Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 124 The Tyrant from the East

San Francisco Police Department Headquarters.

Aoyama was checking the police station's armory register, planning how to replace all these outdated gadgets with Ross Precision's new equipment.

Suddenly, the police station door was kicked open.

Major Turik led a dozen or so fully armed militiamen and stormed in aggressively.

Who is Qingshan?

One hundred and eighty Chinese police officers stopped in unison and immediately locked onto Tulik.

Turik felt a little uneasy under their gaze.

Damn it, what kind of look is that?
These people's eyes looked more like those of carnivorous beasts.

Aoyama slowly walked out of the office.

"I am."

Turik suppressed his unease and once again adopted the authority of a major: "You're the Chinese bureau chief? Listen, Chinaman."

“I am Major Turick, commander of the 3rd Battalion of the California National Guard. Based on the state of emergency declared by the governor, San Francisco is now under my command. You, and your men…”

He glanced around dismissively: "Now you must surrender and obey my commands!"

Turik was confident that his intimidation tactics on the battlefield would be enough to frighten a gang leader who had risen to power through opportunism.

To his surprise, Qingshan sneered and glared at him with cold eyes.

"Major Turik, is that right?"

“You set off from Sacramento, and your militia battalion marches at full speed on horseback; it will only take you two days at most.”

“You, you fucking took four days, tell me.”

Aoyama took a step closer: "Where the hell were you, California's proud National Guard, when you were being raped by thousands of thugs in San Francisco for three days and three nights?"

Turik's face turned purple: "Outrageous! We were ambushed by ruthless bandits, and we lost more than a hundred brothers!"

Qingshan said coldly, "You call those scum who only dare to shoot in the dark and bomb the railway 'fierce bandits'? You led a full-strength battalion of 500 men, and were held up for two whole days by a bunch of lowly bandits, and more than 100 of them died?"

He closed in on Turik, and their eyes met in mid-air.

"Major, let me teach you a lesson. In the military, this kind of behavior is called missing a battle opportunity, poor combat performance, and mismanagement!"

"And you yourself are actually a cowardly coward who dares not confront others head-on. You and your more than one hundred dead idiots do not deserve to wear this uniform!"

"Fuck you!"

"If this were my troops!"

Aoyama didn't give him a chance to speak: "Your behavior will result in you being immediately sent to a military court. The only outcome will be hanging!"

"you!"

Major Turik's eyes twitched with anger. This guy really knew how to pick on people's sore spots.

"Who the hell are you talking to?"

He roared hysterically, his hand already reaching for the gun handle.

The dozen or so militiamen behind him instinctively raised their rifles as well.

But they were still a step too late.

"Crack!"

One hundred and eighty Winchester rifles were loaded simultaneously.

The cold, metallic scraping sound froze Turik and his men in their tracks.

To their horror, they discovered that just as the thought of drawing their guns arose in their minds, the 180 Chinese police officers had already completed the action of raising and aiming their weapons.

One hundred and eighty gun barrels, from all directions, were precisely aimed at the heads of each of them.

Turik's forehead was covered in cold sweat.

The only thing he was certain of was that if he dared to move a finger again, he and his dozen or so men would be turned into a pile of mangled flesh in a fraction of a second.

"Major."

Aoyama took a sip of coffee: "Take care of your people, and take care of yourself too."

He turned around and beckoned to Barkley, who was cowering outside the door in fear.

"come here."

Barkley was terrified, but he still walked over, trembling.

"Major Turik..."

Aoyama looked at Barkley, but spoke to Turick: "He was sent by Sacramento. He's a guest, and he's here to provide support. But it's not his place to interfere in San Francisco's municipal affairs."

He needs to be held accountable for this support operation; he needs results to report to the governor. The mayor is waiting for him.

Turik glared angrily at Qingshan.

But in the end, he removed his hand from the gun handle.

"Let's go!"

He forced out two words through gritted teeth, and led his equally terrified subordinates out of the police station in a disheveled state.

He has to go see the mayor.

He needed the mayor to sign the report, confirming the legality and necessity of the operation; otherwise, his more than one hundred brothers would have died for nothing.

After Turik left, Barkley almost knelt down before Qingshan: "Chief, Chief, I..."

“Mr. Barkley.”

Aoyama shook his head in disappointment: "I thought the senator's death would teach you a lesson."

