They could cover the remaining distance in less than a second.
Henry activated his Super Reflexes. His reaction speed accelerated to the millisecond level. In the span of half a second, he threw eight knives, his arms moving so fast they looked like the limbs of a multi-armed god.
The closest wolf, the one that had been wounded in the face, had no chance to dodge this time. One knife bounced off its thick skull, but a second buried itself deep in its eye socket. It collapsed in a heap.
The wolf to his left was also taken down by two knives. The one on his right managed to twist away from a fatal blow, one knife glancing off its hide, but the second sank deep into its head. It was wounded, but its momentum carried it forward, closing to within five meters.
The last wolf, the one that had circled behind him, was now also within five meters.
A 45-centimeter parrying dagger appeared in Henry's left hand, and the 1.2-meter-long rapier appeared in his right.
Though the two remaining wolves were closing at the same speed, from the same distance, Henry's perception was now on another level entirely. He saw the wolf behind him was a fraction of a second faster.
He spun. The rapier in his right hand shot out, a single, perfect thrust that pierced the wolf's neck—its most vulnerable point. He used the wolf's own forward momentum to drive the blade home.
He used the force of the impact to pivot, swinging the dead wolf's body around to block the charge of the second, and as it collided, he withdrew his blade and, in a flash of motion, thrust again.
The sharp point of the rapier sank deep into the second wolf's neck, the animal's own momentum driving the blade clean through. It struggled for a moment, its claws raking uselessly at the air, then he pulled the blade free, and it collapsed.
From the first throw to the last dead wolf, less than a second had passed. It was a slaughter, as efficient and bloody as any gunfight.
In that moment, Henry had an epiphany. He finally understood why the legendary martial artists of his past life's stories had used simple weapons like needles. When your speed is absolute, the most direct attack—the thrust—is the deadliest. A bullet, after all, is just the ultimate form of a thrust.
He collected the bodies of the five wolves. The pelts were valuable, and they took up very little space.
He continued his journey, reaching The Gallows at 4:36 AM. He still had an hour until dawn. He had chosen this time for a reason. He had night vision; the outlaws, camped in the wilderness, would need fires, which would give away their position.
He used a grey pearl to restore his health to 100%.
The area known as The Gallows was a mile-long stretch of road. Charles had told him of a few specific places that were ideal for a large group to make camp.
Twenty minutes later, he found them. At the base of a hill, he saw the flickering light of three bonfires and five lanterns. Within the circle of light were twenty tents and over thirty bedrolls. Six sentries stood guard, positioned in a triangle around the camp.
He used the darkness as cover and crept toward the first pair of guards. The night was moonless, the starlight faint. Outside the ring of firelight, it was pitch black. He stopped just a couple of meters beyond the light's edge, ten meters from the two men. They were talking in low voices.
"…it's getting cold. A whole day and no sign of Henry's crew. You think the Dodge Gang got to them already?"
"Could be. But the boss is sure they'll come back this way."
"I don't know… something about this feels wrong."
"Yeah, and that intel report made Henry sound too damn powerful. Can't be real."
"He has to be good. A single steer is worth thirty bucks. His bounty is worth three hundred head of cattle."
"True. For three hundred head of cattle, we… gack…"
The other guard looked up, hearing his partner's strange, choked sound. He felt a sudden, cold sting in his own neck, and then another.
He instinctively reached for his throat, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of a throwing knife. His strength faded as his body starved for air.
Just as the two men were about to collapse, a powerful arm caught each of them, lowering them silently to the ground.
Henry moved toward the center of the camp. Just as the next two guards were turning in his direction, he activated his Super Reflexes. His hands became a blur, sending eight spinning blades of steel flying through the air. The knives crossed the ten meters in an instant, burying themselves in the throats of the four remaining sentries.
He had time to spare. He sent four more knives, one for each of their hearts.
He crouched in the darkness, listening. The soft thud of the bodies hitting the ground hadn't woken anyone.
He pulled on a pair of leather gloves, drew his dagger, and began his work. He moved from one bedroll to the next, clamping a hand over the sleeping outlaw's mouth as he drew the blade across their throat, his knee pinning their body to the ground.
He finished each one in a dozen seconds, then stored the body, sleeping bag and all, to keep the smell of blood from waking the others.
The firelight cast his long, grotesque shadow across the camp. He was a visitor from hell, silently harvesting souls.
Ten minutes later, the thirty-two men sleeping outside the tents were gone.
He considered the twenty tents, arranged in a twelve-meter square. Going into each one would be risky. Assuming two men per tent, the entire gang of seventy-eight men was likely here.
He took out two 50-pound TNT charges with 15-second fuses.