AN: This chapter ended up being way longer than I wanted to make it but hey I think it turned out great and it keeps getting better and better the more you read on, well that's what I think at least. But this chapter will have something I think everyone will love, if you're reading to see how Levi outplays people, and his strategies, this chapter has that, if you're reading to see how Levi interacts with people, this chapter has that, if you're reading for the dark side of the story, this chapter has that, and lastly in this chapter we will get a glimpse into something I'm sure everyone will love(no spoilers for that) Now I hope you enjoy and review if you can as it encourages me to keep writing more.
A month had passed since the Tumbleweed massacre. It was now May 17, 1898, and I knew I had about a year left before the Van der Linde gang arrived in Blackwater. If memory served me right, they would make their appearance around May 1899, with the events of Red Dead Redemption 2 unfolding by the end of that month. In the time since our bloody conquest of Tumbleweed, The Dustborn had grown significantly, swelling to 830 members strong. We had solidified our control over New Austin, establishing an iron grip that the state and its government found intolerable. Yet, despite their outrage and repeated attempts to reclaim the territory, every man they sent met the same grim fate—his head impaled on a spike as a warning to others. New Austin had earned itself a new name: "The State of Spikes."
Hundreds of these gruesome markers now dotted the landscape, a silent testament to what happened when you challenged The Dustborn. The threat of attracting the full force of the U.S. government loomed over us, a dark cloud that would bring an army and full retribution. But so far, that reckoning had not come. Still, I knew it was only a matter of time, and that was why I needed to act swiftly. By the time the storm arrived, I intended to be untouchable.
"You know, Levi, this must be your most insane plan yet," Alfredo said, his eyes scanning the map spread out before us. Around the table, key members of The Dustborn stood or leaned in, their expressions ranging from cautious interest to eager anticipation. Carmela, Flaco, Jorge, Barbarella, Esteban, Ramón, Joaquín, Miriam, Silas, Eleanor, Wade, and Ben—each represented a crucial part of the machine I'd built from the ground up. The room crackled with tension as they waited for my response.
"Do you really believe this will work?" Alfredo pressed, his voice edged with doubt but carrying an unmistakable spark of excitement.
I met their eyes, taking a moment to let my gaze sweep over the top people I had molded, their faces reflecting the calculated madness of my vision. "Yes, it will," I said with an unshakable certainty. "Our control over New Austin is absolute. We've turned the state into an untouchable fortress—even the state government can't make a move without seeing their men on spikes. But that won't be enough to hold back the inevitable."
I pointed to the northern edge of the map, the border marked by winding trails and the wide stretch of the Upper Montana River. "The U.S. government's silence won't last forever. When they decide to act, they'll come in force. That's why we need to strike first and strike hard."
Carmela's eyes narrowed as she traced the paths on the map with a gloved finger. "You're talking about pushing into West Elizabeth, where Blackwater lies. That's not just any town. It's becoming a symbol, a hub. They're trying to turn it into the next Saint Denis. The law there is stronger, better funded, and better connected."
I let a slow smirk spread across my face. "Exactly. But we won't march in with guns blazing. Blackwater's reconstruction makes it ripe for infiltration. We'll place our people slowly—business owners, influential townsfolk, even clerks. By the time anyone realizes what's happening, it'll already be too late."
Ben's eyes darkened, understanding dawning as he nodded. "So, we're playing the long game. Infiltrate first, take control from the inside."
"Exactly," I said, my eyes gleaming with the vision I had crafted. "And we'll need someone inside the law. Chief Oswald Dunbar—sharp, respected, but blind to betrayal. We'll position one of our own close to him, make our move, and have him killed when the time is right. When he falls, we'll place our man as the new police chief, then replace the law with our people, one by one."
Flaco let out a low whistle. "We're talking about gutting the town from the inside and wearing its skin."
I nodded, my grin cold and calculated. "By the time they realize Blackwater is under our control, it'll be too late. We won't just hold the town—we'll own it. And from there, the rest of West Elizabeth will learn to fear The Dustborn."
Carmela's eyes sparkled with dangerous excitement. "And once we have Blackwater?"
"Once we have Blackwater," I continued, "we turn it into our stronghold, a beacon of power. Supplies, money, influence—it all flows through us. We establish a network that connects everything—smugglers, informants, buyers. Anyone wanting a piece of the action has to come to us. We set the prices; we dictate the terms."
Ben nodded, the weight of the plan settling in. "And when the law comes knocking?"
I didn't falter. "We'll be ready. By then, we'll have informants in their ranks, plans to counter their every move. Blackwater won't just be a town—it'll be a fortress. And when the law comes, they'll find themselves surrounded, outnumbered, outmaneuvered. By the time they realize, we'll already be the law."
A silence swept through the room as my vision took hold. This wasn't just bold—it was audacious, bordering on madness. But I could see it in their eyes: they believed. The room shifted from anticipation to steely determination.
"Then let's get started," Alfredo said, voice low but resolved. "We've got a lot of work to do."
I nodded, eyes burning with ambition. "Prepare your best men. It's time to claim what's ours."
"Flaco, come with me," I said, my voice edged with the certainty of command. He nodded, his ever-present smirk morphing into a look of purpose as he followed me outside. The others began to scatter, their faces set with focus as they prepared for what was to come.
The night air was cool, carrying with it the sounds of the camp—murmurs of conversation, the crackle of a distant fire. We walked side by side in silence for a moment before I stopped and turned to face him.
"I wanted a moment alone with you, Flaco. There's something I need to say."
He raised an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest. "You're not going soft on me, are you?" he chuckled, but there was genuine curiosity in his eyes.
I let a small smile play on my lips. "Not a chance. Out of everyone, I trust you the most. When this plan unfolds, I'll need someone who knows how to act without needing to be told. That's you, Flaco. You've proven yourself time and time again."
The smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. "You know I've got your back, Levi. This thing we're building—it's more than just a gang now. It's a force. And you're the only one who can lead it."
"And that's why I need you to know how important you are," I said, letting the words sink in. "This isn't Armadillo or Fort Mercer. This is Blackwater, and the stakes are higher than ever. If anything goes wrong, I need someone who can think, who can lead. That's you."
Flaco's eyes gleamed with pride and understanding. "I won't let you down, Levi."
"I know you won't," I said, a rare flicker of gratitude crossing my face. "Be ready to do whatever it takes."
He nodded, a firm promise in his gaze. We stood in silence, the moment heavy with unspoken truths. I watched him, noting the way he carried himself, confident and ready. He would follow me to the end.
"Get some rest," I said, my voice regaining its commanding edge
"You try to get some rest too." He replied walking away.
