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

Chapter 19 The Hound Gang's Visit and the Pacific Type 1 Rifle

Of course, not everything went smoothly.

Take cutting off braids, for example.

At first, no one was willing to cut their braids, and no amount of persuasion from Li Shizhen and his companion could change their minds. It wasn't until Emperor Jianyuan announced that those who didn't cut their braids would have their weekly wages reduced by fifty cents as a sanitation fee that most people were finally persuaded to cut them.

As for the rest, there's plenty of time.

Just as I was about to say something, I suddenly frowned.

A spy sent back a message from the outskirts of Chinatown: "My lord, a dozen or so white men are crossing Chinatown, all carrying revolvers. Judging from their direction, they seem to be heading towards the factory."

A dozen or so white people? Came to the factory? Are they looking for trouble?

He hadn't figured it out before, but that didn't stop him from immediately ordering: "Leon, have the factory gates closed and be on guard. Let's see what these people are up to."

If they're here to cause trouble, find out why, chase them away, and then go back at night and kill them all.

"Yes, my lord."

Leon, who was on guard duty at his post on the wall, sharpened his eyes and immediately gestured to the two guards at the gate. The two guards nodded, braced their shoulders against the heavy iron gate, and pushed hard. With a dull thud, the gate slowly closed.

At their posts, all the assassins silently drew their rifles and revolvers, concealing the muzzles behind the wall and aiming them at the dusty dirt road outside the gate.

Five or six minutes later, a dozen or so white men appeared menacingly at the end of the road, their revolvers in their hands making no attempt to conceal them.

The leader was a brown-haired man who, before even getting close, yelled at the top of his lungs, "Qingchong, get out here!"

"Get out! Get out!" the white people behind him shouted.

"You filthy maggot, if you shout one more word here, I'll gouge your eyes out and shove them up your ass!" Leon said coldly from behind the wall.

"Prussians? Isn't this the territory of that Qing traitor named Su Song?"

The brown-haired white man at the head of the group paused, squinted at the sharply defined, cold-faced figures on the wall, then spat out a mouthful of contempt.

"Bah! They're just a bunch of cowards who'd risk their lives for a few stinking bucks. What a disgrace to Prussia!"

On the other side of the wall, Azrael sneered and mocked, "Working for someone else is still working, it's better than you scum who don't know where your next meal is coming from and have to fight with stray dogs for shit on the street."

He paused, exaggeratedly covered his nose, and pointed to a spot not far behind them: "Oh, right, there's a latrine not far behind you. If you're hungry, you can go there and eat. You don't need to come and ask us for food."

"You sons of bitches! You're asking for it!"

The brown-haired white man flew into a rage, his face turning a deep purplish-red. He abruptly drew his revolver and pointed it at Azrael. His accomplices beside him also raised their guns in unison, a dozen or so muzzles aimed directly at the wall.

Seeing the guns drawn on the other side, Leon and Azrael did not hesitate for a moment. On the watchtower on the wall, more than thirty long and short guns were raised at the same time, their dark muzzles exuding a suffocating aura.

Leon sneered, "As if you're the only one with a gun? Do you dare to fire?"

The white leader trembled with rage, then grinned maliciously, "Good, very good! It seems you really don't know what happens when you offend the Hound Gang!"

"The Hound Gang? Only a dog that eats shit would come up with such a name." Leon scoffed, completely ignoring his words. "Get to the point if you have something to say, otherwise get lost."

"Listen up!" the brown-haired white man said menacingly, "Two weeks ago, our boss's younger brother went out on horseback and hasn't returned yet. Someone saw that his grey Andalusian horse is in the hands of your Qing insect master named Su Song!"

Azrael picked at his ear: "What horse?"

"Andalusian horse!"

"Anda what?"

"Andalusian horse!"

"What Lucia horse?"

"You fucking tricked me?!"

The lead white man finally realized he'd been tricked and flew into a rage, growling, "I'm telling you, if you don't explain the horse situation clearly, you're all going to be crushed to pieces!"

He glared fiercely at the wall, then waved his hand and said, "Let's go!"

Watching the dozen or so people walk away dejectedly, Azrael shrugged: "They're really easy to tease."

Leon narrowed his eyes, a hint of murderous intent flashing within them: "Gather your men. They've already set a trap; we'll have to pay them back tonight."

The dozen or so white men from the Hound Gang, seething with anger, slowly walked back.

"Frank, are we just leaving like this?"

A white man in a flannel shirt and blue trousers asked indignantly, "We were insulted like dogs, without even lifting a finger."

"Use what? What will you use to use it?"

