Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 129 Aoyama's Big Move: San Francisco Police Department's First Public Recruitment
In just three days, a prototype gun was placed in front of Lawson.

It lay quietly on the table.

The gun body has smooth lines, and the walnut stock is polished smooth and delicate, with a deep, oily luster.

The barrel, bolt, and magazine gleamed with a faint blue metallic light.

This is neither the bulky, heavy Trapped rifle of this era, nor Spencer's seven-shot carbine.

This is the Suzaku 01878, a modified ghost of the Lee-Metford rifle.

It arrived on this barbaric land ten years ahead of schedule.

Lawson's hand ran over the gun.

The cold touch came from my palm, and a sense of familiarity welled up inside me.

He had collected such old guns in his previous life, but none of them were as full of primal power as the one in front of him.

"To the firing range."

The firing range of Suzaku Precision is more like a tunnel that is 500 yards long than a firing range.

Lawson skillfully pulled the bolt.

"Click."

The crisp metallic scraping sound was like the chiming of the most precise clock.

He took out a row of bullets.

Those were specially made .303 caliber rifle bullets; the bullets were loaded into the magazine cleanly and crisply.

He raised his gun and aimed.

The human-shaped target was locked onto 300 yards away using a peep sight.

"boom--"

A dull bang echoed through the tunnel, crisper than the sound of an old-fashioned gunpowder rifle.

Lawson's shoulder twitched slightly; the recoil of the gun was controlled with exquisite precision.

The bullet tore through the air.

Three hundred yards away, a gruesome bullet hole exploded in the heart of the human-shaped target.

Lawson did not pause.

Fingers on the trigger, wrists as steady as granite.

Pull the bolt, eject the casing, load the chamber, and fire.

"boom."

Pull the bolt, eject the casing, load the chamber, and fire.

"boom."

"boom."

"boom."

The magazine was emptied in the time it takes for five heartbeats to pass.

On the distant target, five bullet holes almost overlapped, forming a chilling plum blossom pattern.

Lawson knew all too well what this meant.

The ridiculous single-shot breech-loading rifle currently in service with the U.S. Army.

A veteran can fire seven or eight shots per minute.

Whether you can hit a standing person from 300 yards away depends entirely on God's mood.

The Vermilion Bird 0 in his hand is a well-trained soldier who can fire twenty deadly bullets per minute and take a person's head within four hundred yards.

But he frowned.

"It's still almost interesting."

He put down his gun and picked up the scalding hot shell casing.

The technology is perfectly replicated, and the design concept is ahead of its time, so where is the problem?
"Material."

Lawson's consciousness instantly sank into a brief exchange with the suicide experts at the arsenal, lasting only a fraction of a second.

The assassin's voice echoed in his mind: "This is the best Bessemer converter steel and crucible steel we could find in 1878, but they are too soft."

Lawson's fingers traced the barrel of the gun.

With the limits of this material, the barrel will show deformation that is barely visible to the naked eye after firing one hundred rounds in a row, and the trajectory will begin to become erratic.

It is not perfect enough, not qualified to be the scythe in his hands to reap the world.

Carbon steel of this era was utterly worthless in terms of resistance to high temperatures, high pressures, and stress.

"alloy steel……"

A thoughtful look flashed in Lawson's eyes.

Adding elements that are now considered impurities or precious metals to molten steel—nickel, chromium, tungsten, manganese…

That will be more than just a revolution in rifles.

That was a leap forward in artillery barrels, armor, engines, and even the entire industrial system.

"It seems that having just one arms factory is not enough."

Lawson's thoughts began to wander: "I need a steel mill."

The electrolytic aluminum system is still too far-fetched given the current state of the electrical infrastructure.

You have to eat your food one bite at a time.

People must conquer city by city.

……

Just as Lawson was plotting how to rob a steel mill, another event caused an uproar in the streets of San Francisco.

An unprecedented job posting was displayed at the entrance of the police headquarters and on bulletin boards throughout the city:
The San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) is openly recruiting 300 full-time officers from the general public.

No race or origin restrictions! As long as you are a U.S. citizen and physically able, you are eligible to apply.

To ensure absolute fairness, this recruitment process will involve open assessments, and all citizens are welcome to attend and supervise.

The announcement left the entire city of San Francisco stunned.

