With the advance payment for the new order from Mr. Gable, Felix's pockets felt heavy for the first time. This money was enough for him to double the size of his workshop, with even some left over. The joy of success, like fine wine, made his steps feel light.
However, as he walked down the street returning to his lodging, a sudden, inexplicable chill washed over him. He slowed his pace, pretending to casually look into the display window of a roadside shop. In the blurry reflection, a medium-built man wearing an old felt hat was following him, about twenty paces behind. The man walked casually, looking around, appearing like an ordinary loiterer.
But Felix's intuition screamed. The keen risk awareness honed in his previous life gave him an almost animalistic sensitivity to danger.
He continued to walk, and at the next intersection, without warning, he sharply turned right into a narrower alley. Then he immediately pressed himself against the wall and held his breath. A few seconds later, the figure in the felt hat also appeared at the alley entrance. He peered in, and upon seeing no one, a flicker of confusion crossed his face before he quickly followed.
It was him! Felix's heart sank. This was no coincidence; it was a deliberate tail. Moreover, the man's tracking skills were clearly seasoned; if not for Felix's intuition, the tail would have gone unnoticed. The money in his pocket had suddenly made him a moving target.
What to do? Fight here? The alley was narrow, and his body, still recovering from a serious illness, might not be a match for this seemingly capable man. Shout for help? Unfortunately, in this area, shouting would only attract more jackals.
Several thoughts flashed through Felix's mind in an instant, and then he made a decision. He chose not to run, but instead walked out of the alley's shadows and approached the man.
The tracker clearly didn't expect his prey to appear voluntarily; he paused, instinctively reaching for his chest.
"Don't be nervous, friend." Felix stopped five paces away, raising his hands to show he had no weapons. "I just wanted to ask for directions."
"Directions?" Clear confusion appeared in the tracker's eyes. Was he not trying to eliminate him after being discovered?
"Of course," Felix's expression was as natural as if he were genuinely lost. "I'm looking for a tavern called 'Cripple Dog.' I heard their whiskey is strong, and the gambling is fair. Do you know where it is?"
The "Cripple Dog" was the most notorious den in the area, a known stronghold of the local Irish gang, the Viper Gang. Felix had heard about it from street vagrants. He gambled that the other party was connected to this gang.
Indeed, upon hearing the name, the tracker's expression subtly changed, and the wariness in his eyes relaxed a bit. In his opinion, someone who knew "Cripple Dog" and dared to mention it was definitely not some ordinary pushover.
"Go straight, turn left at the third intersection." He pointed in a direction, still somewhat bewildered.
"Thanks." Felix smiled, walking past him without looking back.
The tracker stood still, watching Felix's retreating back, his gaze shifting uncertainly. He hesitated, but ultimately did not follow again. His task today was only to investigate the background of this "Can Boy"; there was no need to do anything else.
After Felix walked out of the alley, his back was already drenched in cold sweat. He took a long detour, and only after confirming he wasn't being followed did he quickly return to his basement. After locking the door, he leaned against it, panting heavily.
This encounter poured a bucket of cold water on his fiery ambition. He realized he had made a fatal mistake: he had only considered commercial success, but overlooked the violent risks that success brought. In this chaotic era, a rapidly rising businessman without a background was like a piece of fatty meat dripping with oil among hungry wolves.
"Viper Gang..." Felix murmured the name. The other party was probably just scouting today, but next time, it would likely be a direct visit to "collect taxes." For local gangs, the logic was simple: any profitable business within their territory must give them a share.
Compromise? Felix immediately rejected the idea. One compromise would lead to countless more. Their appetite would grow larger and larger; he dared not bet on the mercy of a gang, and his pride would not allow him to bow to such street scum.
"It seems the security plan must be moved up." After finishing the canned goods, Felix lay on his bed, silently contemplating his subsequent plans.
First, he needed weapons. A revolver was essential for self-preservation. Second, he needed manpower. Retired soldiers were the best candidates; they had discipline and combat experience and were financially struggling. Third, and most importantly, he needed a permanent solution. He had to completely kill or scare this 'viper' so that they knew his 'meat' was highly poisonous.
