Atack

After waiting an excruciating three hours, until the last vestiges of twilight had bled into the oppressive cloak of night and every soul within Brennan Fort was, presumably, lost to the depths of sleep, Dutch finally lowered his binoculars. His voice, a low, controlled whisper, cut through the silence.

"Alright, boys, we can start." His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flickered to each man. "Arthur, take your bow, kid. Davey, you two go take out the two guards at the gate. Don't let them make too much noise, understand? No gurgling, no last gasps. Clean."

He then turned to John. "John, you take this rifle and stand guard outside. Once we engage in a firefight inside, you aim directly for that Maxim gun and shoot down the gunner. Eliminate the threat. As for Mac," Dutch's gaze settled on his jovial comrade, "you come with me to kill the two enemies at the higher positions behind the fort. And grab the ropes; we'll loop them around the wooden poles on the wall later, and we'll climb directly in from the back. Surprise is our ally."

Reality, in this instance, proved to be a bit more merciful than the brutal confines of the game. In the game, Arthur and Charles were often forced to awkwardly contort themselves through tiny gaps in the outer walls of military forts, a clumsy, time-consuming affair. But in reality, they could simply use their trusty lasso ropes to hook onto the wall, scaling it directly. This allowed them to enter the interior with devastating speed, catching the unsuspecting enemy completely by surprise.

"Okay, Dutch!" Mac nodded, his face grimly determined, the usual humor replaced by a steely resolve. He deftly picked up his throwing knives and rifle from his horse, then quietly, like a shadow, followed Dutch, stealthily moving towards the back of Brennan Fort. Arthur, meanwhile, moved with the silent grace of a predator, following Davey, keeping low, using the cover of tall grass and gnarled trees to slowly, imperceptibly approach the fort's main gate.

The night was deep now, a suffocating blanket of darkness. The ancient trees surrounding Brennan Fort were thick and lush, their gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers. These dense tree shadows severely blocked the meager moonlight, making the forest appear almost completely dark from a distance, an impenetrable, inky blackness. This provided them with the best possible cover, allowing them to approach silently, like phantoms, without being discovered.

"Hoo~" Dutch suppressed his breathing, his chest barely rising and falling, his every muscle controlled. He carefully modulated the speed of his steps, moving with the practiced stealth of a seasoned hunter, and meticulously circled around to the back of Brennan Fort with Mac, their footsteps almost entirely silent.

The front of Brennan Fort bore the gaping maw of a large hole, a testament to some past conflict, but the back was intact, its high wall estimated to be a formidable four or five meters tall. At this time, two patrolling Lemoyne Raiders, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders, stood guard at the left and right ends of the high wall, their figures barely visible in the oppressive gloom.

Dutch looked at Mac, who had already reached his designated position at the other end of the wall. With a flick of his wrist, Dutch extended a single finger and made a gesture of "three," a silent countdown. At this point, their positions were dangerously close to the city wall, and the flickering firelight from inside the fort made the shadowy figures slightly clearer, betraying their positions. Mac nodded, a grim smile on his face, took out his throwing knife, and met Dutch's gaze, ready.

"Chirp!" Accompanied by a clear, almost inaudible sound, Dutch launched a throwing knife upwards, a silent, deadly projectile. Seeing his movement, Mac immediately followed suit, his own throwing knife whistling through the air.

"Puff, puff!" Two almost simultaneous, soft sounds rang out above their heads. The two unsuspecting Lemoyne Raiders on the high wall, one on the left and one on the right, crumpled. One had a throwing knife pierce directly through his throat and into his brain, a clean, instant kill. The other had one pierce directly through his open mouth and into his brain, silencing him mid-yawn. Both bodies immediately slumped down, falling like sacks of potatoes.

Though faint grunts and the soft thuds of falling bodies were heard, the fort was too large, its interior filled with the myriad ambient noises of a sleeping camp. These two sounds were almost inaudible, swallowed by the vast silence of the night. Of course, the main reason was that basically everyone else was sound asleep, their snores echoing through the barracks, and the only other two guards were at the distant gate, their awareness dulled by boredom. The distance between them was simply too great to hear any sounds from here.

However, a chilling synchronicity was at play: the two men at the gate fell almost simultaneously with the two unfortunate souls on the wall. One was directly pierced through the heart by an arrow, a silent, fatal strike from Arthur's bow, and the other's head was brutally, efficiently blown apart by Davey's precise, suppressed pistol shot.

The Van der Linde Gang truly was versatile, a lethal orchestra of specialized killers. Archery, close combat, tracking, reconnaissance, brutal gunfights, and even throwing knives—these guys were all better at it than the last, practically 19th century commandos.

