Outnumbered? I'll conquer America with an unlimited number of suicide soldiers.

Eight figures, led by Chongyue, ran wildly through the shadows of the giant trees like ghosts in the forest.

Without needing to see, the smell of strong body odor mixed with cheap rum was carried into their nostrils by a gentle breeze, allowing them to pinpoint the enemy's location precisely.

As they drew near, the eight people slowed down instantly, each step landing precisely on the soft humus or thick moss, avoiding all dead branches and leaves, all without making a sound.

Some people took down the bows and arrows from their backs, while others took out poisoned throwing knives, ready to strike.

After rounding a slope, the view ahead suddenly opened up.

It was a clearing where most of the trees had been cut down. The white overseer sat on a tree stump, a revolver at his waist, and occasionally cracked a long whip in the air.

"You bunch of red-skinned bastards, hurry up and get to work!"

He pulled out a bottle of liquor, took a swig, and let out a satisfied sigh. "The boss said if we don't cut this redwood down today, you and your little bastard won't even get a single moldy bean tonight!"

In front of him, six Native American men were working silently.

They wore heavy iron chained shackles on their ankles, which made a dull metallic scraping sound when they moved.

Two of them used axes strapped to their wrists to cut a deep V-shaped incision at the base of the giant tree.

On the other side of the tree, two people were working together to operate a huge double cross-cutting saw. Every time a section was cut, an Indian with a hammer would hammer a steel wedge into the cut.

Upon hearing the white overseer's words, the young Native American man with the double cross-cutting saw glared angrily. Just as he was about to turn around, his middle-aged companion beside him quickly grabbed him.

"Warhawk, be patient!" the middle-aged man commanded in a low, urgent tribal language. "We are the tribe's last hope. Don't let anger cost you your life."

"Uncle Gray Wolf, how long are we going to have to hold out?"

The young man named Zhan Ying gritted his teeth, "Our people are falling like autumn leaves, one by one. Those beasts even tried to harm Shan Ling's younger brother a few days ago. He's only eight years old!"

"It'll be soon. The clouds are gathering, and there's a smell of rain in the wind."

The gray wolf whispered, "Kochina is a sign that a storm is coming. Then the white men's muskets will be useless; the rain will erase all traces..."

Before they could finish speaking, a sharp, whistling sound rang out. A long whip lashed across their backs, tearing their thin clothes and revealing bloody welts.

"You're muttering in your bird language again!"

The overseer staggered to his feet, his face contorted with rage from alcohol and violence. He raised the whip again. "I think you're all asking for it..."

He didn't finish his sentence either.

call out!

A faint yet sharp whooshing sound suddenly rang out, and an arrow shot out from the shadows of the dense forest behind them, landing with perfect accuracy in the back of the overseer's head.

A half-red, half-white arrowhead burst from his forehead. The white overseer stared wide-eyed as he fell straight to the ground like a log, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The six young Indian men standing beside the tree were stunned by this sudden turn of events.

They quickly ducked behind trees, gripping their axes and hammers tightly, their eyes filled with suspicion as they peered into the dense forest from which the arrows had come.

A rustling sound came from the woods, and soon eight figures emerged from the shadows. They were well-built, and their skin color and attire suggested they shared a common origin.

Two of them quickly stepped forward and deftly dragged the overseer's body into the dense bushes nearby to cover it up.

A man, clearly the leader, glanced at the six wary men and said in fluent tribal language with a slight accent, "May the breath of Khchina protect you. Brothers of Hopa Valley, I am Chongyue."

"Time is of the essence, so I'll skip the pleasantries. Do you know exactly where the owner of the sawmill by the river, that white man named James Marshall, lives?"

The six people looked at each other, and finally focused their attention on the eldest gray wolf.

Gray Wolf remained wary. After a few seconds of silence, he replied in a stiff tone, "The second floor of the largest building at the very back of the sawmill, but I don't know which room."

"That's enough, thanks."

Chongyue nodded decisively, without uttering any unnecessary words or solicitations. After gesturing to his companions, the eight of them silently disappeared into the forest again, heading towards the sawmill below.

"Aren't we going to save them?" Zeng asked curiously from the sidelines.

Chongyue replied, "Sachem, they don't trust us. In fact, if we had shown any intention of getting close to them just now, that old warrior called Gray Wolf would probably have immediately raised his voice to warn us, attracting the other white men."

