Plans

The intricate, shadowy conspiracies in Saint Denis spun endlessly, a delicate, venomous dance of power, but they drifted, ethereal and impotent, far above the immediate concerns of Dutch Van der Linde. His grand, multifaceted plan, oblivious to their distant machinations, was still in full, glorious swing.

At this very moment, after a relentless day of travel, pushing their horses until their flanks were lathered, the formidable team of more than seventy souls finally arrived, a silent, ominous presence, at the very edge of Butcher Creek Village. The air here was different; thick with the scent of stagnant water, damp earth, and something indefinably sickly sweet.

Within the dense, whispering woods just outside Butcher Creek Village, the seventy gunmen, some astride their weary horses, others packed into rattling carriages, presented a chillingly formidable force. They had brought fifty men from Hope Ranch, and another twenty had been expertly pulled from the burgeoning ranks of Shady Belle, reinforcing their strength. In addition to these seventy grim-faced gunmen, each armed with the latest Marko semi-automatic rifles, they possessed the raw, destructive power of two Maxim guns and one heavy cannon, its barrel glinting ominously in the fading light. The force stood poised, a silent, tightening noose around the unsuspecting village.

Butcher Creek Village was not, strictly speaking, the same entity as The Murfree Brood. The Murfree Brood, those notorious, inbred cannibals, were immigrants who had settled here in the early 19th century, their bloodline and their practices rotting into unspeakable savagery.

Butcher Creek Village, on the other hand, was, on the surface, just an ordinary, poverty-stricken hamlet, its inhabitants plagued by appalling sanitation conditions and relentlessly polluted water, suffering from a myriad of repulsive skin diseases.

Yet, to say these two entities had no connection was perhaps too generous. For it was, truly, very abnormal that a village, utterly devoid of any official law enforcement, nestled deep within the universally feared Murfree Brood's territory, had not been utterly massacred, its inhabitants devoured.

Of course, Dutch, ever the pragmatist, refused to look at things with mere 'conspiracy theories,' so he decided, with a touch of his self-proclaimed benevolence, to give the people of Butcher Creek Village a 'chance,' just as he had done with the desperate souls of Van Horn Trading Post.

After all, according to the side quests in his former, ethereal existence (the game), the people of Butcher Creek Village were, indeed, just ignorant, superstitious villagers.

"Clip-clop, clip-clop…"

The rhythmic, increasingly loud sound of horse hooves slowly approached from a distance, cutting through the eerie stillness of the swampy twilight. Dutch, Arthur, and John, leading a vanguard of more than a dozen grim-faced gunmen, rode grandly along the narrow, winding path that led directly into Butcher Creek Village. And in the surrounding, increasingly encroaching shadows of the dense, oppressive mountains, the remaining dozens of gunmen were already silently fanning out, positioning themselves in strategic, concealed locations, forming a perfect, deadly siege ring around Butcher Creek Village.

Finally, when they were close enough, the lone figure suspected of guarding at the head of Butcher Creek Village, a gaunt, sickly man with skin like mottled bark, discovered Dutch and his small vanguard.

"Stop! Who are you?! What in the blazes are you doing here?!" the man croaked, his voice raspy with fear and suspicion. He immediately raised his ancient, rusty gun, its muzzle wavering slightly as he looked at the dozen or so well-armed, unnervingly clean people approaching him. His entire frame already trembled with nervous tension. And his strained shout, of course, instantly attracted the attention of the villagers.

One by one, like specters emerging from the humid darkness, the villagers looked in their direction, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hostile curiosity. Some, thin and sickly, even picked up their own rudimentary guns, gathering in a nervous, silent huddle, their bodies covered in various mottled marks, looking like repulsive, fungal skin diseases. Their emaciated frames, almost skin and bones, were physiologically uncomfortable to look at, a testament to their wretched existence.

But Dutch, ever the master of outward perception, was never one to judge people by appearances, not truly. And the calculated path he walked, his grand vision, absolutely did not allow him to judge people by such superficialities. Otherwise, he would never have been able to win over so much popular, devoted support. Arthur, however, was less diplomatic, his face twisting in a grimace.

"Oh, shit!" Arthur muttered, his voice a low, disgusted whisper, then louder, unable to contain his revulsion. "Is that… is that moss growing on these people?!"

"Shit, Arthur! They can hear what you're saying, you damn fool!" John hissed, elbowing him sharply.

