'Hmm?' Jamie, who had been deep in sleep, stirred with a start and blinked in confusion.
"Was that a dream?"
Jamie muttered something under his breath, rolled onto his side, and was about to drift back off.
[Player Reminder! Player Reminder! The lottery system only exists for ten minutes and is not cumulative. If the player misses it, it will be considered a waiver of this lottery opportunity. This lottery system is about to disappear, and the three-minute countdown starts now.]
The strange, mechanical voice rattled through his head again, jerking Jamie fully awake. This time, he swore he could almost hear a ticking clock inside his mind.
Not a dream?
Jamie froze, then forced himself to focus. Sure enough, in the haze of his mind, a glowing space lit up like a lantern on a dark trail.
There it was—a huge timer suspended in the void, its numbers rolling down fast: 2:37, 2:36, 2:35…
No time to waste. Jamie clenched his jaw and dove headfirst into that blinding light.
Next thing he knew, he was standing before three turntables. Two were dull and faded, while one spun with bright, shifting colors.
Information rushed into him as if whispered from nowhere—the dim ones were ordinary wheels, one for skills, the other for attributes.
The radiant, flashing wheel, though—that was special. It held skills, attributes, and rare items all jumbled together.
Time was bleeding away, so Jamie didn't hesitate.
"To hell with it, spin 'em all," he muttered, setting each wheel turning.
He ignored the first two and kept his eyes locked on the rainbow-colored wheel. The world seemed to slow as it clicked to a halt, the pointer landing squarely on the words: Dead Eye.
[Congratulations to the player for obtaining Intermediate Revolver Mastery, Stamina +5, and the Dead Eye skill. Currently, the player still has one ordinary lottery chance remaining.]
Jamie could've sworn the voice sounded happier this time, like it was enjoying itself.
He didn't stop to check the details of his new winnings. No—he had to decide his next move fast.
'Attributes? Skills?' He thought it through quick.
Toughness mattered, sure, but out here in the West, where men settled things with a quick draw, skills would be worth more.
Decision made, Jamie spun the ordinary skill wheel.
But before it could settle, that voice cut back in:
[System Error! The player has already obtained the Dead Eye skill in advance, so this special prize is invalid. Please draw again.]
Jamie's eyes went wide. "The hell you mean I had Dead Eye already? When?!"
No answers came—only the sound of the ticking clock driving him forward. With no time to argue, he spun the flashing wheel again.
The ordinary wheel clattered to a stop first:
[Congratulations to the player for obtaining Intermediate Riding Skill.]
Jamie grinned. "Well, I'll be damned. Guns and a good seat in the saddle—now I'm starting to sound like a real cowboy."
But his eyes were still fixed on the special wheel as it slowed… slower… until it finally clicked into place on the thinnest slice of all.
[Congratulations to the player for obtaining the special passive skill: Chosen One!]
Jamie's heart skipped. 'Chosen One? What in God's name did that mean?'
He didn't get the chance to find out.
[This lottery has ended, and the lottery area is closed.]
The words rang in his ears as his vision blurred. A blink later, he was back in the dim light of camp, lying on his bedroll. The smell of smoke and stew clung to the air.
Next to him, Arthur was snoring like a bear in hibernation, dead to the world.
Gazing at the brilliant starry sky that couldn't be seen back in the city, with the steady hum of crickets in the grass, Jamie tried once again to pull up the system in his mind.
This time, a simple interface flickered to life in front of him.
It showed his physical attributes, the skills he had unlocked, and even a task box in the corner, though it was empty for now.
Haha, it's not a dream—it's real!
I can't believe it. Me, finally catching a break.
Grinning, Jamie opened his attribute menu.
Name: Jamie Custer
Stamina: 6
Energy: 1
Endurance: 1
Strength: 1
Agility: 1
Charm: 2
Jamie scanned through each stat carefully. The descriptions were almost the same as the games he used to play back home.
"So besides Stamina being a little higher, I'm basically starting from scratch," he muttered to himself. "That's pathetic."
But one stat in particular caught his eye.