As he walked back toward his tent, I let my thoughts shift inward. Trust. The word tasted foreign, like a lie well-practiced. I trusted Flaco—but only as one trusted a blade in their hand. A tool, sharp and useful. I thought of how I had drawn him in, nurturing his ambition and molding his loyalty. I'd watched his doubts dissolve, replaced with belief—a belief I had carefully shaped.
The art of leadership was not just in commanding but in making others believe they were more than soldiers. It was letting them feel like partners when every move was calculated.
I glanced one last time at Flaco's silhouette, the firelight casting his shadow long and fierce. Yes, I trusted him—as much as one trusted a blade they knew they'd one day throw.
And besides Flaco, I had another key player, one I had found after the events of Tumbleweed, a man I knew would do well, after all my manipulation on him was going on full effect.
This first month was my stepping stone into Blackwater. First, I made sure the members I selected were virtually unknown to Blackwater. These weren't the seasoned outlaws or the feared faces of The Dustborn; they were the ones I'd been training quietly—new recruits from small towns and remote parts of New Austin. Before their deployment, I drilled them on the importance of blending in and provided them with fabricated backstories that would hold up under scrutiny.
To ensure Blackwater's infrastructure bent under my influence, I coordinated with some of my more discreet men. The aim was to create just the right amount of instability to generate new opportunities and openings without drawing attention to us. Through a series of carefully executed sabotage missions and "accidents," we managed to disrupt operations across the town. A sudden fire at a warehouse, a mysterious equipment failure on a loading crane, and a few well-placed thefts, forced the docks' overseers to scramble for dependable replacements. Within a week, 10 of my members were working on the docks, seamlessly blending in as ordinary laborers.
I didn't stop there. I positioned some of my men as traveling traders and business owners from New Austin, seeking refuge from the chaos supposedly brought by The Dustborn and looking to establish themselves in Blackwater. To make their stories more believable, I supplied them with some of the resources we'd looted and stockpiled over the past three months—fine silks, rare spices, and valuable trinkets that gave them an air of legitimacy. Their well-stocked wagons and polished stories earned them quick entry into Blackwater's commerce network. Soon, my traders had gained the trust of other merchants and even a few influential market regulators. They were invited to closed-door meetings, where future trade routes and the allocation of resources were discussed. I knew who was skimming profits, who was greedy, and who could be manipulated. Every handshake, every shared drink at the saloon, brought Blackwater's heart closer to beating in time with The Dustborn.
Then came the time to focus on the law itself. I orchestrated a plan that would shake the sheriff's office and open the doors for The Dustborn's infiltration. I made sure word reached Blackwater that Flaco, a known and feared member of The Dustborn with a bounty of $700 on his head, would be passing through the region with only seven men. The news spread quickly, reaching Sheriff Oswald Dunbar himself. The prospect of capturing or killing a key member of The Dustborn was too tempting for him to ignore, and he dispatched 15 of his best lawmen to intercept Flaco. The thought of being the one to bring in such a notorious outlaw spurred them on, their pride leading them straight into the jaws of my trap.
When Oswald's men arrived at the location, they did indeed find Flaco—but not alone. Hidden in the shadows of the surrounding terrain were 40 of The Dustborn's finest, their weapons ready and their eyes cold with the promise of violence. The ambush was swift and brutal. The lawmen, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, didn't stand a chance. The clash was over in minutes, leaving 15 bodies strewn across the ground as a stark warning to any who dared challenge The Dustborn's strength.
Back in Blackwater, the news of the massacre hit hard. Oswald, faced with the sudden and significant loss of manpower, was desperate for reinforcements. That's when my next move unfolded. I sent in a group of my men, carefully selected for their ability to act and look the part. They posed as lawmen from New Austin who had supposedly been driven out by The Dustborn, seeking refuge and revenge for the comrades they had lost. Their arrival was perfectly timed, coinciding with Oswald's need for reinforcements and the stories of The Dustborn's ruthlessness that now haunted every deputy's mind.
These new "lawmen" spoke convincingly of battles and ambushes they'd narrowly escaped, their voices heavy with grief as they recounted how The Dustborn had taken their brothers-in-arms. Their fabricated tales created a bond of shared loss and anger, one that Oswald couldn't resist. Seeing them as men who had suffered at the hands of the same enemy, he welcomed them with open arms, convinced that their loyalty was true and that their experience would strengthen his depleted force.
The trust was sealed quickly. My men integrated seamlessly into the ranks, gaining access to strategic discussions, patrol routes, and the weaknesses of the sheriff's office. Oswald never suspected that the reinforcements he had so desperately needed were the very poison that would bring his law enforcement to its knees.
The second month marked a significant move in our plan as we sent one of our sharpest men, Jasper Voss, into Blackwater. Jasper was carefully groomed to appear as a successful businessman who had thrived in New Austin but now sought refuge and new opportunities in Blackwater, citing The Dustborn's takeover as his reason for relocating. His reputation preceded him; we crafted stories of his supposed dominance over the imported luxury market and the gun trade, tales that spread through travelers and whispered exchanges in saloons, building his image before he even set foot in town.
Jasper arrived with all the trappings of a well-to-do entrepreneur: a polished wagon stocked with fine silks, rare tobaccos, premium whiskey, and crates of high-grade firearms, each stamped with the marks of legitimate manufacturers. He dressed impeccably, favoring tailored suits that spoke of wealth and confidence without straying into ostentation. His appearance alone turned heads and piqued curiosity.
From the moment he set up shop, Jasper was strategic. He chose a prominent location near Blackwater's bustling market square, making his imported luxuries and high-quality firearms readily visible to the town's influential figures. His storefront featured window displays with fine garments and glistening revolvers, a rare combination that appealed to both Blackwater's elite and its rugged lawmen. The wealthy townsfolk were drawn in by the exotic wares, while the sheriff's office found interest in the advanced weaponry that could bolster their resources against growing threats.
Jasper's persona was that of a charming and knowledgeable merchant. He spoke confidently about the connections he had with trade routes stretching back to Saint Denis and beyond, subtly weaving in mentions of past business deals that showcased his acumen. He hosted small gatherings at his store, offering samples of his rare cigars and pouring glasses of imported whiskey for prospective clients and influential citizens. These gatherings were always more than just business; they were opportunities for Jasper to gather information, probe loyalties, and identify the power dynamics in the town.
