The immediate problem had finally been put to rest.

We had resolved the dispute with the Iroquois, comforted the victims with absolute assurances that such a tragedy would never happen again, and firmly established the non-negotiable principles that had to be upheld during all future missionary work.

Judging that this was a natural stopping point, I slipped away the very day after their festival concluded. It was only right to give them their space; having an outsider constantly hovering around would inevitably make them feel anxious and uncomfortable.

Of course, I had another pressing reason to leave.

It was dangerously close to their festival day.

“Looks like we’re doomed to spend another Christmas on the water, eh?”

“Never mind that—where’s my present?”

“You get nothing,” another sailor scoffed. “Hanging up your filthy socks won’t do a damn thing, so just focus on getting a gift for your daughter when we get back.”

We had our own festival to prepare for, after all.

.

.

.

Today was December 24, 1608—Christmas Eve.

It marked my twentieth Christmas Eve since arriving in this world.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes at the sound of the chatter drifting through the door, I stepped out of my cabin, only to be immediately greeted by absolute pandemonium.

“Did you… really have to go this far?” I muttered.

Bright red socks hung from every single cabin door and hammock, while a long crimson carpet had been unrolled straight down the corridor. Perfectly rounded Christmas wreaths adorned the wooden walls at regular intervals.

Well, then.

For people who had initially accepted Christmas as just another holiday, casually remarking, Well, it’s Jesus’s birthday, so I suppose we should celebrate it, they had certainly become aggressively proactive.

Had everyone finally adapted to this?

“Hey, there! I told you to secure that tree properly! Do you have any idea how many times it’s fallen over already?”

“Oh, don’t be such a grinch! It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

“Then you ought to do a better job because it’s Christmas!”

Chuckling at the banter, I made my way up to the deck, where the crew was still frantically bustling about in preparation for tomorrow’s festivities.

Bits of fluff and fabric dyed vividly in red and white were scattered across every inch of the ship, and the sailors scurrying about each sported a pair of horned ornaments on their heads.

They were headbands fashioned from actual deer antlers. And on their noses—had they seriously attached red glass beads to their faces?

Regardless, the moment I stepped fully onto the deck, Vicente, who had been busy barking orders at the crew, whirled around and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Isn’t it still Christmas Eve?” I pointed out.

“It will be midnight in exactly fifteen minutes,” he replied dismissively. “I am certain the Lord will forgive a minor margin of error. But anyway, to think we’re having a full-scale Christmas celebration right here on the ship! Thanks to our resident missionary, we are experiencing quite the marvel this year!”

He wasn’t wrong. It certainly was a full-scale Christmas.

From the top of his head down to the soles of his feet, Vicente Gonzalez was clad entirely in crimson, leaving me no choice but to agree with his assessment.

“Those Rudolph outfits the sailors are wearing…” I began.

“Ah, yes! I ordered them to wear those!” Vicente beamed proudly. “Thankfully, they all seem to love it!”

“Presents! Presents! Presents! We want presents!” the crew chanted in the background.

“…They certainly do seem to enjoy it,” I admitted.

Though, perhaps they were being a bit too passionately enthusiastic. It felt as though they were pouring every ounce of their energy into maximizing their Christmas joy by two hundred percent to compensate for being stuck on this narrow ship.

Whatever their reasoning, the sheer festive heat radiating from them was tremendous.

Right in the center of the deck stood a genuine pine tree that had been cut down and hauled aboard. Kerosene lanterns hung from its branches, casting a warm glow over the various ornaments glittering amidst the pine needles.

The star perched at the very top—symbolizing the Star of Bethlehem that rose alongside the birth of Jesus—was a decoration I had personally brought from home, making it the only ornament capable of emitting its own light.

There were other unique, localized variations as well. Belts woven from Wampum, a sacred ceremonial item highly valued by the Native Americans, were wrapped elegantly around the tree. Somewhere along the ship’s railing, an ambitious artist had painted a mural of Santa Claus riding a canoe instead of his traditional sleigh.

But what caught my eye more than anything else was—

“Be careful not to break the beads while you move them!”

“Hey, are all the beads strung up over there?”

“Hold on a second! I haven’t finished threading them yet!”

It wasn’t a Native American cultural item, nor was it a European tradition. It was an entirely random, out-of-place decoration.

Thin strips of leather had been meticulously cut, and tiny glass beads were strung along them at sparse intervals to create tremendously long chains. The sailors were currently having the time of their lives draping these beaded chains around the tree and stringing them across the entire ship. As the glass beads caught the moonlight and the flicker of the kerosene lamps, they flashed with brilliant hues of deep blue and vivid red.

The origin of that utterly unrooted, bastardized decoration was actually surprisingly clear.

When I had first introduced twenty-first-century Christmas customs to these people, the very first thing I had presented was the Christmas tree. It was the least likely to cause cultural friction, and visually, it was undeniably gorgeous.

I had dragged my dusty artificial tree out of storage, assembled it piece by piece, hung all the delicate ornaments, and finally…

Click. 

I had turned on the power.

Those LED bulbs had twinkled so beautifully that day.

