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

In the dead of night, the moonlight, like water, illuminated the entire city.

Intersection of Tuban Street and Bush Street.

The assassin standing behind the roadblock made of carriages and sandbags squinted, then turned and nodded to his companion.

"They're here!"

Under the moonlight, flickering lights began to appear on the distant street corner—the glow of a dense cluster of kerosene lamps. The clamor of footsteps and shouts grew ever closer.

boom! boom! boom!

Three crisp gunshots pierced the night sky; this was the signal the suicide squad had agreed upon.

If a place is about to be attacked, fire a warning shot to alert the other suicide squads to come and provide support.

"Open fire freely!"

Without the slightest hesitation, the suicide squad members shouldered their rifles and fired.

Their 18-point physical condition endowed them with strong dynamic vision and night vision, allowing them to clearly spot the figures of the approaching members of the vigilance committee.

With the addition of the Pacific Type 1 rifle, which could be loaded and fired every three seconds, even though there were only ten people, they managed to produce a continuous stream of gunfire.

The bullets accurately reaped the figures in the streets and alleys. With each shot, a figure fell backward and became a corpse.

It wasn't until the dozen or so people at the front fell that the people behind realized what had happened.

"They opened fire!"

"Find cover! Find cover!"

The crowd scattered instantly, and members of the vigilance committee rushed to anything that could shield their bodies—stone doorposts, gaps in the houses, even behind wooden shelves at stalls.

Several slower-reacting individuals were knocked down while running, their bodies hitting the stone pavement with dull thuds.

"Fire! Fire! Slaughter them!"

After calming down a bit, filled with shock and rage, they began to fight back with revolvers and muzzle-loading pistols. But every time they peeked out and aimed, the opposing guns seemed to have divine assistance, always quickly locking onto and firing, killing their comrades.

In just a minute or two, more than twenty corpses lay scattered throughout the streets and alleys. Blood pooled in the lower areas, and a strong smell of rust filled the air.

"No, we can't even open fire, let alone break through!"

A member of the vigilance committee, hiding behind a pillar, shouted, "Their gunfire is too much and too frequent! There are at least forty or fifty Qing soldiers firing at the intersection ahead!"

"Should we retreat first?!" another person shouted.

A member, clearly the leader, hid at the alley entrance, roaring at the top of his lungs, "Retreat? So many brothers have died, how can we retreat?!"

"Those Qing bugs couldn't possibly have that many guns; they must have gathered all the guns in Chinatown here."

He paused, then called to the group, "Let's take a detour. I refuse to believe their firepower at every street corner is this intense!"

"If we just rush in, we can kill all the Qing insects and loot all their wealth!"

The crowd stirred. The desire for revenge and the fantasy of plunder overwhelmed the fear.

They split up and began to detour through Kearney Street or Cityton Street, preparing to rush into Chinatown through those "weak points".

But soon, reality dealt them a heavy blow.

Firepower comparable to that at the intersection of Bush Street came rushing in, bullets whistling through the air, knocking the first few men to the ground.

"Let's move to another place!"

Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang!

"Change it again!"

Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang!

"continue……"

Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang!

At the corner of Sacramento Street, the members of the Vigilance Committee huddled in an alley, panting heavily, their tempers worn down by the relentless barrage of fire.

"Bullshit, where did they get so many guns, and so many sharpshooters?" someone yelled, tearing at his hair. "They said they were going to avenge their compatriots, but now more and more of our own people are dying. We're just fucking throwing our lives away!"

The leader leaned against the wall, his gaze sweeping over the wooden carts in the alleyways. Suddenly, an idea struck him, and he shouted:

"I've got an idea!"

"We piled up cover on this wooden cart, then pushed it across, drawing all the fire to it. The others then followed behind, rushed forward, and opened fire at close range!"

"Those Qing insects are all cowards; they'll definitely run away when they see us charging at them!"

"Is it okay?" one person asked hesitantly.

"Do it!"

The other person gritted his teeth: "Are you really willing to go back like this? What will Boss Monroe think of us?"

The group silently sprang into action, frantically gathering debris. Soon, a cart loaded with planks, stones, and dirt was pushed forward, hurtling towards the defensive fortifications at the street corner!

