Just as Bill's desire to regain a modicum of control over his body reached all-new heights, a short, stout man stepped out of the crowd. It was a much-needed distraction from the anxiety. The man's ludicrous proportions caught Bill off guard. Everything about him just seemed… off. Head shaped like a mushroom perched atop a boulder-like body that was suited up in a charred leather apron, his massive hands engulfed the shoulders of a nervous-looking blond woman as he guided her forward.
Despite the physical contact bringing her obvious discomfort, the woman's soft green eyes shone with determination. Tall and statuesque, draped in white silk night robes that did little to hide the curvaceous figure hidden within. She seemed to glide across the uneven terrain, as if the muddy road was somehow solidifying beneath her feet. There wasn't a doubt in Bill's mind that she could've been a mainstream runway model if it weren't for a grisly scattering of scars tattooing the left side of her face.
A series of jagged red columns descending from the hairline just behind her ear cut diagonally across her angular cheek before curling up and over her dainty chin. They finally ended halfway down the front of her neck. The disfigured beauty shrugged off her misshapen captor and went out of her way to avoid making eye contact with anyone as she made a beeline for Mr. Schaffner's comatose form.
By comparison, her bulky companion was far less timid. Being so casually dismissed didn't seem to sit well with him, as he was undoubtedly looking for trouble. Perhaps Mr. Schaffner was an old friend of his, but due to the covetous glances he kept tossing at the alluring woman hovering over the snoring drunk lying unconscious in the street, it was easy to assume this dickface had a more sinister purpose in mind.
Just as Bill had expected, he came to a stop a mere three paces away and placed his monstrous hands on his hips. Wild Bill chuckled darkly as his least favorite member of the local populace craned his flabby neck back and narrowed his beady eyes.
“You workin' up the nerve to kiss me, old man?“ Wild Bill asked, giggling like a schoolgirl, hiding his face behind his hands. To add a bit of mystique, he fluttered his eyelids between purposefully spaced gaps between his fingers.
Bill couldn't help but laugh when the creepy stranger realized his pitiful attempt at intimidation had not only failed, but backfired entirely. Face flushing crimson, he then proceeded to glare ominously, looking Wild Bill up and down, sizing up this rowdy newcomer while wheezing out shallow phlegmy gasps. It was awkward to say the least.
Ugh. His breath smells like cheese… Who…?
Before Bill could finish his thought, Wild Bill was already filling him in.
This cranky-lookin' fella with a penis fer a head is Fort Alamo's sorry excuse of a Blacksmith. Ain't got no clue what his name is, so don't bother askin'. Far as I know, everyone 'round here calls him 'The Blacksmith'. Folks're gonna be callin' him 'Blackeye' if he don't back the fuck up outta' my face…
Wild Bill sucked his cheeks and took a slow, calming breath. Rather than engage with an obviously smitten blacksmith over an obstinate old man who'd gotten himself laid out by a single punch—a punch that technically wasn't even thrown by him—he faced Schaffner's daughter, offering an apologetic smile that was wholeheartedly ignored.
Scarface there is Schaffner's daughter, Aubrey. Our pal The Blacksmith here's been tryin'a marry her fer years now. Heard that from Schaffner hisself. He also made it clear that that ain't never gonna happen, but she likes the attention. Fer obvious reasons, she don't get much of that these days… Rumor is, Aubrey was out lookin' fer some kind of rare plants an' stumbled across a bunch of cute critters instead. Got distracted and found herself gettin' dragged down off her horse by a pissed off mountain lion. Beast savaged her up nice and proper while it's young escaped. I guess it got bored an' left her fer dead. She would'a bled out then an' there if'n it weren't for some kind'a Apache shaman wanderin' by…
“You're too old to be gettin' liquored up and fightin' in the streets, Pa,” Aubrey muttered, silencing Wild Bill's explanation with a nasty glare as she gently slapped her father's cheeks in an attempt to rouse him from his drunken stupor. Unbeknownst to her, in her eagerness to get Schaffner up and moving she accidentally stepped on his loose teeth and drove them deep into the mud.
Nero sucked in a sharp breath and took a single step in her direction, pangs of guilt plucking at his heart like fingers strumming across a stringed instrument. Wild Bill snorted and extended an arm to block his path. “Let him be. He don't want you to go touchin' him with that black skin of yer's, remember?“ Nero narrowed his eyes and retreated, wincing as if suffering the lashing of a phantom whip.
