Chapter 196: Ch.195 Gunslinger

Chapter 196: Ch.195 Gunslinger

The day Su Ming raided the laboratory, over in Brooklyn, New York...

There stood an old five-story building. Each window and every brick told its long history. It was like an elder who had witnessed all of New York's past.

At this moment, from a window on the fourth floor, an old man was peering outside, trying his best to lift himself from his bed to catch a glimpse of the Brooklyn antique shop.

But this building was no Empire State Building. Its four floors were not high enough to give him a view of something several blocks away.

This place was a care home, and the hallways were filled with the stench of urine and decay, where many abandoned elderly people were sent for professional care, or simply to wait for death.

"When I get old, I asked them to send me back here," the old man leaned against his bed, speaking to the doctor beside him. His hair and teeth were long gone, his loose skin covered in liver spots, but his eyes remained bright. "Not in Texas, not in Boston. Cough... cough..."

The doctor and nurses rushed over, helping to steady his body. The doctor with the small mustache gently patted his back, comforting him. "Take it easy, Mr. Hawke. It's going to be alright."

However, the reality was that the old man's condition was far from optimistic. He had cancer and had been in a coma for several days.

But this morning, he suddenly regained consciousness. If he were able to move, he would have gone to see the streets nearby.

Dr. Hollaway, who had grown up in Brooklyn, knew the streets well. He knew the antique shop the old man was talking about and was aware that its owner was a graceful, still-elegant elderly lady.

But, Mr. Hawke, given your situation, as your doctor, I've seen this too many times. You should take the opportunity to say your final words, or perhaps enjoy one last meal, rather than thinking about meeting women.

Mr. Hawke calmed his breathing and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "It's fine. One way or another, everything began in New York. I want to witness it all with my own eyes."

"Witness what?" Dr. Hollaway asked, sitting at his bedside, the first time he had a real conversation with his patient since taking him on.

"Witness... the beginning of the future."

For the rest of the afternoon, Dr. Hollaway sat quietly, listening to the old man speak of the future.

In the old man's stories, he spoke of gods and monsters, masked heroes, and most of all— the man with the shield.

Dr. Hollaway took notes in his little notebook. Listening to a patient's final thoughts could be considered a form of palliative care.

Normally, this would be a priest's duty, but in these times, even priests went to the battlefield, just like the German priests, shouting God's name as they shot at each other or tossed grenades.

Inside was a pair of revolvers, a Zorro-style mask, and a small note.

"To Dr. Thomas Hollaway."

He didn't even need to read the note. The doctor already knew what it was. He pounded his head, cursing his carelessness.

Matthew Hawke, the elderly lawyer from Texas and Boston, was just a pseudonym. His real name was Matt Hawke—the Gunslinger.

He had come from the West, a masked vigilante who had roamed the Old West decades ago.

He rode a black stallion, wore a black eye mask, and wielded a pair of 'Peacemaker' revolvers.

His aim was dead-on, fearless and brave. He single-handedly took on gangs of over a hundred men and safeguarded several gold rush towns for nearly ten years.

Until his enemies were vanquished, he rode off into the desert wind, disappearing forever. Only later did people learn his name, and his fate remained unknown until now.

If what he said was true, he had traveled to the future.

Dr. Hollaway had grown up reading his stories. The legend of the Gunslinger was known throughout all Western novels. Most Americans knew his tale—he had been a symbol of heroism.

The doctor berated himself repeatedly. He should have told the dying hero what his story had meant to him, how it was the Gunslinger who had inspired him, and countless others who dreamed of justice.

When he opened the little note inside the box, it contained a simple message: "To the next hero."

Hollaway knew the old man had seen through his own unfulfilled desires. Maybe it was in his gaze, his words, or the way he walked, something had given him away.

The doctor had long wanted to become a hero, like the ones from the Western tales. But life's many practical constraints had held him back from taking that step, from making that decision.

But today, an aging hero had passed his weapons to him.

Suddenly, Hollaway felt the room growing warm. His heart pounded rapidly. He drained the glass of whiskey in his hand and walked to the window.

Even though it was early spring, he needed to open the window and let in some air. He needed to think about the future.

Looking out at the city, the neon lights reflected tall shadows everywhere. He felt that the world the old man had described—the world of heroes—didn't seem so far away after all.