"Huh? Aren't you compatriots?"

Chongyue countered, "Sachem, you are Han Chinese. Would you consider yourself a compatriot of the Manchu rulers who now sit in the Forbidden City in Beijing?"

"Damn, you convinced me."

Chongyue kept walking and quickly approached the wooden fence of the sawmill, thinking to himself, "The Native Americans on this land only have the concept of tribes and clans, but not the concept of Native American nation or fellow countrymen."

"The Hopa clan, the Yokut clan, the Chumash clan, the Kavila clan, the Mono clan... they are neighbors, but also enemies who often fight over hunting grounds and fishing grounds."

Even in the face of white supremacist violence and enslavement, some clans and tribes would still scheme against each other, even killing one another, for meager resources and empty promises made by the whites.

"So Sachem, if you want to effectively absorb power in the future, my advice is to prioritize helping women and children who are separated from the tribe and have lost their protection."

"Internal strife really is an inherent flaw of human nature; I had completely forgotten about that before."

He scratched his head, "I was originally planning to form an Indian army once we had enough people. How am I supposed to do this? Wait until the rescued children grow up?"

"Sachem, how about going to the slave market?"

Chongyue suggested, "The people there are all lone wolves who have lost their tribes and their families, and their hearts are filled with hatred for the white people."

"If you rescue them, give them food, dignity, and the opportunity for revenge, and then subject them to rigorous training, your vision can be realized."

"That makes sense! That's a good idea, I'll remember it."

Having kept Chongyue's words in mind, he said, "John's side is about to cause trouble, so you should prepare to infiltrate."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Meanwhile, at the gate of the sawmill.

John, accompanied by his henchmen, Uncle and Sean, rode leisurely to the door.

The three dismounted and began to pound heavily on the thick pine door, producing a dull thud.

"You bastards from the sawmill, get out here!" John yelled at the top of his lungs.

The middle-aged man pulled out his bottle, took a swig, and said in perfect unison, "What's with the timber you sold to our town last month?! When the beams were being put up for construction, it just snapped! It injured two people, one of whom is still in bed!"

Sean kicked the door hard, yelling, "Open the door! Pay up! This isn't over until you give me an explanation!"

The sudden commotion and banging on the door quickly spread throughout half of the sawmill. Shortly after, the door was flung open, and two white men stormed out, guns in hand.

"Where did these drunkards and idiots come from? Are you tired of living and want to cause trouble here? Get out of here right now!" a man with a full beard yelled angrily.

"Running wild? Your rotten wood has harmed people, and we're here to seek justice. Is that what you call running wild?"

The middle-aged man leaned forward fearlessly, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Fine, then we'll see you in court in San Francisco! I'll go back and find the newspapers, let the whole of California know that your sawmill sells deadly junk. Let's see which town will dare buy your planks after that!"

"Court? Newspaper?"

Another guard scoffed and spat. "In this forest, the gun in my hand is the law!"

With that, he abruptly raised his rifle, pointing it directly at the man's chest. "I'll count to three. If you don't leave, you bunch of clowns can stay here forever and become fertilizer!"

"You fly that likes to eat shit, do you think you're the only one with a gun?"

Almost at the same time the other side raised their guns, the three men drew their revolvers from their waists with dazzling speed.

The hammers of the three guns were simultaneously cocked, producing a crisp and menacing click, and the dark muzzles were steadily aimed at the two men in the sawmill.

"Come on, let's fire together and see who dies first!"

The tense standoff and heated arguments drew the attention of almost all the white employees at the sawmill. As the whites gathered at the gate, the Native American assassins outside the wooden wall seized the opportunity to climb over the wall and into the sawmill, heading straight for the largest building.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The study is on the second floor of the house.

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating the entire study. James Marshall sat behind his desk, looking at the California Chronicle that had been delivered not long ago.

The bold black text on the front page of the newspaper was branded into his eyes like a red-hot iron: The California Supreme Court ruled in favor of Mr. John Sutter, awarding him ownership of 33 square miles of land!

"Sartre, Sartre, wouldn't it be better if you just stayed in Pennsylvania, clinging to those pitiful memories until you died? Why did you have to go back to California?"

