Chapter 112

Oitotan returned.

And he gave me his report.

“…”

“…”

“So, uh.”

“I’ve already heard all about it.”

“The tribesmen accompanying me were somewhat lacking, so I am not certain if the true, deeper meaning of my diplomatic methods was properly conveyed.”

“Oh, it was conveyed. Properly.”

“…”

“…”

“In that case.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

This crazy bastard. He provoked the King of France right to his face?

How did I ever end up sending this man? Ah, right. Because among all the native peoples, he was the only one with diplomatic experience. He had been to Elizabeth’s court.

And why did I send him to Elizabeth’s court? Ah, because I didn’t have many other high-status natives around me who were comfortable dealing with Europeans.

And why was he around me? How did I even meet this guy?

…

…

…

Ah.

Why did I ever trust this man?

Why did I put my faith in a man who lives by “all or nothing,” a man who threw not only his own life but the lives of his entire tribe onto the roulette wheel of fate, just to see if it paid out?

I desperately tried to calm the roiling fury in my gut, letting out a long, heavy sigh. Calm down. You are an angel. Angels do not start cursing and throwing things just because they’re angry.

“In any case, the result was good, was it not? The wine-related goods we brought were sold out completely, so.”

“…”

“I apologize.”

“That’s what you should have said first.”

I told him not to make any blunders, and instead, he went and intentionally spouted a stream of blunder-like provocations.

What was even more infuriating… was that the result was good.

Even I hadn’t expected to sell all of those corkscrews I sent with him. I’d just told him to sell them off slowly over time. And he’d managed to find a stable supply of cork outside of Spain and Portugal, so that was a job well done, too.

He hadn’t directly disobeyed any of my orders, and the outcome was positive. It made it difficult to reprimand him further. As I softened, Oitotan, sensing his chance, slowly raised his lowered head and whispered to me.

“Everyone seemed to love the wine made with ‘Cheongsu.’”

“…”

Don’t.

“They cast aside the Bordeaux and Burgundy wines you always speak of, Lord Nemo. Every noble was begging me for just one more sip.”

…I said don’t.

“The French winemakers were weeping and pleading with me for just a pinch of the sulfite powder. It was truly a pathetic sight.”

…Grrrk.

The corner of my mouth, which I had been holding down with all my willpower, began to twitch and ascend toward the heavens. Dammit, where did he find out I was this weak to praise?

It was too late. My mind was already flooded, not with Oitotan’s reckless antics, but with the image of Frenchmen weeping and wailing after tasting wine made from my grapes.

My… grapes… won.

My ‘Cheongsu’ beat Sauvignon Blanc!

What did this feel like? What would it feel like if a Korean webtoon conquered the Japanese market, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with One Piece, Naruto, and Bleach? What if an indie Korean film crushed every Hollywood blockbuster to take over the entire US box office?

I desperately suppressed the surge of nationalist pride and dopamine for a “Korea” that didn’t even exist yet. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and when I opened them…

“Hoo, hohoo… it was such a pathetic sight.”

“…”

I was met with the sight of Oitotan, smiling even more insidiously than I was.

Ah. He wasn’t trying to placate me. He was just genuinely proud of himself.

I glanced around. The other apostles looked completely bewildered. I let out a sigh and turned back to Oitotan, who was still snickering.

“Since there was a failing on my part for not providing clearer instructions, we will leave it at this. I expect no such ‘mistakes’ in the future.”

“Understood, Lord Nemo. Thank you. I will take my leave now.”

He sure talks a smooth game.

With Oitotan’s departure, the morning’s agenda seemed to be wrapped up. I turned to ask what was next, and Hewitt stepped forward.

“Today, all that remains is a tour of the knightly order’s stronghold on the outskirts.”

In other words, a day of driving the Porter for hours to conduct an inspection.

Looks like I’ll be sleeping out tonight. It’s a good thing I managed to restore the camper.

I sighed quietly and walked out of the meeting hall. This was going to be a long day.

***

A young priest, riding alone, arrived at the knightly order’s stronghold, located in a remote area near Pamlico Sound. He dismounted, stroking the weary horse’s mane to calm it, and immediately presented a document to the guard who was killing time at the gate.

“Your name is, Thomas Archerd?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“A man of Croatoan. But you’re heading north for your ministry?”

“That is the plan. I wish to be with the trading post employees who are dispatched to faraway places, and with the new converts in that area.”

