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"They are, Mrs. Thorne," Caleb nodded, sliding into the leather booth beside her and casually wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "The Heartlands will be integrated into our business lines within the month. But our business here is finished. It is time for us to go home."
Mary-Beth didn't ask questions. She saw the definitive, protective glint in his eye and understood that his mind was already moving three steps ahead. She simply nodded, setting her coffee mug down with a graceful finality. "Then I am ready."
They stood up as a group, the imposing presence of the inner circle once again commanding the attention of the bustling restaurant.
Caleb walked toward the front counter, where Jasper was wiping down the polished wood, orchestrating the chaos of the kitchen with practiced ease.
"Jasper," Caleb called out.
The young manager looked up, wiping his hands on his apron, and hurried around the counter. "Leaving so soon, Boss? I was hoping you might stay for the dinner rush. We do a some great burgers that would knock your boots off."
"I have no doubt it is exceptional, Jasper, but the situation requires my presence in the South," Caleb smiled, extending his hand.
Jasper took it, shaking it with the fierce, unshakeable loyalty of a man whose life had been saved by the man standing before him.
"You keep this place running like a machine," Caleb instructed warmly. "If you run into any trouble, if the suppliers try to squeeze your margins, or if any local gangs decide they want to test the protection of this establishment, you send a wire directly to the Garden District. Do you understand? I will have a heavily armed train sitting in this station before the sun goes down."
"I understand, Mr. Thorne. But honestly, with the reputation you've built... nobody in this county is stupid enough to look at this crown logo and think about causing trouble," Jasper grinned.
Caleb nodded approvingly. "Say your goodbyes, gentlemen."
Arthur and John offered Jasper respectful nods and firm handshakes, recognizing the young man as a foundational pillar of their early survival. Mary-Beth gave him a warm, gracious smile, thanking him for the hospitality and the incredible food.
The heavily armed entourage stepped out of the restaurant and back into the waiting, high end carriages.
The ride back to the Valentine station was quick. The Leviathan was already hissing with aggressive pressure, the heavy black smoke billowing from the stack, painting a dark streak across the crisp blue sky.
They boarded the opulent parlor car, the capos securing the doors and taking up their tactical positions in the adjoining compartments. With a deafening blast of the steam whistle, the massive locomotive lurched forward, leaving the freezing mud of the frontier behind and beginning the long, rhythmic descent back toward the industrialized warmth of Lemoyne.
The journey south was a quiet, comfortable reprieve. The rhythmic clack of the iron wheels on the tracks lulled the cabin into a peaceful state. Caleb spent the journey seated beside Mary-Beth, reading quietly, occasionally reaching over to gently rest his hand against her stomach, marveling at the quiet, profound reality of the life growing within her.
By the time the train finally pierced the heavy, humid air of the southern swamps and rolled into the sprawling, smoke choked rail yards of Saint Denis, the sun had already set, casting the city in the glowing, artificial light of the newly installed electric streetlamps.
The transition from the train to the waiting fleet of Model T motorcars was executed with flawless, military precision. The roaring engines carried the inner circle through the bustling, cosmopolitan streets, a stark and jarring contrast to the quiet, rustic isolation of Valentine.
When the motorcars pulled through the towering iron gates of the Garden District estate, the massive white pillars of the mansion looked like a fortress glowing in the dark.
Caleb stepped out of the lead Model T, helping Mary-Beth down to the gravel.
Antonio, the impeccably dressed head steward, was waiting on the marble steps. But the steward did not bear his usual expression of serene, aristocratic composure. His face was tight, his posture rigid with urgent tension. He held a leather folio tightly against his chest.
"Welcome home, Mr. Thorne. Mrs. Thorne," Antonio bowed quickly, his eyes darting to Vincenzo and Arthur.
"You look like a man carrying bad news, Antonio," Caleb observed instantly, his relaxed demeanor evaporating as he led Mary-Beth up the steps.
