The storm clouds had gathered, but no rain fell.

A damp, dark air settled over a hill in the Virginia countryside.

Black-clad figures moved across it, then stopped.

Soon, the youngest and strongest-looking among them stepped forward and began to dig with shovels. When the earth was dug to about shoulder height, they climbed back out.

And into that space, they lowered the casket.

A priest, who was also a pastor, tossed a handful of dirt and flowers onto the wood.

“John Courtney, we commit your soul to God and your body to the ground. Lord, we pray that on the last day, you shall raise John Courtney to resurrection and grant him eternal life.”

“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”

And so, the funeral was held for an English man who had settled in this land of Virginia at the age of 30. His wife had already died in England giving birth to their second son, so there was no one to be buried beside him. The mourners, including the two sons he had brought to this land, paid their respects to his untimely death.

“Good heavens… To pass before even reaching fifty.”

“It’s a blessing, at least, that both his sons are nearly twenty.”

“What was the cause?”

“I’ve no idea. His children said they came home and his heart had simply stopped.”

The people gathered in black mourning clothes whispered amongst themselves. The priest and pastor of this village—which had taken the name ‘Clearwater’ from the grapes of the same name grown there—recited a passage from the Bible.

The people bowed their heads, listening to his words.

“As it is written in the Book of Romans: ‘Therefore, just as sin entered the world through one man, and death through sin, and in this way death came to all people, because all sinned—’ This means that through Adam, all mankind was condemned to the fate of death. But the Lord, for the sake of these wounded and fallen people, gave His only begotten Son, so that just as sin and death entered through one man, so again through one man.”

But even then, some continued to whisper.

“But, weren’t we all supposed to receive 50 hectares when we came to Virginia? I only know Mr. Courtney to have received about 18 hectares.”

“Shhh!”

“No, but that land.”

“Ahem.”

“…” “…” “…”

The conversation, of course, did not last long. Soon, the prayers and rites for the deceased concluded. Only then did the people begin to disperse, picking up their earlier conversation.

“Come to think of it, what does happen to those 18 hectares? Will the government give them the rest, up to 50?”

“They’d have to.”

“Then how will the land be divided? Should the eldest son get more?”

“Why would he? They’ll have to split it evenly. In any case, those sons are in for a rough time.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, even split evenly, it’s only 9 hectares each. The crops from that much land.”

Everyone continued to discuss the ‘after.’ The topic was fervent and showed no sign of cooling down. No, it was more than just that.

“Then isn’t it a disadvantage to have many children? The more children you have, the more the land gets split into tiny pieces, doesn’t it?”

“Eh… if you’re that unhappy, you can just go clear your own land, can’t you?”

“Can you clear land faster than the Knightly Order? And it’s not like the Order will manage land you cleared yourself, will they?”

The premature death of one man, John Courtney, became a topic of discussion that spread throughout the Virginia Commonwealth. He was not a particularly important man. The epitaph on his tombstone—’A Good Son, A Good Husband, A Good Father’—did not mean he had made some profound contribution to the community. He had simply come to this land early, and died early. That alone was enough to make him a subject of debate.

It had not yet been twenty years since Europeans had begun to settle Virginia in earnest.

Likewise, most of the Europeans who had settled here were either young, single men or young, childless couples. In other words, they were not of an age to be thinking about death. But now, time had passed. They were, slowly, beginning to think about what came after. And with that, one question naturally followed.

‘What happens… to my children’s land?’

***

“So, originally, our Commonwealth promised to grant 50 hectares of land per household that immigrated here.”

Hewitt spoke, cautiously watching the room.

Everyone nodded.

Fifty hectares, approximately 120 acres, or roughly 150,000 pyeong, was an area 38 times larger than my original farm. It was ample land for anyone to live comfortably, not just in abundance. Unlike in the original history, we didn’t simply throw land at them and instruct them to clear it themselves. Instead, we distributed cleared land. Naturally, it’s far more challenging to hand out land that’s immediately usable than to simply draw a few lines on a map and declare, “This is yours now!” That’s why the land distribution had been so slow until now. However, more than a decade had passed.

Seventeen years, to be precise, since I arrived. It was more than enough time for a human lifespan to complete its course.

In truth, the native peoples didn’t particularly care about the land. They had a loose concept of tribal territories, but the idea of owning the land itself was still foreign to them. When one of them passed away, their land naturally dissolved back into the Commonwealth. However, it was different for the Europeans, with their firm concept of ownership, and for the Africans, who had lived under European rule. For them, the question of how to “inherit” this land was gradually becoming a problem.

No one had yet received their full 50 hectares. But as I mentioned, 50 hectares was, as I said, enough for anyone to live like a king. It was more than enough to be a wealthy landowner even back in England.

“Could we not simply… reclaim the land of the deceased? The natives already ‘gift’ their land back to the community voluntarily, don’t they?” Manteo spoke up again, his eyes darting around.

Raleigh immediately shook his head. “Out of the question. You still don’t understand our people’s desire for ownership. Besides, your people are cared for by the tribe, but if you reclaim land from Old Worlders, how are their families supposed to eat?”

“Well, we could just grant them new land?”

“Hm?”

“Until now, it was 50 hectares per married couple, correct? From now on, we can simply split it and give 25 hectares to every individual. And when that person dies, we reclaim it.”

“…” “…” “…”

Everyone in the room, accustomed to land ownership, was about to refute Manteo’s words, labeling them absurd. However, they couldn’t help but acknowledge, “He’s… got a point.”

In today’s world, farming one’s own land has become rare. People primarily care about the harvest from their land. Many had likely not set foot on their own fields in years. They simply thought, “Ah, yes, I have a field. I’ve outsourced the management.”

