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...
Caleb swung his legs out of bed, sitting up. He buckled on his gun belt with practiced speed, slid his boots back on, and set his hat on his head. His expression hardened in the mirror, calm, cold, perfectly controlled McLaughlin. He reached for his Litchfield Repeater from beside the nightstand, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door. The shouting only grew louder as he walked down the hallway.
"You listen here! You hear me, boy? We ain't waitin' no more! You're gonna serve us like kings!"
"Please... sir, if... if you have the money... we'll take your order, but—!"
"Don't you talk back to me boy!"
A deep, snarling voice followed. Angry, drunk, and violent.
Caleb's jaw tightened.
He moved down the stairs.
Each step revealed the scene more clearly, angry threats, chaos blooming in the morning calm, frightened patrons whispering behind their hands or sinking lower in their seats, trying not to draw attention.
When Caleb reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw the source.
Seven men.
Can't be denied from their looks they were outlaws.
Hard faced, rugged, messy beards and worn coats. Cowboys from the frontier carrying themselves with the arrogance of men who believed fear was their God given right to inspire.
The bartender working the morning shift, a young white colored skinned man Caleb didn't recognize possibly new worker, was pale, hands trembling as the barrel of a revolver hovered inches from his forehead.
Standing closest to him was the leader.
A tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek, eyes bloodshot, coat dusty and patched, revolver gleaming in his hand.
"And I said," the outlaw leader snarled, "we don't pay a single damn dime here! Not now, not ever. We're the Blackbridge Riders, boy! This here's our city now!"
The bartender swallowed, voice cracking. "S... sir, I already told you… the Bastille serves anyone who has the money to pay for our services, but—"
"Oh shut your mouth!" the outlaw roared, cocking his revolver back. "You ain't got no say in this!"
A few morning patrons gasped. A woman covered her child's eyes. Someone whispered prayers.
Then—
A low chuckle could be heard.
Soft. Calm. Unbothered.
It came from the direction of the piano.
Every head in the saloon turned.
Leaning casually against the polished wood frame of the piano stood Caleb.
Relaxed posture.
Hat tilted slightly forward.
Repeater resting comfortably at his shoulder.
Expression cool as winter steel.
The leader snapped his revolver toward Caleb. "You think somethin's funny, boy? You laughin' at me?"
Caleb pushed himself upright, uncrossing his arms and standing fully. His eyes locked onto the outlaw with chilling calm.
"Yes," he said. "I'm laughing at the idea that you think you can walk in here and demand anything for free just like that."
He took a slow step forward.
"Tell me," he continued, voice low and smooth. "Do you even know who owns this fine establishment?"
The leader barked out a loud, mocking laugh, his men joining him.
"Who owns it?" he jeered. "Us! The Blackbridge Riders! You deaf or just stupid? We're takin' this place. This saloon will be our first of many territories. Saint Denis belongs to us now!"
Caleb shook his head slowly.
"Then," he said, "you've chosen not to live anymore."
A hush fell across the room.
The leader's amusement snapped like a twig.
"You son of a bitch," he hissed. "You got a real death wish, don't you? Boys, kill him!"
He pointed and shouted.
"Shoot him!"
Caleb sighed.
And activated his Dead Eye Skill.
The world shifted instantly.
Hue turned golden. Sound muffled. Time crawled to a near standstill.
The outlaws moved like sluggish shadows.
Caleb's breathing slowed.
His heartbeat deepened.
He raised his Litchfield Repeater with smooth, fluid grace, the weapon moving like an extension of his body rather than an object.
Red crosses flickered into existence across his vision.
One on the leader's forehead.
Another on the man to his left.
Four more across the chest, neck, and heads of the remaining Riders.
Seven targets.
Seven shots.
Marked.
Caleb squeezed the trigger.
The world snapped back.
Reality roared forward into motion—
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
Seven thunderous gunshots echoed through the Bastille. Seven bodies dropped before any of them could pull their own triggers.
Clean hits. Precise. Instant.
The leader fell backward with a dull thud, his revolver slipping from his hand. His men collapsed around him like dominos, weapons clattering uselessly onto the floor.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Tables were still.
Patrons frozen.
Even the piano, despite no one playing it, seemed to have fallen quiet out of sheer shock.
Caleb lowered his repeater, exhaled softly, and scanned the room to ensure no further threats lingered.
All seven Riders were down.
No more gunfire.
No screaming.
Just stunned silence.
The bartender stared at him with wide, trembling eyes.
"Th... thank you… Mr. McLaughlin," he stammered.
Caleb tipped his hat slightly.
"They won't bother anyone again."
He walked forward, stepping around the fallen bodies with smooth precision, holstering the repeater at his back. People instinctively moved aside to let him through, whispering in awe, fear, admiration, some in combinations of all three, as they saw firsthand the skill of the famous McLaughlin.
Caleb stopped in front of the bartender.
"You alright?"
The bartender nodded shakily. "Y... yeah… I think so. If you hadn't come down—"
"I was here," Caleb replied calmly. "And you knew well the owner doesn't tolerate trouble in his establishments."
The mention of Bronte alone settled most of the room. Several patrons who knew who is the owner nodded to themselves. Some exhaled in relief.
But Caleb wasn't done.
He turned to the crowd.
"You all saw what happened," he said plainly. "Self defense. These men aimed first. Anyone asks, that's the truth."
Patrons murmured their agreement.
A few even spoke up in support.
"McLaughlin saved us!"
"They were about to shoot the bartender!"
"He protected the Bastille!"
Caleb nodded once, satisfied.
Then he walked toward the door.
As he reached the entrance, the morning light pouring in, he paused, hearing footsteps approach from behind.
It was the bartender again.