"It is a matter of logistical disruption, sir," Antonio reported, falling into step beside Caleb as they entered the grand, chandelier lit foyer of the mansion. "While you were in New Hanover, I received a barrage of urgent wires from the foremen overseeing the transit routes in the outer parishes."
"Explain," Caleb demanded, handing his overcoat to a waiting footman.
"It is the rural territories, sir. The swamps of Lagras, the deep bayous of Nwa, and the open plains of the Scarlet Meadows," Antonio detailed, opening the leather folio and pulling out a stack of telegraph slips. "The bandits and outlaws holding out in those regions have become exceedingly bold. The Lemoyne Raiders have regrouped in the southern ruins, and the swamp gangs are running rampant. They are hitting our supply lines. Two wagons carrying high grade copper wire for Mr. Tesla's tower were ambushed yesterday. A shipment of surgical steel meant for the hospital was hijacked this morning on the road from Rhodes. People cannot travel safely, and it is actively bleeding our construction schedules."
Caleb stopped dead in the center of the foyer.
The absolute, terrifying silence of the syndicate boss descended upon the room. Arthur and John exchanged a dark, knowing look. Vincenzo's hand instinctively drifted toward the lapel of his tailored suit.
Caleb had spent the last months elevating his empire into the stratosphere. He was dealing in hundreds of thousands of dollars corporate acquisitions, recruiting future global scientific geniuses, and negotiating international politics with the President of the United States. He had operated under the assumption that his sheer, overwhelming wealth and the terrifying reputation of his army had pacified his home state.
He was wrong. The cancer of the old, violent frontier was still clinging to the edges of his modern kingdom, actively trying to drag his progress back into the mud.
"They hijacked the copper for the tower," Caleb repeated, his voice dropping into a low, deadly whisper that echoed off the marble walls.
"Yes, sir. And they killed three of the teamsters driving the wagons," Antonio added grimly.
Caleb's jaw clenched, the muscles ticking violently. He could not build a twentieth century utopia on top of a nineteenth century outlaw problem. He could not invite the greatest medical minds in the world to a city surrounded by heavily armed, lawless highwaymen.
"Vincenzo," Caleb said, his voice carrying the absolute, uncompromising coldness of an executioner.
"Boss," Vincenzo stepped forward immediately.
"I want every single able bodied, made man in this family gathered in the eastern warehouse on the docks within the next three hours," Caleb commanded, the orders flowing with ruthless, tactical precision. "I want the capos. I want the street soldiers. I want every man who knows how to pull a trigger. We are done playing defense with our supply lines. It is time to clean up the entire state of Lemoyne."
Vincenzo's eyes lit up with a dark, violent thrill. "Every man, Boss. Understood."
"Arthur. John," Caleb turned to his oldest, deadliest friends. "Break out the heavy armory. The two shotguns, the M-1911 pistols, the surplus rifles and machine gun we pulled from the foundries. We are not sending a message. We are sending a plague."
"It's about damn time we burned out those swamps," Arthur grunted, a feral, terrifying grin spreading across his face.
Mary-Beth, who had been standing quietly by the staircase, felt a sudden, icy knot of dread form in her stomach. She watched the civilized, brilliant industrialist she loved entirely shed his skin, revealing the ruthless, blood soaked warlord beneath.
"Three hours," Caleb finalized the orders. "Move."
As Vincenzo, Arthur, and Silvio scattered to mobilize the army, Caleb turned to Mary-Beth. Her face was pale, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and profound concern.
"Go upstairs, my love," Caleb said softly, his tone shifting instantly back to gentle warmth. "Get some rest. I have to address the men."
Three hours later, the cavernous, brick lined interior of the Thorne Holding Company's primary shipping warehouse on the Saint Denis docks was packed with nearly three hundred heavily armed men.
The atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke, the smell of gun oil, and the aggressive, volatile energy of a mob family preparing to go to war. These were not the polished executives or the brilliant engineers of Caleb's empire. These were the enforcers, the hitters, the men who wore tailored suits but possessed the cold, dead eyes of professional killers. They stood in loose formations, holding all of their guns that are of course produced by Thorne-Marlin Firearm's Company.
A sudden, absolute silence fell over the warehouse as Caleb Thorne walked through the heavy iron side door.
He was no longer wearing the midnight blue, aristocratic three piece suit. He was dressed for the slaughter. He wore a heavy, dark canvas tactical coat over a black shirt. Wrapped around his waist was a custom tooled, reinforced leather gun belt holding twin, M1911. Across his back was the Vanguard bolt action rifle and the Sweeper submachine gun.
He walked with the terrifying, fluid grace of an apex predator. Flanked by Arthur, John, Vincenzo, and Silvio, Caleb climbed up onto a stack of heavy wooden shipping crates in the center of the warehouse, looking out over his army.
"Gentlemen," Caleb's voice boomed through the cavernous space, requiring no megaphone, carrying the raw, undeniable gravity of his leadership.
The three hundred men stood perfectly still, hanging on his every word.
"Look at yourselves," Caleb commanded, sweeping his arm across the crowd. "Look at the suits you wear. Look at the weapons in your hands. Look at the city outside these doors. We have built an empire that the tycoons of New York and London envy. We are building hospitals that will cure the world. We are building machines that fly in the sky. We are the undisputed future of this country."
Caleb's expression hardened, his eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury.
"But outside the borders of this city," Caleb continued, his voice dropping into a lethal, resonating growl, "in the swamps of Lagras, in the fields of the Scarlet Meadows... there are men who refuse to accept that the world has moved on. There are bandits, highwaymen, and the pathetic, lingering remnants of the Lemoyne Raiders who believe they can hide in the mud and steal the steel that belongs to us. They believe they can hijack the copper meant for our towers. They believe they can kill our teamsters and face no consequences."
A low, angry murmur rippled through the army of capos, the collective rage of the syndicate rising.
"They think we have grown soft because we sit in boardrooms!" Caleb shouted, his voice echoing off the brick walls like a physical blow. "They think because we build automobiles, we have forgotten how to pull a trigger! They think this state belongs to the outlaws!"
Caleb drew one of his M1911 pistols in a blur of motion so fast the human eye could barely track it. The metallic shink of the hammer cocking echoed in the absolute silence.
"Tonight, we remind them exactly who owns the South," Caleb declared, holding the weapon high. "We are going to mobilize every wagon, every motorcar, and every horse we possess. We are going to sweep through the bayous, we are going to sweep through the plains, and we are going to burn the rot out of this state. We are going to make Lemoyne so terrifyingly safe that a man could walk from Rhodes to Saint Denis with a bag of gold on his back and never see a drawn gun."
The men began to cheer, a dark, bloodthirsty roar that shook the dust from the rafters. But Caleb wasn't finished.
"I am not sending you into the mud alone," Caleb roared over the cheering, slamming his fist against his chest. "I am not a general who sits in a mansion while his men bleed. I am leading the vanguard. I am riding into the swamps with you, and I am going to personally pull the trigger on every single parasite that dares to stand in the way of our future!"
The warehouse absolutely erupted.
The roar was deafening. The capos pumped their shotguns into the air, screaming their absolute, fanatical devotion to the man standing on the crates. They knew the legends of Caleb Thorne. Some had seen and some have just heard the whispered stories of his supernatural speed, his ability to drop fifteen men in a matter of seconds before a single enemy could clear leather. To ride into battle behind a man with such level of combat skills was not a risk, it was a guaranteed, glorious slaughter.
Caleb stepped down from the crates, the adrenaline of the coming war burning in his veins. The mobilization began instantly, Vincenzo and Silvio barking tactical orders, dividing the men into designated strike teams.
Caleb handed his repeating rifle to Arthur. "Load the wagons. I need to return to the mansion to secure the logistics. I will meet you at the western perimeter in one hour."
