The Unexpected Bombshell

"Leave it here," Jorgen said, "I can't allow it to enter Lord Shawl's meeting room."

"So, you do know what it is," Farad said.

Jorgen didn't actually know. Despite having killed one himself, he still knew very little about the Undertaker. He only knew it was extremely dangerous.

"The ones who brought Mardias back safely are us. You should have shown a bit of trust and, well, courage when inviting some of us into the MI7 headquarters," Farad said.

Jorgen understood that he had allowed the other man to gain the upper hand. From Farad's perspective, bringing something potentially dangerous was a reasonable precaution. Even if the old man wasn't likely to set a trap, Farad felt it necessary to assert his position.

"It's getting late. This way, please," Jorgen said, turning away. At this moment, he heard Farad say something that he didn't immediately comprehend:

"You're weaker than I imagined."

Jorgen didn't turn around and didn't pay too much attention to this seemingly juvenile provocation. As he heard the heavy footsteps of the Undertaker behind him, he recalled Morticia Everlock's description: a decade ago, the massacre at an unknown orphanage; a man in a metal mask, bloodied fists emerging from the children's bedrooms. At the time, he had found that story confusing. But now, it seemed to connect with the real world. The Undertaker wasn't something exclusive to MI7.

During the short walk to his horse, he made a conscious effort to calm down. If Ravenholt Manor was truly connected to the events of a decade ago, it was an extremely dangerous sign. What did Farad want to discuss with Lord Shawl? When they were still in Darkshire, both he and Dalia had believed they'd found a piece of the puzzle that had slipped through the old man's fingers, and it had given them some solace: life could exist where he couldn't reach. But now, Farad, from Ravenholt Manor — perhaps the one who had destroyed the orphanage where Dean had once fostered three children — had appeared, ready to speak with Lord Shawl.

In a conversation that Lord Shawl had specifically requested Jorgen to attend.

He led the group and arrived at the MI7 headquarters ten minutes later.

The meeting room was not spacious. Ravenholt's side had five people, but only Farad had actual speaking authority. Similarly, the MI7 team was structured. Although Jorgen had to stand, his position was very close to the old man. Close enough that if he wanted to pull out a dagger and stab it into the old man's throat, it was entirely possible. The thought was surprising and sounded rash and foolish, but it made him acutely aware of a growing, subtle anxiety. Throughout their preparations and the moments just before the formal start of the meeting, he had been contemplating this: what would he do if Farad revealed something unexpected?

The room was stifling, and Jorgen could feel beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck. He hoped it was merely due to the temperature and not something else - something like fear. For him, this sensation foreboded an irreversible loss. Though he had faced countless life-threatening situations in his career as an agent, he had almost no memories of feeling fear. Or perhaps, only twice. Once was a decade ago in that valley during the battle, and the other was not long ago when Dalia fell into the hands of the enemy. But now, he was merely standing there, nothing had happened, and he hadn't experienced anything.

He glanced at the old man's withered hand, incapable of warding off any attack. In all these years, he had never truly harbored murderous intent against the old man, and he never thought he'd have a reason to do so one day. However, with it now becoming a possibility, he wished he wouldn't find a reason to act. He had resented the old man before, and the old man had even held a knife to his throat, but inexplicably, they had built a stable relationship of superiors and subordinates - there had to be some degree of trust between them. The key was this stability, the foundation for the relative stability of Jorgen's entire life. He didn't want it to end so suddenly.

Besides, Jorgen knew that his personal safety now was closely tied to others.

Fortunately, the conversation didn't start from the place that had made Jorgen anxious. This gave him time to regain his composure.

"How has Jorach been lately?" the old man said.

"He's well," Farad replied. "I'll convey your regards."

"So, you're managing most of the estate's affairs now," the old man continued.

"Most of them, but not all. Of course, this conversation was only initiated after reaching an agreement with Lord Jorach."

The old man leaned back slightly, watching Farad. The brief pleasantries had concluded. The real content of the conversation needed to be initiated by Farad - making him the one who was urgently seeking something.

"Are you still satisfied with Mardias's situation?" Farad asked.

"I can see that you've provided him with adequate real-world training," Jorgen stated.

From the ensuing conversation, Jorgen learned that Mardias had spent around three months at the estate, learning and familiarizing himself with the ways of the adventurer thieves. Perhaps this was one of the reasons for his excessive brutality during the duel.

"In any case, I appreciate your trust," Farad said. His words held an undecipherable mix of genuine respect.

"I entrusted Mardias to the estate based on my past friendship with Jorach," the old man stated.

"Of course, I understand your meaning. However, the estate did set up a fine training regimen for young Mardias. It has been a pleasant collaboration, hasn't it?" Farad replied.

