The feeling he felt was indescribable with words. He almost fell to his knees, thanking the game.
He hit the jackpot out of the thousands of scenarios that could have happened, and he had every right to be happy about it, to feel the joy and excitement because all of his lives were a mess. He died in the most brutal ways imaginable.
Twice he died because of the System gamble, but the other four were… on a whole other level… truly how cartels and the underworld in Sandria deal with their enemies.
Once he was hanged in the square, another time he was put in an acid bath. The third time he was skinned alive and then the last time he was chopped up into pieces and thrown to pigs.
Well, to be true, the first time he woke up in Sandria, he thought if he died then everything would end like in real life, but when he died and woke up and realized he respawned… he got reckless… and even more reckless after every single death.
He didn't give a fuck about how he died, what the chances were. Instead of laying back and trying to build something from the shadows, he went head-on, shooting, killing Dons, stealing White Dream, and building up an empire… at least he tried, because he died terrible deaths.
But the worst thing was not the death, but the scenarios he experienced, how worldbuilding worked. All his past lives, he got the worst ones. The whole country was ruled by criminals, corrupt politicians. Even the military was with them, taking control over the whole country and pushing it into despair and suffering, and thousands died because people tried to fight back.
Demonstrations formed, uprisings formed, but they were always crushed, and from that point on the country was a shithole, poverty, slums, extreme hunger. There was no chance for them to climb the ladder, no chance to have a will for a better life.
Though César tried it and died in the process. He wanted to be the force stopping them, the kind of a villain who's actually a hero but now he got the chance to become one again.
Maybe not a hero, but a villain who stops the country from falling into those same scenarios, ruling over the black market, the drug market, over everything.
There is no mafia or cartel in the capital — that only means one thing… he is able to start it without anybody fucking him up, thought thats a problem too.
Up until this, he had everything in front of him, the cartel and mafia in the city, stealing drugs from them and weapons, and from that point on, just doing the building. But now there's no one in the capital, maybe some gangs, but they're little fuckers selling Magci Weed, not the big-boy drugs. No, they are at the border cities for a reason.
To smuggle them in, or moreover, to smuggle the product out to other countries, which also means that the rich and the ultra-rich and wealthy customers in the capital and the cities around are potentially waiting for a seller.
Jackpot and a curse at the same time… where do I start? I need money, I need people, I need weapons and connections, I need black-market material, I need a house… where do I even start?
"System, do I have any available challenges?"
[System: One available challenge: First Kill.]
"Good. Give me five hundred in cash from the account." He started right away working, as he walked toward the market area.
[System: Cash successfully given.]
It was truly beautiful and mesmerizing, the noises, the smells, it immediately slapped him in the face. and seeing that everybody was calm, collected gave him more will to actually conquer the capital and to do it he has a special destination.
The spot where the best sellers were, the air gun market.
It was a small section of the market packed with sellers and buyers looking for air pistols for their kids, for themselves, to shoot pigeons or other things. But César knew very well what to look for.
Where are you… he thought as he looked around for the right buyer, the one that doesn't shout, the one that doesn't pressure people to see what he's got. The one that sits back silently and just waits… those are the buyers he needs, because they always have something under the table… always.
"There you are…" He smiled as he spotted an older man, maybe sixty, sitting in the corner wearing a military camo shirt and shorts, with a veteran hat on his head. His stand was packed with air pistols and rifles.
"Thanks for your service, sir." Césár said as he stepped toward him, grabbing one of the air pistols and looking at it.
"Yeah, son." The veteran replied and César could immediately tell he was a real-deal veteran. His eyes were hollow, no enjoyment or excitement, just emptiness.
A soldier who had experienced a lot, knew a lot… but more importantly, had a lot.
"How much are these?" César asked as he looked at an air pistol.
"Thirty bucks. No less, no more." The veteran said but didn't look up, as if he didn't even care that César was there.
"Hmm, and this one?" he asked again, grabbing another pistol, one that looked like a real one, with the Co2 cartridge in the grip and magazine… even the slider worked.
"Son, why are you asking annoying questions when the price is written on it? If you're not buying, don't ask—"
The veteran finally noticed it.
The way César held the gun, even if it was just an airgun. The precision in his grip, the finger placement, the way he cocked back the slide, the way he handled it, it was someone who knew what they were doing.
Someone who was trained.
"I'm sorry, sir, I should've noticed it." César said as he noticed his plan was working. Those hollow eyes of the veteran showed excitement now, and all he needed to do was show him something he couldn't forget. "Whoa, this one's brutal, like a shotgun." He said as he reached out for another gun, though he did it purposefully.
As he reached out so his sleeve could be pulled back on his right arm, revealing the tattoo on his forearm… a tattoo that had faded, but those who knew what it meant recognized it every single time.
"Thanks for your service, son." The veteran said as he immediately stopped smoking and even took off his cap.
"Oh, thanks sir." César said as he smiled, knowing his plan worked out perfectly.
"I've never seen one of y'all in person, but I've heard many stories." He said as he focused on César's eyes. "It's astonishing how young you are."
"Twenty-seven, sir. I joined when I was twenty-two and… well, yeah, things happened."
"I bet you've seen more in those short years than I have in my thirty years of service, that's for sure." The veteran said, still looking into César's eyes with understanding. "I mean, Group Four is no joke, special of the special."
The veteran was right, though it was part of César's character's past and the tattoo was the evidence of it. The character had once been part of Group Four, a special operations unit that did everything,both on and off the books. That's why eventually it was disbanded and went under investigation, which was why his character ended up homeless.
Though the unit remained a legend and a mystery, a unit that was brutal and efficient, people who had no remorse but the will to kill and complete their mission, whatever it was.
And what symbolized them was the grim reaper tattoo with "G4" written under it, surrounded by their motto… Messengers of Death.