1890: I'm in Hextech Brawl in America

Chapter 50: King Street, Now Suspended

The midday sun hung high overhead, scorching the streets of Honolulu.

This pearl city on the Pacific Ocean is currently at its busiest time of day.

King Street was bustling with activity, with all kinds of horse-drawn carriages and carts shuttling back and forth, their wheels making a rumbling sound as they rolled over the stone pavement.

The road is lined with shops, their signs standing tall.

Well-dressed white gentlemen, Hawaiian native women in floral dresses, Chinese coolies with long braids, and sailors and merchants speaking various accents mingled together, creating this bustling and prosperous scene.

The air was filled with the aroma of tropical fruits, the smell of horse manure, and the salty scent of the sea breeze from afar.

Just then, a group of newsboys wearing tattered shorts and carrying large cloth bags swarmed out of the alleys like a swarm of wasps whose nest had been disturbed.

Waving copies of the still-smelling newspaper "Evening Post," they weaved nimbly through the crowd, shouting their wares at the top of their lungs in their voices, still going through puberty:

"Extra number! Extra number!"

"A shocking massacre on the plantation! A demon has appeared!"

"Vepio becomes hell! Vampire Hans is brutally slaughtered!"

"A dozen elite cavalrymen wiped out! One man slaughtered an entire squad! Is this true?!"

These exaggerated and even somewhat creepy GG terms sound nothing like serious news reports; rather, they sound like gimmicks used by third-rate theaters to promote horror plays.

But this trick really works.

In this age of entertainment scarcity, such bloody and violent language acts like a magnet, instantly attracting everyone's attention.

Under the shade of the trees by the roadside, several Hawaiian locals wearing floral shirts, who were chatting and smoking cigarettes, were also intrigued by the newsboys' words.

"Hey, kid!"

One of the fat men, his face full of scars, exhaled a smoke ring and waved to the newsboy who was running over:

"What are you yelling about? Demons and vampires? Has your newspaper switched to selling horror novels now?"

"Hey, uncle, this is way more exciting than a novel! It's all true! There are even photos!" The newsboy stopped, wiped the sweat from his brow, and said with a grin:

"If you want to know, just buy a copy! It's only five copper coins, and I guarantee you'll enjoy it to your heart's content!"

The group of idlers exchanged glances, their curiosity—the kind that always wants to see a good show—completely piqued.

"Okay, okay, give me one too! I want to see how good it is!"

The fat man took out a few coins and handed them over.

The newsboy deftly collected the money, handed over the newspaper, and then dashed off to his next target.

The group huddled together and spread out the newspaper, which seemed rather thin compared to other major newspapers.

At first, they grimaced, somewhat dissatisfied with the thickness of the newspaper, feeling it wasn't worth the price.

But when their eyes fell on the huge black-and-white photos that took up half the front page, and the bold black headline above them, everyone's eyes widened instantly.

"My goodness..." The fat man gasped, almost dropping his cigarette.

The first thing that catches the eye is a striking, almost glaring, death toll:

[As of press time, the confirmed death toll has reached 27!]

"Twenty-seven?!"

A tall, thin man next to him gasped in surprise, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets:

"Where the hell did this small-scale battle involving a hundred people take place?! Normally, gang fights might result in two or three deaths at most, but this is a massive massacre?!"

"Heh, a battle of a hundred men?"

Another middle-aged man, who looked like a former soldier, sneered and pointed to a line of small print below.

"Look closely! These are all riflemen who died! If they were the cowards in our country's regular army, their morale would have collapsed and they would have all deserted if a dozen or so men had died! How come they're all dead?"

"Oh my god! Look at this!"

Before the group could even begin to debate the issue of combat effectiveness, the fat man who had gotten the newspaper first exclaimed in surprise, his finger trembling as he pointed to another photograph.

"What does 'plantation owner Hans died tragically in his home' even mean?!"

This sentence followed immediately after the staggering casualty figures, and below that line was a chilling close-up photograph.

In the photo, Hans, one of the plantation owners, lies in a pool of blood like a dead dog.

His eyes were wide open, filled with terror and despair, as if he had seen something extremely horrific before he died. The numerous wounds on his body, like those of a slow, agonizing death, were even more shocking, and the blood flowing out stained the surrounding floor black.