The assassin guarding the street corner of Sacramento Street fired two shots, and after discovering that the bullets were blocked by the wooden cart, he said to his companion beside him:

"Send someone back to inform them that this street corner is about to fall, and to have the general reserve bring over some Type 1 anti-Japanese machine guns!"

"We slowly retreated, continuing to hold them back. The doors and windows of the houses behind us have been boarded up, so they can't hurt anyone else in the short term."

"good!"

As the gunfire subsided, the members of the vigilance committee were overjoyed.

"Brothers, those Qing insects are indeed scared and retreating, charge!"

Soon, they pushed aside the carriages that were being used as roadblocks and rushed into Chinatown with a roar.

The two sides engaged in a gunfight directly on the street. Although the suicide squad had better marksmanship and a faster rate of fire, they were no match for the overwhelming numbers of the opposing vigilance committee.

As the barricades were pushed aside, hundreds of members of the vigilance committee rushed in. Even though they were armed with old muzzle-loading rifles and revolvers firing lead bullets, the suicide squad still suffered casualties.

One suicide soldier was hit in the chest by three lead bullets fired at close range and fell down; another was shot in the right arm, but continued firing while reloading with one hand.

The remaining assassins' expressions remained unchanged; they continued firing silently and steadily. Only when they heard the sound of rolling wheels not far behind them did they quickly start running backward.

"The general reserve has arrived. Quickly move out of the machine gun's horizontal firing range!"

The foreigners became even more excited when they saw the figures of people falling and retreating.

"Kill them!"

"We can't stop the insects anymore, don't let them get away!"

Skilled at winning when the tide is on their side, they ran out of cover and began firing while running, advancing step by step into Chinatown.

Until they reached the end of the street, they saw a strangely shaped device: ten black gun barrels arranged in a circle, fixed on an iron frame with wooden wheels, and a vertically upward metal bar.

"What is that?" someone asked.

His response was met with the blazing flashes of gun barrels, a continuous barrage of gunfire accompanied by crisp clicks, and thick smoke billowing out.

Bullets rained down on the crowd like a storm, and those in the front rows fell like straw cut by a sickle. The bodies of those hit twisted and flew backward, and blood mist drifted in the moonlight.

When the magazine was empty, the assistant gunner quickly pulled out the empty magazine and inserted a new one; the whole process took less than four seconds.

A second wave of bullets arrived.

The metal storm swept across the street again, and the survivors began to scatter and flee.

But the street was too narrow, and the doors and windows of the houses on both sides had long been sealed off, making it impossible to open them in a short time. They could only flee backward or hide behind pillars or other cover.

But how could a wooden bunker possibly stop a machine gun barrage?

Three minutes later, there was no one left standing on the street.

Jian Yuan stood beside the machine gun, its barrel glowing slightly red, his gaze sweeping over the corpses and groaning wounded. He waved his hand: "Go and finish them off, make sure there are no survivors. Then we can call the support team over to clean up the mess."

He paused for a moment, then said, "There might still be some foreigners around Chinatown, or even those who slipped in from some hidden corners."

After finishing off the enemy, remember to patrol the area to make sure no one escapes.

"Should we chase after and kill those who managed to escape?" someone asked.

Jianyuan thought for a moment, then shook his head: "There's no need. Those foreigners are scared out of their wits. Right now, the most important thing is to protect Chinatown."

"yes!"

The suicide squadmen trudged through the pool of blood, the click of the revolver's hammer being cocked clear in the silence, followed by a short gunshot.

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.

A little earlier, on Market Street.

Hosea and Sherman's group stopped in the middle of the street. Sixty yards away, a group of hastily assembled white men blocked their way.

The scene hardly resembled an army: some had their shirts buttoned up incorrectly, some wore only one boot, some had flushed faces and reeked of alcohol, and some were even leaning on the barrel of a rifle, panting so hard they couldn't straighten up.

They stood loosely in three or four rows, like an uneven fence, but their weapons were pointed at the approaching enemy.

Sherman narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the crowd opposite him, and said, "The San Francisco City Guard has been deployed? It seems the mayor isn't entirely welcoming of us."

"Is this the first militia organization in San Francisco, or even in all of California?"

Hosea raised an eyebrow. "Why are there so few people? I remember it was supposed to be a large company-sized operation?"

"They were probably called in temporarily. After all, militiamen don't have fixed locations like regular troops. Apart from training twice a week, they are tailors, carpenters, and tavern owners the rest of the time."