When Schaffner's daughter heard the undisguised resentment lacing Wild Bill's sarcastic remark, her body shuddered involuntarily. Brushing her hair out of her face, she looked from Nero to Wild Bill and back to Nero again. Her anger visibly cooled as understanding settled in. She groaned. “I'm awful sorry, sirs. My Pa's a hateful idiot, but he's mostly harmless. Please don't hold a grudge. If he causes you any future troubles, come find me at the General Store. I'll make sure to set him straight so you don't have to.“ She gestured at the charred remnants of her family store, a flicker of shock flashing across her pale features before she regained composure. “Now that I think about it, you might have to fetch me at home…”
Out of habit, Wild Bill lifted a hand to give a tip of his hat in condolence of her losses, only to freeze in place. A frown creased his lips when he remembered Deputy Collins shredding his prized cattleman with a lucky shot. The tips of his fingers brushed against the fresh wound that should've been above his temple. Instead of the expected sticky wetness and discomfort, he was met with a fierce itching sensation as a layer of scab crumbled and fell away upon contact.
A six inch long scar was revealed.
Left with a likely-permanent bald patch that was surprisingly tender to the touch, Wild Bill snarled. His emotions fluctuated all over the place, bouncing back and forth between everything from excitement, to annoyance, to blistering fury. “I'll bring that stupid sumbitch Collins back to life jus' so I can kill him all over again…” He growled out a venomous barrage of slurs, uncaringly peppering The Blacksmith's far-too-close face with an abundance of free-falling spit droplets.
The Blacksmith squinted his eyes, his face morphing into a soggy mask of disgust. He cracked his oversized knuckles and wiped his face in the crook of his arm. Once revealed, his mostly-dried features were not only missing any trace of furnace soot, but he seemed to be wholly lacking all visible signs of emotion. “You hurt Aubrey's Pa. Yer Daddy ain't bother to teach you no manners, huh?“ he said in a flat tone, rolling his beefy shoulders and letting out a deep sigh. “That's too bad. Guess we'll have to start you off with the basics. Rule number 1, respect yer elders, boy.“
Before Wild Bill could voice his willingness to show the depths of his respect by sending The Blacksmith waddling back to his workshop with Mr. Schaffner's head lodged neck-deep up his rectum, a surprisingly fast fist flashed forward and slammed into his chin. His head barely budged backwards. Wild Bill kicked his lips, grinning maniacally as the familiar taste of blood filled his mouth.
“Good, good! Hey Bill, it's lookin' like them stats ain't so worthless after all!“ He raised his chin and lowered his hands to his sides. “Come on now, show me what you got, old-timer. I bet I can take a dozen of them pillow fists without taking a single step back!“
Unable to resist his counterpart's lunacy, Bill called up his status screen. The best he could do at this point was minimize the damage.
STATISTICS
Name: William 'Two-faced' Wolfe
Race: (F) [Human] Level: 8
Class: [Locked]
Affinity: ???
Loyalty: [Self]
Faction: N/A
Rank: N/A
Fame: N/A
Infamy: N/A
Sigils: Riftwarden, Dual-souled
Titles: First Blood, Deadeye
System Credits: 12,980
Contribution Points: 10,000
Racial Statistics
Strength: 16
Perception: 24
Vitality: 30 (-8)
Endurance: 29 (-8)
Agility: 10
Dexterity: 11
Intelligence: 14
Wisdom: 14
Luck: 12
Unallocated Status Points: 9
Skills
(R) [Temporal Step] Lvl 1
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
(U) [Soulsurge] Lvl 1
(C) [Basic Language Comprehension] Lvl 2
(C) [Marksmanship] Lvl 36
The first thing he noticed was the reduction of his stats had somehow dropped from ten to eight. Short on time, Bill ignored the temptation to search for the cause and allocated his 9 remaining status points as quickly as possible. In a bid to hasten his recovery he dumped five points into Vitality, rounding it out to an even 30. The remaining four were immediately dumped into Endurance with hopes that the slight increase would push his defenses beyond his opponents offensive capabilities.
Completely nullifying the impact might've been a stretch, but when he took into consideration what little damage The Blacksmith's jab managed to cause, he was feeling pretty good about his odds.
Unprepared for the sudden surge of electrically charged pins and needles ripping through his body, Wild Bill began to shudder erratically. A delayed rush of adrenaline filled him with what felt like limitless energy; late to the party but appreciated nonetheless. Glaring down at a hardheaded old coot, he raised his hands up over his head. “COME ON THEN PENISFACE!!" he roared, “THERES THUNDER CRACKLIN' IN MY VEINS!“
It wasn't until nonsense began to pour from his lips at max volume that Bill recalled the distracting symptoms brought about by rapidly boosted stats. Umm… shit. I think he's high.