The person who took this photo can be described as cold-blooded and ruthless, vividly highlighting the tragic and desperate feeling Hans experienced before his death.

"This...this is really dead!"

"Serves them right! These vampires who've been sucking our blood have really messed with us this time!"

"But...who did it? The newspapers say it was a 'devil from the East'?"

The astonishment of these people was undisguised, and coupled with the newsboy's highly inflammatory hawking, it was like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples.

Passersby who were on their way or doing business nearby stopped when they heard the commotion and curiously gathered around, or stopped passing newsboys to buy newspapers.

Within minutes, exclamations spread like wildfire.

The entire King Street seemed to have been put on pause.

The previously flowing crowd began to stop, and a long line formed in front of the newsstand, with newsboys surrounded by a dense crowd.

People were reading newspapers everywhere—on the streets, in front of shops, and on carriages.

Everyone who received the newspaper couldn't help but gasp or exclaim in surprise as soon as they opened it.

"My God! This is a massacre!"

"Look! Those riflemen look familiar! Holy crap, their horses' all smashed!"

"Was this really done by one person? That's outrageous!"

Some illiterate laborers and natives, or those who couldn't read English, were scratching their heads in frustration.

They stood on tiptoe, craned their necks, and eagerly asked those around them:

"Brother, what exactly did the newspaper say? Why are there so many dead people in those photos?"

"Is another war about to break out?"

Although I can't read the text, those shocking black and white photos are a language in themselves that needs no translation.

Just looking at the corpses and bloodstains was enough for them to imagine a dramatic scene.

For a time, the whole street was abuzz with discussion, filled with an atmosphere of fear, excitement, and gossip.

Meanwhile, at a newsstand on a street corner that was gradually becoming bustling.

An elegantly decorated black carriage slowly came to a stop, and the curtain was lifted a crack, revealing a typical white face.

This is a middle-aged man wearing a well-tailored suit and sporting a neat mustache.

He looked at the unusual atmosphere of people reading newspapers on the street, his brows furrowed slightly, and a hint of curiosity appeared in his eyes.

Normally, these peasants would haggle over a few copper coins, but today they're all acting like madmen, scrambling to buy newspapers.

But he clearly disdained to lower himself to the level of these sweaty commoners and compete for the newsstand.

"Go, buy one and take a look."

He took a shiny double eagle silver coin out of his pocket and handed it directly to the coachman in front of him.

"Keep the change, please."

The driver was overjoyed and quickly jumped off the rickshaw. With his strong physique, he squeezed through the crowd, bought a newspaper, and respectfully handed it through the rickshaw window.

The white man took the newspaper and flipped through it casually.

Those sensational headlines such as "demon" and "vampire" did not cause him the slightest emotional fluctuation.

In his view, this was nothing more than a gimmick created by an unscrupulous newspaper to boost sales.

However, when his gaze swept over those few lines of key information and those few high-resolution photos of the scene...

His nonchalant expression vanished instantly.

One eye and ten lines.

The more he looked, the more serious his expression became.

Shocked? A little. After all, plantation owner Hans was a man of some stature, and yet he died so mysteriously.

But more than anything, it's a politician's characteristic sensitivity and...excitement.

"This is... kind of interesting."

He muttered to himself, his fingers tapping lightly on the newspaper on his knee.

Was it a Chinese laborer? Or a group of Chinese laborers? They killed Hans and wiped out an entire American mercenary group?

This is not just a murder case; it is an extremely dangerous yet extremely valuable signal!

Whether they were Chinese laborers or a group of Chinese laborers, none of that matters...

"quick!"

He suddenly raised his head and shouted urgently to the driver in front of him:

"Hurry up! Stop dawdling!"

"Get to the embassy immediately!"

The coachman was startled by the sudden order, but dared not disobey, and raised his whip to lash the horse's rump hard.

The carriage suddenly accelerated, speeding through the crowded streets towards the embassy.

Inside the carriage, the middle-aged man clutched the newspaper tightly, a smile unconsciously playing on his lips.

This is perfect timing!

This is Hans's end, but it's a joyous occasion for them!