The author is too communist lol

If the very root is wrong, then no matter how meticulously you walk, no matter how carefully you plan your steps, the outcome will invariably be wrong, skewed, destined for failure. It's a fundamental truth, much like the challenging, often brutal, lives of the American people today. In fact, the people of Europe, grappling with their own forms of oppression, are not much different. The only discernible difference lies in the fact that the Great Virtue (a veiled reference to Communist ideology's influence) worked tirelessly, twice over, to make those rapacious capitalists understand that before their inherent bloodiness, their ruthless drive for profit, was thoroughly beaten out of them, they still couldn't use too much overt force, too much blatant oppression. There was a subtle line, a limit.

Therefore, these unseen forces subtly launched concepts like LGPT(B) (a coded, perhaps anachronistic, reference to identity politics), aiming to cunningly shift deep-seated class contradictions into superficial popular contradictions, fracturing unity. At the same time, they deftly used this damned, insidious ideology to subtly castrate the very will and spirit of these oppressed people, eroding their inner strength, so that they no longer possessed the fierce spirit of resistance and cohesion they had demonstrated during the "Little Mustache" period (referring to the era of Hitler or Stalin, implying mass mobilization). This insidious manipulation allowed this group of people to completely, tragically, become a bunch of brainless idiots, easily swayed and controlled.

Dutch's words, however, uttered with such profound conviction, simply enlightened these people! They were a beacon in the darkness of their confusion.

Because the more they pondered his words, the more they thought, the more unequivocally right they found him to be, seeing profound, undeniable truths in his seemingly radical rhetoric. And the more profoundly right they found him to be, the more intensely they felt assimilated towards him, their minds and spirits aligning with his.

The more assimilated they became, the more this group of people, once a disparate collection of individuals, began to physically and psychologically resemble Dutch, adopting his mannerisms, his fiery conviction, displaying a palpable sense of madness that some, like Milton, could perceive with chilling clarity.

And this sense of madness, in fact, this transformative fervor, can be described in another, more chilling way, which is: utter, unquestioning, zealous devotion.

According to the annals of American history, in a pivotal moment in December 1899, Mr. Van der Linde, the enigmatic figure who would later become the ten-term President of the United States, the Supreme King of the United States, the benevolent Sun of the United States, and the guiding Supreme Star of the United States, delivered a momentous speech in Blackwater that, with the force of a thunderclap, completely ignited the flame of revolution!

Time, however, now returns to the more immediate present, to the tense aftermath of that very speech.

As Dutch's impassioned speech ended, his powerful voice fading into the stillness, all the cacophonous noise of the crowd, the shouts, the murmurs, the desperate pleas, began to disappear little by little, replaced by an eerie, profound silence.

The various expressions and boisterous laughter on the faces of the crowd slowly stopped, frozen mid-motion, and various thoughtful, almost bewildered, expressions seemed to be appearing on their faces, as if a profound revelation had just dawned upon them.

And among them, the most profoundly shocked, the most utterly bewildered, was Mr. Milton. He was a man of logic, and logic was failing him.

Mr. Milton stood rigidly in place, leaning heavily on his cane, his body stiff, his mind buzzing as if struck by a massive, unseen sledgehammer. The impact of Dutch's words vibrated through his very being.

It was simply not too difficult for his high ideological level, his sharp, analytical mind, to fully grasp and understand the complex implications of what Dutch had just said.

But the more he understood, the deeper he delved into the logic of Dutch's argument, the more chillingly he realized one startling thing: that Dutch Van der Linde's crooked, seemingly absurd ideas actually seemed to be damn right! They resonated with an uncomfortable truth.

No matter how he thought, how he considered, how he explained it away, what Dutch Van der Linde had said was all golden words, profound truths, undeniable realities that stared him in the face.

Even Mr. Milton, standing there, the more he thought about it, the more he felt, with a gnawing certainty, that Dutch was absolutely, terrifyingly right.

The United States was truly rotten. Its very core seemed to be corrupted. What good, what genuine benefit, could the United States and its Congress, overtly controlled by these damned, avaricious capitalists, truly bring to the suffering people below? Obviously, it was utterly impossible to produce any lasting good, any true welfare.

And the current, grim national conditions of the United States just overwhelmingly verified this bitter point. Those damned capitalists only thought about relentlessly expanding their own immense wealth, their vast fortunes, and simply did not care, not one iota, about the life and death, the suffering, of the ordinary American people! They were mere fodder for their endless greed.

Otherwise, there wouldn't be so many crippling strikes every year, crippling the nation's industries. Their very own Pinkerton Detectives wouldn't be hired to brutally resolve these strikes, shooting and killing defiant workers. And they certainly wouldn't have had the "Anti-Pinkerton Detective Act" issued, a direct response, because of their bloodthirsty actions.

