Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

On Thursday morning, the area outside the Bow Street courthouse near Covent Garden was packed with people.

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the fog, forming beams of light among the crowd.

The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and cheap gin. The courthouse was surrounded by layers of people, including dockworkers in overalls, women wrapped in old shawls, and unemployed people clutching leaflets. They weren't there to observe the proceedings; they were there to watch the spectacle.

Look at that old man, Greenwood, who has exploited them for over a decade, now he's being scolded like a dog by the judge.

Among the crowd were several well-dressed men, holding notebooks and pencils, their eyes constantly scanning back and forth between the crowd and the courthouse entrance.

They were journalists, but their purpose was different from that of the workers; they were more like sharks that had smelled blood.

Finba pushed his way forward through the crowd, his right hand unconsciously clutching a folded piece of paper in his pocket—his testimony, which he had read aloud several times under the kerosene lamp.

He wasn't afraid, at least that's what he told himself. He could recount everything that happened at the Greenwood factory with his eyes closed.

He came today not for himself, but for those in the factory who can no longer stand up.

He kept his head down and squeezed forward, with people around him rubbing shoulders and stepping on each other's heels with their shoes.

But he didn't notice another person walking towards him in the crowd. The person was wearing an old brown coat with the brim of his hat pulled low, and at first glance, he was no different from the people around him.

As Finba stepped onto his path, the man suddenly sped up, taking two steps at a time, and his shoulder slammed into Finba's shoulder.

Caught off guard, Finba leaned to one side, and the testimony slipped out of his pocket and fell to the ground.

His knees hit the stone slab, and he braced himself with his hands on the ground.

Before he could react, a bright, narrow dagger slid out from the man's sleeve, was raised high, and then plunged down.

"Ah!!" A woman standing nearby covered her eyes and let out a short scream.

Finba's pupils dilated suddenly as he saw the tip of the knife less than a foot from his chest.

He tried to dodge, but his body couldn't react in time.

Then a thick hand reached out from the side, its five fingers gripping the man's wrist like iron clamps. The knuckles of that hand were large, and there were several unhealed wounds on the back of the hand.

Sean.

He gritted his teeth, gripped the man's wrist tightly with his left hand, and delivered a powerful punch to the man's face with his right.

The iron fist, which had been tightening screws for decades, slammed into his nose with a dull thud, like a hammer hitting wet wood.

The man's head suddenly tilted to the left, his hat flew off, revealing a bloodless face underneath, and then he stumbled and fell to the ground.

Sean's foot followed closely behind, kicking the dagger. The blade slid across the ground and disappeared into the gaps between the legs of the crowd.

Finba looked up at Sean, the comrade he didn't know but felt a strange sense of familiarity with.

Sean relaxed his shoulders, wiped the hand that had hit him on his trouser leg, and then reached out towards him.

"That was a nice punch." Finba nodded at him.

Sean gave a good-natured smile: "Don't worry, we've got your back."

Finba paused for a moment, then asked, "Us?"

He looked around and realized that, at some point, the workers around him, all wearing the same overalls and caps, had formed a circle.

Some of them he recognized—familiar faces from the Greenwood factory, and even some of the younger generation he had taught; others he didn't recognize, perhaps brought by Sean, or perhaps they came spontaneously after hearing about today's court appearance.

They stood there, without slogans or banners, just looking at Finba with unwavering eyes, because they knew that someone would walk in for them today.

Finba's throat tightened, he swallowed, and reached out to grasp Sean's rough but warm hand.

He pulled hard and dragged Finba up from the ground.

The crowd automatically parted to both sides. No one directed them; each person took a step back, leaving a narrow passage that led from the street all the way to the iron gate of the courthouse.

The hat that had been knocked off and a few drops of blood were still on the stone floor. Finba walked in the middle of the passage, with the walls of people on both sides supporting him as he entered the courthouse. After that, the crowd closed in behind him.

Before long, the rumble of a carriage came from the other end of the street, and the crowd began to stir, surging in layers like a wheat field being blown by the wind.

Greenwood's carriage arrived, its black paint gleaming. Four tall black horses snorted, and five or six burly men followed on either side of the carriage, their thick necks exposed at the collar.

"Get out of the way! Get out of the way!" the burly man in the lead shouted at the top of his lungs, as if shooing away stray dogs begging at the door.

The crowd was forced to move back half a step to the sides, leaving a narrow gap just wide enough for the carriage to pass through.

Then, someone made the first move, and a rotten egg flew out from the crowd, exploded on the side wall of the carriage, the shell shattered into several pieces, and the discolored egg liquid dripped down the black paint.

Next came rotten tomatoes and rotten vegetable leaves, flying in from who-knows-where.

The burly men shielded their faces with their arms, cursing and driving away the crowd, but they were short-handed and couldn't attend to everything.

As Greenwood climbed out of the carriage, a rotten tomato landed squarely on his shoulder, adding a cruel touch to his expensive dark gray coat.

With his head down and his mouth and nose covered by a handkerchief, he stumbled through the human wall under the cover of two burly men, almost tumbling and crawling into the courthouse.

A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd; some shouted "Serves him right," some whistled, and some clapped.

An old woman threw a piece of rotten vegetable leaf at the closed courthouse door, and the leaf stuck to the door panel.

Meanwhile, in an unassuming pub in East London.

This is a place frequented by dockworkers and homeless people; there aren't many people there during the day, just a few empty tables.

The door was pushed open, and Hans stood in the doorway. He looked no different from an ordinary dockworker, or any man with few coins in his pocket who just wanted to find a quiet corner to have a drink.

Just then, a petite woman walked out of the bar, and their arms briefly crossed.

Hans didn't pay attention, mostly because he was too lazy to look down at her. He had almost finished his work here, and only Richard was left.

He walked up to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and put the money on the bar.

The bartender took the money, placed the drink in front of him, and turned to wipe the glass.

Hans picked up his whiskey and had just brought it to his lips when a voice came from behind him.

"Sir, please wait a moment."

Hans stopped moving, turned his head slightly, and glanced behind him through the brim of his hat.

"Someone has reported you for allegedly being involved in a murder," the voice continued. "I need to conduct a routine check on you."

Hans held the glass, the whiskey swirling in it as he considered the position of the person behind him, how many people were around him, and whether there was an escape route through the doorway.

Just as he was about to throw the cup in the direction of the sound, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye.

gun.

A revolver, deliberately exposed from its holster, its grip gleaming greasy under the gaslight.

Next to the gun was a gleaming police baton, held in a white-gloved hand.

Hans knew this was aimed at him.