War Paradise

For the cowboys in the Westfall, the value of "civilization" and "decency" is not as good as a cigarette.

Those polite "gentlemen" all died in the process of pioneering the wilderness. Only the most brutal, rude, and vitality like cockroaches can survive in this land.

"Hey, bring me wine!"

The sturdy man sitting at the wooden table raised his angular square face and slammed the glass in his hand on the table. On his golden-haired arm, the anchor-shaped tattoo was very conspicuous.

"Don't fucking hurry, I'm busy here." The fat man on the other side of the room threw a wine bottle.

Two ragged male corpses were thrown in the corner of the wooden house, attracting a group of flies to feast on, and amid the annoying buzzing, the square-faced cowboy uncorked the bottle and poured a large mouthful of an unknown name into his mouth. Spirits.

"Are you going there tonight?" The fat man turned around, the fat on his face trembling, and the three-layer chin was stained with dry blood.

"I don't know." The square-faced man glared with bloodshot eyes, opened his mouth and let out a breath of alcohol.

"If you want me to say, it should be a fucking trap, anyway, I won't believe them." Fatty spit on the body.

"Not necessarily..." The drunken square-faced man began to make a long tone as he spoke: "I think-they are very sincere."

There are many desperadoes in this wasteland, and this square-faced man is just one of them, the prestige of "Father of the Plains", which is widely spread throughout the west.

He is not the kind of sophisticated criminal who can plan carefully and then execute the plan. Instead, he is more inclined to react instinctively: seeing a luxurious carriage, he immediately goes up to the robbery. By chance, he ran into an enemy and immediately opened fire without saying anything.

It stands to reason that a "passionate criminal" like him should have died a hundred times a long time ago. Strangely, he can survive every time.

This guy usually has relatively average luck, but he is like a god in battle, and he can win inexplicably even in desperate situations. He has set a record of singles out nine bounty hunters.

Because of the strange physique of this guy who seems to be blessed by the gods, as an atheist, he will be dubbed the nickname "Father of the Plains".

After a series of unimaginable battles, even the bounty hunters who spent money on errands did not dare to accept commissions related to this man. This person still relies on his own "instinct" to wander in the western wasteland.

Of course he knew very well that the reason why he was targeted this time was also due to his own special physique.

The square-faced man took out the crumpled paper ball from his pocket and opened it and stared at the text on it. Even though he was drunk, the text in his sight was still very clear:

Dear Pingyuan priest:

You have been wandering in this wilderness for a long time, but it seems that you still haven't found your own target. Now, the time has come, join us, you will find the real value of existence. Like-minded friends, are waiting for your arrival.

As there was no inscription under the note, Father Pingyuan didn't know who wrote the words. What makes him feel dangerous is that this note was found by his pillow when he woke up in the morning.

Father Pingyuan is most proud of his terrifying perception.

Like his super luck, his perception is also part of his "instinct". Even when someone is sleeping, if someone intends to attack him, even if they simply approach him, he will wake up immediately.

But this time, he felt nothing.

He didn't know when the other party put down the note, or how the other party approached. The only certainty is that the person seems to be invisible, even avoiding his "instinctive" search, leaving this invitation silently.

"Hey, are you still thinking about such a stupid thing?" Fatty said impatiently, "If I were you, I would tear that thing off and spend money to find some girls in town to sleep."

"I don't know what's going on yet." Father Pingyuan was a little upset, and his companion's voice sounded like a fly, buzzing constantly.

"What's the use if you know it?" Fatty smiled disdainfully: "This mental retardation didn't even leave any contact information. It must be a prank."

Is it really?

Father Pingyuan also hopes that Fatty's words are true, but he always feels that things are not that simple. The guy who left the note may not be a simple prank, but...

While thinking about it, Father Pingyuan turned his gaze back to the note, and then suddenly widened his eyes:

The content of the text on the note has changed, the original words disappeared, and replaced by a few new lines:

"You hate that fat pig, but you tolerate him living to the present, because that idiot provides you with weapons and equipment."

"We can provide you with better weapons, and it's completely free. You have had enough, right? Kill him now, and our messenger will visit you and show you our prospects."

what is this?

Seeing the newly appeared text, Father Pingyuan rubbed his eyes vigorously and slapped himself loudly. However, the text on the paper still hadn't recovered, and it was still new content.

"Is it... magic." Father Plain coughed.

He can be sure that this is not an illusion caused by his drunkenness, but a real event, and the text on the note has indeed changed.

What's even stranger is that these words seem to have magical powers, causing subtle changes in his mood.

...You hate that chattering fat pig, right?

Then kill him and let him shut up forever. Then, you will usher in a better future.

Like-minded partners are waiting, you must do it now.

...

Father Pingyuan lowered his head and his shoulders kept trembling. Noting his strange behavior, Fatty approached and asked with concern, "It's okay, buddy."

Then Fatty saw the text on the note.

"Wait a minute, this is..."

Fatty, who had read the note, made a surprised voice. What came into view were the bloodshot eyes of the "Plain Priest" and the black hole of the revolver.

"You don't really want to..."

As soon as the fat man spoke, his voice was interrupted by the rapid gunfire.

Three shots killed his former companion. Father Pingyuan was still sitting at the wooden table, a wisp of smoke from the muzzle of the revolver in his hand.

The flies in the room kept circling, and the corpses changed from two to three. Not long after Father Pingyuan waited, there was a crisp knock on the door of the wooden house.

"Who are you?" Father Plains pointed his gun at the leaky broken wooden door.

"I am a messenger sent by Mr. Spencer." The man outside the door has a very magnetic voice: "I'm here to talk to you."

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