Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

When the main course was served, Richard could no longer tell whether the dish on his plate contained roasted game or roasted steak.

On the snow-white tablecloth, the silver plates gleamed, and the golden-brown pieces of roasted meat were drizzled with dark brown gravy, accompanied by baked potatoes and stir-fried vegetables in butter.

He sat to the right of Viscount Cavill, not in the central position, but certainly not on the side.

The prince sat in the main seat, flanked by several veteran generals from the navy and army on his left and right, and further out were government officials and a few business people like him who had been "specially" invited.

He had just cut off a piece of wild game and hadn't even put it in his mouth when a soft sound came from the direction of the head of the table.

Ding ding.

Prince George tapped the rim of his wine glass lightly with his fork, and the entire long table fell silent instantly, the conversation ceasing as if by prior arrangement.

The waiters silently entered through the side door in a line, carrying silver wine jugs, and filled each guest's glass with deep red wine.

The prince stood up, cleared his throat, and, as if issuing orders on the battlefield, knew how to make sure even the furthest soldiers could hear him without having to shout.

"Tonight, we will not discuss the war, the casualties, or the bad news that keeps Her Majesty awake at night." He paused. "Tonight, we will discuss only one thing: loyalty. Loyalty to the Queen, to the British Empire, and to every one of your comrades."

He raised his glass.

"For Her Majesty the Queen."

Everyone at the long table stood up at the same time. The sound of chair legs scraping against the ground was uneven, but no one was even a step slower in getting up.

Richard stood up as well, raising his wine glass to eye level, and felt that both sides of his eyes were focused on the prince.

"For Her Majesty the Queen!" The voices of dozens of people merged into a deep wave, echoing under the dome adorned with oil paintings and crystal chandeliers.

Everyone drank it all in one gulp.

The wine scalded his throat and went down into his stomach. Richard put down his glass and was about to sit down when the waiter silently appeared beside him and refilled it.

The prince remained standing, waiting for everyone's glasses to be refilled before speaking again.

"Britain's strength comes from the sea and from the land," he said, his gaze sweeping across the long table from left to right. "May the sea breeze always caress your backs, may the land beneath your feet be forever secure, and may you always be victorious and bathed in glory."

He raised his glass.

"For the navy and the army, the empire's two arms, inseparable brothers."

"For the Navy and the Army!" The shouts were even louder than before.

Richard drank it all in one gulp again.

When he drank the second glass of wine, his ears started to feel hot.

But the waiter refilled it for the third time.

This time, the prince turned his head and his gaze fell on Richard. In that instant, all eyes in the room turned to him.

"Tonight, we have a special guest," the Prince introduced, "Mr. Richard Bryan, who built a gun, the MKII rifle. It can fire on every inch of the colony."

He paused.

"Only a soldier with a gun that will never betray him dares to charge fearlessly. Mr. Brian gave our soldiers this gun."

He raised his glass.

"For Mr. Brian and his MKII rifle, the Empire will be invincible."

"For the Empire!" All eyes shifted from the Prince to Richard, dozens of glasses were raised at the same time, dozens of voices rang out, and a few appropriate cheers were mixed in.

Richard raised his glass, bowed slightly in the direction of the Prince, nodded to the guests on either side, and then downed his third glass of wine in one gulp.

When he sat down, his hands trembled slightly. He had gone down those three glasses of wine too quickly, and the candlelight in front of him had turned into clusters of orange halos.

Someone patted him on the shoulder, someone across from him raised a glass and smiled, and someone across several seats was saying something loudly. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying anymore, but he felt warm and proud, as if he had finally climbed out of the mud and stood in the light.

He rubbed his eyes, picked up his glass to take another sip, only to find it was empty.

"Mr. Brian," Cavill's voice came from the left, "that's enough. We've had enough drinks. I suggest we all move to the shooting corridor in the back garden and take a look at your guns."

Richard was slightly tipsy, but his mind was still clear. He knew Cavill was helping him, displaying his weapon in front of these officers to prove he deserved the toast.