“Everyone! Watch your step so you don’t break the LED beads and hurt yourselves!” a sailor hollered.

“Understood!” came the unified reply.

Yes, they had created mock LED beads (which neither emitted light, nor were they actual diodes) to perfectly imitate my modern Christmas lights.

Well, I suppose this is exactly how all traditions are born.

Shrugging off the sheer absurdity of it all, I picked up a spare Rudolph headband lying nearby and slipped it onto my head.

“Lord Nemo! A very Merry Christmas to you!”

Ugh, this thing was heavy as hell.

***

The Christmas festivities unfolding back on Croatoan Island were equally, if not exceedingly, magnificent.

“Igniting the lights!”

Click! 

“Good heavens, His Lordship’s entire estate is glowing…!”

“I heard that before he departed, he explicitly instructed the apostles to have all of this prepared in advance.”

In fact, it was infinitely grander than the ship’s celebration.

Every corner of Kim Lee-sang’s sprawling farm was illuminated by genuine, brilliantly twinkling Christmas lights. Gazing up at the spellbinding sight that looked as though a constellation of countless stars had descended to the earth, the villagers eagerly set about preparing the grand banquet.

However, tonight’s feast was not exclusively for the residents of Croatoan Island. This was no ordinary day; it was the Lord’s birthday.

More importantly, it was a monumental Christmas—marking exactly twenty years to the day since He had first descended to this land and delivered them all to salvation.

In many ways, the event doubled as the twentieth anniversary of their entire community. Caught in a whirlwind of unstoppable, infectious fervor, the people laughed uproariously and sprinted about with joyous urgency.

Decorations, flickering candles, and glowing lanterns were hoisted into the branches of nearly every single tree surrounding the village. In the bustling town square, they had laid out enough heavy wooden tables and chairs to comfortably seat hundreds of people.

And then, they waited.

“A ship… a ship is approaching!”

“Well, they managed to arrive right on time for Christmas this year. Imagine the scandal if they had been late.”

“The weather has been terribly rough lately. We ought to be forgiving,” another villager chided gently.

The guests were finally arriving at Croatoan.

They were individuals who had made a name for themselves by selflessly dedicating their lives to the community over the past year.

Among the newly arrived visitors stepping onto the docks were a freshly knighted Welsh agricultural master who had plowed a record-breaking expanse of farmland, and a devout English priest who had been ordained a mere two months after arriving on the continent.

Visiting the ‘Holy Land’ for the first time in their lives, the guests shivered slightly, taking cautious, agonizingly slow steps onto the island as if terrified they were entirely unworthy of treading upon such sacred soil.

Their overwhelming reverence inadvertently caused the islanders and the apostles to tense up in response.

“D-Dad! Look at the trees! Every single one of them is glowing!” a child gasped.

“Oh, merciful Lord… are you certain this is a land meant for mortal men?” an elder whispered.

“Look at the architecture of those houses! I’ve never seen such a style in my life, and the color of the roofs is simply exquisite!”

As the awe-struck guests failed to close their gaping mouths at the dazzling spectacle of Croatoan, they were ushered to the banquet tables, where they sat stiffly and awkwardly.

The most prominent seat of honor at the head of the main table remained glaringly empty. Its rightful owner had already been decided long ago.

Step. 

“Hoh. I had only ever heard the rumors of this place. To actually step foot upon this soil myself is quite…”

“How do you find it, Your Majesty?”

“It is fascinating. Absolutely everything here is fascinating.”

Queen Elizabeth took her seat immediately to the right of the empty throne. There was naturally no guest present of a higher, more noble standing than her.

Beside the Queen sat the ‘apostles’—excluding Vicente, who was currently at sea—while the island’s residents and the remaining guests populated the sprawling network of surrounding tables.

Guided by their American hosts, the European guests perched tentatively on the edges of their seats. Nervous energy rippled through them as they eyed the covered platters, silently praying that they wouldn’t be subjected to any bizarre, unpalatable native delicacies. When the lids were finally lifted…

“…Huh?”

“This looks perfectly normal, doesn’t it?”

A lavish, mouth-watering banquet composed of roasted chicken, venison, and beef was revealed.

Whether the meat had been slightly undercooked or if the local livestock simply possessed a different hue, everything bore a distinct, reddish tint. Regardless, it didn’t look vastly different from the standard fare one might find at a high-class European feast.

“In honor of the Lord’s birthday, let us all offer our prayers and dine!” Raleigh bellowed across the square. “This is a grand banquet prepared especially for you by the very one who cannot be with us tonight!”

Still somewhat bewildered, the guests tentatively reached for their utensils. Watching their American hosts dig in naturally—eating, drinking, and chatting with boisterous ease—the Europeans awkwardly mimicked their movements and brought the food to their mouths.

Everyone did exactly that.

Elizabeth included.

“…?”

“Is something the matter, Your Majesty?”

Queen Elizabeth’s eyes bulged. Cold sweat instantly slicked the back of her neck, and her hands began to tremble violently.

She nearly spat the offending morsel right back out onto her elegant plate, but decades of maintaining ironclad royal etiquette barely averted the catastrophic disaster.

