If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
...
He looked back at Bronte. "This was Cornwall's answer to my win. And to your partnership with me. He's not just coming for your business, Mr. Bronte. He's declaring war on your face. He tried to slap you in front of everyone who matters in Saint Denis."
Bronte's rage, which had been a chaotic fire, began to coalesce into something colder, sharper. The color receded from his face, replaced by a marble like pallor.
"Cornwall," he whispered, the name a curse. "He dares? On my water? With my people watching? Doin gi to openly?!"
"He dares because he thinks you won't risk an all out war Mr. Bronte," Caleb pressed, his Persuasion skill weaving the argument seamlessly. "He thinks you'll see the dead socialites and the polices he have bribed questions you and you'll back down. He's testing your resolve. Publicly."
"We must retaliate!" Bronte snarled, slamming a fist into his palm. "Immediately! We burn his warehouses! Sink his barges! Block his trains from entering into Saint Denis!"
"And that made you play right into his hands Mr. Brotne," Caleb said, cutting through the bloodlust. His tone was that of a trusted lieutenant who gives advices.
"That's what he expects. A blunt, emotional response that brings the full weight of 'legitimate' authority down on you. The police he now owns with bigger bribes, the higher level politicians he bribes than those eyou bribe Mr. Bronte. He wants a street war because he can afford it, and he can frame you as the criminal while he remains the aggrieved industrialist."
Bronte stared at him, his chest heaving. "What, then? We do nothing?!"
"We do what he least expects," Caleb said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "We show strength, but not the kind he's looking for. We tighten our grip. We secure your assets. The chapel must remain safe, we increase the guard, change the rotations even more."
"Your legitimate business fronts, we make them impregnable. And we strike back with precision, not with fire. We find the broker who hired those guns. A man named Smeets, at the Green Turtle Saloon in the slums. We take him, quietly. We follow the chain. We find Cornwall's 'dogs' and we put them down, one by one, in the dark where it doesn't make the papers. We make his deniable assets in Saint Denis disappear. We make it costly for him to move against you, in ways that don't give him a public excuse to crush you."
He paused, letting the strategy hang in the air. "And," he added, "I need to leave Saint Denis, Mr. Bronte. Immediately."
Bronte's head jerked up. "Leave? Now? When I need you most?"
"It's the best move," Caleb insisted, his Acting projecting pure, logical necessity. "My presence here is now a lightning rod. Every move I make will be watched. It limits your options. If I go, the immediate heat follows me. It gives you space to operate. I can continue to work for you from a distance, I will investigate from the outside on Cornwall. I can be a hidden blade, not a target on your back. And when the time is right, when we've identified the true weak points, I return, and we cut the heart out of Cornwall's operation here."
Guido watched this performance with some form of suspicion, but he was smart enough to see the logic. Having the one targeted gone, especially one who had proven to be a big asset who have earned such big trust, suited his own ambitions perfectly.
Bronte was silent for a long minute, pacing again, but now with purpose, not panic. He was thinking, calculating. Caleb's narrative had worked.
The attack was no longer a humiliating security failure, it was an act of war by Cornwall, which Bronte had heroically thwarted with Caleb's help, and which now required a cunning, long game response.
"Bene," Bronte said finally, stopping and looking at Caleb with a new, fierce respect. "You see the board clearly, McLaughlin. A cooler head than my own in this moment. You will leave. Today. Use the back routes. Take whatever you need."
He pointed a finger. "But you are not running. You are repositioning. You keep the money you won. You earned it. And you continue your work from outside of Saint Denis. And when I call for you though my own secure channels, when we have the name of the dog who gave the order, you will come back and we will put him in the ground."
Caleb nodded, a soldier accepting orders. "Understood, Mr. Bronte."
"Go," Bronte said, waving a hand, his mind already racing ahead to securing his empire. "And McLaughlin… grazie. For today."
Caleb gave a final nod to Bronte and an glance to Guido, then turned and left the room. The butler was waiting with his hat. Outside, the dawn was fully breaking, casting a clean, hopeful light that felt utterly alien after the night's blood and the room's contained fury.
Morgan whickered softly from the hitching post as he approached. Caleb paused, one hand resting briefly on her neck. "That went about as well as it could," he murmured.
She snorted, as if unconvinced.
Caleb chuckled softly at Morgan's snort, the sound low and warm despite the tension still clinging to him like smoke.
With his max level Horse Mastery, he didn't just hear a horse's noises, he understood intent, attitude, temperament. And Morgan had plenty of all three.
'That went well?' her posture seemed to say. 'You almost got shot to pieces on a dock, and now you call it "as well as it could"?'
"Yeah, yeah," Caleb murmured, patting her neck. "You don't have to look at me like that. Whether you're convinced or not ain't really the issue, girl."
Morgan flicked an ear back, tail swishing in an unmistakably sassy arc. If someone ever tried to argue she wasn't a queen of attitude, they'd be a liar.
Somewhere along the way, maybe from the countless gunfights, narrow escapes, and long rides talking half to himself, some of his personality had clearly rubbed off on her.
"Now," Caleb said, swinging into the saddle, "we ride to the bank. Got money to exchange. And a box to empty."