"Swish!" As the two Lemoyne Raiders on the high wall slumped into oblivion, Dutch and Mac, with practiced ease, took the lasso ropes from their waists. They tied a slip knot with lightning speed and, with uncanny accuracy, threw it into a narrow gap in the wooden poles on the wall, firmly securing it to the wood at the very top.

At forty-four years old, Dutch was in his absolute prime, a man whose physical condition was still incredibly, almost impossibly, good – though it was more likely due to a subtle cheat code from his transmigration than mere physical prowess. He gripped the rope with both hands and scaled the wooden wall with his feet, moving with the agility of a mountain goat, even surpassing Mac's speed.

"Thud!" The two successfully climbed onto the high wall. Then, with a flick of his hand, Dutch executed a beautiful, arcing throw, a throwing knife whistling through the air with deadly precision. It accurately pierced the neck of a Lemoyne Raider standing in the middle below the fort, near the gunpowder stash, silently watching over it.

"Hoo hoo hoo..." People in reality don't die that quickly, not always. The first two had died instantly because their brains were pierced, a swift obliteration. But this one, with his neck pierced, could still make horrifying, gasping sounds, a gurgling death rattle.

He fell to the ground, trying desperately to struggle, but couldn't make any significant movements due to the rapid, suffocating lack of oxygen. Dutch, with a cold efficiency, then threw another throwing knife, precisely piercing his head, which finally nailed him dead on the spot, silencing his last, desperate gasps.

Meanwhile, Arthur, Davey, and John had already infiltrated through the now unguarded main gate, moving like wraiths. They began using daggers to silently, ruthlessly stab the sleeping Lemoyne Raiders lying on the ground, their bodies twitching in a final, horrifying dance. Dutch, on the other hand, led Mac towards the nearby watchtower, his eyes fixed on their next target.

The commander of the Lemoyne Raiders, Lindsay Wofford, was, as Dutch had confirmed with his binoculars, sound asleep on a cot inside the watchtower. Dutch had already used his binoculars to determine everyone's precise positions, mapping out their fates. The cleanup inside the fort was proceeding with terrifying speed.

The number of Lemoyne Raiders was not large, and Arthur and Davey were both skilled, seasoned killers, efficient and brutal. So, Dutch and Mac simply stood at the entrance of the watchtower, quietly waiting, their patience absolute, until the brutal cleanup below was completely finished. Only then, no longer bothering to conceal their footsteps, did they stride into the watchtower.

"Damn it, he's still asleep!" Mac scoffed, a look of disgusted disbelief on his face. He took the lead, kicking Lindsay Wofford, who was sound asleep on the bed and hadn't noticed their entry, with a vicious snap of his boot. Lindsay went flying two meters sideways, crashing heavily against the wall behind him with a sickening thud before collapsing to the floor in a heap.

"Ahhh! Who are you?! Damn it, someone! Kill him!" That brutal kick completely jolted Lindsay awake. He scrambled to his feet from the ground in a pathetic, disoriented state, immediately crying out for help, his voice raspy with fear and confusion. However, there was no response from outside, only the chilling silence of a fort now purged of its defenders. And his gun, which had been carelessly placed on the headboard of his bed, had already been swiftly picked up by Dutch and contemptuously tossed aside.

"Damn it, who are you?! How dare you go against the Lemoyne Avengers?! Our people won't let you off, you hear me?!"

Mr. Lindsay's demeanor was outwardly fierce, a desperate attempt at bravado, but inwardly, his courage had completely evaporated, his heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach. These two men had appeared so brazenly, so silently, so impossibly, which clearly meant that the people outside had already been dealt with by them. In terms of both numbers and sheer, terrifying strength, he was no match.

"Stop yelling, bumpkin. Your subordinates were all dealt with while you were sleeping!"

Mac scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips. He glanced contemptuously at Lindsay's tattered, grimy clothes, then glanced down at his own 'VDL' latest full set of men's gentleman's attire, meticulously tailored and impossibly stylish. The contrast only deepened his disdain for this pathetic commander. Their attire was like night and day: Mac looked like a young noble from the city, while Lindsay, crumpled before him, was utterly, completely like a beggar by the roadside.

And it was true, ever since Dutch had allowed them to live like true gentlemen, Mac really enjoyed the feeling. If Arthur and the others' lives had only changed subtly, then Mac's very pursuits, his core values, had shifted dramatically.

He no longer smoked common cigarettes; instead, like Dutch, he had begun to pompously, almost ceremoniously, smoke cigars, affecting an air of sophisticated gravitas. This damn guy, Mac, he was putting on airs too, and he was enjoying every damned moment of it.