"Open recruitment? Holy crap, am I seeing things?" A drunkard who had just come out of a pub rubbed his eyes and read the paper over and over again.

"My God, when has the police station ever been filled by relatives of big shots or gang thugs?"

"Hey buddy, look closely, it says no race restrictions! Does that mean we Mexicans can be police officers too?"

"Bullshit! Didn't you see who signed it? Qingshan! That new Chinese bureau chief! This is definitely for the Chinese!"

"Keep your voice down!"

The person next to him quickly covered his mouth: "Do you want to die? Those guys in Chinatown now are not the sick cats they used to be. I saw them chase the Dutchman Van Coe's men all the way from the Barbary coast to the docks!"

The news spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the city.

The most shocking announcement was the second one:
"In order to uphold the principles of fairness and transparency, all 180 existing temporary security guards in Chinatown will be removed from their posts and will undergo a new open assessment. Those who fail the assessment will not be hired."

At that moment, even the most racially prejudiced white people fell silent.

"Director Qingshan, is he abandoning even his own people?"

"A Chinaman actually wants to advocate for fairness? The sun must have risen in the west!"

A strapping young man trembled with excitement: "This is a milestone in the history of the rule of law in California, no, in the entire United States! It's the real American Dream!"

In an instant, praise for Director Qingshan came flooding in.

This ruthless Easterner ascended to the stage of power using the most barbaric means, yet once he was firmly in power, he displayed a level of civilization and fairness that surpassed everyone's comprehension.

This stark contrast instilled a sense of absurd awe in almost all the citizens.

In just three days, the registration area was packed with people.

More than 600 unemployed people, veterans, former gang members, and even cowboys who boasted of their marksmanship flocked over.

This is a police officer job—a respectable, powerful, and well-paid job.

In the office of Deputy Mayor Buckley at City Hall.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it—"

Barkley kicked over the expensive mahogany chair, his fat face turning a deep liver color with rage.

"What right does a Chinaman, a fucking infidel, have to do this?"

He had just returned from the police station and was trying to get a few of his cronies into the force.

In the past, it was just a matter of a word from Chief Harrison.

But what did that Chinese guy named Qingshan say to him?
“Mr. Barkley,”

Aoyama sat behind his desk, wiping his revolver without even looking up. "The assessment is public. If they're good enough, they'll pass. If they're useless, even if you squeeze them in, they'll get their balls blown off on their first patrol and die in a ditch."

Barkley exploded on the spot: "How dare you talk to me like that? I'm the deputy mayor!"

Qingshan finally raised his head.

“Mr. Barkley, you’ve got one thing wrong.”

"This office used to belong to Harrison. He liked to count gold coins and make deals here. He's dead."

"Now, this is my office. I only talk about order."

“If your people belong to the order, I welcome them; if they are trouble—I will personally eliminate them.”

"Now, please get out of here. I have other things to do."

……

Barkley shuddered as he recalled that moment.

It was anger, but more than that, it was...fear.

Fuck, he was actually scared by a Chinese guy.

"That bastard, does he think he can do whatever he wants just because Senator Crestwood is dead?"

Barkley paced back and forth in his office, his mind a complete mess.

"No, I have to go see the mayor! That coward Samuel has to stop this farce!"

When he stormed into the mayor’s office in a rage, Samuel Black simply put down his coffee cup and looked at him calmly.

"Oh, Barkley, what's got you so excited?"

“Mayor! Are you just going to let that Chinaman run rampant? Open recruitment? He’s shaking the very foundations of San Francisco! If he brings in all those Irish bastards and Latino paupers, the city is finished!”

Samuel sighed. "Barkley, sit down. Haven't you noticed how many fewer robberies there have been on the streets these past few days?"

"So what? That's because..."

“That’s because Chief Aoyama hung over two thousand scumbags on streetlights.” Samuel interrupted him coldly. “The citizens are very satisfied; they feel safer than ever before. As for your ‘foundation,’ Barkley, our foundation was stabbed to death in the riots, and the body is already cold.”

Barkley pointed at him, his hand trembling.

Samuel stood up and looked directly at Barkley: "San Francisco needs order. Chief Qingshan can bring order. And you, Barkley, what can you bring besides causing me trouble? Your cronies who want to squeeze into the police force? I advise you to tell them to get lost."

