Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

The carriage swayed along the gravel road. Richard sat in the corner of the carriage, one hand supporting his chin, his elbow resting on the window frame, his head sinking little by little with the swaying of the carriage.

The bumpy rhythm was too soothing, and he was too tired.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, the coachman suddenly pulled the reins, and the carriage came to a screeching halt.

The wheels seized on the gravel road, Richard's head slipped off his hand, and he was jolted in the neck.

He suddenly opened his eyes, and the twilight was still before him.

"What's going on..." Richard poked his head out, about to question them, but stopped.

A black police baton was placed across the front of the carriage, the other end held by a police officer. However, he was not directing traffic at the intersection; it seemed more like he was deliberately standing in the middle of the road to stop the carriage.

Richard was stunned and could only wait and see.

Just then, another carriage came from a distance.

It has an extravagantly luxurious decoration, and its deep chestnut lacquer shines like aged port wine under the streetlights.

The spokes of the wheel were polished to a gleaming shine, and the rim was engraved with a family crest that Richard had never seen before.

The carriage stopped next to Richard's, the two carriages side by side, windows facing each other.

Richard looked over and saw a cane part the velvet curtains, revealing the dim interior of the carriage.

Then the silver staff tip gently pushed the brim of the hat up above the forehead.

"Good evening, Richard," a clear voice said.

Richard's drowsiness vanished instantly.

It was the face of someone in their fifties or sixties, with gray hair and neatly trimmed sideburns.

Beneath the shadow of the silk hat were a pair of sharp, piercing eyes that reminded Richard of a jagged falcon perched on a cliff.

"Good evening," Richard cleared his throat. "Do I know you?"

"No, we've never officially met." He rested his hand on the end of his cane, tapping it lightly on the carriage floor. "But we've both heard of each other. I am William George Armstrong."

Richard was taken aback. Baron Armstrong was a tycoon in the British arms industry and the inventor of the breech-loading rifled cannon.

He was familiar with the name, but the question was why the other party would stop his carriage on Christmas Eve.

Also, how did he know his name?

"Oh," Richard tried to make his voice sound less surprised, "so it's Baron Armstrong. May I ask... how you knew me?"

"Because we're all in the same party," Armstrong replied casually.

Richard suddenly realized his mistake and wanted to slap himself.

He only remembered that Armstrong and Gladstone had a strained relationship, but that was after the Irish autonomy issue, when Armstrong broke with Gladstone, resigned from his Liberal Party position, and joined the Liberal Unionist Party.

But that was twenty years from now.

At this very moment, as Gladstone is about to take over Downing Street, they are still under the same banner.

But this did not answer his own question.

Because his funding of Gladstone was not on any document, and only the Prime Minister himself and MP Henry knew about it, could it be that...?

Armstrong chuckled softly when he saw that he was silent.

"The Prime Minister hopes we can work together to solve the Empire's problems," he said. "He believes you have some constructive suggestions regarding my cannons. I don't usually listen to the ideas of a young upstart, but..."

His eyes darted around before settling on Richard: "After checking your resume, I think you're some kind of genius, which is why I came to meet you."

It turns out that Gladstone had revealed himself to Armstrong.

This is not betrayal, but a deliberate matchmaking.

The famously frugal prime minister had no intention of spending twice the money to support two people; what he wanted was for Armstrong to provide a stable industrial base and Richard to provide revolutionary technology.

The two men put their tools together and built a British cannon that could defeat Krupp.

Richard smiled helplessly: "The Prime Minister has a really sharp eye."

Armstrong nodded in agreement. "Let's not waste each other's time. If you think you can improve my cannon, you'll have to convince me first. So, tell me about it."

Richard noticed that there was surprisingly no arrogance on his face.

That serious attitude didn't seem like looking down on a junior at all; it was more like colleagues in the same unit discussing project progress outside of work.

This was probably because the British military abandoned his breech-loading gun and reverted entirely to the original but more reliable bronze muzzle-loading gun.

For an inventor, this is a complete technological regression, a great disgrace.

It's truly remarkable that he could suppress his arrogance and discuss technology with a junior who was decades younger than him.

Richard's lips moved slightly.

Suddenly another thing came to mind: Armstrong's reputation in patent registration.

He often registers patents for new technologies before his competitors even propose them, even if he himself has no use for them.

Therefore, Richard could not reveal his true intentions; he needed to lead Armstrong in the wrong direction.

"Have you heard of the Broadwell Loop?" Richard asked.

Armstrong thought for a moment, then narrowed his eyes: "Isn't that mounted on the gun?"

"If it can be mounted on a breech-loading gun, it can be mounted on a breech-loading cannon," Richard explained. "You've probably heard that Mr. Siemens and I are working on low-carbon steel. The Broadwell ring made from high-quality steel can perfectly solve your breechblock problem."

Armstrong ran his fingers along his chin, his mind racing with calculations. He stared intently at Richard's face for a long, long time.

Richard didn't flinch, or even blink.

Having faced life and death, he was no longer afraid of these threats.

Finally, Armstrong slowly nodded: "Changing the materials for the cannons is also an idea."

"So, you agree with that?" Richard asked cautiously.

"Don't rush, theory still needs to be tested in practice." Armstrong put his hands back on his knees. "Come to my factory in a few days."

Richard quietly let out a breath.

Just as the velvet curtains were about to close, he used his cane to pry open the gap again.

"Oh, by the way," Armstrong said, "Don't worry too much about Greenwood; it won't affect our cooperation."

After saying that, he smiled meaningfully.

The velvet curtains closed, the coachman cracked his whip, and the wheels slowly turned, the dark chestnut carriage receding further and further into the distance.

Richard leaned back in his seat. The air in the carriage was cold and stuffy, and his shirt, now dry from sweat, clung to his skin, making him feel uncomfortable.

He ran his fingers through his hair. Armstrong had already laid his cards on the table; their relationship was now more complicated than that of friends or enemies—opportunists on the surface, rivals in secret.

Richard must always be on guard against him trying to trip him up, and more importantly, he must never let him learn how to make the special steel he manufactures.

The immediate priority is to apply for a patent, and we also need to prepare a response plan in case Sir Armstrong turns on us.

It looks like tonight will be another sleepless night.

"Let's go." Richard knocked on the carriage wall, and the carriage headed back towards Kensington.