgen and then took him to the cave where the contact person was locked.

"I'm very sorry," Tony said, "with my abilities, I really can't..."

"Wait outside," Jorgen said, walking into the cave. Two hours later, he came out.

"Tomorrow night around nine o'clock, Lawrence will have someone smuggle research data. I need you to disguise yourself as Ravenholt. Is the preparation time enough, Tony?"

"No... no problem."

"Good. This matter is crucial, so prepare well."

After instructing Tony, Jorgen ordered his attendants to search a house in the city. This was the second important piece of information he obtained from the contact person: Lawrence paid a family to dig an escape tunnel for him.

"Lord Jorgen," Tony said, "I want to ask..."

"No need to address me like that. We are of the same rank."

"Oh, okay." Tony wanted to say "Jorgen," but couldn't bring himself to. "How did you manage to..."

"This is what I excel at. You also have your strengths, things I can't do, Tony. You know what that is. We all have our places. Just do what you're good at, and that's enough. You're a hero, Tony. Without your work in the last three years, none of this would have happened."

Tony felt an indescribable sense of release. He knew where he belonged. He wasn't a warrior, a savior, a strategist, and certainly not a leader. His only expertise was in disguise. As long as someone could appreciate him, accurately utilize his unique talent, his only correct response was loyalty. Even though the old man's words, "Swearing is useless," still hung in his mind like an iron nail hammered into a frame, he silently swore allegiance to Jorgen— the man who knew where he belonged.