Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

As night falls, the gaslights in Westminster come on one by one, and the Army and Navy Club sits on a corner of Belleme Street, its Latin inscription above the door somewhat blurred by the soot of years.

Richard stepped down from the carriage, straightened his bow tie, and gradually got used to this elaborate and exquisite attire, though it made movement a little inconvenient.

A few days ago, Richard attributed the entire success of solving the arson case to the two officers, one tall and one short. They have now been transferred to Whitechapel, which was then the most chaotic and dangerous area in London.

After checking the invitation, the waiter opened the door for him. The foyer was brightly lit, and the thousands of facets of the crystal chandelier reflected a warm golden light that fell on the oak-paneled walls.

One massive oil painting after another: the Battle of Waterloo, the Battle of Trafalgar, the Crimean Charge, each silently telling the story of the glory of the British Empire.

In the corner, a glass case displays captured enemy flags: a French eagle flag, a Russian double-headed eagle flag, and several others that Richard couldn't name. The satin surfaces were faded and the edges were worn, but they were still carefully preserved.

A number of people had already gathered in the hall, the men dressed in black or dark blue evening suits, with the occasional glint of a medal on their chests.

They stood in twos and threes, holding amber-colored port or sparkling champagne, the cigars between their fingers slowly emitting smoke, and occasionally their conversations were punctuated by low laughter.

As Richard entered the hall, another waiter approached him: "Mr. Brian? Please come with me, Viscount Cavill is waiting for you."

Cavill stood in front of the fireplace, surrounded by several officers. He was of medium build, with broad but not bulky shoulders, and his hair was already somewhat gray.

He had a monocle clipped to his right eye, and a silver chain dangled into his vest pocket, swaying gently as he spoke.

He saw Richard, stopped what he was saying, nodded slightly to the officer beside him, then walked over and extended his hand.

"Mr. Brian," he said with a brief, firm handshake, "Welcome."

"Viscount Cavill, thank you for your invitation." Richard bowed slightly.

Cavill released his hand, skipping the pleasantries and getting straight to the point: "I've read the report on the performance of your MKII rifle in the colonies. It's outstanding."

He spoke quickly, as if he didn't want to waste time on small talk: "In the rainy season in India and in the desert in Egypt, the shooting results have always been stable, and the failure rate is far lower than any other rifle currently in service. Even the designers at the Royal Arsenal couldn't find anything worth modifying after seeing it."

"That was thanks to Mr. Martini's design," Richard said. "I just improved the production line and offered some suggestions."

“Improving the production line is improving the weapons.” Cavill glanced at him. “Your ‘Richard System’ allows every gun’s parts to be interchangeable. If a soldier’s gun breaks, he can take a part from a comrade and replace it, and continue firing. That’s a lifesaver.”

Richard didn't rush to reply, because Louise had taught him that when Cavill compliments you, you shouldn't rush to say "yes" or be overly modest.

He simply nodded slightly, waited for the other person to finish speaking, and then said "thank you," so he did as instructed.

Cavill seemed pleased with his reaction. He turned and walked toward the center of the hall, with Richard following behind.

As they passed a group of officers who were chatting, Cavill didn't stop, but simply waved to a few people, who then gathered around.

"I'll introduce you to a few people," Cavill said.

The first person introduced was the Under-Secretary of the Indian Affairs Department, a tall, thin middle-aged man with a thick mustache. He asked, "Do you have business in India?"

"Not at the moment, but it's a market with great potential, and I'll consider it."

The second was a colonel from the Royal Artillery, with a round face, a red nose, and a loud voice. He asked many questions about bullet range, which Richard answered one by one, as he already knew these figures by heart.

Then Cavill stopped.

On the other side of the fireplace, a tall man was talking in hushed tones with his back to them. His back was ramrod straight, and even when he stood still, people around him seemed to unconsciously radiate outwards.

He heard footsteps and turned around.

Richard noticed the medals on his chest—not just a few, but more than a dozen—the Royal Victorian Medal, the Order of the Bath, the Order of India, the Crimean Medal… The metal and enamel shimmered under the light, as if the starry sky were hanging on his chest.

His beard was thick and neat, extending from his cheeks to his chin, with a smooth and strong line running down the middle.

He was the Duke of Cambridge, Prince George, and Commander-in-Chief of the Army.

"Your Highness," Cavill bowed slightly, "this is Mr. Richard Bryan, the head of Bryan Armory and one of the designers of the MKII rifle."

The prince's gaze shifted from Cavill to Richard's face, then swept over him from head to toe. The process took less than two seconds, but Richard felt as if he were being measured in a tailor shop.

"Mr. Brian." The prince's voice was steady and powerful. He did not extend his hand, but simply nodded slightly.

"Your Highness." Richard bowed, deeper than before.

The prince placed the bottle of port on the table beside him and put his hands behind his back: "Your gun, I've read the report, not bad."

"Thank you for your affirmation, Your Highness," Richard said.

"However," the prince suddenly changed the subject, "I've heard some unpleasant rumors. Whether a gun is accurate or not is a matter of skill, but who pulls the trigger is a matter of loyalty."

Richard knew this topic was a minefield, but he had already explored this minefield before.

He tilted his head slightly, as if seriously considering the question, and then said:

"Your Highness is right. Guns are tools, but people are the foundation. That's why good weapons enable excellent officers to better exert their leadership."

"Oh?" Prince George squinted his eyes curiously.

"A sharpshooter with an inaccurate gun will miss the enemy; a brave soldier with a jammed gun will not be able to charge the high ground. Technological progress is not meant to replace people, but to enable those who are loyal and brave to better serve the Empire."

The prince's eyebrows twitched.

"The foundation of the army is always people and honor, not just mechanical efficiency," Richard continued. "The MKII rifle is simply to ensure that the gun in the hands of those who deserve respect is worthy of their courage."

The prince stared at him for a few seconds, the firelight from the fireplace flickering on the medals on his chest.

Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, like a smile that appeared after being tickled.

"You're more sensible than some of the politicians in London." The prince reached out and patted Richard on the shoulder.

"Your Highness flatters me." Richard bowed slightly.

Cavill stood to the side, holding a half-finished glass of port wine, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

The action was so subtle that Richard wouldn't have noticed it at all if he hadn't known beforehand about the delicate relationship between Richard and the Prince.

He raised the glass to his lips, took a sip, and then walked over.

“Your Highness is right,” Cavill nodded, “but what I’m more concerned about is whether this gun can help soldiers live longer and shoot more accurately. The battlefield is not a parade ground; the enemy won’t wait for us to line up before firing.”

The prince glanced at him, his gaze neither hostile nor warm: "Of course, Viscount Cavill remains as pragmatic as ever."

Neither of them spoke again; the air seemed to freeze, and Richard felt like he was suffocating.

Richard stood between the two men, holding the half-empty glass of champagne in his hand. He could feel the different temperatures on his left and right sides.

On one side was Prince George, carrying the warm glory of the old era; on the other was Cavill, exuding the chill of a reformist ambition.

Just then, a waiter quietly approached, bowed, and said, "Your Highness, Viscount, the banquet is ready."

The prince nodded slightly and placed his empty glass on the table. Cavill also put down his glass. The thin layer of ice between the two was gently shattered by this sentence, and they returned to the restraint and subtlety between soldiers.

"Let's go," Prince George said, turning and walking towards the dining room.

Cavill followed, with Richard bringing up the rear, and the three of them disappeared into the lights of the banquet hall.