1896. The Wild West is slowly suffocating under an invisible plague.

The deserts of Arizona, the swamps of Louisiana, the mountains of Colorado, and especially the northern territories of Mexico — all are rotting from within. The government calls it "malaria and rabies epidemics." In the saloons of safer states, people whisper about cursed lands where the dead rise and creatures that should not exist crawl out of the darkness. But most prefer not to believe.

You are a Hunter. One of those feared even more than the monsters themselves.

You willingly sold a part of your soul to an ancient entity known only as The Sculptor. In exchange, you gained power: the ability to see in total darkness, to sense the approach of horrors, to survive where others perish. But every time you use this power, you feel something inside you slowly being reshaped.

The Sculptor is not merely a voice. He is the eternal observer. He never interferes, never saves, and never punishes. He simply watches you with ancient, predatory curiosity and occasionally whispers directly into your mind, offering new deals. Every offer is a step deeper into the darkness. Every deal accepted makes you stronger... and less human.

In this world, you will take contracts from the Agency, track down nightmarish creatures — Grunts, Immolators, Hellhounds, Butcher, Spider, Rotjaw, Scrapbeak, and many others. You will meet other Hunters who might betray you for a single valuable bounty. You will encounter Desperados — Mexican hunters who live on the very edge of madness and possess almost supernatural skill in survival and killing. You will hear ordinary people call you "cursed," "devilspawn," and "walking corruption."

There are no heroes here. Only debtors, monsters, and dust.

Every gunshot, every decision, every drop of blood has a price. Sometimes the price is simply your life. Sometimes — what remains of your soul.

The Sculptor is always watching.

He is waiting for the moment you come to him yourself, asking for the next deal.