Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Two days later, at Woolwich firing range.

Woolwich Range is located in southeast London, next to the Royal Ordnance Factory. When Richard arrived, it was not yet fully light, and a thin layer of fog hung over the range. In the distance, several coal barges were slowly moving upstream on the Thames.

A carriage swayed and rattled toward the firing range. Richard carried a wooden box, while Louise sat opposite him, openly sketching.

"Not finished yet?" Richard deliberately didn't move much, afraid of affecting his image in her drawing.

“I finished the last one a while ago,” Louise said, moving her brush. “I’m going to call this one… The Melancholy Arms Dealer, Richard.”

"Haha, you're going to use me for an art exhibition?" Richard loosened his hat. "Honestly, I thought you weren't interested in this kind of thing."

"I'm not really interested," Louise shook her head, "but I came to see you win."

"Then I'll take your good wishes."

The carriage soon came to a stop, and Richard got off the carriage with his rifle in his arms. He saw Union Jack flags planted on both sides of the shooting range, fluttering in the sea breeze.

A dozen or so officers in military uniforms stood under the observation shed, including many high-ranking generals with stars on their shoulder insignia. They were the "referees" for today's official bidding.

But compared to the referees, their eyes were more like those of wolves eyeing a flock of sheep, waiting to sniff out which lamb was the fattest before greedily swarming in.

Richard's opponents were the well-dressed gentlemen standing in front of the shooting range.

He immediately recognized Greenwood, who was standing at the front, holding a brand-new rifle. The prominent hinge design on the side of the bolt was a Schneider-Enfield improved version, the same rifle that had just shone in the Ethiopian war last year.

"Mr. Richard." A familiar voice rang in Richard's ear. It was Frederick Martini, the man who had spent a day and a night with him a week ago improving the rifle.

"Mr. Martini, you've arrived." Richard hurried forward to shake his hand. "You should come back to London with us."

"I can't afford a cruise ship like that," Martini chuckled. "The factory is counting on me."

"Don't worry, Mr. Martini, your name will be known in every corner of the world." Louise walked to Richard's side with her hands behind her back.

Richard put down the wooden crate, took out the rifle, and ran his fingers over the newly cast receiver. The 33-inch heptagonal barrel gleamed with a cold gray light in the morning mist.

"Let's go, let's win this bid." Richard picked up his rifle and joined the line in front of the firing range.

"Mr. Brian," Greenwood's leisurely voice drifted over from the side, "you're here? I thought your factory had been emptied out, and you were destined to miss this game that was never going to be a contest."

“You can’t be so absolute, Mr. Greenwood,” Richard showed him the rifle in his hand. “This is a Swiss gun.”

"Switzerland?" Greenwood glanced down at the unassuming rifle and scoffed, "Did you hire a watchmaker in Switzerland to make this gun?"

Upon hearing Greenwood's words, Martini's face twitched involuntarily, but he did not refute them.

Greenwood patted the gun in his hand, even the hinges were plated with gold: "This is an improved Schneider-Enfield, currently in service with the British Army."

Several judges chuckled softly, while in the observation shed, officers whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting back and forth between Richard and Greenwood.

Richard picked up his gun and pulled the trigger guard.

click!

The rising and falling motions are performed in one smooth, crisp, and short motion.

Greenwood's smile faded slightly.

"Gentlemen, everyone is here. Let's begin." A general walked to the firing position and announced loudly, "First round: rate of fire test. The shooter who hits the most targets within one minute wins. Shooters, prepare!"

Greenwood gave a dismissive snort and handed the rifle to the soldier behind him.

All the rifles tested were handed over to the trained soldiers, including Richard's, and each soldier was equipped with 50 rounds of ammunition to calculate how many bullets were fired per minute.

"Raise your rifles!" At the general's command, the soldiers raised their rifles of various shapes and lengths.

"Huh?" Louise's ears were suddenly covered by a pair of hands. She turned her head and saw that it was Richard.

"You might want to plug your ears," Richard said, smiling at her.

"You should take care of yourself." Louise lightly punched him with her hand.

"put!"

The general's hand slashed down suddenly.

boom!

More than a dozen rifles fired simultaneously, the gunshots overlapping and exploding in the air above the firing range.

Smoke billowed from the gun muzzles, like a gray curtain, enveloping the entire firing position.

Louise flinched slightly in fright, but quickly straightened up, Richard's gaze already fixed on the target in the distance.

The soldier on the far left holding the Schneider-Enfield has very standard movements: pull open the hinge, load the cartridge, close it, aim, fire, and eject the cartridge.

He executed the steps meticulously, but his movements were noticeably slower than those of the people next to him.

The man next to him was holding Richard's gun, and on the table were unusual brass-cased fixed cartridges.

The man rested the gun on his shoulder, grabbed a copper-cased bullet with his left hand, smoothly inserted it into the chamber, and bang! He then pulled the guard, the spent cartridge jumped out, and his left hand had already grabbed the second bullet.

He kept repeating this cycle, with spent cartridges popping out of the chamber and rolling into a small pile on the ground.

By the time Greenwood's soldiers had fired their eighth shot, Richard's soldiers were already loading their fifteenth.

The jeers in the observation tent turned into whispers; even the judges who had been exchanging pleasantries fell silent. One of them asked, "What kind of gun is that?"

The general shook his head: "I don't know, it seems to have been made by the Swiss."

"No, General," Richard covered his ears and walked up to the general at some point, "this is the masterpiece of the Swiss-Austrian inventor Frederick von Martini."

Martini smiled modestly from the side and said, "Without Richard, I could never have done it on my own."

Suddenly, the soldier with the Schneider rifle stopped firing. He looked down and saw that the spent cartridge case was stuck between the hinge and the bolt; the cardboard case had expanded and couldn't be ejected.

He tried to pry it out with his fingers, but couldn't. He could only slap it hard with his palm, and finally, like a naughty plug, the fire was thrown out by the soldier.

But time kept ticking away, and his face turned red.

Soon, a minute was up.

"Stop!" The general raised his hand.

The gunfire stopped immediately, and the smoke slowly dissipated.

The soldier immediately stepped forward to tally the results, recording them in a small notebook. The tallying was completed quickly, and he jogged to hand the notebook to the general.

"Ahem," the general cleared his throat and began to read the results:

"M&W 1868, twelve shots, seven hits."

"Schneider-Enfield, 14 serves, 9 of them mid-range..."

Greenwood's lips curled into a proud smile upon hearing the score, until he heard Richard's score.

"Martini-Henry MKII, uh..." The general looked at the notebook in confusion, making sure there were no mistakes, "Twenty shots, eighteen hits!"

The shed fell completely silent. Greenwood's beard was like dry grass stuck to his mouth; his lips moved, but he couldn't utter a word.

His gun fired fourteen rounds, one of which jammed, while Richard's gun fired twenty rounds without missing a single shot.

"yeah!"

Louise cried out, a rare occurrence for her, and clenched her hands tightly in front of her chest.

However, she immediately realized her lapse in composure, cleared her throat, tucked her fists back into her sleeves, and hugged her shoulders.

"Go ahead and celebrate, nobody's watching," Richard whispered in her ear.

"I have to admit," Louise blushed, "this match is getting more and more interesting."

"Mr. Brian..." Greenwood walked over from the side, his expression stiff. "Don't get too cocky, there's still a second round."

"Of course, Mr. Greenwood, we'll wait and see."