Serious person, who is learning magic in Marvel?

Jack Tarling is a notorious killer.

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

He broke into a large bungalow with fifteen people inside, with two daggers in his hands. Accompanied by a burst of screams and roars, after everything was over - that is, three minutes later, he emerged from

Walked out of this bungalow.

The flames burned behind him, one of the many masterpieces he had just created.

Old Hawthorne was standing outside, holding a military crossbow in his hand. This baby can even shoot through thin armor, and it is a great weapon against anyone.

"How's it going inside?"

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

"That's good - by the way, Jack. I want to add something to you about your impression of my past."

Old Hawthorne was talking to himself while loading his crossbow. He stuck an arrow in the firing groove and aimed at the door of the bungalow. As the trigger was pulled, he said calmly.

: "Somehow, I have a premonition that I will die today."

"So I have to tell the truth before I die. After all, you are more like my son than that little bastard, Jack. Listen, I was the son of an artist before I was twelve years old, that is, before I was trafficked.

"

The arrow missed and flew out, shooting a man who was on fire, with a big hole in his chest and abdomen, his intestines leaking out, and he was still trying to escape to the ground.

"I've forgotten his face."

Hawthorne continued to export his past, not even caring that a large group of people behind him heard it. This matter was originally regarded as a taboo by him, and no one was allowed to mention it, or even pry. However, now he is also

He said it himself. His attitude seemed to have completely changed.

"But I still remember my time at home. I don't know where my home is, but I remember that beautiful house. White paint, very clean. The edges of the windows are very wide. I like to sit on the second floor.

Look down from the window. There is a flower field below, including sunflowers. Do you understand? Jack."

Hawthorne said softly: "Sunflowers... My father painted many pictures of sunflowers. He often painted facing the flower fields on the first floor. I watched him on the second floor. I like what he painted very much.

Those words, I also like other things, such as sculptures. So, you should be able to understand now why I like poetry and art so much, right?"

He turned around and grinned. The members of the Hawthorne gang generally wore more unrestrained clothes. Generally speaking, they did not look like good people. At this time, the gang listened to his story quietly and solemnly.

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

"Stop talking, brothers. Come on, let's go to war. The old rules are, one hundred crowns per head."

Hawthorne smiled and waved: "Let the night be lively."

----------------------------------------

"I can't fucking believe it."

Walpole Royin, who had a big nose, sat in his home and muttered something.

He no longer wore the tattered clothes, but changed into something clean and tidy, even a shirt with an exaggerated lace bust, comfortable wool slippers and loose trousers, plus his large slowly burning fireplace and

Expensive red carpet underfoot…

Yes, he is not poor at all.

Although it seems ironic to say that the leader of the beggars is a rich man, it is not surprising at all. But the reason why Walpole Royin said that he couldn't believe it was because he had just learned a true story.

Unbelievable news.

Alphonse Wiley, alias Hawthorne, the reigning underworld tycoon in Novigrad, went to war against the other three tycoons tonight, with no regard for what it would do to the city.

His troops mobilized in full force, and in just two hours they captured 13 casinos and underground boxing rings owned by the three veterans who cooperated with the Sword Group. Except for the high-end brothel in the upper city, which was difficult to attack.

, they almost spread the flames of war to all parts of the city.

Even the Patriarch's Square is no exception.

Walpole Royin came to his floor-to-ceiling window. On the street outside, the brazier used for lighting was still bright, but the soldiers responsible for patrolling and standing guard at the intersection were all gone. He didn't know if he should be lucky.

, there are no properties of those people in the Patriarch's Square.

"Crazy, really crazy..."

Walpole muttered to himself and opened the door of his house in his slippers. Beggars had no place to sleep. They usually slept on the street, so it was quite easy to find them. He came all the way to the Patriarch's Square and was still awake.

The beggars silently paid attention to him.

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

"who?"

"Wapole Royne."

There was a click, the lock was opened, and then the door. A fat and tall man appeared at the door with a frown. He stared at Walpole Royin, looked around, and made sure no one was following him before letting him in.

.

"What are you doing here if you don't just stay at home? Didn't that old lunatic Hawthorne start a war on other people in the city today? Be careful he kills you too."

"That's not the point, listen -" Walpole made a gesture. "This is a great opportunity, don't you understand? We have been lurking for so many years, and we can finally catch all the gangsters today."

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

Compared to his excitement, the man called Dijkstra was much more indifferent. He was sitting casually on his sofa, with his arms crossed on his chest. He looked like two sperm whales feeding a great white whale.

It seemed funny to kowtow. But his expression made Walpole calm down instantly.

He asked cautiously: "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?"

Dijkstra snorted coldly: "Do you think anyone can get out now? Those bastards from the Sword Regiment have bribed everyone in Novigrad, let alone the gangs. Did you see any soldiers from the patrol tonight?"

Damn it. I can’t believe this is Novigrad!”

The more he spoke, the angrier he became, and the sperm whales crossed each other tighter and tighter: "Why does it happen to be this time? The Nilfgaardians retreated, and we just had a slight political advantage... Damn it! Go back to your home.

Go on, Walpole, and don't ever mention a damn thing about catching the gang again."

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