It wasn't long before Blackwater's politicians and decision-makers took notice. They were eager to curry favor with a man who could potentially offer access to luxury goods and weaponry, items that could elevate their status or bolster their power. Jasper leveraged these interactions masterfully. He spoke of his hardships in New Austin—how The Dustborn had forced him out and how he hoped to contribute to Blackwater's growth as a safe, thriving center of commerce. The tale resonated with them; here was a man who had supposedly faced down adversity and now wanted to invest in their town.
His charm, coupled with his "unique resources," earned him an invitation to join the town's business council, an unofficial but highly influential group that met to discuss trade opportunities, resource allocation, and political concerns. With each meeting, Jasper carefully positioned himself as both an asset and an ally. He made subtle recommendations about how Blackwater could strengthen its trade security, indirectly seeding ideas that would benefit The Dustborn when the time came to strike.
Even Sheriff Oswald Dunbar paid attention. The increased tension from recent encounters with The Dustborn had left him looking for any advantage, and Jasper's reputation as a gun trader who could source superior weaponry was tempting. Jasper played his part perfectly, offering just enough to seem sincere without overcommitting. His conversations hinted at potential deals, building a bridge between himself and the sheriff's office.
Jasper's integration wasn't without challenges. Some local merchants were wary of a newcomer encroaching on their territory. To handle this, Jasper employed a mix of diplomacy and subtle pressure. He would offer partnerships on favorable terms, and for those who resisted, a sudden problem would arise—a delayed shipment or a disrupted supply line that hinted at what could happen if they didn't cooperate. None of it traced back to Jasper; he always appeared as the man who was there to help, to lend a hand when things went awry.
Within weeks, Jasper Voss had become more than just another trader; he was a fixture in Blackwater's business and social circles, with eyes and ears in every corner. His position at the business council gave him access to the town's plans and vulnerabilities. His influence extended quietly into the sheriff's office, and he was now seated at the table where the real decisions were made. The politicians trusted him, thinking him a valuable ally who had escaped chaos and was eager to protect his new home. Little did they know that Jasper was a viper, coiled and ready to strike when the signal came.
I had trained Jasper, and he succeeded. When I first met him, he was nothing more than a random member of the Del Lobos who had become a Dustborn once Alfredo handed control of his gang over to me. At a glance, he seemed like just another nameless outlaw, blending into the crowd of rough and hardened men. But I saw potential in him, potential that no one else had taken the time to notice, and I brought it out well.
In the game, Jasper must have been one of those unknown NPCs—disposable, a character whose story ended in the background without ever achieving anything significant. But now, I had changed that. I turned him from a face in the shadows into a figure that mattered, someone who could shift the tides when it counted.
I first learned about Jasper after the events of Tumbleweed. Amidst the chaos, the bloodshed, and the dust settling over a town that now belonged to The Dustborn, Jasper stood out. While others celebrated and bragged about their kills, he moved differently—observing, calculating. He wasn't the loudest or the most fearsome, but there was a sharpness to him that hinted at more beneath the surface. It was then that I knew I could mold him into something greater.
From that moment, my manipulation of Jasper began. I tested him, giving him tasks that required more than brute strength, tasks that called for cunning and discretion. He didn't disappoint. Each challenge sharpened his skills and reinforced the loyalty I needed from him. He began to understand that his survival and rise within The Dustborn were tied to me, and that recognition turned him from a random outlaw into an invaluable ally.
Jasper's transformation was deliberate. I pushed him beyond the role of a mere follower, training him in negotiation, observation, and strategy. He learned how to navigate the subtleties of influence, slipping seamlessly into roles that suited our plans. What started as simple manipulation turned into something more; he became genuinely loyal, understanding that his growth and newfound power came from being part of my vision.
Now, Jasper was no longer an unknown NPC doomed to obscurity. He was a key piece in The Dustborn's strategy, useful and fiercely loyal, ready to play his part in taking Blackwater and solidifying our control.
Now came stage three of the plan and the third month: the elimination of Oswald and the gradual replacement of Blackwater's politicians with my own loyal members. It was a delicate and dangerous phase, requiring precision and the unwavering loyalty of the men I had embedded within the law. My men, who had infiltrated the ranks of Blackwater's law enforcement, began sowing seeds of doubt in Oswald's mind. Whispers of traitors within their ranks started to spread, carefully planted by those I trusted to act as subtle agents of discord. Given their backstories and shared history of battling The Dustborn in New Austin, Oswald believed them, though not completely. He was a cautious man, experienced and suspicious, but even the most seasoned leader can be influenced with enough pressure.
To tilt the scales, I orchestrated targeted killings. My men, under strict orders, began intercepting and assassinating businessmen and politicians traveling to and from Blackwater. They didn't touch everyone; they only targeted those whose deaths would send a message and sow further paranoia within the town. Supply wagons were ambushed, their contents looted or burned. This added to the town's panic and made it clear that someone with inside knowledge was leaking information. Only the lawmen assigned to guard these convoys would have known their movements, tightening the noose around Oswald's trust.
With each strike, Oswald's confidence in his deputies waned. Samuel Grady, the man I had appointed to lead my infiltrators, played his part perfectly. He confided in Oswald, pretending to share his suspicions and pointing fingers at specific deputies. Some of these men had been loyal to Oswald for years, creating a rift in his ranks. The once-tight bond within Blackwater's law enforcement began to fray as loyalty turned to doubt, and doubt turned to silent resentment.
As the murders of influential figures continued, Jasper stepped in, presenting replacements to the town's business council. He painted these newcomers as trustworthy allies, people he vouched for personally. Jasper's reputation, carefully cultivated over weeks of hard work and genuine-seeming contributions, made his word nearly unassailable. The council, now desperate for stability and impressed by Jasper's connections and support, accepted these new figures with little resistance. One by one, the council transformed, its members subtly replaced by men loyal to me and The Dustborn.
Then came the final move. The raid. It was sudden and brutal, designed to look like an all-out assault by The Dustborn. Sixty of my most skilled riders stormed into Blackwater under cover of night, firing shots, setting buildings ablaze, and causing chaos. Innocents fell, and lawmen scrambled to defend the town. Oswald himself was caught in the crossfire, his body riddled with bullets until his face was unrecognizable. His death was the signal—the end of one era and the beginning of another.
Samuel Grady, prepared for this moment, emerged from the chaos as the hero. While most of the remaining deputies had hidden, paralyzed by fear and confusion, Samuel stood his ground, firing shots into the night and shouting commands. He painted himself as the one unwavering force in the face of terror. When the dust settled and the dead were counted, he gathered the surviving deputies and denounced them as cowards, reminding them that Oswald had been right to doubt them. The weight of their shame, combined with the brutality they had witnessed, left them broken and malleable.
