Pope Paul V slowly broke the seal on a letter from an ambitious man, scrutinizing its contents line by line. As he approached his seventieth year, he found it increasingly difficult to decipher the cramped handwriting, which was further obscured by crude ciphers. It was only after a significant amount of time had passed that he finally grasped the message.

—Even among the detestable bloodline of the House of Stuart, there are those who remain Catholic or are at least sympathetic to the faith. The Lord has not yet abandoned this land…

—If we carefully select and install one among them who has not forgotten the Lord’s teachings, the day we re-establish the Holy Church in this cursed land will not be far off. Furthermore…

—I trust that Your Holiness will keep this in mind and, as the Father of the Church, make a magnificent decision. Through this…

—I remain your faithful servant in the Lord, Guido.

The Pope could discern the general thrust of the missive. Sent via Spain and eventually reaching Rome, this letter contained a grave proposition: treason against King James I of England and Scotland.

Paul V felt a wave of unease just holding the parchment. The mere fact that this letter had reached his hands lent partial credence to the political propaganda circulating within Britain—the claim that the Pope was orchestrating treason using domestic Catholics, that the Catholics were traitors colluding with Spain, and that the Church intended to dismantle England and Scotland from the shadows.

Of course, such a feat had been deemed impossible due to the bloody purges and the relentless march of apostasy that had defined Elizabeth’s long reign. Thirty or forty years ago, there might have been hope, but now the devil’s teachings were deeply rooted. The late Queen had secured public support through successive military victories and political achievements, effectively snuffing out any remaining space for a Catholic revival. Previous Popes had been forced to swallow their tears of frustration at this reality.

Treason had been impossible. Or more accurately, it had been impossible.

Now, it might just be feasible, Paul V thought, tossing the letter into the fireplace.

“Treat the saintly servant who brought this with great hospitality,” the Pope commanded. “And bring him before me shortly; I wish to bestow honor upon him.”

“But, Your Holiness, shall we not send a reply to the letter?” an attendant asked.

“Not for now.”

Caution was paramount. It was unclear how many Catholics remained in England or if their numbers were sufficient to exert any real influence. In such a situation, to throw the weight of Rome behind a faction led by this man, Guy Fawkes, without knowing its strength would be disastrous if they failed. While England had pledged to cease the persecution of Catholics under the peace treaty with Spain, the Pope’s direct involvement in treason would render that promise—fragile as it was—utterly moot.

Calling Fawkes’s subordinate to a private chamber, the Pope offered a barrage of flowery, sweet praises. They were words of grand recognition, yet entirely devoid of substance. Rome would support Guy Fawkes and the British Catholics, but only after they demonstrated tangible results—such as a change in the monarchy.

Besides, more immediate concerns demanded his attention.

“Your Holiness, we have lost contact with the Japanese envoy exploring Nueva España!”

“What…?”

“It appears they were swept away by one of the frequent storms in that region,” the attendant reported, voice trembling. “We must track them down by any means…”

The Pope stifled a sigh and nodded, his heart heavy with regret. Had he erred in keeping the envoy a year or two longer than planned just to bolster the Church’s prestige? Had he overreacted to the turmoil in England and the Protestant offensive? If only he hadn’t detained the envoy at the Vatican for so long, this misfortune might have been avoided.

Why did such a vital ship have to be wrecked now? This was a golden opportunity to open exchange with tens of thousands of believers in Japan and take a more aggressive stance in Asian missions.

“Haaa…”

Furthermore, recent news from the East was bleak. Edicts had been issued in Japan for the expulsion of missionaries and a ban on Catholicism. While mortals could not dare to guess the unfolding of the Lord’s holy history, it seemed Japan was not yet ready to be embraced by the Church. As such, Pope Paul V could do nothing but offer his prayers.

***

The 17th century was an era when Europeans were reaching out toward the great oceans, constructing a truly global history. They often believed they could illuminate all the world’s mysteries and conquer every sea and land.

“Furl the sails! Quickly!”

Yet the world remained vast, and the territory man could govern was but a fraction of the whole. From the perspective of the abyss, even a large ocean-going vessel was like a tiny grain of sand before a child—easily blown away by a single breath. And as the sea exhaled a ragged breath in the form of a storm, the puny works of man stood no chance.

“Lord! Lord! Please protect us! Please! Just let us live…!”

“O Saints! If I return, I shall donate my entire fortune to the Church! Just let me return alive!”

The ship, destined for Hispaniola, lost its way instantly, scattered like an ant in the wind. The crew clung to the rigging and the masts, which groaned and bent like bowstrings, tying themselves down to avoid being swept into the churning black water. They frantically bailed out the flooding hull, squinting through the blinding spray to find any sign of the horizon.

It was a futile effort.

With a sickening crack, the mast finally snapped, and the sailors felt the cold kiss of impending death. They offered what they believed to be their final prayers, weeping amidst the savage roar of the gale. Even the sun behind the clouds sank below the horizon, plunging them into a night where neither moon nor star could pierce the darkness.

CRASH!

The impact reverberated through their bones, and most of the crew and passengers collapsed, unable to withstand the shock. They had no idea where they were. It was only much later, when they regained consciousness as dawn broke, that they realized the ship was wedged into a sandy beach.

“We’re alive! We’re alive!”

“Thank you, Lord!”

Tears of joy flowed as they realized they had been snatched from the jaws of death. Staggering onto the deck, the missionary Luis Sotelo called out to a man who had been sequestered in his cabin.

“Lord Hasekura, we’ve survived! My God, it’s land!”