Early the next morning, Felix woke up earlier than usual. A pressing sense of crisis hung over his heart like a dark cloud. He hid most of his cash and newly purchased ingredients, only taking twenty dollars with him as he left. His destination today was a gun shop.
In 19th-century New York, firearms were not hard to come by. Felix walked into the most inconspicuous pawn shop, dimly lit and smelling of dust and old items.
A white-haired old man was sitting behind a pile of miscellaneous goods, wiping a silver pipe.
"Good morning, sir," Felix said.
"Young man, looking to pawn something, or buy something?"
Felix lowered his voice, "I want to buy something to protect myself."
The old man slowly put down his pipe, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "In this place, there aren't many things that can protect you. A pocketful of gold coins, or a bullet fast enough. Which do you want?"
"A bullet, and the fellow to send the bullet out."
The old man stared at Felix for ten full seconds, judging him. Finally, he dragged a heavy wooden box from under the counter, revealing six revolvers of different models on a black velvet lining. His hand landed on a sleek, long-barreled gun.
"Colt 1851 Navy Model. .36 caliber. Countless officers, gamblers, and quick-draw artists loved it. Balanced, accurate, reliable. Enough to deal with two-legged trouble."
Felix picked up the gun; it was heavier than he expected. The cold steel seemed to possess a magic that could suck out one's soul.
"Which one is least likely to fail when you need it most?" Felix asked.
The old man's eyes flashed with approval. "A very good question, young man... It's the one in your hand. The Navy Model, tried and true."
"How much is it?"
"The gun, plus twenty rounds of ammunition and percussion caps, fifteen dollars. No bargaining."
"Too expensive," Felix put the gun back. "Ten dollars. I'm just a small businessman, not a rich man."
"Oh, goodness… Ten dollars is too low, twelve dollars," the old man countered. "Kid, you're not buying a piece of iron, but a life. How much do you think your life is worth?"
"Alright, twelve dollars." Felix counted out the money.
As he handed the wrapped items to Felix, the old man suddenly spoke. "Remember, young man. The biggest use of a gun, sometimes, isn't to draw it from its holster, but to let others know that there's something in your holster."
"Thank you for the advice, sir."
Felix hid the gun and ammunition close to his body and quickly left. The weight of the revolver in his coat pocket was real, a sense of security, but also a heavy pressure. He didn't want to solve problems with violence, but this era forced him to possess it.
Unconsciously, he walked to the riverside. The river water sparkled in the sunlight. Several huge steamboats whistled as they left the port, thick black smoke billowing, full of the power of the industrial age. This was the battlefield he yearned for: to build a commercial empire with wisdom and capital.
But the reality was that before realizing this dream, he first had to deal with the "poisonous snake" lurking in the gutter. Dreams in the clouds, reality in the mud.
He touched the gun in his pocket, then the remaining money in the other. "A true empire must not only have the ability to create wealth, but also the power to protect it," he muttered.
The excited can vendor, thrilled by a small profit, was slowly fading away. In his place was a calmer, more thoughtful strategist. A war beyond business was about to begin.
When he returned to the basement, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
"Felix," she said, her expression nervous. "Two rather unfriendly-looking men came looking for you earlier. They asked a lot about you."
Felix's heart tightened. "What did they look like?"
"One was very tall, with a scar on his face. The other was shorter, but very strong. They said… they said their boss, Mr. Murphy, would come to visit you personally tomorrow to discuss 'cooperation'."
They came. Faster than expected.
Felix's face showed no panic; instead, a faint, resolute smile appeared. "I understand, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Please rest assured, there will be no trouble."
He walked into the basement and closed the door. In the darkness, he slowly pulled out the Colt Navy Model from his pocket. Then he took out the oiled paper package and began to load the bullets into the cylinder, one by one.
"Click."
"Click."
Each soft click was like an overture to the impending "cooperation." His commercial ship would officially set sail from an unavoidable bloody conflict.