Samuel declared himself the new police chief, leveraging the support Jasper had garnered from the business council. The people, still reeling from the night's violence and looking for someone strong to rally behind, accepted Samuel's leadership without question. With Jasper's influence over the council and the display of courage Samuel had staged, there was no opposition. The transition was seamless, and now, with my men entrenched in every key position, Blackwater was finally under The Dustborn's shadow.
The room was alive with the sound of laughter and the haze of smoke curling up to the ceiling. I leaned against the wall, a slight smile playing on my lips as I watched the scene unfold before me. We had worked for this—three grueling months of meticulous planning, precise action, and patience that tested the limits of everyone in this room. But it had all paid off. Now, within one of Blackwater's buildings, we gathered to celebrate a victory that only we knew about.
Carmela's laughter cut through the chatter as she toasted with Flaco, their glasses clinking before they downed their drinks. Jorge was sprawled on a chair with his boots up, telling some exaggerated tale that had Barbarella and Esteban shaking their heads with grins. Ramón and Joaquín were locked in a quiet conversation by the window, keeping a watchful eye out, even tonight. Miriam and Silas exchanged satisfied glances, while Eleanor, Wade, and Ben stood near the door, relaxed but ready as always. Alfredo leaned back, observing the room with an expression of satisfaction that mirrored my own. A few other men who had helped were gathered here too, drinking, smoking and laughing.
And there, in the heart of it all, were Jasper and Samuel. Jasper, who had risen from obscurity to play a crucial role in our scheme, was now part of the town's elite. Samuel, the hero of Blackwater's raid, now wore his badge with an authority that silenced any dissent. They both raised their glasses to me, silent acknowledgment of the pact we shared.
"We did it," Jasper said, breaking away from a conversation and walking over to me. His eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and disbelief. "Blackwater's ours."
I nodded, my gaze sweeping over the room. "It's not just ours, Jasper. It's a part of something bigger. We can move in and out of Blackwater without so much as a second glance now."
Samuel, overhearing our exchange, approached with a confident stride. "And with thirty of The Dustborn now hired into the ranks of the law, we control the gates. We control who enters and who leaves."
I glanced at him and nodded. "Exactly. Our men sit at those checkpoints, checking wagons, questioning travelers. No one gets too close, no one dares to pry. We can move in plain sight, hidden in the back of wagons while our men stand guard in uniform."
The laughter in the room ebbed for a moment as Alfredo raised his glass, calling for attention. "To Levi," he said, his voice cutting through the smoke and noise. "The man who turned a shadow into an empire."
Everyone raised their glasses, the cheer echoing through the room. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of our success settle into my chest. The town was ours, yes, but it was more than that—it was a foothold, a symbol of what The Dustborn could accomplish. And as the laughter picked up again, louder and more triumphant, I knew that Blackwater was just the beginning.
Carmela came to lean against the wall next to me, watching me with eyes filled with amazement, pride, respect, and lust.
"You know, that day in Armadillo, when I said you were different, I knew I was right, I knew you could play the long game, and build something. However I just never believed you could do something on this scale, in just 5 months and you have turned us into a fear gang, lawmen, traders, businessmen and politicians." Carmela said laughing.
"I told you Carmela, I would build something big. I have always been honest with my vision of creating a legacy that will last long after I'm gone. For that I have to create an empire, an empire that will last as long as or longer than the Roman empire." I told her.
Carmela's laughter softened into a smile as she tilted her head, eyes glistening with admiration. "And here we are, standing in the heart of it. You really meant every word back in Armadillo. I don't think I understood it then, but I see it now."
I turned to face her, the noise of the room fading into the background. "I never spoke a word I didn't mean, Carmela. This isn't just about power for power's sake. It's about creating something that outlives us, something that shapes the West for generations. The Dustborn isn't just a gang—it's the foundation of that empire."
She nodded, tracing her fingers along the seam of the wall, her gaze shifting to the men and women who had gathered here, drinking and celebrating under our banner. "They believe in you. Even the ones who thought they never could. It's not just your ambition that binds them, Levi—it's that they see themselves in this dream, in your vision."
I smirked, a flicker of pride stirring within me. "And what about you, Carmela? You always saw the game, the plays within the plays. Do you see yourself in this too?"
Her eyes met mine, fierce and unwavering. "I see more than that. I see a place where I can thrive, where the rules bend to those sharp enough to shape them. But more than anything, I see the man who can make it happen."
The moment hung between us, the noise around us like a distant hum. "Then you know what comes next," I said, the edge in my voice unmistakable. "Blackwater is secure, but the real work is only beginning. This is our foothold, the first stone in a fortress that will reach beyond this town, beyond New Austin."
Carmela leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. "And wherever you go, Levi, I'll be there. For the empire we're building and for the man who knows how to turn vision into reality."
I felt a rare smile touch my lips as I looked at her. "Good. Because we're only just getting started."
Her eyes flashed with anticipation, and together, we watched the room full of our people—the foundation of something that would change everything.
I rode slowly into Tall Trees, the thick trees above casting dappled shadows across the path. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the occasional rustle of leaves hinting at unseen wildlife watching from the dark. Today, just a week after our victory celebration in Blackwater, I was here for a different reason—one that could bolster The Dustborn's reach far beyond what we had accomplished so far. It was time to meet with the Skinner Brothers, the brutal gang whose lore suggested they wouldn't fully emerge until 1905. But I had my doubts. The whispers, the signs—something told me they were out there, lurking in the shadows long before the timeline most believed.
Behind me rode Flaco, Esteban, and Silas, their eyes sharp and alert. Each man was seasoned, trusted, and as ruthless as the land required them to be. With them, thirty more of our men followed, armed to the teeth with rifles and revolvers, their presence a silent promise that today's meeting would not be an ambush without consequence.
The forest grew denser as we moved deeper into Tall Trees, the path narrowing and the light dimming under the weight of thick foliage. Every crack of a branch or distant birdcall had the men on edge, fingers flexing near their triggers. This wasn't the kind of place that forgave inattention.
Flaco rode up beside me, his usual smirk replaced by a grim line. "You sure about this, Levi? These bastards aren't known for playing nice."
I glanced at him, my expression steady. "That's why we're here, Flaco. If they're already in these woods, I want them on our side—or at the very least, I want to make sure they're not against us."
Esteban shifted in his saddle, his eyes scanning the treetops. "And if they don't like what you have to say?"
"Then we remind them why The Dustborn is a name feared across New Austin and Blackwater," I replied, my voice cold and even.
Silas, who hadn't spoken much since we left Blackwater, nodded. "Good. Let them learn."
