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

He took the coarse cloth Arthur offered and slowly wiped the bloodstains from his face. He stood there, taking a few deep breaths.

The strong smell of blood mixed with the scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils, yet he felt a sense of relief and relaxation.

Mokel Michel's name was crossed off the list of enemies.

But not enough.

Because the list is very long.

The next target has already been identified: the white-skinned people in the mine!

"My lord, now that we have captured him, why not make use of him? For example, let him personally open the mine gate, trick the guards into disarming him, and then kill him?" Arthur looked puzzled.

"There's no need for that."

He returned the gun and rag to Arthur, saying, "Today it's Leon and Azrael on guard duty. The rest of the white men are either overseeing things in the sweltering mines or sleeping soundly in their rooms. We can just swagger in."

He then mounted his horse and took Ezekiel's hand. The surrounding assassins also mounted their horses in unison, and dozens of riders surged forward like a torrent towards the distant mine.

Inside the mine.

Leon's gaze caught the dust rising in the distance, and he nodded to Azrael on the other side.

The two men nimbly climbed down from the watchtower, which was several meters high, almost simultaneously, and headed straight for the heavy camp gate made of thick logs and iron hoops.

They pushed on the latch, and Grady, the mine foreman, heard the noise and came out of his house, demanding, "Lyon, Azrael, what are you two sons of bitches doing?"

Leon and Azrael ignored him and simply worked together to pull the two doors open completely.

Feeling his authority had been severely challenged, Grady stormed over, yelling, "Hey, you two bastards with brains full of shit, are you trying to...?"

His words came to an abrupt end.

Leon suddenly turned around and delivered a heavy, precise straight punch to his nose!

"Snap!"

A sickening cracking sound rang out, and Grady let out a pig-like scream as blood gushed from between his fingers, smearing his fat face and the front of his shirt.

"You fat pig," Leon said, shaking his hand, his tone full of pent-up disgust, "I've put up with your greasy body and stinky mouth for a long time."

Azrael, standing nearby, had already drawn his revolver and aimed it at Grady, who was clutching his nose and screaming in pain. "Should we kill him now?"

"Tie him up and let his master decide his fate."

Just as the two men had secured the limp Grady, the sound of approaching hooves drew near, and dozens of riders galloped in.

Leon shouted, "Ignore those low, dilapidated shacks; they house Chinese laborers. The important thing is those large buildings over there, and the mine entrance!"

The assassins quickly dismounted and split into three groups.

The largest group, like wolves and tigers, pounced straight on the large wooden huts where the overseers and guards lived. The other two groups charged toward the two dark mine entrances, one to the south and one to the north.

The battle ended quickly.

The miners were confused about what had happened. Some had just woken up from their sleep, their pants not even pulled up properly; others, drunk, tried to reach for the guns on the wall but were kicked over; several people in the mine, having just peeked out after hearing the commotion, had guns pointed at their foreheads.

Within ten minutes, all the white men were disarmed, their hands were tied behind their backs, and they were roughly dragged to an open space in the center of the mine, where they were forced to kneel in a row.

Leon carefully scanned each face and reported to Zeng: "My lord, ten white overseers, as well as the mine manager, logistics staff, and cooks, are all here."

He slowly walked up to this group of kneeling people.

The guards who whipped him, the cooks who skimped on his meals, the stewards who didn't pay his wages...

These people who once looked down on him and his fellow countrymen as ants and insects now tremble like livestock awaiting slaughter, living in constant fear as they await his judgment.

"Oh."

He stopped in front of the two overseers kneeling at the very edge. They were two red-haired Irishmen, now looking at him with angry expressions.

"You two," the voice, once calm, said, "we meet again."

A look of bewilderment crossed the eyes of the two Irishmen.

"You don't recognize me? Oh, that makes sense."

He seemed to suddenly realize something, his tone even tinged with sarcasm, "I cut off that pig-tail-like braid, shaved my beard, and put on clean clothes. I've been eating well these past few days, and I've gotten quite strong; I really don't look like a ghost anymore."

As soon as he finished speaking, he drew his revolver from Ezekiel's waist, pressed it against the foreman's forehead on the left, and pulled the trigger without hesitation!

boom!

