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He stepped outside again, the cool air brushing against his face. Morgan nickered softly as he approached. "Easy girl," he said, running a hand along her mane. "Let's head back to the Bastille to rest." The streets were quieter now. The whispers followed him still, though softer, carried on the fog like rumors with wings. He didn't mind. The job was done.
As he rode through the silent avenues, he thought about the system notification again, about the mention of a "Master" in New Bordeaux. That name stirred something uneasy in his gut. If that thrall had a superior, then this might not be over. But he pushed the thought aside for now. One mystery at a time.
He smirked faintly to himself. "Physical regen, pain nullifier, sneaking, charm… and 200 dollars. Not a bad night's haul, all things considered."
The lantern's glow stretched long across the cobblestones as Morgan's hooves clicked rhythmically against the stone. Somewhere, in a city that never quite slept, a church bell tolled the hour. Caleb rode on through the haze, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Caleb continued his steady ride through the misty Saint Denis night, the city's glow dimming behind him as the fog began to thicken. His coat was still stained with dried blood, the faint copper scent clinging stubbornly.
He could almost feel the gazes lingering on him from every dark corner, whispers trailing him like ghosts of the city. He didn't care. The hunt was done, and his body screamed for rest.
He rode through the quiet streets until he arrived back at The Bastille, the faint light of the saloon spilling onto the damp cobblestones. The rhythmic clack of Morgan's hooves slowed to a stop as he pulled the reins and dismounted, giving her neck a slow, grateful pat. "You did good, girl," he murmured softly. "Let's get some rest, huh?"
He hitched Morgan to the post outside and straightened his coat. The second he pushed open the swinging doors, the usual murmur of the Bastille died instantly. The piano faltered mid-note. The scent of whiskey and perfume was still thick in the air, but the atmosphere had turned sharp, watchful.
Every pair of eyes turned to him, the blood splattered coat, the tired but calm look in his eyes, the faint trail of crimson still drying on his sleeve.
Usually, greetings of "Evenin', McLaughlin!" or "He's back, the poker champ!" would follow him through the door. Not tonight. The patrons and working girls silently parted as he walked, giving him a clear path to the bar counter. He could feel the weight of their silence pressing on his back.
The bartender tonight wasn't Ezra, a younger man instead, with short sleeves rolled up and a faint trace of nervousness in his expression. Before the man could speak, Caleb reached into his satchel, pulled out a dollar and fifty cents, and set the coins neatly on the counter. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse.
"I'd like a hot bath, right now," he said. "Hope one's ready. And I'll leave these clothes to be washed after I'm done."
The bartender blinked, then nodded quickly. "Y... Yes, sir. The bath was just prepared, you're in luck, nobody's used it yet. As for your clothes, just leave 'em in the bath. The maids will take care of it once you're done."
"Good," Caleb replied simply. "Appreciate it."
He gave the man a brief nod and headed upstairs. The wood creaked softly beneath his boots as he made his way to the bathroom. The smell of soap and fresh water greeted him as he stepped in, steam fogging the mirror slightly. Caleb took a deep breath, then began unbuttoning his Saint Denis attire, folding it carefully, and placing it on the dresser. The clothes were heavy with grime and blood, remnants of the hunt.
Sinking into the hot water, he let the warmth seep into his bones. The city's grime washed away slowly, turning the bathwater faintly murky. He used the soap to scrub away every trace of the night, the sweat, the dirt, the faint metallic sting of blood that had dried on his arms. For a few minutes, the world felt still. His mind drifted again to the system notification he'd received earlier.
"Physical Regeneration up to Level 2, Pain Nullifier to Level 3, Sneaking to Level 4, and Charm… increased to 7."
He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound echoing in the small room. "Guess killing fake vampires has its perks."
The Charm increase was particularly useful, not just for Bronte, but for the game he was playing in this city. Influence, persuasion, subtlety, charm was currency here, just like dollars or bullets.
And leveling up Pain Nullifier and Regeneration meant he could take far more punishment than before. Each step, every mission, every kill, all feeding into his slow but unstoppable climb toward control.
When he finished cleaning, Caleb stepped out, dried himself with the towel hanging by the rack, and pulled out the Corson Outfit from his system inventory. The familiar black and gray layers felt comfortable, functional. He strapped the belt loosely around his waist, slung the Litchfield Repeater across his torso, and left the bath, leaving the soiled clothes folded neatly for the maids.
His room was just across the hall. The bed looked inviting, the sheets freshly turned. Caleb placed the repeater against the wall, removed his gun belt, and sat down heavily. The moment his head hit the pillow, exhaustion claimed him like a wave pulling a drowning man under.
Morning came softly.
Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. Caleb blinked, then stretched, his body feeling remarkably fresh, the benefits of upgraded regeneration no doubt. He got up, fastened his gun belt, and slung the repeater over his shoulder before heading downstairs.
The Bastille was already lively again. Patrons laughed over breakfast, working girls shared gossip near the piano, and the smell of coffee and bacon filled the room. Behind the counter, Ezra was back, polishing a glass when he spotted Caleb. His face broke into a wide grin.
