The nameless union, referred to simply and comfortably as the Continental Covenant, sprawled across a vast territory from the southern reaches of Florida to the frigid Arctic Circle. Throughout this immense expanse, the supremacy of “Nemo” was conceded without question. Even if one counted only the nations formally part of the Covenant, the alliance’s sphere of influence was already more massive than the combined realms of England and France.

Despite being a fledgling nation born of rapid expansion, recent warfare, and sudden encounters with diverse indigenous peoples, the gears of the Union turned with surprising grace. In fact, things had stabilized to such a degree that Kim Lee-sang found his workload significantly diminished.

Hmm… a university, then? If I establish a College of Agriculture, will I be the first? What should I do next?

His interventions were no longer a daily necessity. This shift was largely due to the steady economic expansion the Virginia community had experienced. As the production of various consumer goods became self-sufficient, the trade balance with Europe improved, but more importantly, the community’s reliance on Kim Lee-sang’s personal resources had dwindled.

With the proliferation of reverberatory and crucible furnace methods for iron and steel production, the need to haul raw iron from Lee-sang’s farm every morning had vanished. Aside from specialized medicines, medical supplies, Lexan panels, and aluminum, there were virtually no essential resources that the community still required from him. Even in the medical field, local infirmaries were now independently producing alcohol and purified water, while aluminum had settled into its role as a luxury trade good with little impact on daily operations.

On the military front, researchers had located flint mines to replace Lee-sang’s lighter components in flintlock muskets and were actively seeking domestic alternatives for Lexan. While the community still required Lee-sang as its spiritual pillar, political nucleus, and the catalyst for the religious fervor driving its prosperity, it no longer depended on him for its physical survival.

Lee-sang viewed this as a positive omen—a sign that the community was maturing into a healthy, self-sustaining entity.

I suppose I can finally redirect these surplus resources toward my next project.

The materials and energy once scattered across a thousand desperate needs were now pooling in one place, giving him the freedom to embark on something far more audacious.

***

I had expected a project of grand civil engineering to be necessary on Croatoan Island, but I soon realized I didn’t need to build anything particularly massive from scratch. We already had spaces for storing seeds and conducting cross-breeding experiments. There were breakrooms for the vineyard keepers and a dedicated meeting hall where experts from across the territory gathered to deliberate.

My primary task was simply to rechristen these existing spaces: the “Laboratory,” the “Dormitory,” and the “Lecture Hall.”

While I did initiate the design of a proper campus—a Renaissance-style brick structure intended to evoke a sense of scholarly gravitas—the most important realization was that we could start the work before the first brick was laid. The framework of a knowledge community was already there. The vineyard keepers were already sharing information and building upon each other’s research to reach deeper truths. I merely needed to provide the direction for them to begin training the next generation.

“To start,” I told the gathered experts, “our university will provide instruction in Latin, mathematics, and a touch of the classics.”

I intended to incorporate the seven traditional liberal arts—grammar, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. These were the foundations of a free person’s education, and several remained indispensable even by modern standards. Latin remained the international language of scholarship, essential for anyone wishing to engage with European intellectuals. Logic and rhetoric, taught through classical texts, were equally vital for structuring thought and debate.

Mathematics, represented by arithmetic and geometry, needed no justification for its inclusion. In the end, I only excised astronomy and music. Given that 17th-century astronomy was still hopelessly entangled with astrology, I saw no reason to formalize it. In an era devoid of secondary schools, providing these foundational basics was a prerequisite for the more specialized work to come.

With the “General Education” requirements settled, it was time to move to the core of the project. The people of the Union considered it a profound honor to live on Croatoan and serve in any capacity, so news of the new “College of Agriculture” brought a flood of applicants before I had even officially opened enrollment. While many were initially baffled that a university would train “agriculturalists” rather than physicians or theologians, that wasn’t the only departure from tradition.

“A Doctorate?” one of my assistants asked, his eyes wide.

“That’s right,” I replied. “After they’ve earned their Master’s.”

In my system, a Master’s and a Doctorate were distinct, sequential concepts. A Master’s degree would still signify that a student possessed the minimum qualifications to teach, but now, that degree would be tied to a specific major: Agriculture. If a Master could then prove their ability to generate new knowledge as an independent researcher, they would earn the title of Doctor.

I was transplanting the 21st-century academic structure I remembered, necessitated by the fact that I had fundamentally changed the university’s purpose. It was no longer an institution for grooming aristocratic “men of culture.” It was a forge for experts who could advance their fields through research and then train others to do the same. This was the essence of the university I envisioned.

“A College of Engineering?” another voiced asked. “You mean to train mechanics… at a university?”

“Precisely. At a university.”

I had no intention of stopping at agriculture. The existing Knight and Mechanic schools were merely vocational institutions, lacking the depth required to function as a true think-tank. I needed a College of Engineering. By blending the average knowledge of a 21st-century Korean high school graduate with the practical experience of our active-duty knights and mechanics, I managed to cobble together a functional curriculum.

By integrating the English exiles to establish colleges of philosophy, linguistics, natural sciences, and theology, I created an institution that even a contemporary European would recognize as a place of high learning. The goal was to build the bridge—a path for a student to gain specialized knowledge, develop the capacity to teach, and finally achieve the scholarly depth of a researcher.

As the blueprints for the agricultural and engineering colleges took shape, the vineyard keepers bustled about, boasting that they finally wouldn’t have to worry about their successors. The common folk whispered in anticipation, curious about the true nature of the university the ‘Angel’ was building on his private island.

Yet, as I looked at the plans, a nagging feeling persisted. This isn’t enough.