Arthur's voice, while not a bellow, had certainly not been a whisper. The lone gunman guarding the village, his face a mask of wary defiance, clearly heard it. However, the sheer number of men confronting him – a full dozen armed to the teeth, and more in the shadows – made him dare not act rashly. He merely clutched his rifle tighter, his eyes darting.

"Oh, gentlemen," an old man, his face a roadmap of suffering, his skin a patchwork of diseased sores, slowly hobbled out of the village, his voice surprisingly calm despite the fear in his eyes. He raised a gnarled hand, gently nudging down the gun of the trembling guard. He looked at Dutch, his face etched with a desperate, pleading expression.

"This is not where you should be, not truly. So why don't you turn around and leave? Do you… do you also want to become like us? Bear the devil's curse?" The villagers behind him, a ragged, sickly multitude, slowly, reluctantly, lowered their crude weapons.

Butcher Creek Village was renowned for its fierce, almost insane exclusivity, a byproduct of their grotesque appearance and the pervasive belief in the 'devil's curse' they bore. This isolation also, paradoxically, made the place, much like Van Horn Trading Post, possess a certain primitive, almost simple folk custom. Of course, it was far more likely that the New Hanover state government, their pockets bulging with mining company money, had simply abandoned their lives, left them to slowly die here, a forgotten stain on the map.

As for this so-called curse, Dutch, having 'played the game,' naturally knew precisely what was going on – arsenic poisoning from the upstream mining. And he, Dutch, certainly had no time to waste on such superstitious nonsense.

So Dutch, ever the decisive leader, waved his hand directly, cutting off the old village chief's desperate plea. Then, with a voice that resonated with authority and a hint of almost benevolent condescension, he spoke.

"People of Butcher Creek Village, hello. I am Dutch Van der Linde, and as of this moment, I am the new Governor of New Hanover!" He paused, letting the audacious declaration hang in the humid air. "According to the recent resolution of the New Hanover State Council, starting today, the urbanization construction of New Hanover will begin! At the same time, we will diligently investigate potential hazards to the public everywhere, ensuring the health and safety of all citizens."

Dutch's voice grew solemn, almost grave. "According to our investigation results, the upstream water source of Butcher Creek Village is indeed contaminated with heavy metal ore, rendering it no longer suitable for living here. For your health, for the very well-being of your families, and also to implement this necessary urbanization construction, starting today, Butcher Creek Village will begin to relocate. You will have one week, precisely seven days, to move to the designated area around Van Horn Trading Post. The New Hanover State Government will specially allocate a healthy, clean residential area for you in New Hanover for your new residence. Therefore, you must move during this period. And rest assured, we will arrange special personnel to supervise, to ensure a smooth, orderly transition!"

"Ah?!" Dutch's opening remarks, so utterly unexpected, so bewilderingly official, directly confused the sickly people of Butcher Creek Village. They had originally thought these well-dressed, armed men were either mining company personnel, here to cause them more trouble, or perhaps even sinister subordinates sent by the very devils that cursed their land.

But it turned out they were from the New Hanover State Government?! And even the Governor himself?! Who had come to inform them to relocate, and also talked about something as incomprehensible as 'urbanization construction'?! Damn it, they thought, their minds reeling, they had no doubts in their hearts at this moment. Putting everything else aside, just those few sentences about 'implementing urbanization construction,' and 'according to the resolution of the New Hanover State Council,' sounded utterly legitimate, like something a mere scammer, a petty criminal, could never utter. It sounded precisely like a genuine, authoritative leader sent directly by the state.

Especially the attire of this imposing group: each man dressed brightly, beautifully, radiating the elegance and glamour of high society. Even the subordinates following behind them were dressed better than the grubby leaders of the mining company who had come last time, who merely smelled of stale whiskey and desperation. And their condescending demeanor, that air of unquestionable authority—they truly looked exactly, precisely, like leaders! Immediately, the old village chief no longer harbored any doubts. His entire demeanor, his very being, visibly shrank, subsumed by a crushing, unfamiliar awe.

"Oh, oh, Governor! Governor!" the old chief stammered, his voice filled with desperate pleading. "Quickly, quickly, put away your guns, please! Oh, Governor, Governor! We didn't mean to, it's just that our village has been cursed by the devil, you see! We can't move from here, because we have been cursed! Look at these skins on our bodies, Governor! This… this is the devil's curse!" His hand trembled as he pointed to the repulsive lesions mottling his skin, his eyes wide with a desperate, ancient fear.