"Well, if it ain't the man of the hour!" Ezra said with a laugh. "You sit right there, mister, this one's on the house."
He slid a bottle of beer across the counter before Caleb could even ask. "Whole city's talkin' about you, friend. They're callin' you the man who ended the Phantom's reign."
Caleb took the bottle, smiling faintly. "Wasn't much of a reign," he said dryly. "Just a man who thought he could play monster in the dark. I just did it for the money. If it makes the streets safer, well… call that a bonus."
Ezra chuckled and shook his head. "You always downplay your work, Mr. McLaughlin. Whatever your reason, you did Saint Denis a service. Word spread fast, and the owner of this fine establishment wanted to show some gratitude."
He leaned in slightly. "Said you can stay in your room here, free of charge, for as long as you're in Saint Denis."
The offer caught Caleb by surprise, and a realization clicked into place. The owner. This establishment, with its clientele of politicians and wealthy elites, was almost certainly another asset in Angelo Bronte's empire. This "gift" was Bronte's subtle way of saying the job was well done and that he was watching.
Of course, it was a subtle gesture, nothing overt, but deliberate. Reward for competence. Gratitude wrapped in opportunity.
Before Caleb could answer, the kitchen doors swung open, and the Bastille's cook emerged carrying a plate of Prime Rib, perfectly seared and steaming. The man placed it in front of Caleb with a grin.
"This one's on the house too," he said before heading back to the kitchen.
Caleb blinked, then chuckled under his breath. "Well, damn. I could get used to this."
He ate quietly, savoring the rare moment of peace. The beer was cold, the meat tender. For once, he didn't feel like a man on the edge of a knife. He finished, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked toward Ezra.
"Tell your boss I appreciate it," he said. "Truly."
Ezra nodded. "Will do, Caleb. He'll be glad to hear it."
With that, Caleb rose, tipped his hat, and headed for the door.
The ride toward the docks was steady, the city shifting from luxury to labor the farther he went. The perfume and polished brass gave way to coal dust, fish guts, and sweat. The workers here moved like ghosts under the burden of crates and barrels, their faces tired, hands calloused from endless days at sea and dockside labor.
Caleb slowed Morgan as he approached the waterfront, scanning the horizon. Ships bobbed in the murky water, ropes creaking, gulls screaming overhead. The salty tang hit his nose immediately. He dismounted and tied Morgan to a post near a stack of crates before making his way deeper into the dockyard.
Chen Lei's operation, he remembered form the information he got, was clean on the surface, hidden behind legitimate trading contracts, cargo manifests, and small time fronts. But underneath it all, the man was a spider, pulling in opium, exotic goods, and stolen goods that wanted to go inside and outside of Saint Denis and from beyond of Saint Denis.
Caleb smirked. "You'll do nicely."
He began asking around quietly. A few dockhands, at first dismissive, loosened up when he slipped a few dollars into their palms and he used his Persuasion Skill on top of it. He learned that Chen Lei's people often gathered at a warehouse near the far end of the docks, one marked with red lanterns at its doors. That was where the real goods changed hands, at night, when the law was thin and the fog was thick.
Caleb leaned against a post, considering his options. A frontal assault would be suicide. Smugglers like Chen Lei kept tight security, lookouts, hired guns, and most likely a couple of desperate souls willing to die for their boss. He needed leverage. A weak link.
He walked toward a nearby bar frequented by sailors, its windows fogged from the inside, the smell of rum and tobacco seeping out. Inside, he found what he was looking for, a man sitting alone in the corner, Chinese, mid thirties, nursing a drink. His clothes were too fine for a laborer, too poor for a merchant.
Caleb approached slowly, buying two glasses of whiskey and setting one on the man's table before taking the opposite seat.
The man looked up, suspicious. "You lost, friend?"
"No," Caleb said with a small smile. "I'm looking for someone. Figured you might've heard of him. Name's Chen Lei."
The man froze mid drink, eyes narrowing. "Never heard of him."
Caleb leaned in slightly, his tone casual, almost friendly. "Funny thing, that. Because I just spoke to a dockhand who said you were one of his men."
The man's hand twitched toward his coat, Caleb saw it before it happened. In one swift motion, he caught the man's wrist and slammed it against the table, making the glass jump. The man winced, letting out a pained grunt, but Caleb's expression didn't change.
"Now," Caleb said softly, "I don't wanna make this ugly. I just need to know where he's hiding. You tell me, you walk out. You lie, and I make sure you join your boss before the night's over."
The man's eyes darted, then finally dropped. He swallowed hard. "Warehouse… red lanterns. East docks. He'll be there tonight… moving something big."
Caleb smiled, releasing the man's wrist. "Appreciate the honesty." He stood, tossed a dollar onto the table, and left without another word. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of the river. The sun was dipping low, painting the harbor in orange and gold. Caleb's mind was already working, mapping the docks, marking exits, calculating how many shots he might need.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,05l48 dollars and 20 cents
Inventory: 104,369 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, & 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key
Bank: -