The old man remained silent. Jorgen could see from Farad's face that he wasn't particularly pleased to be in a passive position during the conversation but had no choice.

"So, I think," Farad continued, "this program is worth expanding. I mean, a more solid, long-term partnership."

"Go on," the old man responded.

"Ravenholt could regularly accept MI7 trainees for instruction."

This made no sense at all, Jorgen thought. After all, Ravenholt was also an organization that cultivated adventurer thieves, and a substantial number of adventurers caused trouble for MI7. While Ravenholt tried to maintain neutrality, it would never be possible for them to align with MI7.

One of the old man's aides blurted out "ridiculous," but the old man raised his hand to silence him.

"Let me hear what you want in return," he said.

"You've misunderstood me," Farad replied. "Regularly accepting MI7 trainees is what Ravenholt requires in return. In exchange for this, we can provide something: intelligence. Once we become aware of adventurers listed being involved in actions against MI7, disrupting the Alliance, we will immediately notify your organization."

The room remained quiet, with no one daring to speak in hushed tones.

Jorgen glanced into Farad's eyes. Farad seemed to be presenting an incomprehensible request while maintaining an unsettling composure. Despite the outward respect, the request was filled with irony. At first glance, it appeared to be an attempt to make the estate a branch of MI7, but at its core, it aimed to establish a close, multi-directional connection between them. This wasn't submission; it was a challenge. What had driven MI7's growth significantly was its recognition of the importance of monopolizing and manipulating intelligence. Farad was now asking for a certain degree of intelligence sharing. Obtaining information from an unreliable informant was one thing; accepting intelligence from Ravenholt was entirely another. Once such a cooperative system was in place, and then Ravenholt attempted to provide misleading information, nobody could predict where things might go.

"Was this a decision made in consultation with Jorach?" the old man inquired.

"Yes. Even if you don't trust that, it's okay because I don't expect this negotiation to be completed immediately. We're here to gauge interest, and after I return, I'll discuss it further with Jorach."

To Jorgen, the old man's question signified caution – he sensed the danger of this proposal and the danger of Farad. This thief leader, half the old man's age, was sitting right in the heart of MI7 headquarters, challenging its very foundations.

The MI7 member who had earlier exclaimed "ridiculous" couldn't hold back and spoke up.

"Ravenholt's numbers have been steadily dwindling, and they are under constant retaliation from both the Alliance and Horde, not to mention the ever-present risk of insubordination from ambitious adventurers. We know about your troubles. Life's not so rosy, is it?"

"I don't deny anything you've just said," Farad replied. "But please consider this: Jorach, myself, and other leaders of Ravenholt are, after all, descendants of the Human Kingdom. This is the fundamental reason we're contemplating this collaboration. All of these issues can be resolved without cooperation with MI7."

The authenticity of that statement was difficult to determine, but Jorgen leaned toward believing it. After all, Ravenholt Manor had long been engaged in conflicts with the Syndicate, a primarily Human Kingdom-led organization. As leaders of an organization mainly comprised of humans, their allegiance, if forced to choose sides, would naturally be with the Alliance. This lofty reason provided Farad with a chance to lobby significant non-SI:7 figures to push this plan forward. He was well-prepared.

"Your ideas are intriguing. Ambitious, indeed," the old man remarked.

"I appreciate your recognition." Farad maintained his respectful tone even though he had taken the lead in the conversation.

"I cannot provide an immediate answer."

"Fully understood. I won't be so impolite as to impose a deadline for your response. It seems I'll be staying in Stormwind for a while longer. I quite like the air and water here, not much different from the Hillsbrad Foothills," Farad replied.

Now that the old man had shown a willingness to consider the proposal, any objections from his aides, if they had any, would likely be kept silent. Just as everyone, including Jorgen, assumed the meeting was about to conclude, Farad spoke up again.

"By the way, should you agree to this, I have an additional gift. It's of a personal nature and has no bearing on Jorach."

"Please, go on."

"This matter... Perhaps it's not suitable to discuss it in this setting. How about..."

"Speak now," the old man said. "Since it's part of the collaboration plan, it's necessary for everyone present in this meeting to be informed."

"Very well," Farad said, raising his head slightly. "I know where your son, Dean, who disappeared over a decade ago, is."

No one uttered a word. Every individual was waiting for what Farad might say next.

Jorgen felt a pricking sensation in the corner of his eye. The air seemed to thicken, becoming surreal.

What is he talking about? I personally scattered Dean's ashes. Into the waters of the Menethil River.

"Furthermore, you have subordinates who also know of Dean's whereabouts. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, he refuses to disclose such crucial information. I also know the name of this individual."

As Farad spoke this, he didn't glance at Jorgen.