Early in the morning, Allen woke up earlier than usual.
The scent of stew still lingered in the basement, but he no longer felt the joy of accomplishment he had in the past few days.
A pressing sense of crisis hung over his heart like a dark cloud.
He hid most of his cash and newly purchased ingredients, only taking twenty dollars with him as he left.
His destination today was neither the slaughterhouse nor the grocery store, but a gun shop.
In 19th-century New York, firearms were not hard to come by.
Especially at the intersection of the docks and the Bowery District, pawn shops of all sizes always had a few revolvers of dubious origin.
Allen walked into the most inconspicuous pawn shop.
The shop was dimly lit, and the air was filled with dust and the musty smell of old items.
A white-haired, scrawny old man was sitting behind a pile of miscellaneous goods, wiping a silver pipe with a piece of deerskin.
"Good morning, sir," Allen said.
The old man raised his eyelids, a shrewd glint flashing in his cloudy eyes.
"Young man, looking to pawn something, or buy something?"
"Neither."
Allen walked to the counter and lowered his voice, "I want to buy something to protect myself."
"Protect yourself?"
The old man slowly put down his pipe, a mocking smile playing on his lips.
"In this place, there aren't many things that can protect you. A pocketful of gold coins, or a bullet fast enough. Which do you want?"
"A bullet, and the fellow to send the bullet out."
The old man stared at Allen for a full ten seconds, seemingly judging whether this young man was a lamb to be slaughtered or a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Finally, he dragged a heavy wooden box from under the counter.
The box opened, revealing a black velvet lining, on which lay five or six revolvers of different models, reflecting a cold, dim light.
"Colt Paterson, an antique, but well-maintained."
The old man picked up another simply designed gun, "Starr Double Action, a newfangled thing, but it sometimes jams. And this one…"
His hand landed on a sleek, long-barreled revolver.
"Colt 1851 Navy Model. .36 caliber. Countless officers, gamblers, and quick-draw artists loved it. Balanced, accurate, reliable. Enough to deal with two-legged trouble."
Allen's gaze was also drawn to this gun.
His knowledge of such old firearms was limited to movies and information he had seen in his previous life, but he knew that the Colt Navy Model was a famous gun, known for its reliability.
"May I see it?"
"Of course."
Allen picked up the gun; it felt heavier than he expected.
The cold steel texture seemed to possess a magic that could suck out one's soul.
He checked the cylinder and tried the hammer, mimicking what he remembered.
"Which one is least likely to fail when you need it most?"
Allen didn't ask about power, but a more practical question.
The old man's eyes flashed with approval upon hearing this.
"A very good question, young man. A person who only cares how big a hole a gun can make usually doesn't live long. A person whose gun can fire steadily has a chance to survive. It's the one in your hand. The Navy Model, tried and true."
"How much is it?"
"The gun, plus twenty rounds of ammunition and percussion caps, fifteen dollars. No bargaining," the old man quoted a not-so-low price.
"Too expensive," Allen put the gun back in the box, "Ten dollars. I'm just a small businessman, not a rich man."
"Oh, goodness… Ten dollars is too low, twelve dollars," the old man didn't back down, "Kid, you're not buying a piece of iron, but a life. How much do you think your life is worth?"
"Alright, twelve dollars."
Allen knew that excessive haggling in front of these old hands was pointless. He counted out twelve dollars and placed it on the counter.
The old man accepted the money with satisfaction, then took out bullets, percussion caps, and gunpowder from another drawer, wrapping them in oiled paper.
As he handed the items to Allen, he suddenly spoke.
"Remember, young man. The biggest use of a gun, sometimes, isn't to draw it from its holster, but to let others know that there's something in your holster."
Allen looked at him deeply.
"Thank you for the advice, sir."
He hid the gun and ammunition close to his body and quickly left the pawn shop.
Walking on the street, the weight of the revolver in his coat pocket was so real.
This cold steel gave him a sense of security, but also brought a heavy pressure.
He didn't want to be a person who solved problems with violence, but this era forced him to possess violence.
Unconsciously, he walked to the riverside.
The river water sparkled in the sunlight, and several huge steamboats were whistling as they left the port, thick black smoke billowing from their chimneys, full of the power of the industrial age.
In the distance, several new buildings were rising from the ground, workers bustling like ants on the scaffolding.
Everything here was full of vitality, full of upward momentum.
This was the battlefield he yearned for.
To build his own commercial empire with wisdom, capital, and foresight, to create a commercial fleet larger than those steamboats.
This was his dream after coming here.
But the reality was that before realizing this dream, he first had to deal with the "poisonous snake" lurking in the gutter.
Dreams in the clouds, reality in the mud.
He touched the gun in his pocket, then the remaining money in the other pocket.
The gun and money, along with the knowledge and plans in his mind.
These were all his weapons against this cruel world.
"A true empire must not only have the ability to create wealth, but also the power to protect it."
Allen muttered to himself, facing the flowing river.
The excited can vendor in the basement, thrilled by a small profit, seemed to be slowly fading away.
In his place was a calmer, more thoughtful strategist.
He no longer just thought about how to sell cans, but began to consider how to establish an organization that could protect himself, and even take the initiative to attack.
How to use rules, and how to break them.
When he returned to the basement, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
"Allen," she said, her expression a little nervous, "Two rather unfriendly-looking men came looking for you earlier. They asked a lot about you."
Allen's heart tightened.
"What did they look like?"
"One was very tall, with a scar on his face. The other was shorter, but very strong. They said… they said their boss, Mr. Murphy, would come to visit you personally tomorrow to discuss 'cooperation'."
They came.
Faster than expected.
Allen's face showed no panic; instead, a faint smile appeared.
"I understand, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
He replied calmly, "Please rest assured, there will be no trouble."
He walked into the basement and closed the door.
In the darkness, he slowly pulled out the Colt Navy Model revolver from his pocket.
Then he took out the oiled paper package and began to load the bullets into the cylinder, one by one.
"Click."
"Click."
Each soft click was like an overture to the impending "cooperation."
His commercial ship would officially set sail from an unavoidable bloody conflict.