What in God’s name is this? she panicked inwardly. What… what did I just put in my mouth? Desperately steadying her violently shaking gaze, Elizabeth looked down at the food she had just picked up. It was a perfectly innocent-looking chicken leg.

There was nothing visibly wrong with it. It just possessed a slightly red—

“Are you finding it difficult to eat, Your Majesty? Ah, that would be because there are chili peppers mixed into the—”

“Chili… peppers?”

“Yes, it adds a slightly spicy kick to the flavor profile, you see…”

Slightly? 

“Lord Nemo happens to be very fond of it…”

The Angel… actually enjoys eating this hellfire?! 

“Ah, Your Majesty,” Raleigh chimed in from two seats down. “That particular dish is chicken that has been coated in a dry rub of smoked, pulverized chili peppers before being roasted to perfection. The unique aroma is quite charming, making it an absolute favorite among all the residents here.”

Charming aroma? She had absolutely no time to process anything of the sort.

Even after Raleigh’s helpful explanation, the Queen couldn’t taste a damn thing, let alone appreciate its ‘unique flavor.’ She only felt the sheer, agonizing pain of someone ruthlessly beating her tongue half to death.

She couldn’t even bring herself to swallow the cursed meat.

Her survival instincts were screaming at her that the moment she swallowed, her old, exhausted internal organs would stage a violent, collective revolt, leaving her bedridden in agony for days.

But keeping it tucked inside her cheek like a chipmunk was equally absurd…

“Your Majesty? Are you… struggling with the food?” Margaret asked gently.

The Queen desperately tried to formulate the words to assure her she was fine, but—

“…It appears she is having quite a difficult time.”

“Well, it is completely understandable. Her Majesty has never experienced such a potent flavor before.”

“Who wouldn’t react that way to a completely alien spice, eh?”

Somehow, the collective gazes of everyone at the table felt incredibly… uncomfortable.

The Queen was entirely unaware of the tragic context behind her meal. She had no idea that the dish she had just consumed was the direct result of Kim Lee-sang heavily modifying a Cajun chicken recipe in his relentless crusade to spread chili-laced cuisine across the continent.

Furthermore, she did not know that when the locals had first writhed in agonizing pain upon tasting it, Kim Lee-sang had calmly continued eating, subtly flaunting his infuriating ‘spicy food bravado.’

Subjected to that brutal spice-tolerance training over the years, the taste buds of the Croatoan people had mutated, drifting somewhere into the culinary twilight zone between twenty-first-century Koreans and Americans. They were now hopelessly intoxicated by extreme stimulation.

“Ah… look at this poor fellow; he can barely handle it either. Leave them be, let us just eat among ourselves.”

“What a terrible shame… leaving behind something so delicious…”

“N-No… I can certainly eat—urk.”

Between the fiery agony and the overwhelming wave of spicy food bravado emanating from the locals, the Christmas banquet—which was meant to be filled with heartwarming cheer—was rapidly heating up in an entirely different, highly competitive manner.

Sweating profusely, Elizabeth desperately racked her brain, trying to calculate how she could save her royal face while exclusively picking out the dishes entirely devoid of chili peppers.

“…Ah, it seems even the illustrious Queen of England is ignorant of its appeal.”

Elizabeth snapped her head toward the blunt voice.

“Even a great Queen finds it too difficult to endure,” Oitotan remarked flatly, his sharp eyes locked onto her. “[Spicy Seasoned Whole Chicken] is bound to be a harsh trial for a [Beginner].”

Fueled by a sudden, inexplicable surge of sheer, irrational fury, the Queen forcefully swallowed the demonic chicken right then and there.

She felt as though her esophagus was burning to ash for the entire rest of the day.

Regardless, the disaster rates plummeted the following day once the European guests finally learned how to visually identify and select the non-spicy dishes. They enthusiastically exchanged gifts, sang carols at the top of their lungs, and danced wildly into the night.

Some performed impromptu theatrical plays, while others uncorked expensive liquors they had been hoarding all year and drank themselves into a stupor. Others ignored the festivities entirely, opting instead to gorge themselves on the endless parade of rare and exquisite dishes.

Time flowed pleasantly until Epiphany finally arrived, and the Queen’s traumatized digestive tract had completely recovered.

***

“A ship! A ship is arriving! He made it just in time!”

“…”

“…”

“…”

The entire village paused as one. Everyone turned their heads toward the docks. There was no need to ask; they all instinctively knew exactly whose ship had just breached the horizon.

A short time later, dozens of familiar figures strode into the village square, immediately seeking out their families and friends to take their seats. The empty spaces scattered throughout the banquet were rapidly filled, and an electric vitality surged back into the gathering.

And then.

Someone finally sat down in the glaringly empty seat of honor at the head of the main table.

He smiled warmly and spoke.

“Am I… a bit too late?”

Eleanor and Hewitt, seated immediately to his left and right, shook their heads.

“Not at all. You arrived exactly on time.”

“Here, try a piece of this veal first.”

And just like that, the twentieth Christmas holiday of Croatoan came to a perfect, peaceful close.