Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The Fenian men were carrying guns as they walked through the narrow alleyway beside the Greenwood factory when they heard the muffled thunderous roar.

The leading man paused, looked up in surprise at the black smoke and sparks billowing from the top of the chimney. This was not part of their plan. Had something happened?

"Hurry!" he roared, and a dozen men quickened their pace and surged into the factory through the side gate.

The black smoke in the workshop had begun to dissipate slowly, the roar of the boiler had completely stopped, the steam pipes had burst, and the entire factory was incredibly quiet. The acrid smell of smoldering coal ash filled the factory.

All the workers had vanished. The Irish workers who had been busy on the assembly line, their hands never stopping for a moment, had all disappeared.

Some people even escaped through a hole in the back wall that was usually used to move waste.

Only two people remained, or rather, they had just returned.

They were guards, two muscular men in dark gray overalls, but with clean faces; they were thugs hired by Greenwood.

The two men squatted beside the boiler, one holding a wrench, trying to figure out how to restart the extinguished furnace, muttering curses as they said, "Where are the army men?"

Just then, they heard footsteps, looked up, and saw a group of people pouring in from the workshop entrance.

They were carrying guns, and they certainly didn't look like army personnel.

The two guards exchanged a glance, and without a word, they simultaneously threw down their wrenches, sprang to their feet, and took off running. The Fenian men raised their hands and fired.

boom!boom!

Gunshots echoed between the empty corrugated iron walls of the workshop.

The bullet grazed the cast iron fuselage, sending up a few sparks, and hit the tool rack hanging on the wall, scattering wrenches and hammers all over the floor.

But none of the shots hit the two men. Like rabbits being chased by hounds, the two thugs darted left and right and disappeared at the end of the workshop.

It wasn't that Fennia's marksmanship was bad; they were just too fast, and their guns were too long and heavy, practically brittle.

"Stop chasing!" The leader lowered the still-smoking muzzle of his gun and shouted to his two henchmen who were about to give chase, "Burn this place down first!"

The two people stopped, turned around, and walked back.

A dozen or so people started rummaging through drawers and cabinets.

They smashed open the warehouse's iron door with their rifle butts, pried open the wooden crates in the storage room with crowbars, and then rummaged through the iron barrels piled up in the corner.

They were looking for gunpowder, linseed oil, anything that could be ignited, even walnut wood blanks for gunstocks, but they found nothing.

The warehouse was empty, with a thin layer of dust on the shelves, and not a single piece of waste paper.

There were only a few buckets of dried paint in the storage room. The bottom of the buckets was covered with a cracked crust. When the lids were pried open, a pungent smell wafted out, but it was dry and could not be lit.

There were no sawdust or straw in the wooden box, and even the oil paper used for packaging had been cleaned up.

"Damn it!" The leader kicked over an empty metal barrel, which rolled several times on the ground with a clattering sound. "What kind of arms factory does he run if he has nothing?"

His men stood dumbfounded in the workshop, guns in hand, staring at rows of machine tools and a boiler that had been shut down. The room was full of valuables, but they couldn't move them or burn them.

This was because Richard knew he couldn't stop Fennia's attack, so he sent Mr. Nose to warn Greenwood in advance.

He was warned to remove all flammable materials from the factory on the day he went to court.

This turned the arsenal, a powder keg ready to ignite at any moment, into an empty city with only metal shells and a paralyzed furnace.

Mr. Nose had planned to have the army lie in ambush around the factory beforehand, then trap them like turtles in a jar once they stormed in. However, the army had taken a detour and hadn't even arrived yet.

A young man approached, his expression a mix of confusion and frustration: "Boss, what do we do now? Can we blow up that boiler?"

The leader turned and glared at him: "What are you going to use to blast it? Use a match to light the coal briquettes inside? Even a fool knows that won't burn!"

His finger poked the young man's chest, and the young man shrank back, no longer daring to speak.

Another person next to him raised his hand: "Boss, how about we take off our clothes and use them as bait?"

The leading man was silent for two seconds, then took a deep breath. It was a stupid solution that he didn't want to admit, but there was really no other way.

He looked around; time was running out, and he had to do something.

"Damn it, take it off!" he said.

Several men put down their guns and began to unbutton their shirts. A few young men took off their coats and shirts, standing shirtless in the coal-smoke-filled workshop, like a group of drunkards who had just been kicked out of a bathhouse and didn't know where they were.

The man in the lead took out a box of matches from his pocket and struck one.

He was about to throw it when he suddenly stopped.

The sound of orderly hooves came from outside the workshop; the noise alone suggested there were dozens of horses.

Following the sound of hooves was the rumble of wheels, and these were not the light wooden wheels of ordinary carriages, but the wheels of artillery vehicles covered in iron. As they rolled over the gravel road, the ground trembled slightly. To make matters worse, there was also the sound of soldiers' boots.

The leader recognized the sound as that of field artillery. He had seen such cannons in Ireland, knew the effects they produced, and had seen people desperately trying to hide in trenches amidst the artillery fire.

"Withdraw!" His voice became short and urgent.

His men were still in a daze; some had just taken off their shirts and were still clutching the wad of cloth in their hands, not yet having realized what was happening.

Several bullets whistled into the workshop and struck a man who was about to throw his clothes into the boiler in the shoulder. Blood splattered, and he screamed and fell to the ground clutching his shoulder.

Another bullet struck the door frame, sending splinters flying. Shrapnel grazed another man's cheek, leaving a long, narrow bloody gash on his face.

"Retreat!" the leader ordered again. They were not afraid to die, but their brothers could not die in vain.

So the remaining men rushed out of the workshop gate and squeezed into the narrow alley outside the factory wall. This was the place they knew best. In those winding alleys, the army's horses couldn't get in, and the lobster soldiers couldn't even tell which way was which.

But the people of Fennia, the Irish who have been struggling in this swamp for over a decade, can find their way even with their eyes closed.

The gunshots behind them were still ringing out, but they had faded into the distance, and slowly only the sound of their disordered footsteps remained.

The young man at the front, panting heavily, turned to the leader and asked, "Boss, did we... fail?"

The leader slapped the young man hard on the back of the head, the force quite strong, causing him to stagger. "Shut up! Don't say such discouraging things! We don't know how Sera is doing yet, she's much smarter than us!"

The young man covered his head, not daring to ask any more questions. The group continued running through the alley, eventually dispersing in Blackwell.

In the workshop, Fenia, shirtless, lay beside the boiler, blood flowing from a wound on her shoulder, but no one paid any attention. To the soldiers, they were no different from the coats and hats that others had taken off.