Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

For the next two weeks, the arsenal operated at full speed. The assembly lines were like arteries, pumping out not blood, but lead bullets and rifles, which would soon flow down the Thames to the East African battlefield.

Richard was dozing in his office. He hadn't slept well for several nights and had completely underestimated the amount of debt his "father" had left behind.

The good news is that he also compiled a list of debts that have not yet been collected.

"Schwartz Trading Company..." Richard read the name on the ledger, "Debt: £5000, due date: July 1867."

Richard rubbed his throbbing temples. There was still an outstanding debt to be collected. The other party seemed to have frequent trade dealings with his arsenal, and he had just replenished his raw materials there a week ago.

He closed the ledger, thinking that perhaps he would visit again tomorrow, but the sound of footsteps outside the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Young Master Richard, something terrible has happened!" Foreman Sean burst through the door in alarm and panic.

"What's wrong? Calm down," Richard quickly reassured her.

"It's the gun! The gun is malfunctioning!"

Upon hearing that something had happened with a gun, Richard became nervous and stood up, rushing down the stairs with Sean towards the factory.

Inside the factory, the production line had stopped, and the workers stood there helplessly, their dusty faces full of confusion.

"What's wrong?" Richard asked Sean, who stepped forward and handed him a newly made rifle.

"Young Master, the bolt is malfunctioning!" Sean said anxiously, wringing his hands.

Richard weighed the gun in his hand, pushed the bolt back and forth a few times, but his fingers froze.

The feel is off.

He frowned and tried again.

Click.

A normal Schneider rifle's bolt opens and closes smoothly, like a door hinge that has been well-oiled.

But when pushing this one to the last few millimeters, I felt a slight resistance in my palm, like metal rubbing against each other.

Richard turned the gun over and, by the light of the factory's kerosene lamp, caught a glimpse of an unusual pattern on the bolt. He zoomed in for a closer look.

This isn't a pattern at all, but an extremely fine crack that extends several centimeters inward from the closed area.

Richard's heart sank.

"Sean, what's going on with this crack?"

Sean's forehead was already covered in cold sweat: "It's like this right after we replaced the steel; everything we forge will be scrap."

"What do you mean?"

"It must have been tampered with," Sean said, taking the rifle and examining the cracked latch for a long time. "It cracked during forging, and it cracked again after cooling. Perhaps someone added sulfur or phosphorus..."

"How serious is the problem?" Richard's voice was filled with anxiety.

Sean wiped the sweat from his brow: "This kind of bolt action can't withstand the impact of bullets. Thirty rounds, forty at most. And then..."

Sean bit his lip, the rest of his sentence stuck in his throat.

"And then what?" Richard pressed.

"It will explode."

Richard's mind went blank.

Thirty shots. On the battlefield, let alone thirty shots, a soldier who is really in a hurry can fire fifty or sixty shots in the time it takes to brew a cup of tea.

The boast he had made to the count a month ago was still ringing in his ears. Now, instead of the enemy being riddled with holes, it was the soldiers' guns that were exploding.

"Alright, how many guns are there in this batch?" Richard raised his hand to interrupt him.

Sean rolled his eyes: "We've only just started forging, and we've only assembled about ten. Luckily, we discovered it early, but our stockpile of materials has long been used up..."

Richard quickly did the mental calculations and realized that even if they reordered, it would take two weeks from delivery to forging, by which time the soldiers would probably have to carry tree branches to the battlefield.

Is it possible to desulfurize substandard steel?

Richard shook his head. If he remembered correctly, the desulfurization and dephosphorization process using the Bessemer process would not be developed for another ten years or so.

The materials were purchased from Schwarz Trading Company, but how did such good materials suddenly become defective?

The warehouse was completely silent, with only the sound of the Thames flowing by and the occasional whistle of a giant ship in the distance.

After a long silence, Richard tightened the buttons on his coat, turned around, and said, "Sean, the workers have worked hard. Let them rest. I'm going out for a bit."

Sean was stunned: "Huh? Where are you going?"

Schwarz Trading Company.

Once outside the factory gates, Richard boarded a carriage and sped off towards Oxford Street.

Meanwhile, inside the Schwarz Trading Company.

Eli Schwartz sat in his office, unconsciously twirling the gold ring on his finger.

