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

"It's done."

The chemistry group nodded when they learned of Guilliman's purpose for coming.

He turned and carefully took out a glass plate, about eight inches square, from a velvet-lined box. One side of the glass plate was evenly coated with a milky-white gelatin emulsion, which was silver bromide gelatin latex.

"This is the first generation of practical film successfully produced based on the ideas provided by our Lord, which is a significant improvement over the wet plate method."

"The first generation?" Guilliman shrewdly picked up on the word. "You mean there's a second generation?"

"Of course. Our Lord has already pointed out the technological path so clearly; it would be a great disappointment to merely remain on the glass plate."

The chemical engineer named Kodak nodded and took out a long, transparent, soft yet tough strip of material from another box.

"Considering that glass plates are heavy, fragile, and bulky, we wanted to further develop a new type of substrate that does not have the above-mentioned drawbacks and is transparent, flat, lightweight, and flexible."

"After trying many materials, we finally settled on nitrocellulose."

"We dissolve refined nitrocellulose in a mixed solvent of ethanol and ether, and then add an appropriate amount of camphor as a plasticizer."

Ethanol can swell nitrocellulose, expanding its molecular chain network and allowing camphor to embed between the long chains of nitrocellulose.

"After a series of heating, drying and pressurization processes, the second-generation film that replaced the glass plate was produced."

He shook the film in his hand, and the film rippled like waves, making a crisp sound.

"Aside from being sensitive to strong light and high temperatures, and being slightly flammable, it has no other drawbacks."

Guilliman looked at the product, which embodied the engineers' hard work, and nodded. He could foresee its enormous potential in news and even broader fields.

"A stunning creation. And what about the accompanying printing technology?"

"The screen printing method has been validated in the laboratory, and the process has been finalized."

Kodak put away the second-generation film and replied seriously, "I will arrange for someone to provide systematic training to your people later to ensure they can master it."

"However, the high-speed printing press will be available in a couple of days. The mechanical team has encountered some technical difficulties and is still trying."

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.

That same afternoon, at San Francisco City Hall.

Inside the mayor's office.

Mayor Stephen Pavli Weber sat expressionlessly behind his large desk, looking at the man standing in the room.

"This morning, Mr. Ferdinand Sterling and Mr. Connor Brandon, two highly respected businessmen in the city, were attacked by a mob, and both gentlemen and their families were tragically killed."

"And now you, the police chief, are standing here telling me that not a single thug has been caught? Not even a single attacker's body has been found?"

He sneered, "Mr. Blake Monroe, this makes me seriously question whether the San Francisco Police Department even has any reason to exist!"

Blake Monroe is nearly fifty years old and has a stocky build.

After listening to the mayor's words, he retorted with a tone that was both soft and firm: "Mr. Mayor, the police department only has thirty people, and they are responsible for the security of the entire San Francisco city area."

The group of rioters numbered at least forty or fifty, were well-equipped, acted swiftly, and employed professional methods. The first few officers to arrive at the scene did their utmost, and some were even injured.

"If you have any conscience and any sincerity in improving public safety, you should appeal to the city council to increase funding for the police department so that I can hire more people."

Instead of sitting here questioning why I couldn't catch a group of clearly prepared thugs, a force comparable in size to a company!

He was elected as the police chief by a Democratic congressman and was not intimidated by Mayor Webber, so he spoke with less restraint.

"A grant?"

Mayor Webber's gaze was unfriendly: "Nothing was found in the Clark Point case, and the Hound Gang's deaths remain unsolved. And what have you accomplished with today's tragedy? Absolutely nothing!"

"Mr. Monroe, what the police department needs is results—actions that genuinely protect public safety and uphold the dignity of the law, not repeatedly taking taxpayers' money and doing nothing!"

"Want funding? Wait until you actually catch the criminals and quell the public's panic!"

"The case at Clark Point was not even within the jurisdiction of the city police department; it was you, Mayor, who insisted on taking the case!"

The two couldn't agree on anything, and the argument escalated, ultimately ending in a bitter argument.

Blake Monroe slammed the door shut and left, his face ashen.

