Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Hearing the commotion, the butler, Harold, rushed upstairs with a shotgun in hand. He unlocked Richard's door and asked, "Young master, are you alright?"

"Wow, calm down!" Richard picked up the note in his hand and said to the agitated Harold, "Someone just threw a rock, I'm fine."

The butler, carrying a hunting rifle, went to the window and cautiously peered outside.

It was pitch black outside the window. The dim yellow light of the streetlights shone on the garden fence. The wind rustled the branches, casting swaying shadows on the ground. There was no one in sight.

"Young master, should we call the police?" Harold put down his gun.

"Call the police?" Richard crumpled the note into a ball. "I just messed with two cops today, do you think they'll help me?"

Harold leaned his shotgun against the door and bent down to pick up the broken glass from the floor. "I'll get someone to replace the glass tomorrow. Young master, would you like to change rooms tonight?"

The cold wind blowing in from the window made Richard shiver. He picked up his pillow and went to the door. "I'll sleep in the guest room. Thank you for your trouble."

"Of course," Harold replied, continuing to work in silence.

After being moved to a new room, Richard lay on the less comfortable bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Get out of London."

He knew without even thinking who was behind this, but he couldn't guess what Greenwood was planning to do. That's the downside of dealing with villains; you have no bottom line.

He turned over, pulled the blanket up to his chin, closed his eyes, and didn't fall asleep for a long time.

The next morning, Richard went to the factory as usual.

As soon as he entered the workshop, he sensed that something was wrong.

At this time of day, the steam engines would usually be roaring to life, and the workers would be at their posts, the pulleys whirring overhead. But today, the machines are still running, but there are visibly fewer people.

"What the hell, Sean?" Richard asked. "Don't I know what kind of day off we have today?"

Sean walked over with a grim face: "Young Master, something has happened."

"What's wrong?"

"More than twenty workers said they wanted to quit today," Sean said in a low voice. "I asked them why, and some said, 'We heard about what happened to you, young master,' while others simply didn't say anything, grabbed their tools, and left. I was only able to persuade a small portion of them..."

"What about me?" Richard was bewildered. He worked diligently every day and had no time to do anything bad.

Sean pulled a few crumpled pieces of paper from his pocket and handed them over.

Those were several cheaply printed tabloids, the paper thin and rough, with a large headline printed on them:

"The owner of Blaine's Arms Factory—a friend of Irish terrorists!"

The following is a vicious text that claims Richard "publicly defended the perpetrators of the Crackenwell bombing," "insulted law enforcement officers," "harbored Irish fugitives," and "even attempted to replace British workers with Irish workers"... every word of which seems to be true.

The tabloid's last line read: "British factories must not be run by Irish lackeys!"

Richard finished reading the tabloid and pondered in silence.

"Where did this thing come from?"

“They’re everywhere on the streets,” Sean scratched his head. “When I came in this morning, there was a stack of them on the factory table. I’ve already had them hidden, but young master, this can’t go on like this…”

Richard tossed the tabloid aside: "Who were those people who left?"

“They’re all locals from London, and one of them is a veteran who’s been with me for two years.” Sean clenched his fist. “Most of the people who stayed in the factory are Irish and Scottish. Although they all support your decision, they are all still wary of the rumors.”

Richard could understand that Sean, being Irish, would naturally give extra consideration to his fellow countrymen when hiring, but this caused some dissatisfaction among the ordinary British workers in the factory.

"Rumors stop with the wise, but they don't get printed in the newspapers," Richard muttered.

"What did you say?" Sean didn't hear him clearly.

"I'm telling you, Greenwood's move was dirty." Richard looked up. "Sean, I need you to keep the rest of the factory under control and have a few more people on duty tonight."

"Understood, young master." Sean nodded.

Richard walked into the workshop. The conveyor belt was still turning, but several workstations were empty, and parts were piled up like a small mountain with no one handling them.

Most of the remaining workers kept their heads down and worked, occasionally glancing up at him with complicated and suspicious looks.

"Sean," Richard called the foreman, "go talk to the remaining workers one by one and tell them that I, Richard Bryan, will not mistreat those who work for me. Each of them will receive an extra bonus after a full week of work."

"Young Master, this..."

"You don't need to worry about the money," Richard said as he walked toward the factory gate. "Also, arrange for Sera and her son to stay in a dormitory further away so they can avoid trouble."

"Understood, young master." Sean jogged away.

"You want to play, Greenwood? Then let's play." Richard flagged down a carriage and headed straight for Old Bond Street.

He pushed open the door of the clothing store, and as expected, Eleanor was not there. Instead, the girl named Millie was still guarding the front desk, her two slender arms crossed in front of her.

"Mr. Brian," Millie said, looking at him with a hint of timidity in her voice, "Mrs. Eleanor is in the studio."

"Okay, thank you," Richard nodded. "Your name is Millie, right?"

"Yes, Madam, you mentioned me?" She seemed surprised that Richard knew her name.

"I just mentioned it once: you're a strong girl."

"Thank you, sir." The girl smiled shyly.

Richard walked through the lobby to Eleanor's studio. This time the door was closed, as if some secret was hidden inside.

He knocked on the door, and Eleanor's voice came from the other side.

"Come in."

Richard pushed open the small door and saw that familiar figure standing next to Eleanor. The man was half a head taller than him, with broad shoulders and a scar that stretched from his eye to his temple.

"Mr. Brian," his voice was a little hoarse, "how have you been?"

"Not bad..." Richard hesitated. Shouldn't this man be in Paris? So he asked Eleanor, "I remember you said that your work in London and Paris is completely unrelated."

"Isn't this all thanks to you?" Eleanor looked at him mockingly. "Thanks to your intelligence, his days as an undercover agent in Paris ended early. By the way, his name is Hans."

"That's right, but the boss won't let me sit idle," Hans tugged at his collar, "so I came here."

Richard was taken aback. Hans's arrival had undoubtedly complicated matters in London. He stood before the two men, unable to utter what he wanted to say.

"I guess you two have something to say?" Hans put on his hat and walked towards the door. "Then I won't disturb you any longer."

Hans closed the door behind him as he left, but Richard was still worried, so he checked to make sure he wasn't eavesdropping at the door. Once he was sure, he turned to Eleanor.

"What's wrong with you? You're acting all crazy." Eleanor pulled out a Turkish cigarette, complete with an ivory mouthpiece.

"Greenwood published tabloids saying I was an accomplice to terrorists and even got the police to commit perjury." Richard scratched his chin anxiously.

Eleanor wasn't surprised. Instead, she silently lit a cigarette and exhaled a wisp of white smoke: "I've heard about it, but I think it's nonsense."

"Of course it's nonsense, but he really did cause me to lose more than a dozen employees."

"The situation in London right now is indeed very..." Eleanor paused, "...tense."