That did get her moving.
Morgan stepped out into a smooth trot, hooves striking the stone roads of Saint Denis with rhythmic confidence.
The ride to the First Bank of Saint Denis was a journey through a city adjusting its narrative. The early morning bustle was laced with a new, electric undercurrent.
News of the dockyard battle, already being sanitized into "a brazen attempted robbery thwarted by heroic guards and a celebrated bounty hunter", had spread like gossip fueled wildfire.
As Caleb rode, he caught snippets from well dressed men on the sidewalk, from shopkeepers sweeping their steps, from ladies sharing whispers behind gloved hands.
Upper class townsfolk watched him with cautious respect. Middle class workers with open awe. Even a few policemen glanced his way with something approaching uncertainty.
"...heard McLaughlin took down ten of them himself..."
"...selfless, really, defending those poor society folks..."
"...saved half of the riverboats guests, they say. Makes you feel safer, in a way..."
The legend of "McLaughlin" was being polished in real time, Caleb kept his posture relaxed, gaze forward, but he absorbed it all. Reputation was a currency, and this morning, his value had surge even further. It was a useful reputation, and Caleb made no effort to correct it.
Saint Denis had always admired strength when it was wrapped in control, and what they'd heard painted him not as a butcher, but as a protector, someone who'd stood when chaos came calling.
Morgan's ears flicked back, picking up the same attention. She tossed her head once, proud as any parade horse.
"Don't let it go to your head," Caleb said under his breath.
She snorted in response.
It didn't take long before the broad stone façade of the Saint Denis bank came into view, its tall columns casting long shadows across the street. And just as Caleb had suspected, security was heavier than usual.
Uniformed police stood in pairs near the entrance, hands resting close to their belts, eyes scanning the street with heightened alertness. Whatever official story was being circulated about the docks, it had spooked the city's power structures.
Caleb slowed Morgan to a stop, swung down smoothly, and hitched her to the post. He gave her another pat on the neck. "Behave. This won't take long."
She snorted and stamped once, as if offended by the implication, which he chose to interpret as agreement.
Inside, the cavernous main hall was cool and quiet, the only sound the soft scratching of pens and the clack of an adding machine.
A clerk behind the central circular counter looked up, his professional smile freezing for a fraction of a second as he recognized Caleb or at least recognized the man from the stories now circulating. The suit, though stained, was obviously expensive, the bearing, unmistakably dangerous.
"Good morning, sir. Welcome to the First Bank. How may I be of service?" the clerk asked, his voice a touch too bright.
Caleb offered a polite, tired smile. "I'd like to exchange a draft, please." He reached into his inner coat pocket and produced the bank draft from the Grand Korrigan, sliding it across the polished mahogany.
The clerk took it, his eyes scanning the amount. 90,000 dollars. His breath hitched. Then he saw the issuing authority, the tournament fund, backed by Angelo Bronte's private accounts. The clerk's head snapped up, his eyes wide. The color drained from his face just a fraction.
"O... of course, sir. One moment, please. I must… consult with the manager." He scurried away from the counter, clutching the draft like a live grenade, and disappeared into an oak paneled office at the rear.
Caleb waited, hands clasped loosely behind his back, appearing to admire the bank's stained glass dome. In reality, his enhanced Perception was mapping the room, the positions of the guards, the sightlines, the heavy gate leading to the vault area.
Minutes later, the clerk emerged, followed by a portly, impeccably dressed man with a waxed mustache and eyes like polished stones, the bank manager. He approached Caleb, his smile professional but strained.
"Mr. McLaughlin," the manager said, his voice a low, confidential murmur. "A pleasure. Such a… substantial sum requires special handling. For your security and ours. If you would follow me to the vault? We will count it there and provide you with a secured lockbox for transport."
"Lead the way," Caleb replied, his tone agreeable.
The manager gestured, and two armed bank guards fell into step behind them. They passed through the wrought iron gate, which clanged shut with finality, and into a short corridor that ended at the massive, circular vault door. It was a masterpiece of engineered paranoia, studded with bolts and featuring a complex dual combination lock.
"Privacy, of course," the manager said apologetically as he stepped up to the dial. Caleb turned his back politely, activating his Acting skill to project respectful discretion. But his high Perception, sharpened to 9 out of 10, was laser focused on the sound. He didn't need to see.
He heard the precise number of clicks, the subtle variations in resistance as the manager turned the dial, Right 42… Left 17… Right 89… The sequence etched itself into his memory. A useful piece of information for an uncertain future.
With a heavy clunk thunk, the vault door swung open. The air inside was cool, dry, and smelled of ink, metal, and old paper. To the right, floor to ceiling rows of safety deposit boxes gleamed dully under the electric lights. To the left stood another, even more formidable looking steel door, undoubtedly leading to the cash and bullion reserves.
The manager gestured for Caleb to wait just inside the doorway. "I will retrieve your funds. It will take a few moments to count."
"Of course," Caleb said. Then, as if an afterthought, he pulled Milton's key from his pocket. "While I wait, might I access my safety deposit box? Save us all some time."
...
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: -