***
“Suit yourself. Don't you go callin' me a bully later.“ The Blacksmith replied with a curt nod. What in Lucifer's sweltering furnace is this guy's face made out of?! he wondered. Normally, he would've laughed in the face of anyone willing to eat a dozen of his fists. Seldom were the cases he had needed more than just the one. Now, he wasn't so confident. Although they'd had a casual encounter at the saloon a few days back, he realistically had no idea who this steel-faced maniac was. But he had no intention of backing down from a challenge just because his fist was throbbing. “Don't you move now,” he shook out his hand and drew back his arm to deliver a mighty uppercut.
***
Detached from his body, there was no real pain to be felt. Strangely, Bill's soul emitted a sinister buzzing in response to its current vessel accumulating additional damage. Unsure how to respond, he nervously spun in place, observing every minute detail of the surroundings as a burst of dazzling light erupted from within his presence, spreading through the soft darkness keeping his consciousness isolated.
Traveling in ripples, this eerie light briefly illuminated the distorted expanse of space keeping the fundamental essence of his being separated from that distant core of sharpened steel and pent-up anxiety that he knew represented Wild Bill. Hesitant to be exposed, the environment began to churn and seethe. The undesired light was ground between folds of dark pressure until nothing remained but glittering sparks that fizzled into nothing.
What the fuck was that about?! Was it the Stats?..
***
Devastating punches continued to land one after another. When a swift uppercut to Mr. Bill's chin failed to make him budge, his attacker followed it up with several brutal hooks to the ribcage. A straight left landed in the center of his chest just before a right cross collided with his stomach. Through it all, that disturbing grin never left Mr. Bill's face. Neither was he showing any sign of retreat. Feet planted awkwardly, his obvious reluctance to rely on his left leg caused him to sway in place with each additional blow. Nero's grimace stretched further and further with every meaty thud until finally, he didn't think he could stand idly by any longer.
“This ain't nothin' but a big misunderstandin'!“ He blurted out, rushing forward, placing himself directly between Mr. Bill and those unrelenting fists. Although he had no desire to join in on the pummeling, his unruly legs planted themselves firmly. Rooted in place like an oak stump, Nero raised his hands in case he needed to defend himself, forcing himself to smile as he faced down the glowering ball of sweaty muscles pressing against his chest.
“Get outta the way, darkie.“ The Blacksmith croaked up at the unwanted interloper. He balled his hands into ham-sized fists and growled. “This ain't none of yer cotton-pickin' concern. Move. Out. Of. My. Way. I ain't gonna ask again.“
“Hurph!“ A fist slipped through Nero's guard, crashing into his stomach, leaving him gasping for breath.
“MOVE, BOY! NOW!“ Another punch tore through the air, this one aimed at the center of Nero's face.
Nero closed his eyes and sighed. Rather than feel his nose being flattened by a narrow-minded dickhead, a firm grip arrived on his shoulder, shoving him out of the way. He turned just in time to watch as the anger-fueled fist impacted Mr. Bill's forehead like a meteor.
Nero's blood began to boil when he saw a pair of crimson streams trickling down Mr. Bill's face. Recalling the brief explanation Mr. Bill had provided about statistics and their various uses, Nero summoned the floating box that displayed his stats. What he desired most of all was an immediate increase to his raw power.
If Mr. Bill wasn't going to fight back, Nero would just clobber The Blacksmith himself. He began to grow excited as he pictured the shock on that asshole's face when he came to and realized that a 'darkie' had knocked him out cold.
STATISTICS
Name: Nero
Race: (F) [Human] Level: 8
Class: [Locked]
Affinity: ???
Loyalty: [William 'Two-faced' Wolf]
Faction: N/A
Rank: N/A
Fame: N/A
Infamy: N/A
Titles:
System Credits: 12,830
Contribution Points: 10,000
Racial Statistics
Strength: 14
Perception: 13
Vitality: 13
Endurance: 16
Agility: 14
Dexterity: 15
Intelligence: 11
Wisdom: 13
Luck: 3
Unallocated Status Points: 21
Skills
(C) [Basic Language Comprehension] Lvl 2
Without hesitation, Nero dumped all twenty-one points into Strength. Regret set in immediately. His temperature began to rise at a worrying pace. And then there was the pain. It started as a minor annoyance but rapidly rose to the point it felt as if he was being crushed within the grip of a clumsy giant. Tremors assaulted his body as each and every one of his muscles clenched up into tightly-bound knots that sought to expand. He would've cried out of it weren't for his jaw being locked in place.
