Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

On the altar, the chief priest raised the holy chalice, and the assistant priest rang a handbell, the clear sound echoing under the vault: "Drink from this, all of you. This is my blood, which I swore to give, for many sins to be forgiven."

Fumba stared intently at the chief priest on the platform, who was reciting the scripture about Jesus distributing bread and wine to his believers.

"Have you heard the stories of the Old Testament?" he suddenly asked.

"I know a little."

“Samson,” said Humbah, “God gave him great strength and made him a judge of Israel. He tore lions apart with his bare hands and killed a thousand Philistines with the jawbone of a donkey. But a woman found out the secret of his strength, shaved his head, and the Philistines gouged out his eyes and locked him in a mill to grind grain.”

Richard did not answer, but told him to continue.

"Samson prayed to God, saying, 'O Lord God, remember me. Grant me this one strength, O God, so that I may avenge the Philistines who gouged out my eyes.' He took hold of a pillar of the temple and knocked it down, crushing three thousand Philistines to death, and also crushing himself."

Inside the church, the Latin sermons, accompanied by the rhythm of the organ, were melodious and distant.

"Do you understand what I mean?" Finba lowered his head, like a believer receiving a rite.

Richard understood that Samson's act of pushing down the pillar was a suicide pact with his enemy, and that Finbar wanted Greenwood to fall, even if he himself might never see it again, or even die.

"If we had been prepared enough and acted carefully enough, none of your bad premonitions would have come true..." Richard tried to reassure him.

“May God protect us from these things,” Finba interrupted him, “but if they do happen, you have to promise me.”

"What?"

"Take good care of my younger relatives and my family. They don't need to be rich and powerful, they just need to have food to eat and a place to live. They don't need to be like me, waiting to die on the assembly line."

Richard's throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. "I promise you."

"Thank you, I know how much your promise means," he said.

After the celebrant finished his sermon, he raised his voice slightly: "Please come forward and receive the Holy Communion of Christ."

The chairs began to creak, and the believers rose from their kneeling stools, lined up in two rows, and slowly walked toward the altar.

The man took off his hat, the woman pulled her shawl tighter, took the child's hand, and their shoes fell onto the stone pavement with a soft rustling sound.

The acolytes, dressed in white robes, stood before the altar, holding a golden plate with a small round cake on it, while the priest stood to the side, holding the Holy Grail.

Finba struggled to his feet and gently pushed the chair back into place, his movements slow as if he were gathering his strength.

"Take care," he said.

He followed the procession, step by step toward the altar. His back looked very thin in the candlelight, and his shirt looked like it was hanging on a hanger.

He walked up to the high priest, knelt down, and opened his mouth. The high priest placed a piece of white bread on the tip of his tongue and made the sign of the cross on his forehead.

Richard remained seated on the bench, not moving. He wasn't a believer and couldn't go forward to receive Holy Communion. He simply sat there, looking at the bowed heads and the profiles illuminated by candlelight. Could God deliver them from their suffering? He didn't know.

One by one, the believers received Holy Communion, then a small handbell on the altar rang, and the altar priest shook it a few times, announcing the end of the Mass.

The believers began to make the sign of the cross on their chests, some bent down to kiss the cross on the back of the chair, and others took a few pennies out of their pockets and put them into the donation box at the door.

Richard stood up, respectfully pushed the chair back to its original position, turned and walked out of the church. The air outside was bitterly cold, and the thick fog in London was gradually dissipating. He had to return to his factory, where he was indispensable.

He stood on the steps, tugged at his coat collar, and looked towards the street corner, just about to hail a carriage.

A man walked up from the street corner, wearing a well-tailored, wrinkle-free dark blue overcoat. His shoulders were pulled back, his back was ramrod straight, and his hands were naturally clasped behind his back, his fingertips lightly interlocked.

"Mr. Brian." He gave a slight bow, more of a well-trained gesture of politeness than a proper bow.

"Uh, who are you?" Richard stopped and glanced at the man's face.

The face was around forty years old, with an exaggeratedly large nose that always seemed to smell something strange, and his cheeks were pursed.

"A passerby who'd like to chat with you for a bit," the man said, gesturing across the street, "there's a nice restaurant nearby. Would Mr. Brian be interested in having breakfast together?"

Richard had already eaten, along with Louise, a whole plate of fried eggs and toast, which he had finished clean.

But as he looked into the man's eyes, his stomach involuntarily spasmed, and the words that came out of his mouth were: "Okay."

The man nodded and walked across the street.

The restaurant is located on the ground floor of an old building, with brass door handles that have been polished to a shine by countless hands.

They sat down at a table by the window. The man sat in the chair, but his back never touched the back of the chair. His hands were crossed on the table, his thumbs lightly touching.

The waiter came over, and the man, without looking at the menu, said: "Two bacon and egg dishes, well-done, and coffee."

After he finished speaking, he glanced at Richard and asked, "Do you need anything else?"

"No need." Richard was already starting to regret it.

When the food was served, the bacon was still sizzling, and the aroma of the caramelized fat mingled with the bitterness of the coffee, slowly rising between the two of them.

The man took a deep breath, as if the aroma of the food was something he had paid for, and he couldn't bear to waste a single bite.

He had a good appetite, and half of the food in front of him was gone in the blink of an eye. He didn't touch the plate in front of Richard. He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, his attention completely focused on that nose.

"Aren't you going to eat?" The man glanced at his whole bacon and fried egg.

I'm not hungry.

"You've already eaten at home," the man said, finishing the sentence for him.

The man ignored him and continued eating, seemingly enjoying the meal. He ate most of the bacon and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Mr. Brian," he said, raising his coffee cup, "you've been getting a bit too close to the Irish lately."

Richard clenched his fingers on his knee.

"I have Irish workers in my factory, and it's been reported in the newspapers," he said. "It's no secret."

“Of course,” the man’s nostrils twitched, “the problem isn’t that you work for the Irish, the problem is that there are rumors lately that someone is secretly arming the Fenian Brotherhood with guns, bullets, explosives… which is giving the British government a headache, especially us.”

Richard immediately recognized him; he was a liaison officer for the Secret Service.

His expression calmed down, because he had long expected this day to come, and that British intelligence would be watching him.

The man continued, "If you're just hanging out with Irish workers, that's fine, but if you're hanging out with those kinds of people..."

“Excuse me, sir, I must interrupt you,” Richard spread his hands toward him. “I’ve already signed a huge contract with the Army. Why would I support Irish extremists? This isn’t business; it’s digging my own grave.”

He stopped, his face first showing surprise, then a satisfied smile.

"I am very pleased to know that you fully understand the consequences of colluding with the enemy." The man nodded. "Mr. Brian, you are a smart man, and smart men don't need others to finish what they have to say."

He stood up, took out some money from the inside pocket of his coat, and placed it on the table: "Breakfast is on me. It's a pity yours wasn't touched; their food is really delicious."

He buttoned up his coat, then turned around, looked at Richard, and nodded again.

"I hope we can meet again on a better occasion."

Richard smiled politely, but in his heart he gave him a nickname: Mr. Nose.