Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The rain started in the evening, and a dark curtain of rain pressed down on the roof of the bungalow, with mud spreading in the middle of the street.

Richard arrived at the address on the note, Gavin Dawson's residence. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, wetting his shoulders, and the black triangular face mask tied around his face made his breathing heavier.

There were no streetlights in the alley, and with each step Richard took, his heels kicked up half a pound of black mud. The houses in front of him had no glass; the windows were covered with newspapers, and some didn't even have newspapers—they were simply boarded up.

He gently pushed open the wooden door; it was unlocked and not even bolted.

Inside the room were piles of blackened bedding and a table and chair with a missing corner, but the fire in the stove was burning brightly, the flames licking the iron stove wall. A person was squatting next to it, shirtless, wearing only a pair of dirty work pants, adding coal to the stove.

Richard noticed his bald head, which gleamed in the firelight, and a large, shiny black sack of coal at his feet.

Gavin Dawson is burning the bag of coal that Richard bought for Sierra and her son.

Richard gritted his teeth, pulled a revolver from the inside pocket of his coat, took a few steps across the threshold, and pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Gavin's head.

"Don't move." He could lower his voice very low, hoarse like a wild wolf in the forest.

Gavin didn't have time to turn around; he was still clutching a piece of coal in his hand.

"Who are you?" Gavin's tone was unexpectedly calm. "If you want to rob me, then do as you please. Don't take that undershirt by the bed; I need to wear it tomorrow."

Richard didn't speak, the gun barrel pressed firmly against the back of Richard's head.

Gavin tentatively tossed the coal he was holding into the stove, dusted his hands off, and said, "Dude, I don't have anything valuable. I'd rather waste my time elsewhere and try my luck..."

"Who told you to hit Sean McCarthy?" Richard asked.

Gavin paused for a moment, trying to turn around, when the muzzle of the gun was immediately pressed against his skin.

Don't look back.

Richard's thumb was on the hammer.

Click.

Gavin's back stiffened, his breathing quickened, and the defiant, reckless attitude he had displayed vanished instantly.

"No...don't shoot." His voice became hurried and tense, and he even raised both hands. "I'll talk, I'll talk. It's Greenwood, the owner of the Blackwell Armory."

Gavin's voice trembled, but his words were still relatively clear: "Mr. Greenwood said that if I took some men to beat up that Irishman, he would let me go back to work in the factory. I... I haven't had work for three months, I have no choice..."

"He wants you back at the factory?" Richard sneered. "He's lying to you. Greenwood won't hire someone with a criminal record. You'll do his dirty work, and afterwards he'll get you as far away as possible."

Gavin shrugged. "How...how did you know?"

"What else did he ask you to do?" Richard then asked.

"No...that's all, just a beating, that's all."

Richard pushed the gun forward, forcing Gavin's head to tilt forward slightly, his forehead almost touching the metal of the furnace wall.

"I'll ask you one more time, what else did he ask you to do?"

"Calm down! Calm down, I can't remember if you keep this up..." Gavin's hands began to tremble, his two hands clenched into fists in the air.

"He...he also said..." Gavin swallowed hard. "He said that in a few days, I should find two people to burn down someone else's factory late at night."

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

"Whose factory was burned down?"

"Bray... or something, at Limehouse," he recalled eagerly.

"When?"

"In two or three days!" Gavin replied without hesitation. "I've already found the men. Don't kill me, I'll get them both out of here tomorrow!"

Richard gripped the pistol tightly. He knew that factory competition in the 19th century wasn't exactly dignified, but he never dreamed of sending someone to burn down his rival's factory.

He considered Gavin's suggestion for a moment and then said, "No need, let them come."

"What?" Gavin didn't understand what he meant.

"I said, let them do it the way they planned. Two nights from now, have your men burn down Brian's factory," Richard said, the gun still pressed against the back of his head. "But you have to tell them to come from the south side of the factory and tell them no one is on duty there."

"Who...who are you?"

"Don't ask who I am," Richard said. "All you need to know is that if you do as I say, your life is spared; otherwise..."

"I'll do it, I'll do it!" Gavin's voice was almost a shout, but it was drowned out by the sound of the rain. "I'll do whatever you say!"

"Very good, now go to the stove and grab the wall with both hands," Richard ordered.

Gavin slowly stood up, moved his feet, and placed his hands on the brick wall where the plaster had peeled off.

"Now count from one to one hundred. You are not allowed to turn around until you finish counting."

"What? Report! I, I can't count to one hundred." Gavin's voice was as loud as if he were giving a military drill.

"How many can you count to?"

"...Fifty?" His voice trailed off again.

"Then count to two," Richard stepped back two paces. "Let's begin!"

Gavin felt like he'd been granted a pardon and quickly began counting: "One, two, three..."

Richard slowly retreated to the doorway, then slipped aside and closed the door behind him.

He tucked the gun into his coat pocket, ripped off his face mask, turned, and walked into the alley. Behind him, Gavin's trembling voice echoed: "...eleven, twelve, thirteen..."

Richard dared not linger. He hurried across the stone path. The rain was pouring down harder and harder, and he was freezing cold.

After turning the corner of the alley, he finally left the dilapidated house behind, but there was a person standing not far in front of him.

With his imposing height and dark gray coat, he held a long-handled black umbrella in his hand. Rainwater flowed along the edge, forming a small puddle at his feet, like a bronze statue abandoned on a street corner, waiting for who knows how long.

It's Hans.

Richard paused for a moment, then continued walking; he knew he couldn't avoid it.

"You're still following me." Richard walked up to him.

Hans tilted the umbrella slightly back, revealing half of his face: "I knew you wouldn't lay a hand on me."

"You're wrong," Richard said, wiping the rain from his face. "I didn't lay a hand on him because I chose not to."

Hans raised his eyebrows and looked down at him with his chin tilted back.

"You know what's the scariest thing?" Richard met his gaze, rain pouring down between the umbrella and the brim of his hat, forming a curtain of water between them. "For a split second, just for a split second, I really wanted to pull that trigger."

He stretched out his hand, making a very small distance between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's that simple. A living person could just disappear from my sight. I almost saw his blood and his brains."

"And this idea terrified me, Hans." Richard looked directly at him.

Hans shook his head and let out a barely audible sigh: "You still don't understand..."

"But you've long been accustomed to such cruel thoughts."

Hans's pupils contracted, and his expression froze, as if forever captured on the film of a camera.

"Goodnight, Hans." Richard turned and walked toward home without looking back at him.