His eyes were sinister as he muttered to himself, "Yes, so what if the law rules in your favor? You have no money and no connections; the law is just a piece of paper you wouldn't even use to wipe your ass!"

Boom!

A dull thud suddenly echoed in the corridor outside the door, like the sound of something falling to the ground.

Marshall looked up and called out to his maid, "Elsa, what fell on the floor?"

There was no response; even the maid's usual light footsteps had disappeared.

"Elsa?!"

James Marshall frowned, a primal unease creeping into his heart. He pulled his revolver from the desk drawer, took a deep breath, and flung open the study door.

The corridor outside was deserted. He gripped his gun and walked along the corridor.

Just as he reached the top of the spiral staircase and his gaze fell upon the lobby on the first floor, a hunting knife suddenly pressed against his kidney from the side.

"Put the gun down! Now!"

Marshall caught a glimpse of an Indian out of the corner of his eye and cursed inwardly.

"What the hell were those bastards, Childs, doing, letting these red-skinned bastards in here?"

He knew all too well how brutal these Native Americans were, and his survival instinct made him grip his gun tightly, ready to fight to the death. But just then, a second knife was placed against his neck.

"I advise you not to do anything foolish, Mr. Marshall."

Fluent English came through the knife, which was pressed tightly against his skin. Marshall could clearly feel the sharpness of the metal.

He gritted his teeth and slowly loosened his fingers. The revolver was instantly taken away, and then his arms were roughly twisted behind his back and quickly bound tightly with sturdy hemp rope.

Someone hoisted him onto their shoulder like a sack of flour and walked down the spiral staircase.

During the jolt, Marshall's vision was reversed. He finally saw the scene in the first-floor hall: his maid Elsa, the cook, and his wife and children were all gagged and bound hand and foot, piled up like cargo in the fireplace on the first floor.

Just as Chongyue succeeded.

From afar, the sound of rapidly beating hooves, like the thunder of drums, echoed along the dirt road outside the sawmill gate. Arthur and his men, hidden in the woods, spurred their horses out and charged straight towards the sawmill gate.

Before the group of white people at the door could react, they saw John and his two companions grinning across the street.

Death Eye activated!

Time seemed to slow down at that moment, and everyone present could clearly hear their heartbeats.

John heard the urgent whistling of the wind, a wind that symbolized death, and blood-red X marks appeared on everyone in front of him.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunfire erupted almost in rapid succession, and amidst the billowing smoke, the white men at the gate fell one after another into pools of blood.

Before the gunfire had completely subsided, Arthur's cavalry swept into the factory like a whirlwind. The assassins quickly dispersed and began ruthlessly and efficiently cleaning up the remaining debris.

Meanwhile, on the other side...

The four-wheeled carriage jolted violently along the rough road. John Sartre rubbed his temples, his face pale. After a day of riding in the carriage, he was truly exhausted.

"Mr. Van der Linde, where are you taking me?"

Dutch, who was sitting on the other side, was also feeling a bit unwell. When he heard John Sutter's question, he said, "Just bear with it a little longer, Mr. Sutter."

After another ten minutes or so, the carriage finally came to a stop.

John Sutter was almost staggered as Dutch helped him off the carriage. He shook his slightly dizzy head and suddenly smelled a strong stench of blood.

He looked up and saw large patches of dark red soil on the ground in front of the gate that had not yet completely solidified, mixed with specks of white paste.

Dutch didn't say much, but simply made a "please" gesture and led the pale-faced Sartre into the eerily silent sawmill.

They walked through the courtyard filled with logs and headed straight for the largest two-story wooden house deep inside the factory area.

The front door of the house was wide open, revealing figures bound to the floor of the main hall. On either side of the door, rows of white corpses dressed in work clothes or guard uniforms were neatly arranged, like two honor guards.

Dutch's lips twitched. "Arthur, why did you arrange the corpse like this?"

Arthur blinked. "Of course, it's for welcoming Mr. Sartre. Walking over the corpses of his enemies—what a vengeful scene!"

"For God's sake, Arthur, shut up those damn artistic ideas of yours!"

Dutch sighed, rubbing his forehead. He took the revolver from his waist and handed it to John Sutter.

"Mr. Sutter, go ahead. We have deliberately spared the lives of James Marshall and his family, leaving it to you to decide."