The man emerged slowly, his expression one of dazed disbelief as he surveyed his surroundings. Before him lay a white beach, backed by thickets of exotic trees and scattered tropical fruit.

“Luis, do you know where we are?”

“Not yet, but a scouting party is searching the coast. We’ll have an answer soon. What matters most is that we’ve kept our lives, does it not?”

“I suppose… you’re right.”

The man adjusted his attire and followed the others off the ship. Looking back, he saw that their vessel was a wreck; with its broken mast and warped hull, it would be unseaworthy without extensive repairs. As the initial euphoria of survival faded, realistic anxieties began to crowd into their minds. Where were they? An island? A continent?

Spain controlled much of the Americas; if the light of civilization reached this place, they would soon be rescued and returned to their destination. But what if it was a deserted island? Or worse, a land inhabited by the cannibals they had heard rumors of? What if it was filled with hostile savages? They would have to worry about survival rather than escape. The thought made Hasekura’s blood run cold. They prayed that this was a land ruled by Christians.

“The scouting party is back—”

“Everyone! Run! Run for your lives!”

Their prayers were answered, but in a way they never desired.

“A carriage of steel… a monster…!”

The faces of the Spanish survivors paled. Most of them knew exactly what those words implied. They were in Florida. It was a land ruled by Christians, yes—but not the kind they wanted.

Soon, soldiers swarmed them, forming a tight perimeter.

“This is a land ruled by a barbarian lord,” a Spaniard whispered, trembling. “Where the teachings of wicked apostates and heretics run rampant!”

“I’ve heard rumors that the slaves here worship some kind of angel. It’s horrifying.”

“They say they command terrifying machines that slaughtered our soldiers in an instant.”

“I… I saw it! I saw the machine!”

“My God, we’re all dead!”

As the Spaniards trembled in the territory of their enemy, Hasekura watched helplessly as the soldiers leveled their muskets at them. He had heard the rumors. Northeast of Nueva España lay an empire of heretics whose Emperor collaborated with other European deviants to threaten Spain and all faithful nations. A strange and fearsome heresy ruled this land.

In the distance, he saw a watchtower. The soldiers must have spotted them from there.

“Those damn Spanish demons! Have they invaded again?”

“Drop your weapons or die! Everyone, disarm now!”

The soldiers from the outpost shouted their commands, and the survivors, their will to fight already extinguished, threw down their gear. Those who claimed to have seen the ‘steel carriage’ were the first to surrender, their spirits completely broken. The rest followed suit as dozens more well-armed enemy troops arrived. It was an incredibly swift response; they had been surrounded almost the moment the sun touched the horizon. Columns of smoke rose from various points—signal fires.

Do they monitor the entire coast with these outposts? Hasekura wondered.

The composition of the soldiers surrounding them was peculiar. There were Africans, Indios, and Europeans, all blended into a single unit. They all carried muskets that looked subtly different from the ones he had seen in Europe.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

Then came a heavy, mechanical rhythmic sound. At the eerie noise of grinding metal, the survivors turned their heads in unison. Hasekura’s mouth hung open. A beast made of iron. It was large enough to crush a man in an instant.

While he stood dazed by the sheer scale of the tractor, the others cowered, whispering that the ‘Chariot of the Devil’ had arrived. They were convinced they were about to be executed. The Florida Coast Guard disarmed the Spaniards and lined them up to be led away.

As they marched, Hasekura looked around again. These soldiers wore uniform clothing and marched with identical equipment. He had never seen such a disciplined, cohesive force.

Everything about this place was bizarre.

***

While the central authority had shifted from the Virginia community to the Continental Covenant and England had withdrawn from the front lines, the war between the Covenant and Spain continued. The Bishopric of Florida, in particular, was obsessed with the threat of a Spanish reinvasion. Consequently, they had dismantled nearby Spanish military outposts and fortified the coast to an extreme degree.

They established dozens of watchtowers and fortresses, forming a Coast Guard in conjunction with the Knights. Benchmarking the Knight and Mechanic schools of Virginia, they had founded a military academy to train a professional force. Unlike the Virginia system, which focused on tractors and the Knights, Florida maintained a standing army of several thousand, focused entirely on border security.

The Continental Congress did not interfere with this maritime defense, judging that such a tight cordon would prevent dangerous rumors about Nemo from leaking to the outside world. To sustain this large standing force, Florida had rapidly expanded its influence, registering runaway slaves and remaining Spaniards as citizens while mediating and incorporating indigenous tribes into the system. This racially diverse force guarded the coast, simultaneously cutting off any avenues for spies or smugglers.

Of course, it was impossible for a few thousand men to perfectly seal the entire two-thousand-kilometer coastline. They relied on outposts at regular intervals, armed local residents, and a sophisticated information network using signal fires. Most of the Florida government’s resources were poured into this endeavor.

“Bishop, the Spaniards discovered on the southern coast appear to be castaways,” a report stated.

“I see. Detain them and begin the process of conversion—”

“However, there is a peculiarity.” The aide handed a document to the Bishop of Florida. “There is a man claiming to be a diplomatic envoy from a distant land.”

“I… I can’t even tell how to read this name,” the Bishop muttered. “What is he?”

“It is read as ‘Hasekura.’ And as for his identity…”

“…”

“I believe we should report this to the Continental Congress.”

***

“I—I am an emissary sent by my lord from the land of Japan to meet His Holiness the Pope! You cannot treat me this way!”

“Your name is…?”

“Hasekura Tsunenaga!” the man shouted, confined in the same room as the missionary Sotelo.

It was the first recorded encounter between the Continental Covenant and the world of East Asia.