He gave a cruel smile.

"If they really go to participate in the assessment, I'm afraid they might accidentally die on the testing field. You know, Director Qingshan's men don't hold back when they do something."

Barkley was struck dumb.

He finally understood that Samuel, that coward, that puppet who rose to power through Crestwood, had betrayed him.

Or rather, he found a new, tougher, and more intimidating backer.

On the day of the public assessment, the huge training ground behind the police station, which was used to store miscellaneous items, was packed with people.

More than 600 applicants crowded in the center of the venue, like a herd of bulls waiting to be chosen.

Citizens crowded outside the police cordon, excitedly discussing and placing bets.

This is the biggest entertainment event since the San Francisco riots.

Reporters from The Globe and Chronicle, carrying bulky flashlights and cameras, positioned themselves at the best angles, ready to record this historic moment.

Lawson sat at Mrs. Marlene's manor, eyes closed, watching the grand spectacle unfold clearly.

He smiled.

Among the more than 600 applicants, there were 300 assassins he had personally selected.

Each one possesses 1.8 times the maximum physical strength of an average person and is instilled with top-tier combat, shooting, and reconnaissance skills.

They are not here to compete.

They're just going through the motions, and incidentally, legally weeding out those clueless nobody.

"The first test—a five-mile armed cross-country run!"

At the sound of a gunshot, more than 600 people rushed out of the starting line like wild dogs.

This is not a simple run.

They had to wear boots, carry 20-pound sandbags, and run a lap around some of the steepest streets in San Francisco.

An hour later, fewer than four hundred people remained at the entrance to the playground.

Many who were physically exhausted or tried to slip up were eliminated.

Barkley's close associates were so nauseous on the first uphill section that they were dragged away.

"Second item, strength test!"

Rows of heavy logs and sandbags were placed in the field.

"Two people per team, carry that 300-pound log over 50 yards! Anyone who falls down, get out!"

The dull thuds of logs hitting the ground were incessant.

The assassins, their faces flushed and seemingly giving their all, struggled to complete their mission with their fellow assassins.

Their performance was flawless.

Another group of people were eliminated.

"The third item! Damn it, all of you better be alert!"

The instructor in charge of the suicide squad suddenly pulled the rope.

The massive fence in the center of the arena collapsed with a crash, revealing a huge, circular arena inside, littered with sawdust.

"FUCK, what are you trying to do?"

"My God, are they recruiting police officers or gladiators?"

The citizens screamed with excitement.

"The rules are simple!" the instructor roared. "There are 350 people left! I only need 300! The last 300 people standing on this field will advance to the next round!"

"Now, get in there, you son of a bitch!"

There are no rules.

There are no restrictions.

This is a primitive, jungle-law-based selection process.

"what!"

As soon as a burly man rushed in, he was tackled to the ground by three men and kicked repeatedly.

Barkley's last remaining confidant, a boxer with some reputation at the docks, was about to show off his prowess when he was targeted by two ferocious-looking Chinese assassins and a vicious German assassin.

"boom!"

A dark punch landed squarely on his ribs.

"Crack!"

The Chinese assassin delivered a swift side kick, striking the side of his knee.

The boxer screamed and fell to his knees.

The third assassin happened to pass by and stepped on his palm, crushing it forcefully.

Amid screams, he was dragged off the field like a dead dog.

To all the viewers, it was just a fierce competition.

But from Lawson's God's perspective, it was a brilliant cleansing operation orchestrated by three hundred assassins.

All the real fry, all the spies Barkley shoved in, had their legs accidentally broken or their arms accidentally snapped in the melee.

Half an hour later, miraculously, there were exactly three hundred people left on the field.

Among them, 165 were Chinese, and 135 were of British, Russian, or German descent.

perfect.

Lawson snapped his fingers in his mind.

"Fourth item! Shooting!"

This is already a performance.

The three hundred elite soldiers passed the test with perfect results.

When Chief Aoyama stood on the platform and announced that these 300 people were the new members of the San Francisco Police Department, the entire audience erupted in applause.

The citizens cheered, having witnessed the birth of these elites.

They are strong, accurate marksmen, and most importantly, they were selected through the fairest selection process!
This sense of security is unprecedented.

(End of this chapter)