Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Sera turned her face away, a tear rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away forcefully with the back of her hand, her lips trembling, but she couldn't say anything.

Richard looked away, turned and walked out of the room, with Sean following behind, gently closing the door behind him.

The two walked back into the yard, and Richard suddenly asked Sean, "Where do you live?"

Sean paused for a moment, clearly not expecting his young master to ask this: "South bank of the Thames, in the Southwark area. A small house, the advantage is the cheap rent and its proximity to the factory."

"That's a nice place. You live alone?"

“I also have a younger sister,” Sean said, his head drooping. “Our parents passed away early, leaving just the two of us. She’s nineteen this year and works at a laundry. When I’m out working, she helps me cook and do the laundry.”

Sean paused, knowing Richard wanted to know if he was married: "As for me... I'm a bachelor, not many people want to marry me."

Richard nodded. When Sean mentioned his sister, his tone softened considerably, but when he talked about himself, it was as if he were talking about someone else.

"How long have you worked for my father?" Richard asked.

“Eleven years,” Sean said without hesitation. “The old man was very good to me. He never looked down on me because I was Irish. When I first came to London, he took me in and taught me his trade.”

Sean rubbed his neck, a little embarrassed, and said, "I'm actually quite talented. I became a foreman in just a few years. Otherwise, my sister and I would still be struggling at Shadwell's place."

The courtyard fell silent, with only the workers' sighs and the women's whispers audible.

"Thank you for your help with Sera and her son." Richard patted him on the shoulder. He was quite strong, but his back was a little short.

"Young master, please don't say that," Sean quickly replied. "They are Irish too, and I can't just stand by and do nothing."

“That’s not what I meant,” Richard said, looking at him. “I meant that you’re a foreman, and all you’re supposed to do is manage production, but you saved this widow and her child.”

Sean looked down at his hands, which were covered in coal dust, and spoke with difficulty:

“Young master, to tell you the truth,” he said, “my father starved to death during the Irish Famine. We had to go to a relief station 20 miles away to get food. After a day and a night, we could only get a piece of cornbread that was as hard as a rock. That was our family’s food for three days.”

Richard didn't know what to say; he felt like a stone was pressing on his heart.

"That's why I can't stand seeing that kind of thing," he said, looking at Richard. "I can't stand seeing a woman with a child starving. If I can help, I will; if I can't, I'll just grit my teeth and bear it."

Richard felt a tightness in his throat and squeezed the hand on Sean's shoulder. "If they need anything else, just say so."

"Yes, young master." Sean sniffed. "It's getting late, you should go back now. There's a lot of coal dust here, don't get your clothes dirty."

"You should get some rest too." Richard withdrew his hand and walked towards the alley entrance.

Sean had already squatted down again and started picking coal briquettes into the bucket, the light shining on his bent back.

Although it was almost sunset, Richard couldn't rest yet. The tabloids around the factory had been cleared out, but who knew if Greenwood would print the same gossip elsewhere.

Even if you are innocent, if you get involved with Fennia, you will still face police questioning, factory shutdowns, or even rectification.

He had to go to London's most prestigious newspaper, The Times, to prove his identity.

The carriage was still waiting at the intersection, and the driver was dozing off against the carriage shaft.

Hearing footsteps, he quickly sat up straight: "Sir, where are you going?"

"The Times, do you know where that is?" Richard opened the car door.

"I know, I know." The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage turned out of the alley and merged into the traffic on the main street.

After a while, the carriage stopped in front of a five-story building.

Richard got out of the car and looked up.

The newspaper building is constructed of alternating red bricks and stone, with neat rows of arched windows, each lit up, and above the door is a line of gold lettering: The Times.

He straightened his clothes, reached out and pushed open the heavy oak door. The heat wave from the room, carrying the smells of ink, tobacco, and sweat, rushed out.

Rows of gaslights hung from the ceiling, and the room was filled with long wooden tables and swivel chairs. Reporters and editors, dressed in dark suits, were either writing furiously or discussing in hushed tones. Occasionally, someone would shout "Errand!" to have a little boy deliver the manuscript to the typesetting room.

The receptionist, a man in his thirties, carefully looked Richard over before respectfully asking, "Sir, how can I help you?"

Richard took out his business card from his pocket and handed it over.

"Richard Blaine," he said, bowing slightly, "Bryant Armory, I'd like to see your editor-in-chief."

The receptionist glanced down at the business card and her brow twitched slightly.

He placed his business card on the counter, his tone becoming more polite: "May I ask what brings you here?"

Richard leaned forward, gesturing for him to come closer to speak: "I have just received official approval from Viscount Cavill, the Minister of War, to produce MKII rifles for Her Majesty's army, but recently there have been rumors circulating on the streets of London about me, a legitimate arms dealer being smeared as 'a friend of Irish terrorists'."

The receptionist's eyes widened. He picked up the business card again: "Please wait a moment, Mr. Brian, I'll go get the editor-in-chief right away."

He jogged away and disappeared into the crowd.

Richard stood at the counter waiting, the walls framed with yellowed front-page news: the abolition of the slave trade, the Anglo-Burmese War, Crimea. Each one was deliberately enlarged and bolded, as if afraid someone would miss it.

About five minutes later, the receptionist returned, followed by a young man in his early twenties wearing a black tuxedo, carrying a leather folder.

"Mr. Brian?" The young man bowed slightly. "I am the editor-in-chief's secretary. Please come with me."

Richard nodded and followed him through the foyer, up the stairs, and up two floors.

The third floor was much quieter. The corridor was lined with rooms with room numbers on both sides. The secretary stopped at one of the rooms and knocked lightly twice.

"Come in," a strong male voice came from inside.

The secretary opened the door, stepped aside to let Richard go in first, and stayed outside, closing the door behind her.

The room was spacious, but the furnishings were rather compact. A huge walnut desk was placed by the window, piled high with documents and newly printed newspapers.

Behind the desk stood a man in his fifties, with gray hair combed to the sides, wearing a dark gray three-piece suit.

"Mr. Brian?" He walked around the table and extended his hand. "I'm Connor, editor-in-chief of The Times. I've heard you have a story to tell."