Weber watched him leave, then summoned his staff and asked, "Will our newspaper's special edition be published on time tomorrow morning?"

The aide said, "There shouldn't be any problem. Reporters are already writing articles. This time, we guarantee that the police department's reputation in San Francisco will be completely ruined."

Weber nodded in satisfaction, poured himself a glass of wine, and sneered, "Once the reputation of the city and county police departments as useless is deeply ingrained, the fearful citizens will gather in the vigilance committee, and we will be able to seize power legitimately."

"By the way, did those thugs really leave no body or any clues behind?"

The aide nodded and said, "Yes, the operation was clean and efficient, and they managed to escape unscathed."

Members of the alert committee attempted to set up roadblocks at several intersections, but the enemy's firepower was fierce and their coordination excellent; our men were simply unable to hold them off, and several of them were killed.

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "However, there might be a clue, but it's very indirect and cannot be confirmed."

"explain."

"According to the information from the court, this morning, John Augustus Satter, the lord of New Helvetia, had the judge sign the execution order to reclaim the land."

Afterwards, Sartre and a companion were seen having a brief meeting with Mr. Sterling and Mr. Brandon at the café. The meeting ended unhappily, and then the attack occurred.

"John Sutter, is that really him?"

Weber muttered the name, his brow furrowed: "That bankrupt old fogey, how could he possibly organize such an armed force? How did he do it?"

The aide said, "Mayor, this is just speculation; it might just be a coincidence."

"Coincidence? No, whoever benefits is the most likely to be the murderer."

Weber shook his head. He pondered for a moment, then suddenly asked, "Isn't Sterling and Brandon's land in Chinatown?"

"Yes, Mr. Mayor," the aide confirmed. "The combined land owned by the two of them covers the entire Chinatown area."

Webber swirled his glass and asked, "What do you think would happen if we leaked information suggesting the thugs were those yellow-skinned monkeys from Chinatown?"

The aide hesitated for a moment, then cautiously said, "Mayor, if I may be so bold, this lacks evidence. The rioters were all white, a fact confirmed by many witnesses. Directly linking it to Chinatown seems rather far-fetched."

Weber scoffed, "Far-fetched? I'm talking politics, not facts. Politics doesn't need solid evidence, just reasonable suspicion and public fear."

"It doesn't matter who killed Sterling and Brandon; what matters is who the citizens think they are. Because our goal isn't to solve the case, it's to seize power."

"Now, it's a fact that John Sutter has acquired the land in Chinatown, and that's his connection to those yellow-skinned monkeys."

All we need to do is hint in the report that Sartre may have used unconventional methods to reclaim his land. Meanwhile, the yellow-skinned monkeys in Chinatown have long been dissatisfied with their rent and living conditions…”

He took a sip of red wine and continued, "And that completes an easy-to-understand evil conspiracy theory."

"We just need to wait for public opinion to ferment and for the anger of San Francisco citizens to be ignited, then the Vigilance Committee can enter Chinatown under the pretext of protecting the city and eliminating potential hazards."

The aide suddenly realized and chimed in, "As long as those yellow-skinned monkeys dare to resist, we can rightfully take action to drive them away. The power of the Vigilance Committee will then be completely secured."

"That's right."

Weber grinned. "Go to Burkeburg and contact Mr. William Coleman. Tell him about our plan. Get him and the core members of the committee ready."

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 people inside Chinatown had no time to pay attention to the turmoil outside.

They are focusing on something more important.

The opium dens were shut down.

Dupan Street, Kearney Street, Sacramento Street...

On any major street where Chinese people live, you can see a similar scene: a group of burly Chinese men rush into the opium dens on these streets.

"Everyone, get out immediately!"

"The opium den has been shut down, and all the opium has been confiscated!"

Shouts accompanied the sounds of rummaging through boxes and moving crates. Crates of opium, along with opium paste, pipes, and lamps, were roughly thrown onto the waiting freight wagons outside.

Those smoking ghosts who were puffing away on the couch, their souls wandering to the heavens, were dragged up like chicks and thrown onto the dusty road.

"You bastards, which gang are you from?"

A dazed, chain-smoking man lay on the ground, cursing, "Didn't your boss teach you that there are rules to follow when fighting for territory?"