The path curved, opening to a clearing that looked untouched by civilization. The air was heavy, as if even the trees were holding their breath. Then, out of the silence, there was movement—shadows shifting among the trees, the glint of eyes watching us from the gloom.
"Hold," I said, raising a hand. The men behind me halted, their horses stamping the ground restlessly. The forest seemed to close in, the silence deepening until the only sound was the faint creak of leather and the quiet snort of horses.
Then, a voice, low and rough, cut through the stillness. "You've come far enough."
Out of the shadows stepped a tall, wiry man with eyes as sharp and cold as a winter wind. His hair was long and tangled, and scars crisscrossed his exposed forearms. Behind him, more figures emerged—faces half-hidden in the gloom, eyes watching us like predators sizing up their prey. The Skinner Brothers, as ruthless and wild as the tales described.
I met the man's gaze and nodded slowly. "I'm Levi Roy, leader of The Dustborn. I've come to talk."
The man's lips twisted into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Talk, huh? You're either real brave or real foolish."
"Maybe a bit of both," I said, holding his gaze. "But I don't waste time, and I don't make idle threats. I know what you're capable of, and I know what you want. Power, fear, blood. We're not so different. I can give you all them."
The clearing was silent as the man studied me, his grin fading as he measured my words.
"Fear, is that why you brought this many people armed? To show us fear? You think we Skinners will listen to your threat because you have armed men! Do you think us Skinners have fear!" the man roared, his voice echoing through the clearing. The man seemed to have misunderstood my words. Dumb inbred bastard. I opened my mouth to make my words more clear but before I could respond, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing my right shoulder. The impact sent me toppling off Gray and crashing onto the grassy ground. The pain exploded through me like wildfire, hot and unforgiving, and my blood seeped into the earth, painting it a deep crimson.
Chaos erupted around me. "You putos!" I heard Flaco shout, his voice laced with fury, followed by the crack of a gunshot that shattered the tense silence. The men behind me moved into defensive positions, rifles aimed into the forest, eyes searching for shadows that moved too fast to follow.
"Hold the line!" Esteban bellowed, as more arrows and the flashes of knives thrown from the dark peppered the clearing. Silas was at my side in an instant, pulling me behind the cover of a fallen log as more arrows thudded into the ground around us.
"Ah, shit!" I groaned, the sharp, searing pain in my shoulder making it hard to breathe. I clenched my jaw, trying to steady myself as my vision blurred at the edges. The shouts of my men, the cries of the Skinners, and the clash of gunfire and steel blended into a cacophony that dulled everything else.
Suddenly, a familiar blue screen flickered before my eyes, the gamer system interface distancing me from the chaos around me.
ALERT: Critical Injury Detected…
Health Recovery Activated…
Health Recovery level 1..
health recovers at 1hp every 5 seconds
Heath level 5- HP=1,000/1,000
HP 934/1,000
Warmth spread through my body, an unnatural heat that pushed back against the biting pain in my shoulder. The wound began to seal itself, the arrow slowly dislodging as if unseen hands pulled it free. My breathing steadied, and my vision cleared, bringing the battle and my resolve back into sharp focus.
With my senses sharpened, I pushed myself up from behind the cover of the log, schofield revolver in hand. The shouts of my men and the wild, guttural war cries of the Skinners surrounded me like a storm. I narrowed my eyes, scanning the dense thicket where shadowed figures flitted between trees.
I took a deep breath and steadied my aim. My first shot cracked through the chaos, sending a bullet spiraling through the eye of a man partially hidden behind a tree. He fell without a sound. I pivoted, catching a flicker of movement, and my second shot tore into a man's neck, a spray of red marking the moment as he crumpled to the ground.
A sharp rustle to my left. I turned, pulling the trigger, and the third shot punched through the forehead of another Skinner, his body collapsing into the underbrush. The tide of battle shifted as my men, inspired by the precision of my attack, pressed forward with renewed ferocity.
"Push them back!" I yelled, my voice strong and unwavering, the heat of battle coursing through my veins.
I led the charge, my boots pounding the forest floor as I surged forward, revolver raised and ready. Above, a Skinner perched in a tree let loose an arrow, but my shot reached him first. The bullet cut through his chest, and he tumbled out of the branches, hitting the ground headfirst with a sickening crack as his skull split open.
Another figure darted to my right, trying to duck behind cover. I aimed quickly and fired, the bullet finding the back of his head and sending him sprawling lifelessly into the brush. Before I could catch my breath, a wild-eyed man charged at me with a knife, the glint of the blade catching what little light filtered through the trees. I didn't hesitate—one swift shot to the neck, and he crumpled, gurgling as he fell.
I reloaded my gun, each movement practiced and sure, the sounds of metal clicking into place steadying me. My eyes darted around, seeking the next target. Flaco was a blur of motion nearby, his revolver spitting fire as he cut down four men in rapid succession, each shot precise and lethal.
Silas was close by, locked in a brutal struggle with a Skinner who had lunged at him with a knife. Silas wrenched the weapon free, turning it back on his attacker with savage precision. He stabbed the man repeatedly, each thrust driven by raw survival instinct. With a final, bone-chilling strike, he drove the knife into the Skinner's skull, then snatched up his fallen gun to shoot down two more who thought they could catch him off guard.
Esteban, ever watchful, picked off two men hidden among the trees, their attempts to blend with the shadows cut short by his deadly aim. The tide was shifting. The Skinners, once confident in their ambush, began to falter as The Dustborn pushed deeper into their territory, showing them the kind of ferocity that matched their own.
"Keep pressing forward!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the cacophony of battle. The forest was alive with the crack of gunfire, the groans of the wounded, and the wild, desperate shouts of those who still fought.
With my revolver reloaded, I pressed forward, the forest around me echoing with the chaotic sounds of gunfire and battle cries. Three men darted between the trees, their backs turned as they tried to flee. I fired three quick shots, each one finding its mark at the back of their heads, the crimson spray turning the green grass red as their bodies crumpled lifelessly.
My men, battle-worn but relentless, followed behind, their expressions hardened by the losses we had already taken. Only 23 out of the original 34 who had ridden with me still stood, and their determination was carved into their faces. I pushed through the underbrush, catching sight of a Skinner pulling an arrow from his quiver, his eyes locked on me. I fired before he could raise his bow, the bullet slamming into his chest and sending him stumbling back. Another figure broke into a desperate sprint to escape, but I aimed and fired, the first shot taking out his leg and the second drilling into his skull as he hit the ground.