The white man leading the group, named Frank, spat. "Didn't you see? At least thirty guns on the wall and around it, plus the wall for cover. If they had opened fire, none of us would have left alive!"

He said with a grim face, "Go back and report to the boss first. They were pretending to be stupid the whole time they talked about the horse. That Qingchong is definitely up to no good."

As he was speaking, with nowhere to vent his anger, Frank caught sight of a Chinese man walking along the side of the street with his head down, and suddenly kicked him.

"Damn it!"

The Chinese man was kicked to the ground and turned around to curse angrily. Upon seeing that it was a white man with a gun, he struggled for a moment, gritted his teeth, and got up, trying to leave quickly.

"You lowly insect!" Frank's anger intensified, and he chased after the other man, stomping hard on his back.

"You damn foreigner! What are you doing hitting people!" Several Chinese people nearby gathered around and shouted at him.

The struggle coming from beneath his feet was like adding fuel to the fire. A fierce glint flashed in Frank's eyes. He pulled out his revolver, pressed it against the Chinese man's back, and pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

The Chinese man trembled and gradually went limp.

The gunshots drew the attention of everyone on the street.

Without pausing, Frank raised his gun and fired several shots at the Chinese who had surrounded him. The bullets hit the muddy ground, kicking up dust, which frightened the crowd into hastily retreating.

"Frank!" His companion exclaimed, his face pale. "This is Chinatown! It's the territory of those Chinese gangs!"

"This is utter garbage territory! A bunch of vile insects!"

Frank, his face contorted with rage, fired two more shots into the air, completely scaring away the eyes peering from behind nearby doors and windows. "One day, I'll slaughter all these yellow-skinned monkeys!"

He put away his gun and hurriedly left with his men.

Five or six minutes later, after confirming that the group of white thugs had gone far away, people dared to regroup.

"What a tragedy, Ah Fa is gone just like that, it's a complete disaster." An elderly man who knew the deceased sighed.

"Damn it, does that mean white people can just kill anyone they want?" a young man cursed, his eyes red. "The gang members are so eager to collect money, but they're nowhere to be seen when it comes to this!"

"Ah Dong, shut up! Don't you want to live anymore?" The person next to him hurriedly covered his mouth.

"Ah Fa is from Taishan. Go to the Ningyang Guild Hall to report this and ask the person in charge to collect his body. We can't let him lie dead in the streets, becoming a wandering ghost."

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, in the study, Zeng Jing rummaged through his memories and finally remembered the white man he had killed: "That white guy actually had connections?"

"My lord, it was my mistake." Su Song lowered his head and said, "Last time I went to Yuanfang Tower, I rode that horse, and that's probably when the Hound Gang recognized me."

"We saw it, but whether it was the Hound Gang who saw it is another matter."

He gently tapped the table with his hand and said slowly, "Why didn't they find out sooner or later? Of all times, they only found out after they had offended the Xieyi Hall."

"Su Song, don't you think this is too much of a coincidence?"

Su Song frowned: "My lord, do you mean that Xieyi Hall is using someone else to do your dirty work?"

"pretty close."

He once sneered, "I was originally thinking of taking down Yixingtang first before dealing with them, but now it seems they can't wait to be reincarnated."

"The Hound Gang, the Righteous Hall, and the Heroic Hall—I'll use their lives to help me reach level eight."

He paused, then changed the subject: "Su Song, how many more days until our rifles are ready?"

"The first prototype will roll off the production line this afternoon," Su Song said. "Because the R&D department has more manpower, and with the division of labor and cooperation, the development cycle is about a week ahead of schedule."

"Very good." Zeng nodded and said, "Then I'll go down and test the gun. In addition, our next generation of products can also be put on the agenda."

Su Song immediately took out paper and pen, ready to take notes.

After a moment's thought, recalling the evolution of weapons in my memory: "The first product was a hand grenade. It was required to use trinitrotoluene as the explosive charge and mercury fulminate as the detonator, detonating a few seconds after being pulled. It had a long handle design for easy throwing."

Su Song frowned: "My lord, to achieve stable production of trinitrotoluene, we need a coal tar plant so that we can reliably extract toluene from large quantities of coal tar and carry out further synthesis."

If we want to put it into use as soon as possible, I suggest changing the explosive charge to picric acid, which has a similar destructive power. However, we need to coat the metal projectile with an anti-corrosion coating to prevent the formation of picric acid salts that could cause the grenade to detonate spontaneously.

"Then let's do as you say."

I used to readily accept good advice, after all, Su Song was a top expert in chemistry, and whatever he said was law.

