Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Abel's eyes were fixed on a corner of the floor, unfocused, and even his breathing slowed down, the vertical lines etched between his brows gradually smoothing out.

Richard's words echoed in his mind. In those days and nights surrounded by test tubes and scales, he had never thought about this issue from this perspective.

"This is a completely new idea," he finally said, "but it still requires a lot of experimentation."

"And I'm willing to give you that chance," Richard replied sincerely.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm about to open a strategic materials laboratory, sponsored by the British government, and we're short of a technical advisor position there."

Abel pulled his hands back from the edge of the table and crossed them over his chest—a gesture of refusal.

His shoulders tensed, and his chin was raised even higher.

"You want me to quit my current job?" His reply was blunt: "That's impossible."

Richard shook his head: "Of course not, it's more like a... part-time job. With me, you can test your ideas as quickly as possible, no one will tell you what to do, and you can do whatever experiments you want."

Abel fell silent.

He turned around and looked at the neatly arranged glassware on the table, and the gunpowder stability testing device that had been used for many years.

He lowered his arms, which were crossed over his chest, and placed them on his sides.

"Don't worry." Richard understood what he meant. "All of these pieces of equipment will be replaced exactly as they were."

Abel chuckled softly, his previously tense and helpless lips relaxing.

"No need." He stood up. "How can we talk about progress if we simply replicate the past exactly?"

Richard nodded in agreement.

Abel asked his final question: "Why?"

"Why? Why?"

"You're a cannon and gun builder," Abel said. "Why are you meddling in scientific research?"

Richard's eyes darted around before finally settling on Abel with certainty.

"I want to build a gun," he said. "It can empty all the bullets in the magazine in a few seconds. A soldier can take it into the trench, pull the bolt, and hold the trigger to wipe out the enemy. But the black powder we use now can't make bullets like that."

A look of confusion appeared in Abel's eyes, as if she were listening to a fairy tale: "Is... this possible?"

"Of course it wouldn't be possible without you," Richard said.

Abel stared at him for a few seconds, then took a deep breath.

Then he tore a page from his notebook, picked up the pen on the table, dipped it in ink, and quickly wrote down a long list on the page, spelling out every word completely without any abbreviations.

Finally, he handed the paper to Richard.

"Get all these things ready." Abel capped his pen. "Let's begin."

Richard took the paper, folded it, and stuffed it into his inner pocket: "It's a deal."

Abel nodded, turned around, picked up the wide-mouthed bottle containing compressed cotton gunpowder, and held it up to the light.

Richard didn't linger, turning and leaving the workshop, the aroma mixed with the sweet scent of alcohol and nitrocellulose shut out behind the door.

Campbell stood on one side of the factory, his hands behind his back, gazing out at the gloomy weather.

He heard the door open, so he asked, "Are you done talking?"

"We're done talking," Richard said, walking past him. "Thank you, Sir Campbell, for taking up your time."

Campbell nodded, his eyes following his retreating figure.

Richard walked alone toward the factory gate and soon left the factory.

At this very moment, in Osborne Palace on the Isle of Wight, Queen Victoria is sitting on a low chair on the second floor of the palace, overlooking the Sorento Strait.

The ironclad warships known as the Shield of the Empire sailed out of her sight, proceeding in formation through the narrow waterways of Surent.

The Queen wore a heavy black silk gown with a thick, layered skirt at her feet, a white widow's pointed hat, and a black onyx brooch on her chest.

The brooch is edged with a band of tiny pearls and features a small portrait in the center: Prince Albert, her husband and the love of her life.

He has been dead for seven years, but she still wears it every day.

Her figure is much fuller than when she was younger.

The prolonged lack of social interaction, and any motivation that could help her recover from her grief, caused her body to slowly become plump and supple, like a plant moved into a greenhouse.

But her eyes were even colder than before, still enough to make even the most experienced politicians blush with shame under her gaze.

The entire palace was filled with Prince Albert's presence.

A life-size statue of him stands in the corridor, his oil paintings hang on the walls, and his belongings are placed on the desk in the study.

The Queen placed them there herself, and every day she walked down that corridor, passing through the gaps in those memories, as if she had boarded a train with no end in sight.

She rested her chin on her hand, her elbow on the armrest, staring blankly at the ironclad warships.

The servant stood at the entrance of the corridor and announced softly, "The Prime Minister has arrived."

"Let him in," she said.

Gladstone walked in down the corridor, wearing a dark black dress coat, his back ramrod straight and his shoulders back.

He stopped about three steps away from the Queen and bowed slightly.

"Your Majesty," he said solemnly, "please allow me to introduce you to an extraordinary subject, Mr. Richard Bryan."

The Queen did not look at him; her gaze remained fixed on the increasingly smaller ironclad ship on the horizon. "Speak," she said.

Gladstone waited a moment until the ship was out of the Queen's sight, so that her attention would be drawn back to the sea.

In her presence, the most important thing is not what you say, but when you say it.

Finally, Gladstone spoke up: "Your Majesty, Mr. Richard Bryan's inventions are astonishing. He did not apply for any government subsidies and single-handedly replaced the Empire's light weapons and improved the cannons of the ships."

The Queen lowered her hand from her chin, placing it on her black tulle skirt at her knees: "You didn't apply for any government subsidies?"

“No, Your Majesty.” Gladstone lowered his voice even further. “He used his own money to improve the Empire’s rifle, the Martini-Henry rifle, which is now the standard issue for the army, and every combat report from the colonies praises its reliability and accuracy.”

The Queen's eyelashes fluttered, and she moved her fingers. The servant stepped forward and presented the Queen with a thick stack of documents on a silver tray.

She picked up the gold-rimmed glasses, placed them on the bridge of her nose, took the documents from the servant, untied the ribbon, and opened the cover.

She reads very slowly, pausing on each page to carefully read those few lines twice before turning to the next.

Gladstone stood still, motionless, even his breathing was on manual mode.