With a practiced motion, I reloaded my revolver, the metallic clicks blending into the distant sounds of shouting and gunfire. I emerged into a clearing within the woods, my boots kicking up dirt and twigs. In front of me lay a small, ragged camp, crude tents pitched around dying campfires. At least 40 Skinners filled the space, their eyes wild with fury and desperation. Some of them were already bleeding, clutching wounds from the earlier skirmish, while others scrambled to arm themselves, their weapons drawn as they prepared for the onslaught.
The clearing pulsed with tension as I raised my gun. The Skinners who weren't wounded bared their teeth in defiance, ready to defend their territory with the savage resolve they were known for. But The Dustborn had come for more than a skirmish. We were here to remind them, and anyone else who dared cross us, who ruled these lands.
"Take them down!" I roared, my voice cutting through the rising din. My men surged forward behind me, guns blazing as the clearing erupted into a cacophony of violence.
Flaco didn't hesitate; his revolver barked six rapid shots that each found their mark. His first three bullets shattered the skulls of three Skinners, their bodies dropping where they stood. His fourth shot sliced through the neck of a man mid-charge, who fell with a gurgle. The fifth shot buried itself deep in another's heart, and the sixth pierced the forehead of a Skinner who'd been reaching for a blade. The precision and speed of his attack left no doubt about his lethal prowess.
I pushed into the chaos, revolver raised, eyes sharp. My first shot struck a Skinner square in the stomach, making him buckle over, gasping. Without a moment's pause, I fired again, the bullet tearing through his skull and silencing him for good. Another Skinner was aiming his bow in my direction, but my third shot caught him in the shoulder, forcing him to stagger back. Before he could recover, my fourth shot found his heart, and he collapsed in a heap. The last two shots left my barrel in quick succession, each connecting with the heads of two men who had been trying to close in from the edges of the camp.
To my right, Silas was a force of raw violence, leading four of our men into the fray. His gun blazed, each shot sending a Skinner reeling backward, blood splattering across the trampled grass. The men with him fought fiercely, pushing their way deeper into the camp, their yells punctuated by the sharp cracks of gunfire.
Esteban held his position on the left, methodically picking off Skinners from a safer distance. Each shot was deliberate, calculated; a rifleman who knew his weapon and the value of every bullet. His cover fire kept the Skinners from regrouping, pinning them down and ensuring they couldn't mount an effective defense.
The clearing was alive with gunfire and the shouts of dying men, the air thick with gunpowder and blood. The Skinners, fierce and primal, fought back with everything they had, but they were outmatched. We were The Dustborn, and this was our battle to win.
I pushed forward, my revolver steady in my hand. I fired, the shot finding its mark dead center in a Skinner's forehead. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Suddenly, a familiar blue screen flickered before my eyes, its glow cutting through the chaos of the clearing.
Dead Eye has reached level 5!
New skill unlocked!
Skill: Slow down time by thinking the word Deadeye Activate
Deadeye is level 5, allowing you to slow down time for 25 seconds!
Gun Proficiency is level 6!
Gun Proficiency at level 6 means that every 30 minutes, you will gain one additional second of Deadeye!
I had been getting XP from my kills, but I hadn't paid much attention to the notifications—they were just a background hum in my mind. But this giant blue screen, bright and unavoidable, had my full attention. My stamina, intimidation, health, and gun proficiency had all reached level 5 before, and nothing significant happened, so I assumed that nothing would change when my deadeye hit level 5 either. It seemed I was wrong. The added note about gun proficiency having a role sparked a new idea. Maybe each stat, when it hit a certain level, could unlock something unique. Stats that didn't unlock skills must still play into a larger plan, serving as a foundation for those that did.
Either way, there was no time to analyze it further. I needed to use this newfound power now. "Deadeye activate" I thought, and the world responded instantly as everyone slowed down. The world around me seemed to have slowed down by 5 times, it meant that what normally took one second for someone to do would now take 5 seconds, of course this didn't apply to me. I quickly aimed my revolver and fired.
My first bullet found its mark in the chest of a man, his eyes widening in slow-motion shock. The second shot shattered the skull of another, a crimson spray blooming behind him. My third round pierced a man's heart, and I watched his expression freeze in a moment of disbelief. The fourth bullet embedded itself in another man's chest, his mouth opening in an unvoiced scream. My fifth shot struck a Skinner square in the eye, his head snapping back. The sixth round drilled into another's forehead, his body locked in place, suspended in the frozen moment.
Reloading swiftly, the metallic clicks sounded crisp and deliberate in the stillness. With 15 seconds left, I raised my revolver once more. My seventh and eighth bullets sliced through the necks of two Skinners, their limbs moving in sluggish surprise. The ninth shot punched through the chest of another, his arms faltering mid-air. My tenth bullet buried itself in the stomach of a Skinner trying to rush forward, and my eleventh shot followed it, driving into his eye. The twelfth bullet found its home in the heart of the last man in my path, his features frozen in defiance.
As the final second of Deadeye ticked away, the world rushed back into motion. The gunfire and shouting surged to full volume, and all at once, the bodies of the Skinners collapsed in a gruesome symphony. Blood sprayed and pooled as they fell like marionettes with their strings cut, painting the clearing in a macabre testament to The Dustborn's might.
What was five seconds for everyone else had stretched to 25 for me. In their eyes, I had become a blur of death, dispatching 12 men in a flash that defied belief, an almost impossible display of speed and precision. The clearing fell into a stunned, heavy silence as the final echoes of gunfire faded into the forest.
The remaining Skinners, eyes wide with shock and disbelief, stood motionless. Their hands trembled as they looked from the fallen bodies to me, trying to comprehend what had just happened. One by one, their weapons—bows, knives, machetes—dropped to the blood-soaked ground with dull thuds. The air hung thick with the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder, and the tension was palpable, strung tight between surrender and survival.
Only seven of them were left standing now, their defiance shattered. They knew they were outmatched, facing an enemy who could take down a dozen of their kin in what seemed like the blink of an eye. I kept my revolver steady, eyes scanning their faces, watching as the last remnants of fight drained from their expressions.
"Tie these fuckers up!" I shouted, my voice echoing with the anger that still simmered from being shot. My men jumped to action, grabbing the remaining Skinners and binding their wrists tightly. The rough sound of rope tightening around skin and the Skinners' subdued grunts filled the clearing.
I reached up to touch my shoulder where the arrow had struck. My fingers brushed the drying blood, but there was no pain, no trace of the wound itself—only the sticky remnants of blood that had already begun to crust. The unnatural warmth from the gamer system's healing still hummed faintly beneath my skin, but I pushed that out of my mind.