His head exploded like a shattered watermelon, splattering red and white matter all over his companion's head and face.

"But how could you not recognize me? I was beaten to death like a dog in this damned foreign land, how could you two bastards not recognize me?!"

By the end, he was roaring.

The surviving Irish overseer stared in horror at the past, his lost memories slowly returning. His face turned ashen, and he desperately curled up backward, wriggling away from the past.

"A ghost! It's the ghost of that Qingchong! It's back!"

"They are the devil's minions! They are the devil's minions!"

Leon, standing behind him, frowned, then kicked him hard in the back, sending him flying back to where he stood, next to the corpse.

boom! boom! boom!

His eyes flashed with a terrifying ferocity as he fired three shots, all of which pierced the man's torso. The overseer twitched a few times and then fell still.

"Fuck you, I hate that name!"

He threw the empty revolver back to Ezekiel, then took another one fully loaded, and personally sent these white men off one by one.

Ignoring pleas for mercy and angry curses, he simply fired. When he ran out of bullets, he switched to a revolver, continuing until he reached the last person.

Grady collapsed to the ground, tears and snot streaming down his face, foul-smelling liquid dripping from his lower body. He pleaded, sobbing, "Kind sir, please, I beg you. I have a wife and daughter at home; they can't live without me."

The only response he received was a gunshot.

When they put away their guns with a blank expression and exploited Chinese laborers to death, how could they not have thought about the fact that these laborers also had families at home?

Arthur stepped forward and asked in a low voice, "My lord, what should be done with your people?"

Looking back, I saw that behind the broken doors of those low shacks, at the entrance to the deep mine, there were sallow, emaciated faces with numb expressions peeking out.

He was silent for a moment, then said, "Jianyuan, take seven or eight quick-witted men to the kitchen and make some food. There are over a hundred Chinese laborers here, so remember to make plenty so they can have a decent, filling meal first."

"Yes, my lord."

A Chinese assassin, who appeared to be in his thirties and had a calm demeanor, stepped forward in response. He had been summoned yesterday and possessed a level 2 culinary skill.

Jian Yuan and seven or eight others went to the kitchen led by Leon, where they began to think about how to settle their compatriots.

Letting them go was definitely not an option; by 1855, California was already showing signs of anti-Chinese sentiment. The wilderness was rife with hostility, and sending such a large group of defenseless Chinese laborers out would be like sending lambs to the slaughter.

Moreover, these two gold mines, the weapons company in Chinatown, and even the California land to be occupied in the future all require enough of our own people to do the work...

"Yuan Guang." He called out the name of another Chinese suicide bomber. "Take a few of your compatriots and call all the miners out of the sheds and mine shafts to gather here."

"Yes, my lord."

Yuan Guang called the remaining Chinese suicide soldiers, and they loudly reassured the Chinese laborers, who were huddled in the shadows with various regional accents, and slowly led them out.

A dozen minutes later, more than a hundred ragged, emaciated Chinese laborers gathered in the open space. They sat close together, talking in hushed tones about the corpses on the ground and the sharp-looking gunmen.

Yuan Guang walked to a slightly higher mound of earth and fired several shots into the air. All sound vanished instantly, leaving only terrified faces.

Yuan Guang shouted, "Fellow countrymen, as you can see, those foreigners who oppressed us and treated us Han people like pigs and dogs have all been slaughtered. And this gold mine has changed owners."

Our lord, whom we serve, is also a son of the Han people. Our lord is benevolent and now offers you three paths to choose from.

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the bewildered faces below.

"The first option is for those who still want to earn a living through their physical labor. They can stay and work. The wages are the same as those of the foreign miners outside, twenty dollars a week, which is thirteen taels of silver, and they get one day off."

"The second option is for those who no longer wish to return to these dark and dreary mines. My lord also has a legitimate business in San Francisco's Chinatown. It's a large workshop that pays two dollars a day, with food and lodging provided, but the rules are extremely strict. You must strictly follow orders and work diligently!"

The crowd below immediately erupted in cheers, as if a pot had exploded.

Thirteen taels of silver a week was an astronomical figure in their minds. Back home, a day laborer's daily income was only a few dozen coins, at most a hundred coins.

