Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Before the carriage carrying the two could even turn the corner, they heard several gunshots.

Richard knew he had come to the right place; this was the only way back to the Greenwood factory, and of course, Sierra would be lying in ambush here.

"Stop the car!" he shouted, sticking his head out.

The coachman pulled on the reins, the carriage swayed, and stopped at the street corner.

"You're not going to go down there by yourself, are you?" Louise's voice was somewhat flustered; she could no longer see through the man in front of her.

Richard reached behind his waist and pulled out a revolver from inside his belt. He quickly checked the cylinder to make sure every bullet was in place, then gripped the gun in his right hand.

"Remember what I just told you?" He looked up at Louise. "No matter what happens, don't get out of the car."

Louise grabbed his hand: "You have no idea what it's like there! Don't go!"

She gripped Richard's thumb tightly, as if trying to pull him back into her arms.

Richard lowered his head, switched the gun in his left hand, and then pulled her hand to his chest.

Louise frowned.

She felt that the material under her palm was not the softness of fabric and muscle, but a hard texture with an arc, like iron, yet as thick and resilient as leather.

She pressed down with her fingertips and felt that under the clothes was not flesh, but a layer of armor.

She looked at Richard, puzzled, and was about to ask him what was going on.

Richard had already opened the car door, switched the gun back to his right hand, and glanced back at her.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm all ready."

He jumped off the carriage, the door closed behind him, and his pace quickened, turning from walking to running. He turned the corner and disappeared in an instant.

Meanwhile, on the overturned carriage,

Sierra's gun was pointed at Greenwood's forehead, while he huddled in the wrecked carriage, one leg tucked under the seat, trembling and grinding his teeth like a rat.

"You won't shoot," he forced out of his throat, "If I die, the people behind me won't let you get away with it..."

Sierra stared at Greenwood without even blinking.

"You're still so arrogant," Sera frowned. "Look at your current situation! You have no right to threaten me."

Her finger was on the trigger.

"Sera! Stop!"

A voice came from the other side of the street.

Richard was yelling her name.

Sera paused, turning her head slightly away.

Richard stood in the middle of the street, holding a gun in both hands, the muzzle pointed directly at her.

"Sera!" he shouted again, this time more firmly, "Stop."

The homeless man behind the low wall suddenly stood up, lowered the muzzle of his gun, and pointed his Enfield rifle at Richard.

"Sera," he said anxiously, looking at Sera, "who is he? Should we shoot or not?"

Sera looked at his sweat-drenched hair and the gun clutched in his hand, thought for a moment, and then said, "Wait, I know him. Let's hear what he has to say."

Richard took a few steps forward, the gravel making a crisp sound under his shoes.

The homeless man immediately raised the muzzle of his gun two inches higher, aiming it at the man's chest: "That's enough! Don't go any further!"

Richard stopped; he was now about forty paces from Serra.

His gun was still raised, but the muzzle had been moved slightly away from Sera, no longer pointing directly at her, but at the overturned carriage beside her.

"Your friend?" Richard asked.

"That Prussian said you would definitely come to stop me," Serra said. "He said he wouldn't listen to a word you said, he would just pull the trigger."

Richard swallowed hard; he knew Sera was referring to Hans.

"But you haven't yet," he continued.

"……No."

"You don't need to."

"Why?" Sera raised an eyebrow.

Richard suddenly felt a tickle in his throat, so he coughed twice and covered his mouth with the back of his hand.

This isn't acting; it's a real cough. I was running too fast, and the cold wind got into my lungs and irritated my trachea.

But while he was coughing, several ideas were already running through his mind.

"Can I come a little closer?" he asked her, deliberately using a hoarse voice. "My throat hurts a lot. If we're this far apart, you'll have to shout, and I'll have to shout too."

"No!" the homeless man replied resolutely, his finger already on the trigger.

Richard ignored him and instead stared at Sera, because it was clear that she was the one in charge.

He slowly raised the muzzle of the gun until it was level with his shoulder, then pulled his index finger out of the trigger guard and put it on the outside of the trigger, pointing the muzzle towards the sky.