Flaco approached, his eyes sharp with concern as he took in the blood on my shoulder. "You alright, Levi?" he asked, his voice low but genuine.
"I'm fine," I said, keeping my tone even. "I'll patch myself up later. Right now, we need focus. I won't bleed out; the arrow barely went in deep enough to do any real damage." It was a lie, a smooth lie, and Flaco nodded, taking my words at face value. I couldn't tell him—or anyone—about the gamer system that had healed me in moments. That secret stayed mine.
I surveyed the clearing, my gaze falling on the broken bodies of my fallen men—18 gone, leaving only 16 of us standing. The weight of loss pressed down on me, fueling the cold rage simmering inside. The remaining seven Skinners were dragged before me, forced onto their knees, their faces twisted in fear and defiance. A twisted smile crept across my face as I stared at them, each one marked for the price they would pay for the deaths of my men and the pain they had dared inflict on me.
"So, you Skinners love to torture people, don't you?" I said, my voice laced with venom as I picked up one of their rusted, blood-stained knives from the ground. The blade felt heavy in my hand, a fitting tool for what I had planned. Their eyes widened, the bravado they once carried now replaced with silent terror.
"Today, the tables have turned," I continued, my tone cold and steady. "It will be you who will taste the agony you've so eagerly inflicted on others. You will be skinned alive, burned, and dismembered piece by piece. Your limbs will feed the pigs."
Their expressions shifted—some clenched their jaws in defiance, while others trembled, the reality of their fate settling in. The clearing fell silent except for the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of birds, a cruel contrast to what was about to unfold. The scent of blood, sweat, and fear filled the air as I stepped closer, the knife gleaming in the low light, ready to carry out my sentence.
I gripped the man's face hard, fingers digging into his jaw so he couldn't turn away, couldn't escape the horror about to unfold. The defiance in his eyes faltered the moment the rusty knife touched his skin. I pressed the blade to his forehead and slowly drew it down, carving a line that sent blood streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, thrashing in my grasp, but I held firm. His skin peeled back inch by inch, the tremor of pain shaking his entire body as crimson blood dripped down to soak his clothes and the earth beneath him.
Flaco and Silas stepped forward, silent but resolute, to hold the man steady. Silas locked his arms around the man's torso while Flaco gripped his head, keeping it in place as I continued to work the knife. The screams faded into hoarse whimpers, his eyes rolling as shock threatened to claim him. But he was still alive, still feeling every cut and pull of flesh. Within minutes, his face was a raw, bleeding mess, stripped to muscle and bone, his breaths coming in jagged, shuddering gasps.
"Light one of those campfires!" I barked to the others. "And find their water supply. Heat it up—now."
The men scrambled, moving quickly to obey. The sharp crackle of flames rose from a nearby campfire as someone stoked it to life, while others rummaged through the Skinners' supplies to find a pot and water. The twisted smile never left my face as I looked down at the man, his eyes glazed with agony, knowing that his torment had only begun.
As I held the man's skinned face, I threw it at another Skinner, the grotesque mask hitting him with a sickening slap before sliding off, smearing blood across his horrified face. I turned my attention back to the man whose face I had just stripped, watching as his body convulsed with the sheer, unrelenting pain coursing through him.
"Untie his hands," I commanded. Silas moved quickly, slicing through the ropes binding the man's wrists. "Pin him to the ground. Make sure he can't move, and stretch his arms out," I continued, my voice cold and resolute.
Silas forced the man down, his body quivering as he fought the unconsciousness creeping in from blood loss. Flaco took hold of the man's arms, stretching them out and pressing them to the earth. The man's eyes were wide, mouth agape as silent screams caught in his throat, too raw and spent to release another sound.
I leaned over, knife in hand, and started with his left hand. The blade met his fingernails, slicing each one off methodically. His body twitched with every cut, hoarse gasps breaking through as I moved from nail to nail. The forest seemed to hold its breath, absorbing the wet, slicing sounds and the low groans of agony. Once the left hand was finished, I shifted to the right, repeating the process with cold precision. The man's eyes rolled back, but Silas slapped him hard, forcing him to remain in the present, in the pain.
After 12 long, deliberate minutes, I moved on to his fingers, severing each one carefully, savoring the desperate rattles of his breath. My men stood watch, the pot of boiling water now brought before me, steam rising ominously into the air. The Skinner was barely conscious, his blood soaking into the ground, forming dark pools around him.
"Hold him up," I ordered Silas and Flaco. They lifted him, his head lolling as though he were already half-dead. I took the pot and, without hesitation, tipped it, letting the hot liquid pour over his exposed, skinned face. His body arched, a final, guttural scream erupting from him as the water sizzled and burned through raw muscle and nerves. His eyes glazed over, the life leaving them as death claimed him at last.
As Flaco and Silas let the lifeless body drop to the blood-soaked ground, I turned my gaze to the remaining Skinners, then to my men, each face hardened by loss and the thirst for retribution.
"These bastards killed 18 of our brothers," I said, my voice sharp and cold, slicing through the tense silence. "We will not let that go unanswered. We may have killed many more of them today, but that is not enough!" My eyes moved across my men, their expressions shifting from grief to fierce determination as my words took hold.
"We are The Dustborn," I continued, my voice growing stronger, resonating with a deadly conviction. "We are an empire in the making! And any fucker who crosses us deserves a punishment worse than death. These bastards thrive on torture, they relish in others' pain—so today, we will give them a taste of their own medicine!"
A dark cheer rose from the men, a grim, unified response that echoed the rage and loyalty binding us together. The Skinners, now bound and kneeling, looked up with wide, terrified eyes, realizing that the roles had shifted completely. Today, they would learn that there was no mercy when you stood against The Dustborn.
After three long, blood-soaked hours, we mounted our horses and rode back toward the hideout near Blackwater. The sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow over the forest as if the land itself bore witness to the horrors we had wrought. The air around us was thick with the stench of blood and burned flesh, a scent that would linger for days.
Those hours had been a brutal symphony of vengeance, a testament to what awaited anyone who dared challenge The Dustborn. We had skinned the Skinners alive, forcing some to wear the grotesque masks of their dead friends, their eyes wide with disbelief and pain. The heat of the flames had scorched their skin until it melted and bubbled, screams piercing the air until there was nothing left but silence. We had ripped out their eyes, their fingers, their teeth, and their toes, piece by piece, savoring the way their bravado crumbled into raw, primal fear.
For one particularly defiant bastard, we had cut off his cock and watched the horror twist his face into something inhuman. We had forced another to eat the eyes of one of his dead comrades, his retching only stopping when the blade at his throat threatened worse.