Mr. Milton's heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of unsettling realizations, and he thought more and more, his mind racing through the implications. He thought of the entire social structure, the oppressive layers, the seemingly benevolent United States Government, the powerful, manipulative capital magnates, and then, with a jolt, he thought of Saint Denis and Valentine under Van der Linde's surprisingly just and prosperous rule during this period… The contrast was stark, undeniable.

"Phew!" Mr. Milton's hand trembled slightly, a visible tremor, and he pinched his leg hard, a sharp, self-inflicted pain, bringing his buzzing mind back to the harsh reality of the present.

His gaze fell on Dutch, who stood calmly in front of him, his face filled with a complex tapestry of emotions: grudging respect, profound apprehension, and a dawning, terrible understanding.

Dutch Van der Linde, truly terrifying! A force of nature, a dangerous visionary.

Before, he had always felt Dutch's philosophical remarks were childish and utterly ridiculous, the ramblings of a deluded bandit. But now, with the evidence before his eyes, he already felt that these very remarks were terrifyingly profound, chillingly accurate!

"Mr. Ross, we should go!" Mr. Milton declared, his voice tight, strained. He lifted his cane, a stiff, almost robotic movement, took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked at Ross beside him, his eyes grave.

Mr. Ross nodded, his gaze on Dutch still filled with profound apprehension, a silent fear.

Even he, the cynical Agent Ross, felt that Dutch had somewhat, unsettlingly, convinced him! The man's charisma was undeniable.

Their subordinates, the Pinkerton agents, had already been swayed and recruited, leaving their posts. So there was naturally no longer any need for the two of them, the remnants of authority, to stay. Their mission here was utterly compromised.

The two of them, Mr. Milton and Mr. Ross, accompanied by the few remaining, grim-faced Pinkerton Detectives who had not been swayed by the siren call of high wages and newfound purpose, who remained loyal, mounted their horses and rode swiftly towards the dock.

It wasn't safe outside Blackwater now; the surrounding gangs were like hungry wolves. Only by water, by the river, could they manage a relatively safe escape, and in this era, even those desperate gangs had no way to pursue them across the vast expanse of water.

Mr. Dunbar, the gaunt sheriff, stood silently in place amidst the chaos, his face blank, wondering what grim thoughts occupied his mind. Dutch bothered to completely ignore him, turning his attention to his own men, urging Arthur and the others to quickly, efficiently get everyone who wanted to leave onto the train, to complete the evacuation.

Dutch was not in a hurry to expand his direct control, not immediately, even if the entire Blackwater was now effectively taken by him, his forces overwhelming its meager defenses.

West Elizabeth could be left alone for now, a strategically valuable pawn, until another fifty million dollars was cunningly borrowed from the powerful Morgan Bank, with West Elizabeth itself as collateral.

This way, the Morgan Group, greedy for profit, would readily lend it to him, believing they held the upper hand. Of course, the money would definitely not be repaid; Dutch had no intention of honoring such debts. And in the end, he also wanted West Elizabeth, its resources, its strategic position.

Dutch lit a fresh cigar, its tip glowing orange, and stood calmly by the train, his eyes slightly narrowed, a plume of smoke curling around his face. People always have to look three steps ahead, he mused, planning far beyond the immediate. Even though West Elizabeth was not yet firmly in his hand, not legally his, he was already ready to use its name, its perceived value, to secure a massive loan! His cunning knew no bounds.

Dutch's audacious trip to Blackwater was steadily progressing, his plans unfolding with ruthless efficiency. And on the other side, across the vast landscape, Hosea and Davey and others had also reached a certain, pivotal stage in their own respective missions.

At this time, Saint Denis Port, usually a bustling hub of commerce, now hummed with a different kind of anticipation.

"Choo Choo Choo…" Accompanied by the deep, resonant sound of the ship's whistle, its mournful cry echoing across the water, a sleek, modern cruise ship slowly, majestically docked at the pier, its hull gleaming.

At the pier, Hosea, impeccably dressed in a sharp, tailored suit, his usual rustic charm replaced by an air of sophisticated gravitas, eagerly awaited the arrival of Miss Camille. His presence spoke of importance.

After all, it was a loan of ten million dollars, a truly astronomical sum in this era, so Miss Camille, representing the immense power of the Morgan Family, naturally had to come in person, overseeing such a critical transaction.

Of course, Hosea knew, after this visit, she would not simply leave; she would stay in Saint Denis to meticulously handle Mr. Van der Linde's affairs in full, to gain intimate knowledge of his operations. Her true purpose was to find an insidious opportunity to slowly erode Mr. Van der Linde's influence, to subtly undermine his authority, and ideally, to gain complete control of it. Then, whether by vote of the council or by a cunning distribution of equity, Dutch Van der Linde could be strategically squeezed out, allowing her to completely take over the vast properties of the West and the entire Van der Linde Gang's burgeoning empire.

Dutch Van der Linde, she knew, was truly not someone easy to control, not a pliable subordinate, otherwise, she would still prefer to simply make him her personal asset and have him make money for her, a brilliant, if unconventional, employee.

Hosea, that old rogue, stood at the pier looking like a proper human being, his posture refined, his expression serene. And beside him stood Davey and Mac, their usual rough edges somewhat smoothed by their new, respectable roles.

However, Davey and Mac were currently conversing, their voices low, with Signor Bronte, who was making an unexpected return from the mine, a stark reminder of Dutch's transformative power.

Signor Bronte, surprisingly, was dressed in a simple, faded prison uniform, its fabric coarse, and stood not as a boss, but at the edge of the dock, diligently directing workers to move carts laden with coal.

Of course, these so-called workers were nothing more than captured hooligans and various ruffians, many of whom were, ironically, Signor Bronte's former subordinates, now reduced to forced labor under their former rival's banner.

However, compared to their previous lives, a brutal existence of crime and desperation, their current lives were surprisingly very fulfilling and rich, a stark contrast to their past destitution.

According to the meticulously set schedule by Mr. Van der Linde, their new benevolent overlord, they woke up at precisely 7:00 AM every day, finished washing and eating by 7:30 AM, their bellies full, and then went directly to the mine to work, their bodies now accustomed to the rhythm.

They had an hour for lunch and rest at noon, a welcome reprieve, worked diligently until 8:00 PM, and then gathered dutifully on small stools in the square outside the mine. Members of the Van der Linde Gang, often respected figures, would then come to explain newspapers to them, discussing complex concepts like national capital, market economy, correct ideology, and diligently reading classic content from Mr. Van der Linde's very own philosophical book, "My Dream." It was indoctrination, but delivered with the promise of a better life.

These people also received monthly wages; Mr. Van der Linde paid them a surprising five dollars for their arduous labor, a sum unheard of for prisoners. They could use this money to buy tobacco and alcohol, simple luxuries, or to improve their meager meals. But they could also save it, carefully hoarding their earnings.

If they saved a respectable one hundred dollars in wages, they could use that hundred dollars to purchase the right to use one of Mr. Van der Linde's houses, a permanent dwelling, thus successfully escaping the mine and becoming half-normal people, probationary citizens. They would then receive higher wages and easier work in the factories, but they could not resign, bound by an unbreakable contract. However, this was already considered complete freedom, a liberation from their past. They could marry and have children under Mr. Van der Linde's watchful, benevolent care, allowing their descendants to live completely normal, unburdened lives.

Although they were undergoing forced reform, their lives now had a tangible purpose, a clear path forward. They could work in the mine for a mere two years, save enough money to become normal, free people, and live the life they had always dreamed of, a vision of stability.

Why did they become thugs or hooligans in the first place? The biggest reason was crushing poverty at home, an inability to find food there, and no honest work outside, forcing them into desperation. So they could only gather in groups and become hooligans, like those starving children in Saint Denis, many of whom ran away from home at eleven or twelve, mere children, simply to reduce family expenses and to get a full meal, their bellies aching with hunger.

And now, although Mr. Van der Linde forced them to labor, their lives truly had hope! Two years of labor could get them a house, a stable home, and leaving the mine meant becoming a worker who was provided with food and lodging, a life of comfort. This imprisonment, this so-called reform, was simply more enjoyable than being outside, trapped in a cycle of poverty and crime. Who wouldn't be happy about this, about such a dramatic improvement in their fortunes?

One could even say that their current lives working in the mine had more purpose, more direction, than their previous, chaotic lives, at least for those without grand ambitions, for those who simply craved stability.

As for those like Mac, who only wanted quick money, and were reckless and insane in their pursuit of it, there was even less to fear. Their wildness was now channeled.

Again, why do a group of rebellious youths, once defiant, become less rebellious, almost docile, when they enter the park, when they are given rules and structure? Why is Signor Bronte, the former King of Saint Denis, so utterly obedient now?

When a steel pipe is swung at you, when brute force is applied, even the most disobedient, most defiant person has to obey! It is a simple, undeniable truth of power.

Due to his age and surprising good sense, Signor Bronte did not have to do physical labor, spared the grueling toil, but he could not escape the judgment for his past crimes, his debt to society.

He was responsible for supervising whether the miners were working diligently, ensuring their compliance, and he also had a small, unexpected privilege: he could follow the ore trains to the docks of Saint Denis or Van Horn Trading Post, enjoying a brief taste of freedom outside the mine.

Don't underestimate this small privilege; some miners who wanted to send money or letters home, to connect with their distant families, had to go through Signor Bronte's channel, paying a small fee for his services.

At the very least, there had to be a one-cent service fee for his efforts, right? With over two hundred people in one mine, all eager to send messages, Signor Bronte had already profited a full ten dollars from this small, unofficial enterprise! A minor fortune in his new, constrained world.

"Hahaha, Mr. Davey! Mr. Mike, oh, Mr. Matthews!" Angelo Bronte, wearing his simple, dirty prison uniform, his posture strangely humble, smiled and bowed repeatedly to Davey and Mike as they approached, his head bobbing with exaggerated deference, not forgetting to squeeze out a fawning smile towards Hosea, who stood imperiously on the dock nearby, watching the proceedings. "I never expected to see you here, it's truly an honor, gentlemen, a pleasure beyond words!"

The former King of Saint Denis, a feared mafia boss, now stood like the humblest old man in front of a grimy mining cart, wearing a dirty prison uniform, grinning foolishly, constantly scratching his head to appear harmless, utterly pathetic, bowing and scraping, utterly subservient, to the very outlaws he once considered the lowest and most despicable of society.

Signor Bronte's temples had turned irrevocably gray, threaded with silver, and his once shiny, well-fed face was now full of the harsh, unforgiving marks of time, etched by hard labor. The mine life during this period had made his skin dry and cracked, and his eye bags elongated, making him look as if he had aged more than ten years, a broken man.

But to be honest, this period, despite its hardships, was the best and most peaceful sleep he had gotten in twenty years. His conscience was clear, his fears assuaged.

The heart he had carried for over two decades, a heart burdened by fear, treachery, and constant vigilance, could finally be completely put at ease, truly finding peace.

"Hahaha, Signor Bronte, you look well, indeed. I suppose life has been quite satisfactory lately, hmm?" Davey laughed heartily, a genuine, booming sound, greeting Bronte with surprising warmth, extending a hand to clap him on the shoulder.

Dutch had explicitly said that they represented the very face of the Van der Linde Gang when they went out into the world; they couldn't curse, couldn't put on airs, couldn't act superior, not to the common folk. The Van der Linde Gang was to be based on the people, rooted in their support, and they couldn't possibly let the American people think that the Van der Linde Gang was just another, more violent form of capital, another oppressor.

Therefore, when they were out, interacting with the public, they all meticulously acted like Western 'Hello Kings,' greeting everyone with forced cheerfulness, and even the famously brutal Mac now had a forced, almost pained, smile on his face, struggling to maintain the facade.

Even when facing these criminals who had been caught and sent to the mine, their former adversaries, they remained utterly gentlemanly, their manners impeccable, a bizarre contrast to their reputations.

"It is indeed very good, Mr. Davey. Very good." Signor Bronte sighed, his voice soft, almost a murmur of contentment. His face was calm and filled with a profound, almost spiritual emotion; his eyes showed no trace of his previous hostility or malice, only a quiet serenity. He seemed to have completely calmed down, finding an unexpected peace in his imprisonment.

"There's nothing to worry about, no deceitful struggles, no constant oppression where a single misstep could lead to ruin…" He looked out at the distant horizon, a faraway look in his eyes. "Alas, it's only now that I've come to a bit of understanding: how short a person's life truly is. It passes in a blink."

"So-called fame, immense wealth, and fleeting status," Bronte continued, his voice surprisingly philosophical, "after truly experiencing them, after living that life, they are not worth two simple words: 'peace of mind'! Not a single jot."

He turned back to Davey, a serene smile on his face. "I think surviving like this, using my remaining time to truly enjoy this world, to find simple contentment, is my only pursuit for the rest of my life!"

Signor Bronte's face was calm and filled with a profound, almost spiritual emotion; his eyes showed no trace of his previous hostility or malice. He seemed to have completely calmed down, finding an unexpected peace in his imprisonment, a stark contrast to his tumultuous past.

But these few unexpected words, this profound philosophical shift, completely stumped Davey. His mouth hung open, wide enough to fit a salted duck egg, his face a mask of utter bewilderment.

"Ah? That's a bit profound, Signor Bronte, your words are a bit profound now!" Davey stammered, his eyes wide, looking at Bronte's utterly calm, serene expression, feeling a bit of existential doubt creeping into his own pragmatic mind.

Americans didn't have the concept of 'seeing through' things, of profound spiritual revelation in suffering. He was now more inclined to believe that Signor Bronte had suffered a huge, crushing blow to his psyche and had consequently experienced a mental breakdown!

Thinking of this, Davey's gaze, fixed on the former mafia boss, was even filled with a profound pity and genuine sympathy.

A once-feared mob boss, the King of Saint Denis's underworld, who had been forcibly reduced to this state by their very own group, stripped of everything, now finding peace in a prison uniform—this was truly insane! A bizarre, unsettling irony.