Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

Latest website: Jack Tallinn is a famous killer.

I say this, you may not be able to directly appreciate how good his killing skills are. So, here's what he did in three minutes.

He broke into a large bungalow with fifteen people in it, with two short swords in his hands. Accompanied by screams and roars, after everything was over—that is, three minutes later, he walked out of the bungalow.

The flames were burning behind him, one of the many masterpieces he had just done.

Old Hawthorne was standing outside with a military crossbow in his hand. This baby can even shoot through thin armor, which is a big killer against anyone.

"How is it in there?"

"According to your instructions, they all died miserably."

"That's good—that's right, Jack. I'll add to you about your impressions of my past."

Old Hawthorne said to himself as he wound his crossbow. He stuck an arrow in the firing groove, aimed at the door of the bungalow, and with the trigger pulled, he said slyly, "For some reason, I have a premonition that I will die today."

"So I gotta tell it before I die, after all you're more like my son than that little bastard, Jack. Listen, I was an artist's son before I was twelve, before I was kidnapped. "

The arrow flew out and shot a man who was on fire, his chest and abdomen opened wide, and his intestines came out, and he tried to run out.

"I've forgotten his face."

Hawthorne continued to output his past, not even caring that the crowd behind him heard it. This matter was originally regarded as a taboo by him, and no one was allowed to mention it, not even to spy on it. However, now it is also said by himself. That attitude seems to have been completely read.

"But I remember, the time I was at home. I don't know where my home is, but I remember the beautiful house. White paint, very clean. The window edges are generous and I like to sit on the second floor Look down from the window. It's a field of flowers and sunflowers, you understand? Jack."

Hawthorne said softly: "Sunflowers... my father painted a lot of sunflowers. He often painted on the first floor facing the flower field, and I watched him on the second floor. I liked how he painted it. I like other things too. For example, figurines. So, you should now understand why I like poetry and art so much?"

He turned his head and grinned,

The people of the Hawthorne gang are generally more presumptuous, and generally speaking, they don't look like good people. At this time, the group of people listened to him quietly and solemnly.

It's not "the majesty of the boss", but something else.

"Stop talking, brothers. Come on, let's go to war. Old fashioned, one hundred crowns per head."

Hawthorne smiled and waved: "Let the night liven up."

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"Just fucking can't believe it."

Walpole Royin, with a big nose, sat in his home, muttering words.

Instead of his tattered suit, he had changed into a clean and tidy shirt, even a pompous lace breasted shirt, comfy wool slippers and baggy trousers, plus his wide, slow-burning fireplace and Expensive red carpet underfoot...

Yes, he is not poor at all.

The fact that the leader of the beggars is a rich man may seem ironic, but it is not surprising. But the reason why Walpole Royin said that sentence in disbelief was because he had just learned some really unbelievable news.

Alphonse Willie, alias Hawthorne, the underworld tycoon standing still in Novigrad went to war against the other three tycoons tonight, with no regard for what it would make the city look like.

His troops were dispatched in full force, and in just two hours, they took down thirteen casinos and underground boxing rings under the three big veterans who cooperated with the Swordsmen. Except for the high-end brothel in the upper city, which is not easy to do, they have burned the war almost everywhere in the city.

Even the Bishop's Square is no exception.

Walpole Royin came to his floor-to-ceiling windows. On the street outside, the brazier used for lighting was still bright, but the soldiers in charge of patrolling and standing guard at the intersection were all gone. He didn't know if he should be thankful that there was no property of those people in the Hierarchy Square.

"Crazy, really crazy..."

Walpole muttered, and opened the door of his house in his slippers. The beggars have no place to sleep, they usually sleep on the street, so it is quite easy to find them. He came all the way to the main square, and the beggars who had not slept silently saluted him.

He came all the way to an alley, and regardless of his slippers stepping on the dirty water, Walpole knocked on the back door of a house with a rather anxious face. After a while, a man's thick voice sounded inside: "Who?"

"Walpole Roin."

With a click, the lock was opened, and then the door. A fat and tall man frowned and appeared at the door. He stared at Walpole Royin, looked left and right, and let him in after making sure that no one was following him.

"Why don't you stay here at your own house? Didn't that old madman from Hawthorne start a war with the rest of the city today? Watch out he kills you too."

"That's not the point, listen—" Walpole gestured. "—This is a great opportunity, don't you understand? We have been lurking for so many years, and we can finally wipe out the gangsters today."

The more he talked, the more excited he became: "I finally don't have to hang out with beggars every fucking day! Dijkstra! Send people, send people out of the city, and I will see the army suppress them tomorrow!"

Compared to his excitement, the man called Dijkstra was much colder. He sat casually on his couch, arms folded across his chest. It looked as comical as two sperm whales were kowtowing to a great beluga whale. But his expression made Walpole instantly restrain his emotions.

He asked cautiously, "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?"

Dixie snorted coldly: "Do you think someone is going out now? The bastards from the Swords Corps bought everyone in Novigrad, let alone a gangster. Did you see any soldiers on the patrol tonight? Shit. I can't believe it, this is Novigrad!"

The more he talked, the more angry he became, and the sperm whales crossed more and more tightly: "Why does it happen at this time? The Nilfgaardians have retreated, and we just have a political advantage... Hell! Go back to your house. Go, Walpole, don't mention any more shit about killing the gang in one fell swoop."

Dijkstra touched the stubble on his chin and said in a low voice, "Maybe we have to rely on Alphonse Willie to survive..."