"Okay." Richard stood up, supporting himself on the table, and followed Cavill toward the back garden.

At the long table behind him, guests rose one after another, and laughter and conversation surged over him like a tide, pushing him forward.

The holly hedge in the back garden enclosed a straight shooting corridor, with several straw targets at the end, and several MKII rifles on a long table on the other side, their brand-new blued steel gleaming coldly under the light.

The officers gathered around, picked up their guns, weighed them in their hands, pulled the bolts, or aimed, peering through the sights at the bullseye at the end of the corridor, muttering, "Nice balance."

Some people crouched down to examine the magazine's catch mechanism, asking those around them, "Can this part really be interchanged with another gun?"

A colonel held the gun up to his eyes, glanced through the barrel at the gaslight at the end of the corridor, and turned to Richard, saying, "Mr. Brian, this gun is indeed excellent, but I heard that during the bidding process, you could disassemble and reassemble it?"

Richard took the gun: "Of course, you can do it with your eyes closed."

The colonel grinned, revealing a row of teeth stained yellow by tobacco: "I don't believe you. Ten pounds, I bet you can't do it with your eyes closed."

The surrounding officers chuckled softly, some making a fuss, others pulling out their wallets and shouting, "I bet he can do it."

The sounds mingled together, turning the shooting corridor into a makeshift mini-casino.

Richard placed the gun on the table and rolled up his sleeves: "Twenty pounds. I'll assemble it in two minutes."

The colonel's eyes lit up: "Alright! I'll bet you a gun!"

A young lieutenant volunteered to be the referee, took a pocket watch out of his pocket, and pressed his thumb on the crown.

Another officer helped disassemble the gun into parts and arrange them neatly on a dark green velvet cloth.

A man next to Richard handed him a black scarf. He folded the scarf, memorized the order of the parts on the fabric, then blindfolded himself and tied a knot at the back of his head.

Everything was pitch black; the only sensation was the cold touch of the bolt and firing pin on my fingertips.

"Begin!" the lieutenant pressed his pocket watch.

Richard grabbed the bolt, inserted the firing pin and spring back into the bolt, smoothly engaged the extractor into the bolt, then the lever and the handguard; his movements were faster than ever before.

No one spoke; everyone watched Richard's skillful movements in silence.

The gun was fully assembled, and Richard quickly pulled the bolt three times.

Click click click!

The bolt action is crisp and clear, the extraction is smooth, and it's as reliable as when the gun first came out of the factory.

Richard spun the gun around and slammed it on the table with a bang, while at the same time the lieutenant pressed the crown.

Richard pulled down his scarf, and a complete rifle lay quietly on the velvet, every part in its proper place.

The officer glanced at the pocket watch on the table; it read one and a half minutes. The time he had given was half a minute fast!

The corridor fell silent for a moment, then erupted in applause and cheers. Some whistled, some banged on the table, and the colonel pulled twenty pounds from his pocket, slammed it on the table, and held out his hand.

"Damn it, you should have joined the army, you're really quick."

Richard grasped his hand and shook it vigorously. "Thanks, but I'm just a drunk novice. An experienced soldier would be much faster."

The colonel paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, patted Richard's arm, and someone handed him a glass of champagne, saying loudly, "Mr. Brian, don't bring the colonel next time you drink; he can't accept defeat."

Richard took the champagne, took a sip, and the intoxication returned. He looked around at the men in military uniforms with thick beards, who smiled at him, patted him on the shoulder, and called him "Mr. Brian." It seemed like he had really squeezed into this circle.

Then his gaze swept across the crowd and landed on the kerosene lamp at the entrance to the shooting corridor.

There stood a man there, Mr. Nose.

The man who had invited him to breakfast at the church entrance, the secret service agent who hadn't told him his name.

Richard's heart pounded as he went from a leisurely stroll to a 100-meter sprint. The laughter and conversations around him suddenly seemed distant. The person stood at the boundary between light and shadow, smiling and nodding at him.