Thinking about it now, Henry was almost grateful that his sister's family had taken his money. It meant he had no lingering attachments, nothing tying him to his past life.
In this world, the original Henry's lifelong dream had been to find out what happened to his parents. He'd never met them. His grandfather had only told him that his father had died as a soldier in Europe and his mother had remarried.
That was no longer enough for the new Henry.
Thanks to the endless stream of information available in his past life, his worldview was far broader.
This was the dawn of America's "Gilded Age," an era where countless great families would build their fortunes. This was a federalist country; the state governments held immense power, and the great cities were all run by "City Bosses."
To control two or three key industries, to become the boss of a few Western cities… that doesn't seem too excessive, does it?
Most importantly, he needed to unlock the full potential of his power. That was his greatest asset. For now, he would focus on that. Setting his goals too high would only make him lose focus.
And who knew? If he fully unlocked this power, perhaps immortality or even time travel was possible.
He would start with the McKinley family. It was their time to be replaced.
The first rays of sunrise began to crest the horizon.
A vibrant, warm light gradually spread across the land, painting everything in a layer of gold. The cool morning breeze was peaceful and serene, and the crisp chirping of birds in the trees sounded like nature's own symphony.
At the same time, Henry felt a tremor in the earth beneath him. The cavalry was coming.
On such a beautiful, refreshing morning, he was about to unleash hell.
The hill Henry had chosen was less than thirty meters high. At its peak was a flat, chest-high rock. Using his storage space, he'd moved another large rock and placed it on top, creating a perfect barricade that covered everything below his chest.
The cavalry's four-man vanguard appeared in his line of sight.
Henry remained hidden, motionless.
Two minutes later, he heard the sounds of the scouts reaching the base of the hill. He rose to his feet. With two flicks of his wrists, a pair of throwing knives buried themselves in the throats of the first two riders.
He flicked his wrists again. Two more knives crossed a dozen meters in an instant, plunging into the right eyes of the other two scouts as they looked up, piercing their brains. They let out a single, choked scream and fell from their saddles.
A final flick of his wrists sent two more knives into the eyes of the first two men, ending their struggle.
Less than five minutes later, the main column of riders came thundering into view.
A "One of One Thousand" Winchester appeared in Henry's hands. He took aim and fired.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
With a steady, rhythmic report, the riders began to fall. Men and horses tumbled to the ground, throwing the entire column into instant disarray.
Henry fired like a machine, deaf to the screams, curses, and whinnying of horses below. His focus was absolute, maintaining a rate of fire of fifteen rounds every ten seconds.
By the time he had emptied both "One of One Thousand" rifles, the cavalry's front ranks had entered the 400-yard range of a standard rifle. He swapped weapons instantly and continued firing.
He prioritized the men at the front, anyone who tried to return fire, the commanders, and the wagons carrying the Gatling guns. His bullets were like the gaze of Death itself; wherever they landed, a soul was extinguished.
The cavalry commander, Oliver, was caught in the press of men and horses. He screamed orders while firing his own pistol wildly at the hilltop, which only made him Henry's top priority.
"God, half of Oliver's head is gone!"
"Oh God, someone help me, my leg is broken!"
"The machine gunners are dead! The horses on the wagons are dead!"
"Charge! The hill isn't that high! Kill the cowardly bushwhacker!"
"Rear guard, lay down suppressing fire! Front rank, charge with me!"
Bullets occasionally sparked off the rocks in front of him, but Henry paid them no mind. Every moment he spent dodging was a moment the enemy spent advancing. Besides, he didn't need to dodge.
So far, he had emptied four rifles—sixty rounds—and taken down four horses and fifty-six riders. He hadn't used a single one of his protective husks.
With their commander dead and the vanguard decimated, the cavalry's counter-attack was a chaotic, delayed mess. The winding path up the hill meant the men trying to charge hadn't even reached the base yet.
Another twenty seconds passed. Thirty more riders fell. Nearly half their force was gone.
The men on the ground were seized by absolute despair. There had to be at least five master gunslingers on that hill to maintain such a relentless, unbroken stream of fire. And the accuracy… it was inhuman.
To see the man next to you suddenly explode in a shower of brains, knowing you were helpless and could be next, was enough to shatter any man's courage. They hadn't broken and fled yet only because Henry's attack was too fast, too precise.
It had only been a minute since he'd opened fire. He was more efficient than a Gatling gun.
Another twenty seconds. Thirty more riders, mostly the ones trying to organize a charge, were all cut down.
Finally, the men in the rear reacted, wrenching their horses around to flee. The men at the front were trapped in chaos. Some continued to charge blindly, some tried to turn and escape, and some just fired wildly at the rocks on the hilltop.
With their commanders dead, the company devolved into a terrified mob.
Henry couldn't do much about the men fleeing in the rear, but he would not spare the ones caught in the chaos at the front.
His rifle continued to roar, like a reaper calling the roll. He shot the less panicked ones first, then moved on to the ones who had lost their minds completely.
Another twenty seconds. Thirty more riders fell. Three of his white pearl husks silently shattered.
By now, several of the remaining riders had thrown themselves from their horses, kneeling on the ground with their hands held high, begging for their lives. Their nerve was completely broken.
Henry ignored them for the moment and continued the harvest.
A final twenty seconds passed. Aside from a few more men dropping to their knees to surrender, there was no one left standing on the road.
Two more of his white husks had shattered.
Henry began to pick off the kneeling men, one by one. Their desperate pleas turned to tears, and then to curses.