"I was wrong, Chief, I'll never do it again!"

"remember."

Aoyama leaned closer, straightened his tie, and said gently, "Barkley, this city is not safe right now. Some thugs took advantage of the chaos to escape, and they will come back for revenge. You'd better pray that you won't be the next one to suffer."

……

Lawson's assassins have begun taking stock of the final spoils of the riot.

The first to be affected is the legacy of those rioters.

Before inciting those fools to surrender, Declan, Matteo, and Gis had already seized all the loot the thugs had taken in three days under the pretext of unified custody and post-war distribution.

The jewelry, gold, silverware, paintings, and cash were hidden in batches in dozens of safe houses in San Francisco.

After a preliminary inventory by the suicide squad members, the total value of this batch of spoils was conservatively estimated at around one million silver dollars.

This windfall is enough to allow Lawson to expand his operations even further.

Secondly, there's Chinatown.

During the three days of riots, Mak Ling and the Green Mountain Society's assassins were not idle.

Some of the white landlords in Chinatown died unexpectedly in the riots, while others were so terrified by the mob that they cried and begged to sell their land deeds in exchange for a ticket to leave San Francisco.

Aoyama completed all the transfer procedures legally, with the notary office of the city hall, at an outrageously low price.

From this day forward, every inch of land in San Francisco's Chinatown, legally speaking, belongs to the Luo family.

Losen exhaled a satisfied puff of his cigar, and with a thought, opened the system interface.

[Level: Level 10]

[Daily refresh of assassins: 123]

[Constitution Max Level: 2.0 (Currently 1.8)]

The system had already been upgraded the moment he robbed the silver warehouse.

Unfortunately, he only has time to look at the requirements for the next level now.

When his gaze slid to the upgrade materials section, even though he had guessed it, his heart still skipped a beat.

[Next Level (Lv.11) Requirement: 1 cubic meter of gold]

"One cubic meter, gold?"

The density of gold is 19.32 grams per cubic centimeter.

One cubic meter equals one million cubic centimeters.

"19.32 grams x 1,000,000 = 19,320,000 grams..."

That is, 19,320 kilograms.

"Nine tons of gold."

Not only in this era, but even in later generations, that would be an astronomical figure.

Even if all the silver tycoons at the Comstock silver mine pooled their wealth together, they might not be able to gather this much physical gold.

This is no longer a problem that can be solved by robbing one or two banks.

"This is truly a massive and complex project."

Lawson muttered to himself.

Despite the challenging conditions, Lawson wasn't too afraid; in fact, he was quite excited.

So what if it's nineteen tons of gold?
He can now refresh 123 assassins every day.

Given time, acquiring 19 tons of gold is not an impossible task.

Dawn in San Francisco was abruptly awakened by an overwhelming stench of blood, the acrid smell of smoke and fire, and the pungent odor of cold rain.

This city, which prides itself on being the pearl of the West Coast, now resembles more like a filthy whore who has been gang-raped and abandoned in the mud.

As the first rays of pale dawn pierced the thick fog and illuminated the avenue leading to the city hall, the early risers—those who had miraculously endured three days of hell in the darkness with their doors and windows locked—witnessed a scene they would never forget.

Streetlights.

Every gas street lamp is laden with fruit.

More than two thousand corpses, Irish, Mexican, and Dutch, swayed in the wind like livestock that had been processed in a slaughterhouse.

Their necks were tightly bound by ropes, their tongues were protruding abnormally, and their swollen faces were frozen with the fear, resentment, and fanaticism of their impending death.

The rain washed over their tattered clothes, forming streams that meandered along the cobblestone streets, diluting the congealed black blood.

"The San Francisco Chronicle! Extra! Extra!"

A thin, Irish newsboy, his face still streaked with tears, was hanging from the third lamppost from the third lamppost, his uncle who had boasted the night before about robbing a bank.

At this moment, however, she used all her strength to wave the newly printed newspaper, which still smelled of ink, and screamed hoarsely.

"San Francisco has fallen! The entire police department is dead! Three days of anarchic hell!"

"Chinese leaders are appointed to a critical mission! Chinatown opens its doors to asylum!"

"Exclusive photos: Green Hill's bloody appointment, the recapture of San Francisco in one battle!"

The news was like a bombshell, traveling along the telegraph line and exploding throughout the United States of America in just a few hours.