When there was nothing left but broken, mutilated husks, we set to the final task. Each limb, each severed piece, went into bags strapped to our horses. I had meant it when I said their remains would feed the pigs—there would be no trace left of those who dared challenge The Dustborn.
As we approached the hideout, the wagon stood ready, its canvas cover drawn tight, a silent accomplice in our return to Blackwater. The blood-soaked earth clung to us, a crimson testament to the vengeance we had exacted. I dismounted Gray, the weight of the day's carnage settling into my muscles.
"Get two more wagons ready," I commanded, my voice rough but firm. "Today, me and my remaining fifteen men will head into Blackwater and bathe. Each one of them has earned it." A small cheer rippled through the group, a flicker of light in the shadows that still clung to us.
The lawman, one of my planted men, nodded, the understanding passing between us in a wordless exchange. He turned on his heel, striding off to relay the orders to his fellow undercover Dustborn, who moved with practiced efficiency to prepare the wagons.
I glanced down at myself and my men. We were drenched in blood, the sticky warmth of it clinging to our clothes and skin. The metallic tang filled the air, mixing with sweat and the dirt we had trampled through. The sight of us—soaked in the aftermath of battle—spoke volumes. We were more than men now; we were the embodiment of ruthless power.
I sat in the coach in one of the many rooms in the building we had claimed as our own in Blackwater, a place where only members of The Dustborn were allowed to enter. I turned my head as Jasper walked in, his brown hair styled in a middle part, some strings of hair going down his forehead, his green eyes meeting my blue ones with an air of familiarity.
"How's your shoulder holding up?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.
"It's fine. I patched it up myself—it'll heal just fine," I said, avoiding any mention of the truth behind its rapid recovery.
Jasper's expression shifted, a mix of admiration and curiosity. "You're one tough man, you know that? Everyone's already talking about you. Flaco and some of the others were saying how you took that arrow to the shoulder, ripped it out without flinching, and still managed to take down what felt like two dozen men. And then you stayed on your feet for hours before even thinking about tending to your wound."
"I'm glad tales of my amazing endurance are being told. Maybe it'll get more women to like me," I said with a chuckle.
"I think you're confusing stamina with endurance," Jasper replied, raising an eyebrow.
"I know the difference just fine, Jasper. I was only joking," I said, smirking.
"I know. I just wanted to mess with you," he said, a small laugh escaping him as I joined in with a laugh of my own.
He calmed down and sat beside me, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"What's next, Levi? In just five months, you've gained control over New Austin, and now we have half of West Elizabeth in our grasp. I imagine the plan is to take control of the other half. So, what do you have in mind for that?" he asked, his tone thoughtful yet eager.
A small smile crept onto my face.
"The next step is quite simple, Jasper…" I said, leaning in as I began to lay out my plan.
Third person pov
Arthur Morgan sat on an old tree stump, his back hunched as he scribbled in his journal. The soft scratching of pencil on paper was the only sound around him, aside from the occasional chirp of crickets hidden in the brush. The pages were filled with sketches of the landscape, snippets of thoughts, and notes about camp life and the looming uncertainty that had hung over them like a storm cloud. He paused for a moment, the pencil resting against his knuckle as he considered his next words.
Suddenly, the relative quiet was shattered by the commotion from the main part of camp. Dutch van der Linde's voice, commanding and edged with a mixture of excitement and concern, cut through the rustle of the wind.
"Have you heard about this, Hosea? This so-called Levi the Conqueror?" Dutch's tone was incredulous, laced with intrigue.
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he listened, his attention piqued. He set his journal aside, the pencil rolling across the page, and stood up, moving closer to the center of camp where a small group had gathered. John Marston leaned against a tree, arms crossed, while Javier Escuella looked on with a keen interest. Bill Williamson's expression was a mix of confusion and fascination.
"Who the hell is this guy?" Bill muttered, shaking his head. "Comes outta nowhere and takes over New Austin in a few damn months? Sounds like a tall tale."
"It ain't no tale, Bill," Hosea Matthews interjected, his voice calm but shadowed with worry. "Word is spreading like wildfire. They're calling him Levi the Conqueror. Formed a gang called The Dustborn—ruthless, smart, and fast. The kind of outlaw that turns everything upside down."
Arthur's brow furrowed as he stepped forward. "And where'd he come from? Nobody's heard of a Levi Roy before now."
Javier spoke up, eyes glinting with curiosity. "They say he was with the Del Lobos at first. Just another face in the crowd, but then he turned them into something new, something more dangerous. The man has a reputation now. New Austin's been turned into his fortress."
Dutch's eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of admiration and calculation. "A man like that, with a mind for power... Well, he's either a threat or an opportunity. We have to keep our eyes open, understand what we're dealing with. The Pinkertons will be watching him, too. They won't let an empire rise without trying to pull it down."
Arthur crossed his arms, nodding slowly. "An outlaw with ambitions bigger than most. Sounds like he's a problem waiting to happen, Dutch. We don't need another ambitious fool trying to play king around these parts. That'll only bring more heat on everyone."
Dutch placed a hand on his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. "Maybe so, Arthur, but men like him change the game. We need to know what he's after and how he plans to get it. And whether there's any way we can use that to our advantage."
John, who had been quiet, finally spoke. "Or we'll have to decide if it's better to stay far away from him."
Arthur glanced at John, then back to Dutch. The camp fell silent for a moment as the gravity of the conversation settled over them. Levi the Conqueror was a name that would either be carved in the legends of outlaws or brought down by the combined forces of law and desperation. Either way, Arthur knew they'd be hearing about him again.
AN: That was the spoiler I spoke of at the start, with that we have our first look into the Van Der Linde gang. Now if you enjoyed the review and tell me your thoughts.
STATS
Health: Level 5 70/1,500XP
Stamina: Level 6 700/2,100XP
Dead Eye: Level 5 120/1,500
Charisma: Level 7 1,780/2,800XP
Stealth: Level 3 70/600XP
Gun Proficiency: Level 3 230/600XP
Melee Proficiency: Level 4 880/1,000XP
Riding Skills: Level 7 310/2,800XP
Hunting Skill: Level 1 0/100XP
Crafting Ability: Level 1 0/100XP
Fishing Skill: Level 1 0/100XP
Health Recovery: Level 1 66/100XP
Cooking Skills: Level 1 0/100XP
Tracking: Level 1 0/100XP
Gambling Skill: Level 1 0/100XP
Bond Level: Level 5 320/1,500XP
Intimidation: Level 6 830/2,100XP
Skills:
Deadeye: Slow down time by thinking the word Deadeye Activate