He was a thin Jewish businessman whose elegant overcoat made him look like a vampire from a movie.

Across from him sat a gentleman nearing sixty, dressed in a suit and tie, leaning against a silver cane, with a clip-on pair of glasses perched pretentiously on his nose: "Sir, if I were you, I wouldn't worry about our deal."

"Mr. Greenwood," Eli said with a broad smile, "4300 pounds is no small sum, and you shouldn't underestimate the new head of the Brian family. In business, the worst thing is..."

“I don’t need a Jew to teach me how to do business,” Greenwood interrupted Eli, looking at him with disgust. “Just keep your mouth shut, or my boss won’t be too happy…”

Eli's lips twitched slightly as he felt humiliated, but he could only lower his head and force a smile.

Just then, the secretary's voice came from the office doorway: "Sir, you cannot go in!"

Before he could finish speaking, Richard pushed open the door and walked straight in: "Mr. Schwarz, you..."

Richard, seeing the two people sitting opposite him, suppressed his anger that was about to erupt.

"Mr. Brian! It's a pleasure to see you," Eli said, standing up with a smile. "What brings you here?"

"Did I come at the wrong time?" Richard stood to the side with his hands on his hips, sizing up Greenwood.

"No, of course not," Greenwood stood up apologetically, but held his head high arrogantly. "I'm just finished talking and leaving."

"This is Mr. Greenwood, the owner of the Blackwell Armory," Eli introduced awkwardly.

Richard heard that this arsenal was about the same size as his own and could be considered a strong competitor.

"That's good," Richard said, pulling out the delivery slip for the steel from his pocket and slamming it on the table. "Mr. Schwartz, there's a problem with the batch of materials you sent me."

Before Eli could speak, Greenwood laughed: "A problem? Mr. Brian, don't wrong an innocent man. I also got my goods from him, same place, same source, so why is mine fine?"

Richard turned to Greenwood: "It's your business if you don't have a problem. Mine does, and I need to find out."

"Then please ask your questions at your leisure." Greenwood straightened his clothes. "Mr. Schwartz, I'll be going now. Don't forget our 'business'."

He emphasized the word "business" before turning and leaving.

The door behind him closed, and Eli picked up the order and began to read it with exaggerated care, as if he were an archaeologist.

"What do you mean by selling me a batch of scrap steel a week ago?" Richard asked, frowning.

"Scrap steel?" Eli took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. "I didn't sell you scrap steel. I sold you Birmingham forging steel, Dolly Forging Steel Mill. It's clearly written in black and white."

He pointed to the source of goods written in blue ink on the order form: "If there's a problem, you should go to them. Besides, Mr. Greenwood also gets his goods from me, so why is he fine?"

"Ha," Richard sneered, "After all that talk, it turns out you're all in cahoots."

"Mr. Brian, I am Jewish, I am not taking sides." Eli put on his glasses and squinted at Richard.

Richard had nothing to say, but he stroked his chin in thought. He was right. Even if they went to Birmingham to verify whether Dolly Steelworks had accepted bribes from Greenwood, it would be a case of too little, too late.

"Do you still have any new steel?" Richard blurted out abruptly.

"No, Mr. Greenwood bought them all," Eli replied, then suddenly realized he had said the wrong thing and pursed his lips.

"He bought them all?" Richard's eyes widened. A thought flashed through his mind: the deal was made last month. Even if Greenwood borrowed money that month, he couldn't possibly come up with that much unless he mortgaged something.

"I guess..." Richard scratched his chin and smiled knowingly, "He mortgaged the factory to you, or some property under his name?"

Eli didn't speak, but his eyes said it all.

Richard felt a little better. He took a debt note from his inner pocket and spread it on the table: "In that case, you don't need to pay back the 5000 pounds."

"What are you doing here?"

"But you have to do me a favor," Richard said without backing down, "transfer Greenwood's debts to me."

"You... intend to charge at a fortified fortress?" Richard's bold words startled Eli, who then stared at him with interest. "Brave, but reckless... Are you Don Quixote, or a siege cannon?"

"Just you wait and see," Richard replied confidently. "Besides, you won't lose anything, but if I win, you'll gain a resourceful partner, won't you?"

Sure enough, Eli extended the hand with the gold ring to Richard: "Deal."