"It's quite an achievement that our mayor could gather these dozens of people at this hour."

Sherman took a deep breath and shouted, "In the name of His Excellency John Bigler, Governor of California and Commander-in-Chief of the State Militia, I, Captain William Tecumseh Sherman, am ordered to lead the state's armed forces into San Francisco to quell the riots and restore the rule of law!"

"The San Francisco City Guard, as part of the California militia, is obstructing state armed forces at this moment, which constitutes disobedience to military orders, obstruction of official duties, and suspected aiding and abetting insurrection. I order you: Lay down your weapons immediately and clear the way!"

A tall, middle-aged white man dressed in dark hunting attire stepped out from the crowd opposite.

He announced loudly, "I am Donovan Wellington, captain of the San Francisco City Guard."

"Sir, there is no riot in San Francisco; only citizens exercising their constitutional right to self-defense. We do not need foreign troops here. Please go back to where you came from."

Hosea leaned close to Sherman's ear and said, "There's no need to waste any more words, Mr. Sherman. There are only sixty people on the other side. My men can clear this street in five minutes."

Sherman frowned: "I'm not concerned about these people, I'm concerned about the Vigilance Committee. They are the real knife in Webber's hand."

If the guards are just a delaying tactic, and Monroe leads hundreds of mobs out from the flanks or rear while we're engaged in combat, we'll be in a very passive position.

Hosea smiled slightly and said, "If that's the case, Mr. Sherman, you don't need to worry about the Vigilance Committee for the time being."

"I have some friends in San Francisco, and I asked them, on behalf of the governor, to help us entertain the gentlemen of the Vigilance Committee."

No sooner had he finished speaking than a burst of gunfire erupted from the distant streets and alleys.

It wasn't sporadic firing, but a continuous barrage, interspersed with faint screams. The sounds drifted in the night wind, drawing the attention of everyone on the market street.

The moment he heard the gunshot, Hosea drew his revolver, stood at the forefront, and fired six shots in quick succession, shouting at the same time:

"Fire!"

As soon as the order was given, the twenty assassins in the first rank pulled their triggers almost simultaneously.

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

The white smoke billowing from Springfield instantly filled half the street, and the lead bullet tore through the air and entered the crowd on the other side.

Five or six members of the militia had blood blooming on their chests and were knocked to the ground.

After the first rank finished firing, they quickly turned to the right, jogged to the end of the column, and began loading ammunition.

The second rank moved forward seamlessly and raised their guns to fire.

Third row, fourth row...

"Linear column rotation!"

Sherman, a member of the team, watched this scene in amazement. He hadn't seen such a tactic, which required an extremely high level of training, in a long time.

The militiamen across the street were completely stunned. Some threw down their guns and fled into the alley, some lay on the ground pretending to be dead, and the few who tried to fight back were immediately targeted by the next volley of fire.

Wellington, crouching behind a flowerbed, roared, "Fight back! Fight back!"

More than twenty gun barrels suddenly appeared from the windows of the buildings on both sides of Market Street; these were gunmen that Wellington had arranged as a precaution.

Lead bullets and iron pellets rained down, hitting the ranks of the suicide squad.

Five assassins were shot and wounded, but they did not cry out in pain. They simply endured the pain and moved to the side so as not to hinder their teammates.

But the smoke also revealed the locations of all the ambushes.

"Assault team!" Hosea shouted.

At the rear of the column, twenty suicide soldiers who were loading bullets suddenly broke away from the formation.

They worked in pairs, discarding their long spears and drawing revolvers and short axes from their waists, pouncing like cheetahs towards the buildings on either side where militiamen were hidden.

The suicide squad at the front maintained their formation and continued firing at the militiamen on the street.

Soon, the last few militiamen still resisting in the street were killed by crossfire in the middle of the street.

The whole process took seven minutes.

As the gunfire subsided, thirty-seven bodies lay scattered across the market street, with more than ten others groaning in serious injury. Occasionally, sporadic gunshots and sounds of fighting could still be heard from the buildings on either side, but these soon faded into silence.

"What have you done?!"

The belated Webber exclaimed incredulously, "I am Stephen Pavli Webber, the mayor of San Francisco! Who gave you permission to fire on my city? Who gave you permission to fire on the San Francisco militia?!"