"If you lay a hand on a customer, I'll never come to this opium den again!"

A burly man carrying a wooden box stopped and grinned, "From now on? Kid, you won't have another chance to inhale this filthy stuff."

The smoker shuddered at the chilling smile, and said, his bravado masking his fear, "What are you doing? You dare kill someone in the street?"

The burly man ignored him and turned back to his work.

Just as the smoker thought he had escaped, and was shakily getting up from the ground to leave, he was suddenly grabbed.

In no time, he was bound hand and foot and thrown onto a freight wagon.

On the carriage at that moment, there were many people like him, emaciated and withered, who were now sobbing in fear. They were all his companions who had smoked opium together earlier.

"Help! Kidnapping! Murder!"

The smokers on the bus finally realized something was wrong and began to struggle desperately. The smokers on the street tried to escape, but they were all caught and brought back.

Most of the Chinese residents on the street who witnessed this scene simply stood at a distance and watched, whispering among themselves. A few bolder and more enthusiastic individuals tried to approach, but were immediately stopped by the people sent by the Six Associations to assist them.

"Young man, what do you want to do?" A middle-aged deacon from the guild hall stopped the young man at the front.

"Help!"

The man blinked and pointed at the people in the carriage, saying, "Uncle, didn't you hear them shouting for help?"

"If you go there now, you'll only be harming those smokers."

The deacon shook his head and raised his voice, addressing not only the young men but also the growing number of neighbors gathered around.

"Opium ruins people, destroys their families, and tears families apart. For the sake of Chinatown, starting today, all opium dens will be closed!"

These smokers will also be sent to a secluded place for forced smoking cessation. This isn't kidnapping or murder; everyone, please disperse!

"Uncle, are you really going to close the opium den permanently?" A familiar face chimed in. "The gang at the headquarters actually agreed?"

"Church? From today onwards, there will be no more churches in Chinatown."

The deacon's expression turned strange as he recalled the group of people who had been sent away that morning. "They're all barely able to protect themselves; they have no choice but to agree."

The person who asked the question was dumbfounded: "No way, I only worked one day, has Chinatown changed that much?"

On the carriage, upon hearing the words "permanent closure" and "forced cessation of smoking," the smokers erupted in even more desperate wails and curses: "What right do you have to shut down the opium den? What right do you have to send us away? Is there no law?!"

"Law? This is America, we only follow the Constitution."

The last burly man carrying a wooden crate passed by, heard the cursing, and sneered: "But the American constitution doesn't apply to us. The emperor is far away, so you'll just have to accept your fate."

He loaded the opium into a four-wheeled carriage, and all the opium addicts inside were also taken out, tied up, and placed on another carriage.

The two carriages, one to the east and one to the west, left the street.

"Brothers, what are you going to do with all that opium? Burn it?" a bold neighbor shouted at the burly man who remained.

"Burn it? Are you planning to let the whole city inhale this stuff?"

The burly man's lips twitched, and he said, "Naturally, we should follow the methods of Lord Lin Zexu and have a San Francisco war."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Someone scratched their head, not understanding the situation.

Someone in the know explained: "They dug a pool by the sea, poured in opium and quicklime, and then introduced seawater. This completely destroyed the opium. That's what Lord Lin did back then."

"Unlike burning, which produces highly toxic smoke and allows you to dig up soil after burning and extract the smoke from the ash."

The burly man looked at the man, sized him up for a moment, and then laughed, "I was wondering who had such knowledge. It turns out to be Director Chen Long."

"Are you here to supervise the construction?"

Chen Long was surprised that he knew him, then shook his head and said, "It's just that one of my shops happens to be nearby, so I stopped by to take a look."

He paused, then cupped his hands in a polite gesture and asked, "Mr. Su Song, are you free tomorrow? I would like to host another gathering for you. Would you be so kind as to convey my request?"

"Don't call me brother, just call me Yuan Shuo."

Yuan Shuo laughed heartily: "That's easy. I'll ask around for you later. Director Chen, leave your address or shop address. If Mr. Su is free, I'll send someone to deliver a message to you tonight."