Caleb slipped out the side door, stepping into a waiting carriage, and rode swiftly back to the Garden District.
When he entered the master suite, the atmosphere was a stark, jarring contrast to the violent fanaticism of the warehouse.
The room was quiet. Mary-Beth was pacing the length of the plush Persian rug. She turned as the door clicked shut, her eyes locking onto Caleb. She saw the heavy canvas coat, the twin revolvers strapped to his thighs, and the cold, deadly focus in his eyes.
"You are going with them," Mary-Beth stated, her voice trembling, an overwhelming fear breaking through her usual composure.
"I am," Caleb confirmed softly, walking toward her, unbuckling the heavy gun belt and setting it gently on the edge of the bed so as not to intimidate her.
"Caleb, no!" Mary-Beth closed the distance, grabbing the lapels of his coat, her eyes welling with tears. "You are the head of a massive corporation! You are building hospitals! You are negotiating with the President of the United States! You have three hundred heavily armed men who would gladly die for you. Why on earth are you putting yourself on the front lines against a gang of desperate swamp rats?"
"Because if I don't, I lose the loyalty of those three hundred men," Caleb explained, his voice entirely gentle, his hands coming up to cup her face, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
Mary-Beth shook her head, leaning into his touch, her voice cracking with emotion. "You pay them a fortune. They are loyal to the money."
"They are loyal to the myth, Mary-Beth," Caleb corrected, his tone laced with the brutal, psychological reality of his leadership. "If I sit in this beautiful mansion, drinking bourbon while I send men out to bleed and die in the mud to protect my supply lines, I become just another rich, disposable tycoon. I become Leviticus Cornwall. The men will start to resent me. They will start to question why they are fighting."
Caleb looked deeply into her eyes, conveying the absolute necessity of the violence.
"But if I ride at the front of the column," Caleb continued softly. "If I step into the mud with them, if they see me bleed, if they see me kill the men who threaten our family... their loyalty becomes fanatical. It becomes unbreakable. I have to be the apex predator, Mary-Beth, or the wolves in my own house will eventually turn on me."
"But you are going to be a father," Mary-Beth sobbed softly, resting her forehead against his chest, her hands gripping his coat desperately. "If something happens to you in the dark out there... if a stray bullet..."
Caleb wrapped his arms securely around her, pulling her into a fierce, unbreakable embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes.
"Nothing is going to happen to me," Caleb promised, his voice carrying an absolute certainty that defied the laws of probability. He possessed the high level stats. He possessed the physical speed and the Dead Eye reflexes that made him effectively immortal in a conventional gunfight. "I am not a normal man, Mary-Beth. You know that. I see the world differently. I move faster than they can comprehend. There is not a single outlaw in the state of Lemoyne who can put a bullet in me."
He pulled back slightly, forcing her to look into his eyes.
"This is the final purge," Caleb vowed softly. "I have to see this through to the end. I have to personally ensure that this cancer is burned out of our state for good. When I return, the roads will be safe. The hospitals will be built. And our child will be born into a kingdom that is entirely, flawlessly secure."
Mary-Beth looked into the cold, beautiful, terrifyingly capable eyes of her husband. She saw the absolute truth in his words. He was not going out to die; he was going out to conquer.
She took a shuddering breath, her hands sliding up to rest against his chest. She nodded slowly, the fear slowly giving way to the fierce, unyielding strength of a mob boss's wife.
"Burn them out, Caleb," Mary-Beth whispered fiercely, rising onto her toes to press a desperate, passionate kiss to his lips. "Burn every last one of them out of the mud. But you come back to me before the sun rises."
"I swear it my love," Caleb promised with a firm eyes and warm smile. He stepped back, picking up the heavy gun belt and buckling it flawlessly around his waist. The heavy steel revolvers settled against his thighs. He picked up his hat, turning toward the door. The tycoon was gone. The warlord was marching.
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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 MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 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 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, & 3 Diamonds
Bank: -