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The river card was dealt with agonizing slowness. It was the Nine of hearts. Caleb didn't react. He simply turned over his cards first, laying the Ace and King of hearts on the felt. "Royal flush."
The words hung in the air. For a second, there was pure, stunned silence. Then, the entire room erupted. The cheer was deafening, a wave of sound that shook the crystal in the chandeliers. Men roared, women gasped, applause thundered. It wasn't just a win, it was a mythological victory.
Lyle's face contorted in a rictus of disbelief and rage. He slowly turned over his cards pocket Aces, black Aces, the bullets. The second best starting hand, crushed by destiny. Mercer showed pocket Queens. Evangeline, with a graceful shrug, revealed Ace Jack, a strong hand that had been rendered utterly irrelevant.
Caleb leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands slightly, a gesture of calm acceptance amidst the storm. "Looks like the lady favored a flush tonight," he said, his voice carrying over the din.
The dealer, visibly shaken, announced, "The winner… and champion of the Grand Korrigan tournament… Mr. McLaughlin!"
The cheers redoubled. But as Caleb began to reach for the monolithic pile of chips, Lyle shot to his feet, his chair screeching backwards. "NO!" he bellowed. The crowd hushed. "This is a farce! A cheat! No one is that lucky! I demand a rematch! A proper match, just you and I!"
Boos and cries of "Sore loser!" filled the air. Reynard materialized, his crimson coat a slash of color, his face a mask of professional concern. "Mr. Lyle, please. The rules are clear. The tournament is concluded. There are no rematches."
But Caleb held up a hand, silencing Reynard. He fixed Lyle with a gaze of icy amusement. "You want a rematch? After you've lost everything on this table? What will you bet, Mr. Lyle? The air in your lungs? I'll require something of equal value to what's in front of me."
He gestured to the 360,000 dollars worth mountain of chips . "Do you have another fortune in your pocket? Or does Mr. Cornwall's credit only stretch so far?"
Lyle spluttered, his face purpling. One of his stone faced bodyguards leaned in, whispering urgently in his ear. Lyle listened, then suddenly lashed out, slapping the man hard on the side of the head.
"I am in charge here, you idiot!" he snarled. The violent outburst killed the last of the crowd's sympathy. He turned back to Caleb, his chest heaving, the fight visibly draining from him as he saw the wall of contempt in every face around him. To challenge further was to make himself a permanent laughingstock.
He straightened his jacket, a pathetic attempt at dignity. "I… rescind my remark," he spat, the words tasting like ash. "Congratulations, McLaughlin. Enjoy your… luck." He turned on his heel and stalked toward the exit, his bodyguards falling in behind him, the crowd parting to let the defeated serpent slither away.
Reynard let out a breath he'd been holding. "My apologies, Mr. McLaughlin. That was… unseemly."
"It was informative," Caleb said quietly, his eyes following Lyle's retreat. Cornwall's man had broken. That was a useful data point.
Reynard then gestured to the chips. "Shall we convert this to something more portable? A bank draft, perhaps? We have a secure strongbox on board."
"A draft will do," Caleb said. He spent the next thirty minutes under guard, signing paperwork as the chips were counted and converted.
The final tally, after the house's percentage and the agreed cut that Caleb will get form the total for Bronge, left him with a bank draft from the First Bank of Saint Denis for 25%, meaning he got 90,000 dollars. His own personal winnings, combined with the remainder of Bronte's stake and his cut. An astronomical sum.
As he tucked the draft into his inner pocket, he felt a presence at his elbow. Evangeline. "A masterful performance," she murmured. "You didn't just play the cards. You played the room, the moment, the story. That is a rare talent."
"And what did you play, Ms. Evangeline?" Caleb asked, turning to face her fully.
"The observer," she said. "I find the rise of new powers… fascinating. We may speak again, Mr. McLaughlin. When the waters are less crowded." With a final, cryptic smile, she melted into the dispersing crowd.
Senator Pendleton found him next, pressing a sealed envelope into his hand. "My marker. As agreed. Discreet, but binding." His eyes held a new fear, the fear of a man who now owed a debt to a force he couldn't comprehend.
Caleb nodded, pocketing the second, even more valuable piece of paper. "Pleasure doing business, Senator."
Then everyone take a rest in their quarters and when the Grand Korrigan docked, the still exhausted, exhilarated guests woke up and began to get down, Caleb stood for a moment on the deck, looking at the first hints of dawn staining the sky over Saint Denis.
He had arrived as a trusted lieutenant. He was leaving as a legend, a wealthier man by a staggering degree, and holder of a senator's soul in an envelope.
The money was a tool. The influence was a weapon. The chapel in the swamp was a target. And the war between Bronte and Cornwall was a battlefield he now had the resources to dominate. He stepped onto the dock, the solid planks feeling different under his feet.
Bronte's men were already in position when the Grand Korrigan finished mooring, spread in disciplined clusters along the docks like well dressed sentinels.
They wore tailored coats despite the early hour, pistols hidden but close, eyes sharp beneath relaxed expressions. The prized horses and lacquered carriages of Saint Denis's elite were lined up with military precision, ostentatious proof that this stretch of dock was, for the moment, Bronte's sovereign ground.
When Caleb stepped down the gangplank, several of the guards noticed immediately. Word traveled fast. Heads turned. A few of them straightened just a fraction, recognition flickering across their faces.
One of the men, dark hair slicked back, a thin scar along his jaw, offered a polite nod and a smile that held genuine respect. "Mr. McLaughlin. Safe night."