East Coast, New York.

When the editors of The New York Times received the translated telegram, they fell into a deathly silence.

A senior editor's coffee cup slipped from his hand, and the scalding liquid burned the back of his hand, but he was completely unaware.

"Is this true? San Francisco has been under siege by rioters for three days? What about the National Guard? What about Pinkerton? What are they doing?"

“What’s even crazier is this,” another editor said, his finger trembling as he pointed to the last part of the telegram: “They appointed a Chinese man as police chief?”

"This is fucking unconstitutional! Utterly unconstitutional! They don't even have the right to vote! They can't even testify against white people in court!"

"But the newspapers say it was personally authorized by Senator Crestwood and the mayor, as well as all the surviving members of parliament."

"So what!" The editor-in-chief slammed his fist on the table and roared, "A bunch of cowardly fools, scared out of their wits, handed over the law enforcement power of an entire city to a yellow-skinned dog just to save their own lives! This is a disgrace to America! A colossal disgrace to the entire white civilization!"
-
Washington, D.C., Capitol Hill.

Angry roars echoed through the thick smoke of cigars, and the councilors' mood was even more somber than the San Francisco weather.

"A Chinese police chief? That's the most ridiculous joke I've ever heard in my life!"

A senator from the South, spitting as he spoke, said, "What's next? An Indian as governor? Or a nigger as president? Those idiots in San Francisco, they've corrupted federal law!"

“Gentlemen, calm down,” another dovish lawmaker tried to de-escalate the situation. “We must see the powers that the Emergency Act grants to local governments. San Francisco was in a state of anarchy at the time, and the police system had completely collapsed. They sheltered a government official, and the fact is that he did quell the riots.”

"Suppress? Is that what you call suppressing? That's called a massacre!"

The Southern senator displayed a shocking, full-page photograph from the Chronicle—Aoyama on horseback, coldly watching two thousand corpses being hung on streetlights.

"He hanged all those thugs without trial! He's a butcher! A barbaric tyrant from the East!"

"But I think he did a good job."

A congressman representing West Coast interests spoke coldly: "When a bunch of Irish scum and Mexican drug addicts were robbing, setting fires, and killing, why didn't anyone talk about federal law? This guy named Qingshan, regardless of his skin color, solved the problem in the shortest time. Do you care about the law, or your shares in the San Francisco bank?"

The debate reached a stalemate.

The title "San Francisco Butcher," a moniker imbued with fear and a kind of morbid worship, spread throughout the country in a single day.

Sacramento, California.

In Governor William Irwin's office.

The thugs inexplicably retreated, giving him a chance to catch his breath, but the sharply worded question in the San Francisco Chronicle—"Where are our guards?"—was like a slap in the face.

"Is Qingshan questioning me?" Governor Irwin murmured, his mind racing as he calculated the political gains and losses.

His butcher Cross is dead, the local armed forces in San Francisco are exhausted, and Buck's militia battalion is still fighting ghosts on the road. Now, the order of the entire Northern California has actually fallen into the hands of a new Chinese butcher.

Cross was known as the Butcher because he suppressed a group of unarmed railroad workers.

Qingshan is known as the Butcher because he personally strangled two thousand armed thugs. His reputation is extraordinary!
“Governor, we must remove him immediately! This is a political scandal!” an aide urgently suggested.

"Removal?" Irving raised his bloodshot eyes. "What kind of removal? Who would carry it out? You? Or me? He has guns, a legal appointment letter, and most damningly, he has the people's will!"

Irving knew very well that the terrified citizens of San Francisco now only recognized the person who could bring them order, even if he was the devil.

"Pass on my orders," the governor said wearily, leaning back in his chair: "to publicly commend Mr. Aoyama for his heroic actions during the emergency and to legitimize his appointment."

The assistant was shocked: "Governor?"

A glint of malice flashed in Irving's eyes: "This is just a temporary appointment. Once order is fully restored, and his term is over, we'll find a reason, a legitimate and respectable reason, to get rid of him. In America, the position of police chief can never truly belong to an Asian."

North Beach, San Francisco.

The Celtic Fist Bar, once the stronghold of Finnegan Quinn O'Malley, is now a deathly silence.

The surviving Irish gathered here, fear overwhelming their anger.

As they looked at the horrific photos in the newspaper of their compatriots being hanged, their stomachs churned.