Given this situation, it was unlikely there would be significant backlash, regardless of how we distributed the land. Moreover, we had to address the issue of fairness with the native population and consider how the new, growing generation would make a living. This was, in fact, a benefit to everyone. Initially, we might have allocated 50 hectares, but as generations passed, children would have to divide and resplit that finite land until it dwindled to almost nothing.

“That is, surprisingly, a good idea. If we grant land to individuals upon immigration or birth and reclaim it upon death, it becomes much easier to manage than tying it to households,” Hewitt, in charge of administration, seconded Manteo’s proposal, which was managed by Manteo himself.

“Not bad. And the Spaniards don’t have many family units here anyway. Most will welcome this,” Vicente, who managed the Spanish sailors and marines, spoke next.

“It might be fine, Lord Nemo. If we grant land based on headcount, those wishing to immigrate will be more likely to bring their families,” Raleigh, who handled foreign affairs, including immigration and trade with England, gave his approval.

All that was left was to hear from White, who was in charge of the Commonwealth’s internal industries, including agriculture, and Eleanor, who was responsible for the people’s welfare, including healthcare. But,

“Eleanor?”

“Ah, yes? Ah, I think it sounds fine, too. Yes. It seems fine.”

“You can go early.”

“Pardon?”

I merely nodded at her inquisitive gaze. Upon hearing my words, Eleanor abruptly rose from her seat and swiftly exited the meeting hall. She didn’t even bother to express her gratitude, but no one reprimanded her. The circumstances justified it.

John White, a man of 67, had been in perfect health until the previous year. Suddenly, he had become withdrawn. He was unable to walk long distances from his home and too frail to sail. This decline wasn’t sudden; it was gradual, like ink seeping into water, like spring snow melting away, or like a wildflower wilting…

Consequently, everyone had a clear understanding of what was to come. They were preparing for it.

“…” “…” “…”

In the heavy silence, I dismissed the meeting. The others gave me awkward farewells and filed out, leaving the hall quiet. In the silence, I thought.

The Apostles.

Walter Raleigh was fated to live his entire life clinging to the mercy and favor of Queen Elizabeth. When her mercy ran out, he fell. When she died, he was miserably purged by the new king, James. But now, he was one of the wealthiest men in the world. He had transformed from the Queen’s Jester, a figure of ridicule, into the Saint of London and the Baron of Roanoke, a man of respect and envy.

Manteo, who had marveled at everything on his visit to England, was fated to disappear from European history along with the fall of the Roanoke colony. Considering he had antagonized numerous tribes for the sake of friendship with England, his abandoned future would not have been a pleasant one. But now, after his mother’s passing, he had become the Chief of Croatoan and a pillar of our empire.

And the others.

Walter Raleigh, at least, had left his mark on history as a royal favorite and a man of fortune. Manteo, too, was recorded as one of the first American natives to visit England. But the others were fated to vanish from the pages of history, their names recorded but their stories lost.

No one would have cared about Thomas Hewitt, a lawyer who had thrown himself into the New World with the ambition of becoming a landowner. No one would have paid much attention to Vicente Gonzales, the governor of a fallen colony, crushed by an English invasion. Eleanor Dare was fated to be forgotten, leaving behind only the fact that her daughter was the first English child born in the New World. But they had all become my chronicler, my admiral, and my medical technician—the very cornerstones of our Commonwealth.

And John White.

He, too, had left his name in history. As a failure. The founder of England’s first North American colony. A man whose clumsy ambition and weak leadership had cost him the support of his patron, Sir Raleigh; who had led his entire family to their deaths; and who had died poor and obscure in Ireland. A man who had died, never letting go of the hope that his daughter and granddaughter were alive, somewhere.

“…”

I offered a silent prayer for him. For one of the heads of my government, the man responsible for our Commonwealth’s agriculture and industry. For the dying man. And, For my Apostle.

***

A few days later, a steady rain began to fall in Virginia. The state experiences consistent rainfall throughout the year, so it wasn’t an overwhelming downpour. Instead, it was a gentle drizzle that dampened the shoulders, a mere nuisance for a resilient person who wouldn’t even bother using an umbrella. That rain transformed everyone gathered there into the tragic heroes of some grand play.

“We must remember these words from Romans. Just as through the sin of one man, Adam, all humanity was condemned, so also through the righteousness of one man, Jesus Christ, many will be given life.”

All priests were appointed by the Apostles, and all Apostles were appointed by Nemo. Nemo was appointed by God, making him the highest priest here. It was only natural that Kim Lee-sang would preside over this event. He recited the scripture, brought the service to a close, and then walked toward the person most overcome with grief.

“Eleanor?”

“…”

She had been 19 when he first met her. Now, her hair just beginning to show streaks of gray, she looked up, wiping her hair back. She tried to bow, to force a smile, but the composure broke, and she collapsed against him, weeping.

“Th-Thank you… For… for what you said to my father. I-I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

“…”

Kim Lee-sang stood still, letting her tears mix with the rain and soak his shoulder. Young Virginia watched from a distance, watching her mother and him, and wept. Kim Lee-sang’s gaze drifted past her, into the distance. He saw a group of figures, also in mourning black, walking toward him. The Queen of England was approaching him.

He tensed.

“Lord Nemo, you must prepare. Margaret said the Queen suddenly insisted on coming here.”

“W-We should go inside. We cannot greet the Queen of England out here.”

The other apostles flocked to his side, whispering. Eleanor was still sobbing against him, and the Queen, with a frantic-looking Margaret in tow, strode toward him without hesitation.

“So. You weren’t a mute after all.”

When she was close enough to see Kim Lee-sang’s face, the Queen spoke. Her own face was as stone-like as ever.

“You can speak, can’t you?”

To understand this, we must briefly rewind time, just before John White’s death.