After confirming his destination and purpose, the stronghold guard spoke, his expression one of pure bewilderment.

“B-But, why?”

There was a good reason for his reaction. Being a ‘man of Croatoan’ meant several things depending on the context. First, it could mean one of the natives belonging to Manteo’s tribe. They were called the Croatan and handled most of the Commonwealth’s administrative work. In other situations, it was simply a term for all people of the Commonwealth, a name that had stuck after the various tribes of Chesapeake Bay had started calling the new settlers ‘Croatoan people.’ But the most common and frequent meaning, used within the Commonwealth—

—was one of ‘the Nameless One’s’ people, who actually resided on Croatoan. These were the thirty-odd English settlers who had first followed Eleanor to the island. The 200 or so of Manteo’s tribesmen, who were the first natives to join the Commonwealth. And the 100 or so Spaniards, once enemies, who now worked as sailors and fishermen.

These were the People of Croatoan. The first people to follow Him. They were the ones who walked the ‘Holy Land,’ who had built their homes there and lived there.

Of course, even now, anyone could build a house on an empty spot on Croatoan Island, register it, and live there. The Commonwealth was a free place. There was no law forbidding anyone from living anywhere. But, in their hearts, everyone held a special respect for those who were close to ‘Him,’ for those who had followed Him first. Unless one had a very special reason, no one ‘dared’ to set foot on Croatoan lightly.

The guard had been there once, on business. It was like paradise. Endless vineyards covered most of the island, and peaceful neighborhoods were dotted with houses built from the same materials as His own.

To abandon all that peace, all that honor… to go to the uncivilized, untamed North?

The guard, unable to comprehend it, just tilted his head. The young priest, Archerd, gave an awkward laugh.

“I just, wanted to go and see.”

“R-Right. Of course. I get that.”

The guard, though his tone suggested he didn’t get it at all, stepped aside. A fortress of stacked stone came into view. It was not large, but it was solid. This was a stronghold of the Knightly Order. A tall watchtower stood at each corner of the low, square fortress, and from each tower, a crane used for lifting sacks of grain and machine parts hung high. Inside, something else rose even higher: a silo for storing grain, a tower that was both the identity of the Agricultural Knightly Order and a symbol of the region’s prosperity.

Archerd’s eyes sparkled. As the young priest stepped toward it, the main gates swung open from both sides. The first thing that caught his eye was the inner courtyard.

“Always wear gloves when handling that which is heavy, sharp, or hot. This will protect thy hands from injury. But when handling that which moves quickly, be mindful not to be pulled in.”

“Always cover thy mouth and nose with a cloth when tending the boiler room. This is so the harsh ash-dust may not harm thy lungs.”

Inside, five or six technicians were murmuring all sorts of safety rules and accident prevention protocols as they worked on ‘it.’

‘A tractor!’

If the tractor was here, that meant ‘they’ were here, too…

“Everyone, is the inspection complete?”

“Ah, Sir Hynd!”

Just as he thought, he walked out from the workshop! A ‘Knight’ strode toward them, a shining aluminum medal on his chest, followed by his squires.

“If you’ve done enough, let’s head out.”

“We cannot. The Nameless One said it is right to let the tractor rest one day a week.”

“Ugh.”

“Of course, it’s not as if it’s scripture, and we could skip it, but the boiler’s condition isn’t great. It’s best if we postpone the work.”

“But I really wanted to get that seven-hectare plot cleared today.”

Seven hectares was over seventeen acres. An enormous area. The fact that he’d planned to clear it in a single day spoke to the knight’s pride in his craft.

As Archerd stood there staring blankly, he realized all eyes had suddenly turned to him. His face flushed red, and he quickly bowed his head to leave, but the knight and technicians called out to him.

“You there.”

“Ah, f-forgive me. I was intruding.”

“Are you the novice priest who was scheduled to arrive? The one heading north?”

“Ah, yes. They said since I was going to the frontier, I should come here for a few days and learn everything I could, be it technology or farming.”

In the North, everyone did every job. Trading post employees might conduct Mass, a priest might manage the ledgers, or repair a simple machine. It was just how things were. In a new trading post, there were few people and many jobs.

“You’re young to volunteer for such hardship. That’s admirable.”

“Ha, haha… not at all. But, Father Milton, who is supposed to be here?”