“They call him the San Francisco Butcher!” a drunkard muttered to himself, his hands trembling so much he could barely hold his glass.

"Shh! Shut your damn mouth!" the bartender growled. "Do you want us all hanging from lampposts? Quinn's dead, Declan's gone. We're stray dogs now."

"He was too ruthless. He killed so many people without even blinking. He wasn't human; he was a demon from hell."

“But I heard that my cousin’s grocery store was saved by his men in black. When those thugs rushed over, they were shot dead. My cousin said that although he was scared, the streets were really clean now.”

Another Irishman laughed bitterly: "Clean it up with the blood of two thousand Irish brothers and Mexicans!"

Fear, hatred, yet mixed with a morbid sense of awe.

The Irish and Mexican communities in San Francisco were utterly devastated by this bloody crackdown. The name Greenhill became their nightmare, a taboo they dared not utter aloud.

At the same time, at an abandoned farm on the outskirts of San Francisco.

As night deepened, three dark figures converged here.

It was Declan, Gisele, and Matteo.

They had changed into sturdy travel gear.

“Well done,” Declan said to Matteo. “Your Mexican brothers were really energetic when they charged.”

“The Dutch are the same,” Gis said, wiping his rifle. “They’re all good cannon fodder.”

Before them were three completely new faces.

One is of Irish descent, one is of Dutch descent, and one is of Latin descent.

They were refreshed by Lawson as a seamless alternative.

“The accounts for the businesses in North Beach, Barbary Coast, and the Latin Quarter are all here.” Declan tossed over an oilcloth bag: “The leaders have all been replaced by our men, and the remaining scum are terrified and easy to control.”

The newly arrived Irish assassin leader nodded and took the ledger: "Your mission is complete. The wolf pack has established a stronghold in Texas. Go there and meet them. They need your experience in the oil fields and ranches over there."

“That’s fair.” Declan grinned, revealing his gleaming white teeth. “Being a boss here, all that pretense and posturing, you’re practically rusting your bones. Gunfights in Texas are just more exciting.”

The three figures disappeared into the night without the slightest hesitation.

On the farm, the three new leaders headed towards San Francisco.

"The people the BOSS prepared are in place."

Tonight, they will appear in their respective bars and casinos, with brand new faces, to continue to control those old sins.

San Francisco Police Department, Chief's Office.

Harrison's expensive mahogany desk had already been chopped up by Aoyama for firewood and thrown into the fireplace.

Now, Qingshan is using a stiff-bristled brush to personally scrub a dark red bloodstain on the floor.

Mai Ling stood quietly to the side, holding a clean towel and a new shirt in her hands. She looked at the man with a look of awe in her eyes.

This man turned a city upside down in just three days.

He made those high-and-mighty politicians and bankers cower and tremble like dogs under the dirty eaves of Chinatown.

He used two thousand corpses as sacrifices to pave a bloody path to the pinnacle of power for himself.

"Sir, the water is cold, let's change it," Mai Ling said in a low voice.
-
In Northern California, Lawson stood on the second floor, gazing towards San Francisco.

The San Francisco skyline was partially obscured by the thick fog, like a rough stone waiting to be reshaped.

The Chronicle called him a hero.

The surviving citizens called him their savior.

Politicians on the East Coast called him a butcher and a disgrace.

The Irish cursed him in the darkness as a devil.

Lawson didn't care at all.

Hero? Butcher?
These are just cheap terms used by sheep to refer to sheepdogs.

Now, he controls the San Francisco underworld—North Beach, Barbary Coast, the Latin Quarter, and Chinatown.

The San Francisco Police Department, the city's most powerful legal instrument of violence, is in his hands.

Senator Crestwood's death made him an absolute authority in the city, one that no one dared to question.

In San Francisco, both the underworld and the legitimate world have become one voice.

What follows is a process of gradual, painstaking work, slowly transforming San Francisco into his shape.

At that moment, a blanket was draped over his shoulders.

Mrs. Marlene wrapped her arms around Lawson's waist from behind and whispered in his ear, "Lawson, my sister in San Francisco has been traumatized these past few days and would like to stay at our estate for a few days. Is that alright?"

P.S.: I only have 18,000 votes today, sorry for asking for more. I'll ask for more when I update more frequently.

(End of this chapter)