"As for firearms, I need a weapon that can fire continuously. The principle can be similar to that of a revolver, with multiple barrels arranged in a ring. By cranking a crank, the barrels are rotated to complete the loading, firing, and ejection in sequence, thus achieving continuous firepower."

"That's no problem. I'll ask my colleagues in materials and machinery later to come up with a production cycle." Su Song nodded as he took notes.

He slowly said, "Finally, there's the next generation of rifles. The requirement is to change the existing tilting bolt to a rotating bolt, magazine-fed, and capable of automatic fire."

The copy of the Sharps M1874 could indeed outperform all other rifles in 1855, but the future of firearms undoubtedly belonged to repeating rifles.

Su Song noted down the requirements, then asked, "My lord, what about the revolver? Doesn't the revolver need improvement?"

"Revolvers, I almost forgot about these."

After some thought, he said, "Change the revolver to be compatible with .45 metal cartridges, the same caliber as the rifle. Change the cylinder to a fully open, through-type cylinder."

"My lord, I have a small question."

Su Songdao said: "I recently checked the US weapons patents and found that the through-hole magazine I just mentioned and the snap-action bolt of the Sharps rifle have both been patented."

If we want to sell these two firearms in the future, we will face some legal risks.

"It doesn't matter, these guns are for personal use for now."

He used to be nonchalant: "Even if I have to sell in the future, I can just sell it outside the US. Besides, laws need to be enforced. Once I'm well-equipped, what's wrong with selling it in the US right in front of him?"

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.

In the afternoon, on a desolate riverbank outside San Francisco.

To facilitate the testing of the guns, the suicide squad had already cleared the area and placed a heavy pine wood human-shaped target every hundred yards on the flat, hard ground. The ten targets were arranged in a row, extending to a distance of a thousand yards.

He once held in his arms that brand-new gun that had just come off the production line and been assembled.

The stock has a fine texture and a dark color. The grip area has been preliminarily polished to fit the hand shape, and feels warm to the touch. The metal parts have a cool blue sheen, revealing a precision quality that is beyond the reach of weapons of this era.

He pulled the lever, lowered the bolt carrier, loaded a bright yellow .45 caliber metallic cartridge, and then closed the bolt carrier.

He pulled the S-shaped hammer back and lifted the vertical sight scale to confirm the distance between the target and himself.

He braced the butt of the rifle firmly against his shoulder and aimed at the target.

"Bang!"

A crisp gunshot rang out.

A hole appeared in the head of a wooden mannequin target 100 yards away.

He quickly cocked the hammer, pulled the bolt lever, and the brass cartridge case bounced out, tracing an arc in the air before landing with a clang. He loaded another round, reset the trigger, and aimed.

"Bang!"

Two hundred yards away, wood chips flew everywhere from the chest area of ​​the human-shaped target.

He remained expressionless, repeating the same fluid movements, as gunshots rang out rhythmically across the empty riverbank.

Three hundred yards, four hundred yards, five hundred yards...

When he reached a distance of 600 yards, he frowned and lowered his gun.

It missed the target.

It's not the gun that's the problem, it's him.

At this distance, the humanoid target had shrunk to a blurry little dot. Furthermore, since the ammunition used was black powder, there would be significant drop later on.

"Leon, you give it a try." He tossed the rifle in his hand over.

"Yes."

Leon caught it steadily, and after getting used to it for a while, he tried firing.

boom! boom! boom!

Gunshots rang out in succession, steady and swift, hitting targets within 700 yards one after another. But at 800 yards, he also started missing the target.

Leon lowered the still-warm barrel of his gun and said regretfully, "My lord, to hit that target a thousand yards away, we'll probably need someone with Lv.3 firearms proficiency, plus a bit of good luck."

"That's enough."

He once said, "The mainstream muzzle-loading rifled guns today have an effective range of only four or five hundred yards, and a slow rate of fire. The breech-loading guns, which have a faster rate of fire, have an even shorter effective range of only three hundred yards due to gas tightness issues."

"With this gun, let alone those gangsters, we can beat the shit out of them even if we're facing a regular army."

Leon was somewhat blunt: "My lord, rifles are definitely not enough to fight a regular army; they have artillery."

"That's true." Zeng touched his chin and mounted his horse.

However, Leon's words reminded him that although the cannons were not needed yet, it would be good to stockpile the technology first.

Smokeless gunpowder and alloy steel that can withstand higher chamber pressures should gradually be put on the agenda.

Leon, carrying the gun, followed: "My lord, you haven't named this gun yet?"

After thinking about it for a while, he said, "Let's call it Pingyang, Pingyang Type 1."