"Charm? What the hell's that for? If it's high, do women just throw themselves at me? This system really work that way?"
Below, a line of fine print caught his attention:
[Players automatically gain one free attribute point each week. Additional points will be awarded based on performance during adventures.]
"Well… guess that's a safety net," Jamie mused. "Still, wouldn't surprise me if the gacha only ever handed me the same damn stat."
With a shrug, he switched over to the skill menu.
Four skills appeared: Intermediate Revolver Mastery, Intermediate Riding, Dead Eye, and Chosen One.
The first two were straightforward—he knew his way around a revolver and could ride decently well.
But Dead Eye… that caught his attention.
Dead Eye: Active Skill
When activated, time slows down, though you move as normal.
Negative Effect: Your heart rate rises the longer it's active. Once it reaches the limit, the skill cuts out.
Note: Stamina directly affects the duration.
"So when I pulled Arthur out of trouble, I must've triggered it by accident," Jamie realized. "Guess that means I've got some kind of knack for it. Luck, maybe. Either way, it's not bad."
Then came the last one.
Chosen One: Passive SkillYou are the luckiest son of a gun in this world. Go wild!
Jamie blinked. His lips twitched in disbelief.
"…That's the whole damn description? Go wild? What kind of nonsense is that? No limits, no warnings? What if I just drop dead mid-swing? That ain't reassuring."
Still, for all its vagueness, the skill sounded powerful—like hitting the jackpot on a loaded turntable.
"This system really is looking out for me. Hell, I'll take it."
A grin spread across his face."Heh. Wild West, O'Driscolls, Pinkertons, all those rich bastards… Daddy Jamie's here now."
—
Dawn crept over Horseshoe Overlook, the morning fog clinging low along the ridge. Jamie was already awake—truth be told, he hadn't gotten much sleep at all.
His mind had been spinning all night with daydreams of glory.
In every version, he was gunning down outlaws, saving the gang, earning the respect of all, and maybe even winning over the prettiest face in camp.
The air was cool, his breath showing faint in the early light. Pulling his coat tight, Jamie wandered to Arthur's tent.
On a small crate beside Arthur's bedroll sat a few personal belongings.
Two photo frames rested there.
Jamie picked up the first, studying the portrait of an older woman. Flipping it over, he read the faded inscription: Beatrice Morgan – 1870.
Arthur's mother, no doubt.
Jamie set it back carefully, then lifted the other frame. The woman in this one wasn't anyone from camp either. He turned the photo over, but the back was blank.
"The older one's his mother," Jamie muttered. "But this one… who's she? Arthur's wife?"
It was the only explanation he could come up with.
In addition, there was a newspaper clipping about a bank robbery pressed under the photo frame.
Jamie glanced at it briefly and figured it must've been one of the Van der Linde Gang's jobs from before. Otherwise, Arthur wouldn't have kept it so close to his bed.
After setting the frame back where it belonged, Jamie's eyes drifted toward the carriage fender beside Arthur's bed. A few more photographs were tacked there, not in frames, just pinned down like keepsakes.
One photo showed three men—one standing, two sitting. Jamie leaned closer, squinting until he recognized them: Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea in their younger days. The three looked sharp, full of pride and life back then. Jamie let out a low whistle. "Guess years in the sun and dust'll carve a man up fast."
Another photo showed a man in a hat nearly identical to Arthur's. The faded ink across the front read Lyle Morgan. Jamie guessed that must've been Arthur's father.
The last was of a dog—probably one Arthur had owned years ago.
Whether it was the small sounds Jamie made while looking around or just Arthur's natural habit of waking early, the man stirred. By the time Jamie had finished glancing over the belongings and was about to step outside, Arthur cracked his eyes open and pushed himself upright.
"Ahh… drank a bit too much last night." Arthur rubbed at his temples with a groan.
Noticing Jamie, he asked casually, "Oh, Jamie, you're up. How'd you sleep?"
Jamie thought about telling the truth—that he'd only managed the first half of the night—but kept it to himself. Instead, he forced a grin. "Slept fine. You not gonna rest a bit longer, Arthur?"