I realized that even this vision was incomplete. Why was the knowledge taught in medieval universities so impractical? Because those spaces were designed to cultivate the refinement of free men. I had changed that by focusing on professional training, but was that the whole answer?

No.

If a university exists solely for “culture,” it runs on vanity and self-satisfaction. Even if it receives patronage, that support serves the donor’s prestige or intellectual amusement rather than a societal need. This was why medieval academia rarely advanced industrial or technological capacity, focusing instead on political necessity or abstract pleasure.

I remembered the modern world—the sprawling network of research institutes and the relentless investigations they conducted. Those gears didn’t turn themselves. In the 21st century, the state led the way, launching national projects and funding research to bolster national power. I could do the same; I had been doing it all along. The vineyard keepers had only worked so tirelessly on seed improvement because I had demanded it. I could spearhead technological advancement in any field I chose to focus on.

But I can’t be interested in everything.

Even a modern state faces this limitation. The world is too vast and complex for any single entity to micromanage the direction of all scholarship. I had lived in a capitalist society, and in that world, the role of reflecting societal needs into academic research fell to another entity.

The corporations.

I reached a decision. Crafting academic structures and curricula wasn’t my only task. I left the quiet shores of Croatoan and headed for the mainland.

“N-Nameless One! To what do we owe the honor of your presence in a place like this?”

“Greetings. Are you the Abbot of this establishment?”

“Please, come inside first.”

I had arrived at the Industrial Monastery of Chesapeake.

***

Chesapeake housed only one tractor factory—the largest facility in the city, built at Nemo’s request by a collective of master craftsmen. The other factories surrounding it acted as a supporting ecosystem, supplying parts, materials, and tools to the central hub. It was Virginia’s first true heavy industry complex.

Nestled among these factories were several modest yet dignified structures that resembled small fortresses. These were the monasteries. As Nemo reached the largest of them—the Tractor Monastery—the doors swung open to welcome him.

“Greetings,” Nemo said. “Are you the Abbot?”

The man was visibly shaken. He hadn’t expected the legendary figure to arrive unannounced. This was a place of communal living, with shared housing and dining halls for the members of the order, modeled loosely after European traditions. Nemo toured the facility as a crowd began to gather, the air buzzing with excitement at his presence.

The resemblance to European monasticism ended at the surface. These monks were of both genders, and many were married. While they led disciplined, somewhat ascetic lives, they lacked the strict theological rigidity of the Old World. Still, as one of the few Virginia orders to maintain a truly communal lifestyle, they were the closest approximation of the monastic archetype.

The Abbot led Nemo to a reception room and offered him a simple drink. While Nemo sipped the beverage, the Abbot tried to settle his racing thoughts.

“I have a proposal for the head of the Tractor Monastery,” Nemo began.

The Abbot bowed low. “A proposal? My Lord, you need only command. If I tell the workers that you have a request, every soul here will toil until their hands bleed to—”

“No,” Nemo interrupted. “This must be a proposal.”

The Abbot looked up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“This cannot be something achieved simply because I ordered it,” Nemo explained. “It must be accomplished through your own strength and will. It shouldn’t be a task that ends when a superior stops giving commands; it must be a continuous endeavor that you pursue by your own volition.”

“And… what is this task?”

“For this monastery and your order to grow stronger,” Nemo said, “it must be easier for anyone to participate in your work.”

That was the purpose of the Virginia orders—to allow everyone to experience the sanctity of daily life through labor. To expand their influence, they required a higher level of mechanization and a more refined division of labor. While the Tractor Monastery was a prestigious organization filled with experts, the very complexity of their work limited their reach.

“The College of Engineering, which will soon be established, will assist you,” Nemo proposed. “Discuss this with the factory owners.”

The university would fulfill their desire for expansion. It would give the leaders of the order a chance to spread the gospel of holy labor more widely, while guaranteeing the factory owners larger facilities and greater profits.

“Then…”

“Yes,” Nemo said with a smile. “Commission the university to assist your business.”

And so, the very first research commission was delivered to a university that had not yet been built.

***

Though the university linked to the industrial orders pursued practical science, “Croatoan University” was far from a mere technical school. In this era, and especially in the rapidly organizing Continental Covenant, law, theology, philosophy, and politics were equally practical fields of study.

“Calvin responded to Thomas Aquinas’s arguments in the Summa Theologica as follows,” a professor lectured. “Today, let us deliberate on this thesis.”

Because the Nameless Church lacked a rigid, elaborate dogma, theology lectures often involved comparative studies of various denominations—including Islam and Judaism.

“As the Catholic Church refined its doctrines through the Council of Trent, a decisive divergence appeared in the doctrine of the Communion of Saints…”

“In the Lutheran Church, there are accusations that the Calvinists hold doctrines similar to those of Islam.”

The curriculum resembled a modern comparative religion course. However, this was an era barely a century removed from the Reformation; the doctrines and relationships between sects were living, breathing, and often volatile. The modern political and religious landscape was inseparable from the academic one. Naturally, the theology lectures expanded to cover the current state of Europe.

In one such lecture, an English professor who had fled the chaos of his homeland to seek refuge in the Covenant spoke to his students. “Currently, the atmosphere in England among both Catholics and Protestants is ominous.”

Persecution had pushed English Catholics toward radicalization, while the Protestant side was becoming increasingly extremist in the wake of a war that, despite their victories, had ended on ambiguous and humiliating terms.

“We cannot yet know where this heightening friction will lead English politics,” the professor said, his voice trembling as he recalled being targeted by Catholic terrorists. “Nor can we predict how it will shake the religious fervor of all Europe. But one thing is certain: the hostility toward one another is deepening. It feels as if all of Europe is on the verge of an explosion.”