Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Queen Victoria withdrew her hand and asked Richard, "Sir Bryan, do you know why I chose this place to bestow your title?"

"I do not know."

The Queen looked at the portrait on the wall, her gaze becoming deep.

"More than fifty years ago, these generals on the wall defended Britain for me with their guns. Today, you have completed the ceremony under their watchful eyes." She looked at Richard. "From this moment on, I grant you permission to use your wisdom to change the rules of war."

She turned her head away: "Go ahead, take what's yours."

Having received the Queen's permission, Richard respectfully lifted the mahogany box with both hands and stood up steadily from the down cushion.

Then he faced the Queen and walked backwards away.

This is not an easy journey.

The distance from the Queen's position to the gate is a full fifty meters.

He could only keep his head down, using his peripheral vision to keep an eye on the edge of the table, and slide his feet backward alternately. Fortunately, the carpet under his feet was soft, otherwise he would have been at risk of tripping at any moment.

Richard continued backing away until he heard the guards pull open the door behind him.

He stepped back behind the threshold and stopped.

The fourth and final bow to the Queen.

The oak door slammed shut in front of him.

Richard waited behind the threshold for about three seconds before straightening up.

His shoulders finally relaxed, and he carefully stretched his muscles and turned his neck left and right.

Gladstone's voice came from behind: "It's not that hard, is it, Sir Brian? How are you feeling now?"

Richard smiled and turned to Gladstone: "I feel fantastic. Today is like my second birthday."

Gladstone nodded approvingly, but still said in a somewhat lecturing tone, "Don't relax too much. You have a long road ahead. Maybe you could consider buying a manor in the countryside first."

Richard thought about it and realized that his suggestion was actually quite reasonable, because in 19th-century England, a hereditary nobleman was highly tied to the land.

His house in Kensington was nice, but it was not the same as a large estate.

If he only has a mansion in London but no estate, he will forever remain a nouveau riche without any foundation in aristocratic circles. Conversely, if he only has an estate but no mansion in London, he will be reduced to a country bumpkin.

However, none of these are the most urgent matters at the moment.

While Richard's arsenal was busy producing all-copper bullets and dividing a pound of lead into twelve, there was still one important piece missing from his audacious experimental plan.

He then bid farewell to Gladstone: "Thank you for your hospitality, Your Excellency Prime Minister. I have other matters to attend to and must take my leave now. I hope you will understand."

Gladstone wasn't surprised; he knew Richard's mind was constantly generating novel ideas, so he didn't stop him.

Richard strode away from Windsor Castle with the charter in hand.

The next morning, Richard returned to the Dartford shipyard by carriage.

With the title of knight and the position of head of Her Majesty's secret laboratory, whoever he wanted to come today would arrive in the afternoon.

However, he did not abuse this rule; he still sent Joseph Whitworth a respectfully worded invitation in accordance with proper etiquette.

Whitworth's reply came much faster than he expected: "Arriving Wednesday."

Not long ago, they met at the Superines artillery field, where Whitworth was already impressed by Richard's design that could penetrate Hercules' armor; it was the craftsman's heartfelt yearning for even more exquisite craftsmanship.

So inviting him to the lab this time didn't take much effort; in fact, you could say he had been waiting for Richard's invitation for a long time.

Richard walked into the workshop, where a large hydraulic press was running, squeezing the special steel that had been heated to incandescence in the mold.

The glass powder melts at high temperature, turning into a syrup-like liquid, which is then coated between the inner wall of the steel pipe and the outer wall of the steel rod.

Whitworth was standing right next to the tracks.

His eyes swept from the outlet of the extrusion cylinder to the receiving roller, and then to the cooling pool, examining it carefully back and forth, as if afraid that the wonderful design before him would disappear in the blink of an eye.

He shook his head from time to time and sighed softly.

Richard stepped forward and extended his hand: "Mr. Whitworth, it's been a long time."

Whitworth turned around, a rare smile on her face.

"Sir Brian," he said, "congratulations, news of your knighthood has spread throughout London. But what surprises me most is the superb technology in your laboratory."

Richard chuckled. "It's nothing. I promised you I'd tell you the secret of the cannon barrel, right?"

Whitworth gave a meaningful look: "There's no such thing as a free lunch. If there's anything you need my help with, please tell me."

Richard realized that Whitworth had already seen through his thoughts, so he walked over to a nearby iron table, took out two blueprints, and unfolded them.

Whitworth was naturally drawn to it, her gaze falling on the drawings.

His brow furrowed.

The drawings depict a complete set of bulletproof armor and helmet, with streamlined arcs and large ricocheting surfaces; every angle is designed to deflect bullets.

Whitworth slowly moved her index finger along the outline of the helmet, reading the markings on the diagram.

"Is this...is this what I thought?" he asked.

Richard nodded quietly.

"Your design is like shrinking down an ironclad warship and putting it on a person..." Whitworth said incredulously. "Such a design could never be applied to every soldier, at least the bureaucrats in the War Department would never agree to it."

Richard shrugged. "Of course they won't, so I won't interfere."

Whitworth stared at him, her furrowed brows slowly relaxing.

"So can you help me?" Richard asked Whitworth earnestly. "This requires your actuarial talent and absolute control over steel."

Whitworth turned around, looked at the still-running hydraulic press, and pondered something.

Finally, he picked up the blueprint, examining it as if it were a map, and said, "Sir Brian, you have already shown me one miracle; let us create another."

Richard smiled and chatted with Whitworth for a few more minutes before walking toward Henry, who was standing guard nearby, though his attitude remained as indifferent as ever.

"Henry, can you do me a favor?" Richard asked.

Henry turned his head and waited quietly for him to speak.

Richard pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to Henry: "Do you remember Thomas, the guy you arrested a few days ago? The tall, thin young man, about my age?"

Henry nodded.

"Give him this letter and tell him to read it carefully, it might save his life."