Arthur shook his head and pulled on his boots. "Nah. Camp's fresh-set here, plenty needs doin'. Go wash your face and check if Pearson's got breakfast ready."
Jamie followed him over to the communal water bucket, splashing cold water on his face. Arthur called toward the chuck wagon, "Pearson, stew on yet?"
Pearson had just finished up. Wiping his hands on a greasy apron, he nodded. "Yeah, food's ready. Just a stew made from yesterday's scraps. Coffee'll be a few minutes more."
"That'll do. Jamie, c'mon, let's eat," Arthur said, motioning for him.
Jamie looked down at the plate Pearson handed over: thin stew from the old meat broth, a hunk of round bread, and a strip of roasted meat left from last night. Mostly liquid, hardly filling.
He tasted it—the broth was watered down, the flavor bland. He finished what was on his plate but didn't go back for seconds. Arthur, unfazed, helped himself to another bowl.
By then, the coffee in the percolator was ready. Arthur poured a tin cup, sat back, and took a slow sip. "That's the good stuff," he muttered.
Jamie hadn't drunk much coffee in his life. Still, he figured it'd be smart to fit in.
He poured himself a small cup, blew across the steam, and took a cautious sip. The sharp bitterness and sour edge hit him at once, jolting him awake.
'Is this what they all drink every day?' he thought, forcing it down. It wasn't pleasant, but it did the job of clearing his head.
He set the cup aside, deciding one sip was plenty.
While no one was paying him any mind, Jamie quietly tipped the last of his bitter coffee out at his feet.
"Arthur, what are we doin' today?" Jamie asked, noticing Arthur finish the dregs from his own tin cup.
Arthur set the cup down, rubbed at his jaw, and spoke in that steady, unhurried way of his. "Well, first thing, we'll check if anyone's found us some work. After that, we need to get you a gun. And if we can manage it, best get you a horse too." He poured himself another splash of coffee.
"Alright," Jamie said, raising both hands like he was all for the idea.
The thought actually excited him.
By chance, he already had those skills—Intermediate Riding and Revolver Mastery. He wanted to see just how far "intermediate" really went.
Guns he figured the gang had spares of, but a horse… that might be trickier.
Horses were expensive.
He paused, frowning.
'Couldn't just rob one… right?' Then he laughed at himself.
'Hell, I'm in a gang of outlaws now. Why wouldn't we?' He gave his head a small slap, annoyed at how he still thought like an ordinary man.
After breakfast, Arthur wandered off toward the hitching posts to tend to the horses, giving each a brush and a kind word.
With nothing pressing, Jamie strolled to the edge of Horseshoe Overlook. Fog still clung to the valley, and beyond it stretched miles of rolling country.
As the mist lifted, camp slowly came alive—pots clattering, voices rising, the familiar rhythm of another day beginning.
"Jamie, there you are," came a calm voice. Jamie turned to see Hosea Matthews making his way over, blue western hat pulled low, his sheepskin coat buttoned against the morning chill.
"Arthur mentioned getting you a horse. Well, there's one here we aim to sell. I figure you could ride along with him to town, trade it off, and buy yourself something proper."
"Mr. Matthews," Jamie greeted with a nod. Seeing the old man come straight toward him, he asked, "You came looking for me?"
Hosea gave a soft chuckle. "Not exactly. I take in the view every morning, same as you."
Jamie thought over what Hosea said and frowned. "If there's already a horse here, why can't I just ride that one? Why bother selling it to buy another?"
Hosea smiled knowingly. "Because that horse's a Shire. Big draft animal. Strong as an ox, but slow and foul-tempered. You don't want a long ride on its back. Even for hauling, I never thought much of it. Best to be rid of it and start fresh. You take it with Arthur later. Use my saddle for now."
Jamie dipped his head gratefully. "I see. Thank you, Mr. Matthews."
With that, Jamie excused himself and headed back toward the camp entrance, where Arthur was tightening straps on his saddlebags, preparing for the road.