***
What the hell, man? Bill demanded, you leaned right into that one! Regardless of The Blacksmith's surprising display of speed, Bill knew damned well he could've easily avoided each and every one of those punches. Thanks to his vastly-improved perception he was able to see the attacks coming from a mile away.
Instead of responding to the unhappy voice in his head, Wild Bill spat out a glob of blood and saliva on The Blacksmith's apron. “You already givin' up?“ he asked, “but we ain't done yet. I only counted eleven.“
“DONT YOU DARE MOCK ME IN FRONT OF AUBREY!!” Having apparently fumbled his grip on reality, The Blacksmith tugged a buck knife from somewhere beneath his apron and licked the blade. His tongue began to bleed. “I'm gonna chop you into thin strips and dip em' in soy sauce.“
He's a cannibal?! Oh, fuck all this nonsense. Bill had absolutely no desire to become Asian cuisine. I lied, alright! The sheriff's revolver still has three shots! Shoot him, other me!
“That's the smartest thing you've said all day!“ Wild Bill said as he yanked the decrepit pistol from his waistline, aimed from the hip and fired. He was no fool. He had been habitually counting his shots since his freeloader was sucking at his mammies tits. The fact was, they only had this one shot remaining. His Model 14 was empty, and two of the Colt Navy's remaining cylinders were packed with duds. He'd known that ever since he'd tried to discharge said cylinders into the weapon's former owner's lower back.
Unfortunately, all it took was the faint click of a failed discharge to inform Wild Bill that the remaining cylinder was also a dud. This weapon had obviously Been improperly reloaded. Damn you Slavin' Dave!
All out of options, Wild Bill whipped the useless pistol at The Blacksmith's incoming blade and leapt backwards, his plan to stand in place abandoned along with his malfunctioning weapon. Thanks to quick reflexes he managed to deflect the first slash, escaping mostly intact. A dull throb in his hand informed him he wasn't entirely successful. Another three steps backwards found Wild Bill with his back pressed up against the wall. Further retreat was impossible.
“Dammit! We're 'bout to get poked full of holes here, Willy! Use one of them Skills!“
FuckFuckFuck!!! [Soulsurge]! [Temporal Step]!!!
It's not working! Run away! Let's regroup and get revenge later!
“Run my ass! My goddamn hip just popped out of socket! Guess I'll be seein' you in Hell Billy-boy!“ I'm comin' home Sara… Wild Bill tugged Sara's Model 14 from its holster, flipped it over and grabbed it by the barrel. Makeshift club in hand, he swung it once to test the balance, narrowed his eyes and prepared to do everything in his power to take The Blacksmith out with him.
The Blacksmith looked like a man possessed. A feverish grin cut across his face as he closed the distance. He gripped the handle of his knife with both hands, the moonlight flashing off the edge of the blade as he thrust it toward Wild Bill's heart.
His fate no longer in his own hands, Bill focused on the face of what was likely his soon-to-be murderer and prayed that Wild Bill could figure out a way to pull a bit of magic out of his ass.
Just as the blade crossed the halfway point between its wielder and the intended recipient, Bill heard a strange thump. The Blacksmith's body began to convulse. His attack halted midair. The buck knife fell from his grip as his eyes bulged way too far out of his head. Bill's confusion turned to shock, and then abject disgust as both of The Blacksmith's eyeballs were ejected from their sockets with a sickening pop. A fountain of blood wept from every facial orifice.
He thrashed about for a full five seconds before falling to his knees. Standing behind The Blacksmith, doubled over at the waist, trying and failing to extract his fist from within the back of his collapsed melon was, “Nero? Nero! I'll be godamned! You saved my skin!“
Nero's bloodshot eyes were unfocused, as if he was in a trance. He was jerking The Blacksmith's corpse up and down, mumbling under his breath at each failed attempt to retrieve his hand. Bill couldn't hear what he was saying over the collective gasps of denial and shock coming from the crowd.
Wild Bill kneeled down and held The Blacksmith's head in place. When Nero's hand slid free, the distraught former slave turned to face the terrified townsfolk and slumped to the ground. “I… I never meant…”
A blood curdling howl silenced the town's growing anger. The horrifying noise was followed soon after by a shriek that caused the nearby oil lamps to sputter and die out. The unearthly sound spread through Fort Alamo like a physical force, simultaneously blasting away the lingering plumes of smoke and driving an audible icepick into the brains of the unlucky recipients. Wild Bill grunted and slammed his hands over his ears, reducing the phantom assault, but failing to block it out entirely.