Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

Dark clouds gradually gathered on the horizon, and the wind, like a soul whose heart had been ripped out, howled around the rooftops.

Alfonso's figure disappeared at the end of the garden. Napoleon III's gray eyes revealed no emotion. The last monarch of the French Empire was standing alive before him.

"They say you're a businessman," his mustache twitched, "but here you are, teaching a prince to shoot."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Richard bowed stiffly.

The emperor didn't look at him, but stared at the broken porcelain shards on the ground: "A monarch who can only break plates cannot govern a country."

He reached behind him, and a soldier immediately handed him a Chasebo rifle.

Richard's heart skipped a beat; he almost thought the emperor was going to execute him personally.

No, he won't. He's the emperor, not an executioner.

But the dark muzzle of the gun was raised only slightly, and that was enough to make Richard's palms sweat profusely.

"His Highness Alfonso dislikes killing, I just..." Richard's throat was dry.

"What are you? Do you think a prince shouldn't kill? Or do you think that for a deposed monarch, happiness is more important than ability?" the emperor interrupted him.

"The prince is still a child."

boom!

A shot rang out.

Richard jerked back, his ears ringing, but he didn't even feel any pain.

Then, something fell heavily behind him, like a bag of flour hitting the ground.

Richard turned around, still shaken. There was a pigeon on the ground, its feathers scattered everywhere, and blood seeping into the soil.

Looking back at Napoleon III, his goatee curled slightly upwards.

It seems the emperor and the servants releasing the doves were exchanging some secret message, which Richard completely failed to notice.

He clenched his fist, but quickly relaxed it.

There was no room for his anger in front of the emperor.

Napoleon III was very pleased with his reaction. He walked over to Richard with his gun and used the dagger on the muzzle to stab the dead pigeon: "This, this is how you shoot."

"Your Majesty," Richard's voice was still trembling, but he forced himself to speak, "you are right, a bullet must hit its mark, preferably a living thing."

Napoleon III raised an eyebrow slightly, seemingly surprised that he could still speak.

“But His Highness dislikes killing, and if you force him,” Richard paused, “you will not get a good king, but a child who hates you.”

The shooting range fell silent, with only the rustling of the wind through the grass.

"Interesting," the emperor said, handing the hunting rifle to the guard. "The last person who dared to speak to me like that was exiled to Algeria by me."

Richard nervously swallowed.

"But he was a good officer," the Emperor added, "so three years later, I transferred him back."

The Emperor approached Richard, looking down at him: "What were you showing the prince just now?"

Richard hadn't expected the emperor to ask about it, so he hurriedly took a sample from his briefcase and handed it over with both hands: "This is it, Your Majesty."

Napoleon III took it and placed it in his palm; the bronze casing still gleamed with a dark red light under the dark clouds.

"Bullet... I thought you were an art dealer?" The emperor narrowed his eyes menacingly. "Perhaps I should have you beheaded."

"If...if that happens, I will die, and you will lose an opportunity to win a battle."

The words "victory" seemed to resonate with the emperor, who examined the bullet closely: "Go on."

Richard cleared his throat: "These are soft copper cartridges, which are more convenient and produce higher chamber pressure than paper cartridges."

"What about the cost? All-copper construction must be expensive, right?" the emperor asked, fiddling with the bullets.

"Thirty percent more expensive than paper bullets, Your Majesty."

"Thirty percent," the Emperor repeated the figure. "Do you know how much ammunition the French army consumes in a year?"

"Millions, and in wartime, tens of millions," Richard replied without hesitation.

"You want to spend 30% more to replace something that's already usable?" The emperor smiled contemptuously.

"You have a gun right here, why don't you give it a try?" Richard forced a business-like smile.

The emperor looked at him, remained silent for two seconds, and then tilted his head toward the guard.

The guards jogged to set up the target, and the emperor pulled back the bolt, loading the copper-cased bullet into the chamber with practiced ease.

boom!

The bullseye has a hole.

The emperor lowered his gun, pulled back the bolt, and the spent cartridge case flipped over and jumped out.

He glanced down at the cartridge case, then at the chamber: "Smoother than paper cartridges."

Seeing that the emperor was satisfied, Richard continued to rummage through the briefcase and took out a few more samples: "Your Majesty may try them again."

The emperor took it, stuffed it in, and aimed...

boom!

It was the bullseye again. This time, he didn't put down his gun. Instead, he pulled the bolt repeatedly, and spent cartridges fell to the ground one by one.

"No gunpowder residue." There was a hint of surprise in the Emperor's voice. "The paper bullets need to be cleaned after only three shots..."

"Mine can last for fifty rounds, Your Majesty," Richard boasted.

"Your bullets are good." He handed the gun back to the soldier. "But good isn't enough. France needs a great victory, not just one bullet, I need ten million."

Richard froze. Ten million pills—even before his own factory was seized, he would never have dared to accept such a large order, let alone one from the French Emperor.

Seeing that Richard did not reply, the Emperor sighed in disappointment: "You mean, you only brought bullet samples this time, but can't mass-produce them?"

"My factory is in London, and it was seized by a competitor," Richard confessed.

"Ha, that's why I dislike Britain," Napoleon III scoffed, tossing the sample back to Richard. "All military production should be firmly in the Emperor's hands, not in the hands of merchants like you."

"but,"

He abruptly changed the subject, waving his hand behind him. The messenger immediately and respectfully handed him a piece of handmade paper bearing the imperial eagle emblem.

Napoleon III wrote something on it in a flamboyant style, then folded it up and had the messenger deliver it to Richard, even though the two were only a few meters apart.

Richard accepted the bullets with both hands and heard the Emperor say, "Go to Paris and find this man. If he also says your bullets are good, France will buy them."

He unfolded the letter, which contained only one line of text, written in hasty but forceful handwriting:

"This man carries my imperial edict, instructing Xia Sebo to test his new ammunition. The test results shall be presented to me in person. —N III"

There was no heading, no signature, but the emperor's handwritten signature was more useful than any pass.

"Whatever your name is, sir, France does not do business with losers. Are you a winner?" Napoleon III left the firing range with his army without waiting for his answer.

The wind was still howling, and Richard looked down at his trembling hands.

Fearful, yet still standing.

Meanwhile, in the villa's living room.

Isabella sat on the sofa, holding a teacup in her hand, her eyes vacant, while Louise's pencil scratched on the paper.

Finally, she stopped.

"Finished drawing?" the Queen asked casually.

"I'm done." Louise put down her pencil and placed the sketchbook on her lap.

Isabella didn't look at her, but stared at the swaying bouquet outside the window; it was going to rain.

"Your Highness," Louise took a deep breath, "there's something I haven't told you yet."

"Aren't you a sculptor?" Isabella asked without turning her head.

"You...you knew all along?" Louise's tone was calm, but she could feel her heart racing.

"I'm pretty sure I've seen you somewhere before, but I can't remember where."

"I am Louise Caroline Alberta, daughter of Queen Victoria and her private secretary."

The teacup made a soft clatter on the tray, and tea spilled from the rim, soaking the tablecloth.

"A princess, come and sketch me." Isabella put down her teacup, and her male concubine hurriedly wiped away the tea stains. "What does England want?"

Louise mustered her courage and said to the Queen:

"Britain is willing to support His Highness Alfonso's restoration."