"S... sir! Mr. McLaughlin! Before you go, the boss's men… they'll want to know what happened. I'll send word quickly."
"You do that," Caleb said. "And tell them I'll speak with the boss personal myself right away. He'll want to hear this directly."
"Yes, sir."
Caleb exited the Bastille and stepped onto the street.
The air outside felt different. Cooler. Sharper. As if the city itself exhaled at the removal of a threat.
He walked to Morgan, who waited loyally where he left her. He stroked her neck reassuringly before mounting.
Saint Denis bustled around him, carriages rattling down the cobblestone roads, vendors shouting their morning wares, newspaper boys calling headlines.
But beneath it all…
Caleb sensed it.
A shift.
A ripple.
An event like this never went unnoticed. Not in a city balanced on the knives of politics, law, and crime.
And certainly not with Pinkertons sniffing around.
As he rode away from the Bastille, he replayed the encounter with Connor from the night before.
The Pinkertons were here early. Moving fast. Sniffing harder. Connecting dots more quickly than they should.
And now one of the group of outlaws, the Blackbridge Riders, which he planned to give warning today had wandered in believing they could "take over" Saint Denis.
It wasn't random.
Outlaws don't wander into a city like this without hearing whispers and information first.
Someone had emboldened them.
Someone had possibly told them that Bronte's grip was weakening.
Someone wanted chaos.
And chaos made it easier for the Pinkertons to operate.
He just needed to control the storm before it became a hurricane.
And that began with one simple next step—
Visiting Bronte.
Because news like this traveled quickly.
And he couldn't afford to let anyone else twist the narrative.
Caleb guided Morgan down the long, winding streets toward Bronte's estate, already feeling the weight of the coming conversation settling on his shoulders.
He had killed seven outlaws in Bronte's establishment.
Protected his property. Asserted dominance. Sent a message.
And Bronte, cunning as ever, would use that message, shape it, turn it into something larger, something that strengthened his power.
Caleb needed to be ready.
Because Saint Denis was about to become far more dangerous than before.
And he had just stepped into the center of it.
Caleb soon arrived at Bronte's mansion.
The estate loomed at the end of the boulevard like a marble fortress, ornate balconies, trimmed hedges, tall iron wrought fencing, and a pair of massive wooden doors framed by columns carved with Italian flourish. The morning sun cast a golden sheen across the estate, illuminating the imported stonework and the glossy black carriages parked along the side path.
Bronte's men were already positioned across the perimeter.
Six of them, maybe eight, dressed in fine black suits, polished shoes, neatly trimmed hats, and sharp eyes that scanned the surroundings with disciplined vigilance. The air around the mansion always carried the same quiet tension, a constant reminder that Bronte's power was not merely wealth but force, organized, refined, and unrelenting.
As Caleb approached, the men straightened subtly.
Not out of suspicion.
Out of acknowledgment.
Out of respect.
He guided Morgan toward the small hitching area near the estate's front gardens. Palm trees swayed gently overhead, their leaves brushing softly against the air as Caleb dismounted and stroked Morgan's neck.
"You did good, girl."
Morgan snorted softly, leaning into the touch.
Caleb tied her reins securely, gave her one last pat, then turned and walked toward the front gate.
Two Italian guards in their long coats and bowler hats stood rigidly on either side of the gate. Their expressions were stern, but as Caleb approached, both men nodded and stepped aside in synchronized motion, pulling the gate open.
"Prego, Signore McLaughlin," one of them said in a thick Italian accent. "The boss has been informed of your arrival."
Caleb raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Thank you."
He stepped through the gate… and immediately saw Bronte's butler waiting just inside the courtyard.
A tall, thin older man with perfectly combed white hair, immaculate suit, and a calm expression carved from marble. He gave Caleb a polite bow.
"Good morning, Signore McLaughlin," he greeted, voice smooth and dignified. "The master is still having his bath. He asks that you wait in the dining room and enjoy the delicacies prepared for breakfast. It is his strict order."
Caleb nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Right this way, signore."
The butler guided Caleb across the courtyard, up the stone steps, and into the mansion. The interior smelled faintly of cologne, imported incense, and honey glazed pastries. Marble floors gleamed under the morning sun pouring through tall windows framed with crimson curtains. Oil paintings of Italian vistas lined the hallway as Caleb followed the butler deeper inside.
They stopped before the open entrance of the dining room.
It was lavish as always, long table dressed with a white cloth, golden candle stands, polished silverware, and a spread of morning dishes laid neatly along the center. Sunlight streamed across the table, catching the glimmer of crystal glasses.
"I will return once the master is ready," the butler said. "Please enjoy the breakfast. The chef prepared these specifically for the master and his guests."
Caleb nodded again. "I'll be fine. Thank you."
The butler bowed once more and withdrew.
A maid stepped forward and gently placed a plate before Caleb as he took his seat at the right side of the table, Bronte's favored spot for distinguished individuals.
Two slices of bread.
Two eggs.
Sausages cooked in butter.
Lightly seasoned vegetables.
And beside it, a bowl of sliced apples glistening with a faint drizzle of sweet syrup.
The maid poured him a tall glass of water as well.
"Grazie," Caleb said, offering a small nod.
She smiled and stepped back.
Alone in the quiet dining room, Caleb finally let his shoulders ease as he picked up his fork and began to eat. He hadn't had breakfast yet, and after the morning he'd had, he needed it.
The food was good.
Better than good.
Bronte didn't tolerate mediocrity in anything.
As he ate, Caleb's mind shifted, not away from the meal, but deeper into strategy. He needed to control this narrative. Reporting the shootout was necessary, ignoring it would be suspicious. But the way he framed it… the angle… the implication… those would steer Bronte's thinking exactly where Caleb needed it to go.
...
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 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,787 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,142 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 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, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -