Arthur MORGAN!

Kaiser Wilhelm paced back and forth in his opulent office, his military boots thudding softly on the plush rug, his heart burning with an uncontrollable fervor, too excited, too wired, to calm down. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers twitching.

For him, this was undoubtedly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a celestial alignment, an opportunity that could absolutely change everything, rewriting the very course of history!

He would achieve ultimate victory, a triumph of unprecedented scale, and his name, along with his unparalleled glory, would forever be etched in the annals of history, blazing like a star!

Kaiser Wilhelm trembled with raw excitement, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He picked up a delicate cigarette box, fumbling slightly, pulled out a cigarette, then, in a distracted haze, put the lit match back into the box. He put the cigarette to his mouth, then picked up the envelope containing the Tank photos, turning it over and over, examining it as if it held the secrets of the universe, before, in a moment of utter distraction, he put the cigarette from his mouth directly into the envelope, leaving it to smolder.

He was so utterly excited, so consumed by his thoughts, he didn't know what he was doing, his actions a chaotic dance of delirium. He stood in front of the office's grand French windows, wanting to admire the crisp autumn scenery of Berlin, but as soon as he reached the windows, he turned abruptly, abandoning the view, and sat back heavily in his chair, his mind racing.

"Whoosh!" he exhaled, a deep, shaky breath, then picked up a fresh piece of paper from the table and began to write a letter, his pen scratching furiously, its words flowing with his feverish vision.

The discovery of the Tank was absolutely a major event, a game-changer, an event that could decisively determine ultimate victory in the coming global conflict. But victory, he knew, needed help, needed allies, so he wanted to inform Austria-Hungary, his most trusted partner, about the Tank, so they could, perhaps, build this terrifying war machine together, consolidating their power!

As for Italy? He scoffed, a dismissive sound escaping him. Their alliance was unstable, unreliable, and utterly unworthy of the German Emperor's trust. They would be more of a hindrance than a help.

-------

Vienna. The capital of Austria-Hungary.

A single, elegant carriage, its wheels spinning furiously, sped recklessly down the middle of the crowded road, its pace alarming, scaring the surrounding citizens who scrambled in a chaotic flurry to get out of its way, their faces pale with fear.

Austria-Hungary, this sprawling, complex place, was a labyrinth of contradictions, a political tightrope walk, with two emperors, two distinct countries, three complex political systems, and two grand capitals. It was a nation perpetually on the brink of internal strife.

Vienna, with its imperial grandeur, was one of them.

The speeding carriage, with its blatant disregard for traffic, should have been stopped by the stern street police, their whistles blowing. But the distinctive German Emperor's emblem emblazoned on the carriage door, gleaming imperiously, made all the officers halt, their hands frozen, allowing it to pass unmolested.

Of course, this couldn't be the German Emperor himself; it was probably just some high-ranking delivery worker, a mere messenger, they reasoned, allowing it to pass.

The carriage sped, unyielding, through the middle of the road. In this era, the renowned Vienna Academy of Art was already very famous, its reputation spreading far and wide, attracting many curious foreigners who came to visit, to admire its architecture and artistic treasures. But the carriage passed by without slowing down at all, its speed unyielding, almost violently hitting a pedestrian, a small boy, who stood mesmerized in its path.

"Hey, buddy, you almost hit someone, you reckless fiend!" A burly laborer in worker's clothes, his face grim, quickly pulled the child, who was still foolishly staring at the imposing Vienna Academy of Art in the middle of the road, saving him from being hit and run over by the careening carriage.

The child was small, perhaps only ten years old, his face pale and eyes wide, still in a profound state of shock.

"Oh, you damn kid, you have no sense, do you?!" The laborer, feeling a bit angry at the child's prolonged, panicked expression, roughly put the child down, giving him a gentle shove. "You're not from out of town, are you? A country bumpkin?"

But the child seemed to still be in shock, his eyes distant, and didn't answer him, merely staring. Fortunately, a woman's voice, urgent and frantic, suddenly sounded from behind them.

"Oh, Adolf, why are you here, child? My God, what were you thinking?!" The woman quickly ran forward, her face contorted with fear, and pulled the boy into a tight, almost suffocating hug, clutching him to her chest. "Oh, dear, you scared me to death just now! Damn it, if the principal finds out someone almost got hit by a carriage while we were visiting, I'll probably be fired, sent packing!" She then turned, her face softening with gratitude, and profusely thanked the laborer beside them.

"Thank you for your help, sir, otherwise our two families might have been ruined, shattered beyond repair!"

"Are you from out of town, then?" the laborer asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Yes, we're from Linz, sir, bringing the children to visit the Academy of Art, for their education."

"Damn it, watch your students, you stinking woman!" The laborer, hearing they had no influential background, no connections, immediately cursed, his face contorting with anger at her presumed carelessness. He spat on the ground.

The female teacher, her face flushed with shame, repeatedly apologized, bowing her head, still clutching the child tightly, and quickly walked towards the group of waiting students, eager to disappear from the scene.

Only then did the child, Adolf, finally speak, his voice small and curious: "Teacher, why are there so many beggars here too? More than in Linz."

The female teacher's gaze followed the child's words, sweeping over the surrounding streets, her eyes widening slightly.

Although it was the capital of a vast, supposedly prosperous country, there were still many poor people, too many, with groups of ragged, emaciated poor people huddled miserably by the roadside, their bodies thin, including many elderly and children, their faces pinched with hunger.

Looking at the poor children on both sides of the road who didn't even have complete clothes, their limbs bony, seeing their dusty and emaciated appearance, their faces blank with resignation, the female teacher sighed, a profound sadness in her voice. "There are poor people everywhere, Adolf. Poverty is a blight on humanity. Alright, don't run around, you damn rascal, stick with the group!"

The student tour group, chastened and somber, resumed its journey, their youthful exuberance dimmed.

The poor children on both sides of the road, like motionless beggars, watched the student group gradually disappear into the distance, their eyes full of a profound envy and longing, their faces mirroring a desperate hope.

How they wished they could be one of those students, learning, thriving, but unfortunately, facing the gradually colder late autumn weather, the biting wind, they could only hug themselves tightly, shivering, desperately trying to gain even a tiny bit of warmth from their own meager bodies.

******

"Newspapers for sale, newspapers for sale, freshly printed newspapers! Get your news here! See Mr. Van der Linde's latest instructions, see Valentine's latest policies, learn about the new order!"

A child in a brand new, neatly pressed coat, his face bright with enthusiasm, waved the newspapers in his hand, shouting loudly, his voice echoing, to both sides of the bustling street.

These newspaper-selling children, like Arthur, were orphans from other places, nameless, forgotten, who had drifted here, to Saint Denis, seeking a chance at life. To give them a way to live, a purpose, Mr. Van der Linde, in his benevolent wisdom, took them in as newsboys, sweepers, or messengers, water carriers, etc., providing them with dignity.

They still enjoyed the right to free schooling, a priceless gift, but to ensure they could live outside of school, to avoid idleness, they needed to do some work every day, to study and earn money, which was a kind, ingenious channel opened by Mr. Van der Linde for them, fostering self-reliance.

But at least life was much more promising than before, filled with purpose and hope.

Hearing the newsboy's enthusiastic shouts, the workers who had gotten up early to go to work on the street, their faces tired but content, pulled two cents from their pockets to buy a newspaper, eager for the latest updates.

They truly didn't care about this small expense now! It was a trifle, easily affordable.

There were no poor people in Saint Denis anymore. Once the Saint Denis elites couldn't hoard too much profit, once their immense wealth was redistributed, the resources they shared were already enough to ensure the survival and prosperity of others.

However, although there were no poor people, there were no so-called top billionaires either, no obscenely wealthy magnates, with the singular exception of Mr. Van der Linde himself.

But everyone liked Mr. Van der Linde to be rich, for his wealth ensured their prosperity. Everyone liked to buy things at Mr. Van der Linde's shops, knowing their money flowed back into the community. Everyone liked to deposit money in Mr. Van der Linde's bank, trusting its stability. Everyone liked to buy the insurance and various products shrewdly launched by Mr. Van der Linde, seeing them as safeguards.

Mr. Van der Linde had become the very will of Saint Denis, its guiding spirit, its benevolent dictator. The entire operation of Saint Denis, its vibrant rhythm, its burgeoning prosperity, required Mr. Van der Linde's presence to be maintained, his genius to guide it.

"Scratch!" Mr. Van der Linde, now a figure of immense authority, struck a match, its sulfurous smell briefly cutting through the humid air, and lit the cigar in his mouth, its tip glowing orange.

Although it was almost winter, the climate of Saint Denis remained hot and humid, a constant, oppressive warmth.

However, previously shelved issues, minor inconveniences in his grand scheme, needed to be addressed appropriately, brought to heel.

For example, the persistent Miss Camille from the East Coast, a woman of stubborn resolve.

The Van der Linde Mansion was now much livelier, bustling with activity, mainly because Arthur, surprisingly, suggested giving the other idle Van der Linde members something useful to do. So, Dutch, with a sigh of resignation, called over Karen, the perpetually drunk Ms. O'Shea, the sharp-tongued Mrs. Morgan (Mary), the practical Abigail, the sweet Jenny, and the fiery Sadie, who had been idle, bored, at Hope Ranch.

Henry Manor, Dutch's new opulent residence, was large and luxurious, its grand rooms echoing with new sounds, and little Jack ran around inside, disoriented but joyful, chasing the elusive cats in the yard and barking incessantly, imitating the dogs.

"Don't run, don't run, let me pet you, you fluffy thing!" Jack squealed, his arms outstretched.

"Jack! Oh, sh*t!, don't touch it, watch out for its damn claws!" Abigail shrieked, startled by this wild scene, and followed Jack, her arms outstretched, her face a mask of maternal concern.

"Sh*t! Abigail, stop shouting, you'll disturb my fishing!" John cursed loudly from his spot in front of the villa's tranquil fish pond, his voice laced with annoyance, unwilling to put down his beloved fishing rod for a mere child's antics.

"Oh, John, I think you can put down the rod and let me try!" Karen slurred, standing beside him, her bottle of alcohol still guzzling, eager to try her hand at fishing.

Zooming in a bit, at the very door of the villa room, Jenny, her face bright with innocent joy, joyfully held a steaming cup of coffee, its aroma swirling, and tried to barge into the room, exclaiming, "Dutch, I made you a cup of coffee…"

"No, Jenny, you're too close to him! You damn hussy! You bitch!" Ms. O'Shea roared, her face contorted with anger, her hands braced firmly on the doorframe, a physical barrier, preventing Jenny from entering the room, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Damn it, Ms. O'Shea thought, the bitterness a familiar taste in her heart, when Dutch was out, traversing the wild lands, she worried if he had mistresses outside. Now that he was by her side, safely ensconced within the manor, she still had to worry about this little hussy, this pretty little flirt!

Who knew the true, agonizing bitterness in Ms. O'Shea's jealous heart?

"You narrow-minded woman, you possessive shrew!" Jenny retorted, her voice rising in defiance, her hands on her hips. "Dutch belongs to everyone, to the gang, why are you always clinging to him? I'm sure if you keep doing this, if you continue with this suffocating behavior, you'll eventually make Dutch lose his affection for you completely!"

"F*ck you, b*tch!" Ms. O'Shea shrieked, lunging forward, her eyes blazing.

The two argued constantly at the doorframe, their noisy squabbles escalating into a furious shouting match, utterly unbearable for Sadie, who was standing nearby, her face grim. With a low growl of exasperation, she pulled out her revolver from her bosom, its metal gleaming, roughly pushed Ms. O'Shea's arm aside with a powerful shove, and strode directly into the room, her patience exhausted.

"Oh, sh*t!, I'm sick of all these damn arguments, I'm sick of this endless squawking!" Sadie roared, glaring at the bickering women. "Van der Linde, give me a troop, a detachment of men, I'm going to kill every last one of the O'Driscoll Gang! I need to vent this frustration, this righteous anger!"

Looking at the fierce Ms. Sadie walking in from outside, her eyes blazing, Arthur, sitting casually on the sofa, lit a fresh cigar and, with a knowing smirk, sarcastically drawled, "Oh, Mrs. Adler, I think it's more suitable for you, a lady of your refined tastes, to carry a delicate little handbag and go sight-seeing with the ladies, perhaps a tea party?"

"Sh*t! Arthur, are you mocking me, you goddamn insolent fool?!" Sadie was furious, her face reddening, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun.

"No, I'm just telling the truth, Mrs. Adler, plain and simple!" Arthur waved his hand dismissively, a smug look on his face. Just as he put the cigar back in his mouth, savoring the smoke, a sharp, stinging slap came from behind him, landing squarely on his mouth.

"Slap!" Mary, her face grim, lightly slapped Arthur's mouth, a sharp, corrective blow, then reached out and, with a swift movement, took the cigar directly from his mouth, pulling it away.

"Arthur, we agreed last night, you incorrigible man, you need to reduce your smoking frequency!" Mary scolded, her voice firm, hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed. "Look at what your teeth have become, yellow and stained! Damn it, you clearly promised me, Arthur! You gave me your word!" Mary threw the offending cigar into the nearby trash can with a decisive thud and glared at Arthur, who sat slumped on the sofa, his face a picture of exaggerated suffering.

"Oh… sh*t!, I feel like I've already regretted it, Mary, truly regretted that promise…" Arthur sighed deeply, his words barely a whisper, muttering softly under his breath, hoping she wouldn't hear.

"What did you say, Arthur?!" Mary's gaze became extremely dangerous, her eyes narrowing into menacing slits. She leaned close to Arthur's ear, her breath warm against his skin, and whispered, her voice low and threatening.

"No, I didn't say anything, Mary! Not a damn word!" Arthur shook his head vehemently, explaining earnestly, his hands raised in mock surrender.

"Hahahahaha, Arthur, I've never seen you so scared, you big brute!" Hosea, walking down the stairs, a wide, knowing grin on his face, happened to see this comical scene unfold. He laughed heartily, his booming voice echoing as he descended the stairs.

He had returned two days ago, mainly because he had received an urgent letter from Dutch.

Grand Duke Meyer of Germany, a powerful, influential figure, was coming to Saint Denis in person to meticulously check if the Tank was truly as impressive as shown in the photos, to verify its power, in order to directly sign the largest bulk order, a deal of unprecedented scale.

And Dutch's strategic purpose in having Hosea return was to be solely responsible for the subsequent arms order details, mainly to find reliable people and suitable cargo ships to meticulously transport the Tanks to Germany, a complex logistical challenge.

Dutch didn't bother much with these minor, logistical matters; he mainly managed the overall strategic direction of development, the grand vision.

Dutch, with a fresh cigar in his mouth, a picture of contented authority, followed closely behind Hosea, listening to the various noisy sounds emanating from his sprawling, chaotic household. He couldn't help but exclaim, a profound sense of satisfaction in his voice, "Ah, young people are still so vibrant, Hosea, so full of life! Listen to the arguments outside, the constant chirping. Every time I hear these familiar, delightful sounds, I feel a few years younger, invigorated by their chaos."

"Yes, Dutch, this is the very meaning of our gang's existence, isn't it? This family, this life we've built." Hosea nodded, his face etched with profound comfort.

He had been traveling too much lately, too much time spent on cold, lonely roads, and what he missed most was the noisy, chaotic life within the gang, the constant banter, the arguments.

Although they seemed like a bunch of burdens, a collection of unruly personalities, this, Hosea realized, was the true meaning of life, of family.

Arthur, still sitting on the sofa, rubbing his sore mouth, sarcastically drawled, "Then you two pray you can last a couple more years, you old fools, lest you can't walk and I throw you into the river to feed the goddamn alligators, eh? Save us the trouble of burying you."

"Oh, sh*t! Arthur, I can't believe why that mouth of yours, which belongs to a human, always spouts such animalistic language?! You damn thing, you're like a foul stench lingering in the camp right now, polluting the air with your crude remarks!" Dutch was enraged, his face contorted, fiercely condemning Arthur's damned, untamed mouth.

"Sh*t! I completely don't want to see you, you damn thing, you insolent bastard! Go call Ms. Camille over, now! And then don't appear before my eyes all day, you heartless bastard!" Dutch roared, his anger easily provoked by Arthur's sharp words.

When Signor Bronte had pointed a trembling finger at Dutch's nose and cursed him, it had no effect whatsoever. The arrogant attitude of the Saint Denis nobles also left him unfazed. Even Mr. Cornwall, that damn wanted man's contempt and hostility, didn't bother Dutch in the slightest. Only Arthur's short, cutting words, delivered with such familiar ease, sometimes could easily touch his very heart, piercing his defenses.

But he was still his child, his surrogate son, and he couldn't even hit him, couldn't truly discipline him, which made Dutch even angrier, his frustration simmering.

"Okay, okay, okay, Dutch, don't be angry, you old fool, I still want you to live two more years, at least!" Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender, a mischievous glint in his eye, but his words still carried a subtle ambiguity, a playful jab.

"F*ck! Morgan, you damn thing! Jenny, go write a letter and invite Ms. Grimshaw over! Now! Damn it, I want her to slap this damn Arthur Morgan to death, to beat some sense into him!" Dutch roared, completely exploding with rage, his face purpling.

Hosea, standing nearby, quickly winked at Arthur, a silent warning, and then advised Dutch, his voice calm, "Alright, don't be angry, Dutch, I'll educate him, I'll take care of him. Sh*t!, Arthur, why aren't you hurrying to call Ms. Camille, you dolt? Go on, now!"

"Alright, alright! None of you like me, alas, I didn't expect to become the most unpopular person in the gang, a pariah in my own home. I should have known better than not killing Mac; then we'd still have something in common, our mutual unpopularity." Arthur shook his head dramatically and sighed, completely ignoring Dutch's increasingly green face, his words pushing his leader to the brink.

"Arthur Morgan!!!" Dutch's final, frustrated roar echoed throughout the entire villa, shaking the chandeliers.

"I'm already outside, you old coot!" Arthur's voice called back, a final, defiant taunt, as he swiftly retreated, leaving a seething Dutch in his wake.

The commotion inside the room, the noisy, affectionate bickering, made John and the others outside look over, their faces filled with warm smiles.

Dutch was increasingly like a father, a true patriarch, a father to all members of the gang, which, ironically, made them feel a profound sense of security they had never experienced before, a stability they craved. And this very security also made them slightly more unrestrained, more comfortable in their playful defiance.

This was a child's teasing of his father, a brother's teasing of his elder brother, and equally, the invisible adhesive that bound the gang together, tightly connecting everyone's feelings, forging them into an unbreakable, chaotic, yet loving, family.