On the frontier, it was a luxury to construct multiple large buildings. The Knightly Order’s stronghold and the chapel were often the same building. So, at the young priest’s question, they naturally pointed to a room inside.

“Father Milton is in there, helping our Order with the ledgers. And also, fulfilling his original duty of reporting on the state of the nearby parishes.”

“Th-Thank you!”

Archerd said, and walked off quickly. He passed through a cloister decorated with simple paintings of angels and crucifixes, and headed inside. A nervous energy pulsed in his heart. He had seen so many things here that he’d never seen on Croatoan Island. A knightly stronghold, actual knights, a steam tractor… Everything was new. Everything excited him. Filled with anticipation, he turned the corner of the cloister and found a door. The holy commandment, ‘Serve Humankind,’ was carved upon it.

He was staring at the inscription when the scratch-scratch of a pen on paper drifted out from the room. It was followed by the sound of a chair scraping, and the door opened.

Creak.

An Algonquin woman in a priest’s frock smiled, her face wrinkling around her eyes. “I sensed someone was out here. A new face I see?”

“Father Milton, I am Father Archerd. I am heading to the Mohawk territory for my ministry. I was told to come here to learn.”

“Ah! You’re the one. The young, audacious one heading north. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

She was holding a chart labeled ‘Report on 17th Stronghold Harvest, This Quarter.’ Father Milton smiled gently and led Archerd back down the cloister he had just walked. She led him to a room near the entrance and opened the door. Inside was a simple wooden desk, a bed, a bookshelf, and writing implements, all neatly arranged.

“You’re here to help us with our work, I was told?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Then, starting tomorrow, would you be able to help me organize the harvest yields from the fields around our stronghold? That would be a great help.”

“Of course.”

“Ah, good. So diligent. In any case, you must be exhausted from riding all day to get here. Rest for today. Tomorrow, I will introduce you to the people who live here and teach you how to do the work.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Father Milton smiled at Archerd’s bow and closed the door. He looked around the room. The south-facing window showed the sun setting, casting a peaceful, still light over the wheat fields, which were still green and swaying.

And then. Rumble-rumble-rumble… A familiar noise reached his ears. He looked outside, just in case…

‘That cart’—the one painted a deep ocean blue—was driving straight down the path between the wheat fields. And through the window, he could see His holy face. Archerd stuck his head out the window. He recognized him and waved. “Mr. Thomas Archerd!”

Ah. He had known him since he was a child, yet He still used a formal honorific. Looking at his face, He appeared younger than Archerd, but Archerd knew He had lived for an immeasurable time.

This holy fortress. This mystical stronghold. And now He was visiting…

Archerd’s heart trembled.

***

I chewed on a piece of boiled potato, looking at the stronghold before me. Let’s see… this one has two knights, nine squires, twelve technicians, one priest, and one tractor. It wasn’t a very large-scale operation, and the modest stone wall reflected that.

When I parked the car, the priest, knights, and technicians all came running out, barefoot, to greet me. I quietly asked for this quarter’s harvest data. They said it wasn’t ready yet, so I inspected the tractor’s condition instead.

“It looks like you’re a bit rough when turning.”

“Ah, yes. It’s a bad habit.”

“Please be more careful in the future.”

“Y-Yes, sir! I will!”

“Will you be staying the night at our stronghold?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be sleeping in my car.”

I checked the grain levels in the silo and the condition of the other equipment, then quickly stepped aside. “Is the farm equipment rental program running smoothly?”

“Ah, these days, most of the work is done by the tractor, so there isn’t much demand.”

“There is no need to use the tractor for work that other farmers can do. For now, please focus on expanding the reclaimed land.”

“We will, sir!”

“Sir Powell?”

“Ah, yes!”

“How is the development in this area progressing?”

“The equipment rental business is not yet successful, but the new road construction project nearby is proceeding actively! Also, the potato seedling distribution and fertilizer programs are.”

“…”

Hmm… A ‘Knightly Order’s Stronghold.’

I glanced around. If you just swapped the crosses and angel flags for the familiar yellow-on-green logo. It was basically a local branch of the National Agricultural Cooperative Federation.

I nodded, satisfied that this branch of the ‘Regional Agricultural Cooperative Federation’ was also running well. On one side, a wooden plaque was hung, carved with the motto: ‘For Humankind.’

It somehow felt like, ‘Let’s live well.’