Caleb returned it with an easy smile of his own, the kind that put men at ease without diminishing authority. "Eventful, but safe enough."
Behind him, the rest of the guests and clients began to disembark in clusters, their voices buzzing with lingering excitement, disbelief, and rumor. Some glanced his way openly now. Others pretended not to stare. Legends traveled faster than gossip in Saint Denis, and he could already feel his name taking on weight.
He moved past the carriages toward where Morgan was hitched, standing patiently among the other horses, her dark coat catching the first weak glow of dawn. When she spotted him, her ears flicked forward and she let out a low, unmistakably pleased nicker.
Caleb's expression softened instantly. He reached her side and patted her neck, fingers brushing along familiar muscle and warmth. "Hey there, girl. You behave yourself while I was gone?"
Morgan snorted, shifting her weight. Her ears rotated, tail swished once, and she nudged him lightly with her muzzle.
To anyone else, it was just a horse being affectionate.
To Caleb, with his maxed Horse Mastery humming quietly at the edge of awareness, it was a clear conversation.
I waited. I was bored. I want sugar.
He chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. I hear you. You'll get your treat when we're back at the Bastille. I promise."
Her ears flicked again, satisfied, for now.
He reached for the reins, already planning the ride back, already arranging in his head how he would frame the night's events to Bronte, when the world lurched sideways.
The sound came first.
Hooves. Too many. Fast. Urgent.
Then wheels. Carriages, heavy and hurried, rolling hard over cobblestone instead of gliding.
Caleb's head snapped up.
From the far end of the dock approach, a line of carriages burst into view, accompanied by riders fanning out on horseback. They didn't slow. They didn't signal. They flooded the space in front of the Grand Korrigan's dock like a breaking wave.
Doors were thrown open before the carriages even stopped.
Men spilled out.
Too many men.
And every single one of them was armed.
Repeaters. Rifles. Revolvers already drawn.
The air changed instantly, thickening with intent.
Caleb's Perception flared like a struck match, cold and precise. This wasn't a robbery. This wasn't random violence.
This was a coordinated assault.
His hand went to his Litchfield Repeater in one smooth motion as he released Morgan's reins. He leaned close to her ear, voice low but urgent. "Run. Get clear."
Morgan didn't need to be told twice. Understanding flashed through her, fear, obedience, trust. She wheeled and bolted down the dock, hooves hammering wood as she disappeared into the chaos of panicked horses and screaming civilians.
At the same moment, Bronte's men reacted.
Pistols were drawn. Rifles came up.
Their leader took a step forward, mouth opening to shout a command—
—and the assailants opened fire.
The first volley was deafening.
Gunshots cracked and echoed off stone and iron, splinters exploding from crates, glass shattering from carriage windows. Men screamed. Horses reared. The dock erupted into chaos unlike anything Saint Denis had seen outside of riots or riots suppressed.
Bronte's men were good, but they were caught flat footed. Two went down immediately, one spinning backward with a red bloom on his chest, another collapsing behind a carriage with a cry cut short.
Guests who had been laughing moments earlier now scattered in blind panic, shrieking as they ran for cover. Some tripped. Some froze. A woman in silk screamed as she was dragged down by her companion. A man dropped to his knees clutching his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.
Caleb dove behind a heavy wooden crate just as a bullet punched through the space where his head had been.
His face was grim now, jaw set, eyes cold.
He brought the Litchfield up and leaned out just enough to fire.
Crack.
The rifle bucked against his shoulder. One of the assailants, a man raising a repeater from behind a carriage wheel, jerked and fell backward, dead before he hit the ground.
Caleb didn't pause. He adjusted, fired again.
Crack.
Another man dropped.
With his maximum Rifle skill active, every movement was efficient. Breath controlled. Sight picture perfect. He wasn't spraying fire. He was executing.
As he worked the lever, an unwelcome thought cut through his focus.
Saint Denis. Bank robbery. Pinkertons. Hosea. Lenny.
In the game, chaos like this came with inevitability. Traps sprang because history demanded it.
But this was different.
Bronte was alive. The bank would never be touched. And the Pinkertons are in a conflict againts Bronte but loosing gnadkyso they should be retreating now.
So who the hell was bold or desperate enough to launch a massacre on Bronte's dock?
A bullet slammed into the crate inches from his face. He flinched back, then activated Dead Eye as the cooldown finally cleared.
The world slowed.
Targets lit up in crimson clarity.
Caleb leaned out, heart steady, finger tapping the trigger with mechanical precision.
Three shots.
Three men fell.
One clutched his throat, collapsing soundlessly.
Another spun and crumpled.
The third dropped his rifle, knees buckling before he hit the boards.
Bronte's men rallied.
With Caleb drawing fire and thinning the attackers, they found their footing. Rifles barked. Pistols flashed. The dock filled with smoke and screams.
The assailants hadn't expected resistance this fierce. Not this quickly. Not with this level of accuracy cutting through their ranks.
Some tried to press forward anyway, shouting orders, firing wildly.
Caleb punished every mistake.
He reloaded smoothly, ammo pulled from his inventory without conscious thought, the Litchfield never idle for more than a heartbeat.
Minutes stretched like hours. Then, slowly, the tide turned, causing the attackers to faltered. One group broke for their horses. Another scrambled back toward the carriages. "Don't let 'em regroup!" someone shouted in Italian accented French.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,465 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 192,892 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, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, & 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope
Bank: -