He stood there with his gun raised, waiting for Sera.

Sera and the homeless man exchanged a glance, then nodded slightly.

Richard turned the gun around, tucked it into his side, straightened up, and walked toward Sera, gradually closing the distance between them.

Forty steps, thirty steps, twenty steps.

The homeless man looked Richard up and down. He couldn't tell what weapons Richard was hiding on his person. The outline of his coat was droopy, there was no bulge at the waist, and the trouser legs were also flat.

So he slowly lowered his gun; the Enfield rifle was too heavy, and his arm would ache if he held it for too long.

Richard stopped less than twenty paces from Serra.

“There’s no need to kill him,” he said. “He’s finished. The judge shut down his factory, he’s going to jail for a long time. The Fennia riots failed, and it’s all over.”

Sera shook her head: "You wouldn't understand. For me, it's not over until this bastard is dead."

She suddenly moved her gun forward another half inch, the muzzle almost touching Greenwood's forehead.

Greenwood shuddered again, instinctively covering his face with his hands like a scolded apprentice.

"I know you hate him," Richard said cautiously, "but even if you kill him, you won't gain your freedom."

"How do you know? You haven't killed any of your enemies."

Richard fell silent. He had never killed any enemies. He had been in this world for less than a year, and his greatest enemy had been imprisoned in a dark cell. The other one was now sitting in the next carriage, probably having wet his pants.

"I really didn't," he said, "but think about it, the past is the past. Even if you splatter his brains out, you can't change the past."

Richard licked his dry lips and continued:

"I'm not asking you to forgive him. To be honest, I also hope he dies in prison, and there's a high probability he will. Given his age and current reputation, he won't live long in prison."

He noticed that Sera's eyes flickered, which proved that whether she liked it or not, his words had been implanted in her head.

He paused for a moment to calm his breathing.

"But please give your child a chance. Eamon is only five years old. How can he survive without his mother?"

Sera's hand began to tremble, as if blown by the wind, and the muzzle of the gun drew a small circle between Greenwood's eyebrows.

The homeless man standing behind the low wall watched this scene and clicked his tongue in disdain.

He abruptly raised the gun again, pointing it at Richard's chest, and roared like a wild beast, "Don't listen to his nonsense! How can a well-dressed, rich man like you empathize with us? His words are poison laced with sugar; don't believe a word he says!"

Sera suddenly laughed, saying in a tone tinged with helplessness and self-mockery, "Aren't we the same?"

The homeless man froze, turning to look at Sera like a military dog ​​that had heard an unfamiliar command and didn't know whether to advance or retreat.

Sera sighed and said to Richard, "Actually, you should have been standing here. The original plan was to let you two fight like dogs. I thought Greenwood hated you, and you hated Greenwood. I thought if we gave you a reason, you would devour each other alive, and we wouldn't have to do anything."

She looked down at her hand holding the gun.

"How could this happen... How could you be such a good person?"

Richard swallowed hard. It turned out that the whole thing—the Irish widow appearing in his factory—was orchestrated by Serra herself. He didn't know what to say; comforting her wasn't an option, nor was scolding her.

"Put down your gun, Sera," he said with difficulty. "It's all over."

"I'm sorry, Richard," Sera said unmoved. "I'm not a good mother, but I have to be a good sister."

"What do you mean?" Richard didn't understand her meaning; she had never mentioned her brother before.

"Can you understand what it feels like to send your own brother to the hospital, only to hear the doctor say there's nothing we can do..." Sera said. "He died there from lead poisoning, it's no different from leaving his body lying in the street..."

Her eyes reddened: "I can let go of my own problems, but he's only just turned twenty... I can't let go of his problems."

Richard remembered Dr. Carter mentioning that it was the last time Sierra brought a worker to the hospital, an Irish worker suffering from lead poisoning. He thought Sierra was collapsing because she was powerless to save her compatriot's life, but he never imagined that it was her brother.

Sera looked up and forced a smile at Richard, as if saying goodbye to herself.

"I'm sorry to have made you spend so much time on a hopeless person."