At that very moment, Peter wished he could flip the table right then and there, but the reason in his heart told him it would be best to endure a little longer.
After all these years, he had made some progress.
Under the Smith Party's frenzied suppression, led by Fisher, he had still managed to drag the Rakshasa Republican Party along until now. Compared with the past, he had clearly matured quite a bit.
But maturity always came at a price. His hairstyle had already been Mediterranean back then, and now it had grown even sparser, leaving only a few pitiful strands of hair to dot his increasingly shiny scalp and display their owner's final stubbornness.
In Peter's eyes, five hundred matchlock guns still did not offer enough security. To ensure nothing went wrong, he felt that he needed at least a thousand—perhaps even two thousand—matchlock guns.
But according to the Great Zhou side, the next batch of matchlock guns would not arrive until spring of next year at the earliest.
Besides, although the matchlock gun was an easy weapon to use, effectively displaying the might of massed fire on the battlefield would undoubtedly require some time for training as well.
These two reasons ultimately allowed Peter to hold his breath and refrain from acting rashly.
However, the entire matter did not proceed as smoothly as he had expected.
As training began on Peter's side, the relevant news soon leaked out.
"In exchange for something called a matchlock gun, they bought a weapon from Great Zhou. It's somewhat similar to an individual crossbow, but much more powerful. Pull the trigger like this, and with a bang, it can even punch through iron armor!"
Inside a certain room, a shabby-dressed white man gestured as he spoke to Fisher, who was seated