Many eyes lit up, but many more remained skeptical.

After all, that's what the shipowner said before they came. But after working in the mine year after year, they never received their wages.

Leaning against the corner wall, Zeng's gaze swept over everyone, and he sighed inwardly.

These compatriots are mostly contract workers who have been deceived many times before.

Contract laborers are workers who cannot afford their ship tickets and sign contracts with human traffickers, using their future wages to cover the cost of the tickets. Of course, some are forced into signing indentured servitude contracts.

The smugglers would package them up and sell them to mines, plantations, and other places, taking away most of the white people's monthly wages and keeping only a small amount for themselves.

The last bit of soup and liquid would be completely devoured by the white supervisors, overseers, cooks, and others, leaving not a trace.

It could be said that in this world, Chinese laborers lived even worse lives than Black slaves.

After all, slaves were the private property of slave owners. Given that a healthy black slave could be sold for eight or nine hundred dollars, slave owners did not want their slaves to die or become disabled.

Therefore, slave owners would do their best to maintain the health of their slaves before they lost their ability to work due to old age.

Chinese laborers, as indentured workers, performed the most arduous and dangerous jobs, and their wages might not even reach a thousand dollars from birth to death.

Here's a hellish joke: after the Civil War ends, Black people who thought they would be free will actually have a much lower life expectancy.

Having gathered his scattered thoughts and communicated with Yuan Guang in his mind, Yuan Guang once again shouted, "Silence!"

After the commotion subsided, Yuan Guang continued, "I know what everyone is worried about. It's nothing more than the worry that even if we stay, we still won't get our wages."

"Your previous wages were all distributed by these white people to the gangs in Chinatown. We also have a grudge against those gangs, so why would we continue to give them money?"

He looked around the room one last time, and his voice became serious: "To put everyone's minds at ease, those who are willing to stay and work will be paid in advance. Pay first, then start working."

"Those who do not wish to stay, then there is a third option: after having a good meal, they may leave on their own, and we will not stop them."

A dozen minutes later, Jianyuan and his group came out carrying a large bucket. The bucket was full of stewed potatoes and peas, with minced salted pork floating on top.

A rich aroma wafted from the barrel, attracting everyone's attention.

"Everyone stand in two lines. No cutting in line or pushing. Anyone who violates this rule will be dragged out of line and made to eat after everyone else has finished!"

Under the threat of words and guns, everyone obediently stood in two rows and began to receive their food.

Jianyuan came over with a bowl of stewed potatoes and peas. Zeng found a rock to sit on and ate while listening to Jianyuan talk.

"My lord, there aren't many ingredients left in the kitchen; we need to go and buy some more."

"Go to Wolf Town and find Lucy. Have her take charge of the purchasing. As for the future, clear a few plots of land around the mine, buy some seeds, and we can be self-sufficient in a few days."

He took a couple of bites, looked at the gold mine in front of him, and suddenly had some new ideas.

To be honest, the mining methods used in Mokel Mishir's two gold mines were quite outdated.

Mining is done manually in quartz veins. The ore is transported up by hand-operated mine carts, crushed in stone troughs, and then gold is extracted using gravity separation and amalgamation.

From the perspective of people in the past and future generations, this series of methods can be further optimized.

In terms of mining, gunpowder was used to blast the ore veins instead of relying solely on manual labor; steam power was introduced to grind the ore; and the amalgamation process was replaced with the cyanidation process, which was invented at the end of the 19th century, to extract gold...

He shared these ideas with four research-oriented scientists working in San Francisco's Chinatown, only to be met with their unanimous rejection.

"My lord, under the current technological conditions, the methods you mentioned, which only involve using gunpowder to blast mineral veins, are feasible at present."

The research operative named Su Song said, "The explosive power of black powder is limited, while picric acid is powerful enough, but we currently lack the raw materials for synthesis. We still need to develop detonators to safely detonate the explosives."

"Steam engines aren't a problem, but they're too expensive. Right now you only have two small gold mines, so animal power is more cost-effective."

"As for the cyanide method, although the principle is not wrong, the prerequisite is that you have a mature synthetic ammonia industry and coal chemical system, so that you can produce industrial-grade sodium cyanide on a large scale."