The regular assembly meeting was rapidly adjourned. The moment I stepped out of the assembly hall, Raleigh fell into step right beside me.

“Her Majesty the Queen informed me that when the English ships sailed along the coast of Florida, they witnessed multiple cities burning and the ports completely paralyzed,” he reported quietly.

“…”

“That is not all. Every single established underground route our secret society previously used to liberate slaves has been entirely severed.”

“Well… that doesn’t exactly sound like good news.”

“It could be. It very well could be.”

With that cryptic remark, Raleigh pulled a wooden tobacco pipe from his coat pocket and meticulously packed it with leaves. I offered him a light. Taking a deep drag, he closed his eyes.

His hand was trembling faintly.

“But it is not,” he exhaled slowly, opening his eyes to look at me. “The Spanish military flags that were hoisted everywhere have all been torn down.”

The flags had been lowered.

That meant this wasn’t merely a localized burst of violence flaring up and burning out.

It was a direct, targeted strike against a symbol of absolute authority—and everything that symbol represented.

“There are several other circumstantial details I will explain more thoroughly later,” Raleigh continued. “But regardless of how conservatively we assess this situation… this is no mere disturbance. Every single city in Florida has been paralyzed.”

His implication was crystal clear.

“This is something far greater.”

“…”

It was genuinely astonishing.

Florida was an unimaginably massive territory, roughly the size of modern South Korea.

Even if the population was heavily concentrated around a few key strongholds, the total number of Spanish colonists was only in the tens of thousands, meaning the overall population density remained incredibly sparse. The native population was also currently suffering a catastrophic demographic collapse due to foreign diseases.

Yet despite all that, the entirety of Florida was violently shaking. To borrow Raleigh’s phrasing, something ‘far greater than a mere disturbance’ had just erupted.

Just how violently was Florida boiling over right now? How drastically was it being turned completely upside down?

We couldn’t even begin to fathom the sheer scale of the chaos.

***

Santa Lucia was a modest frontier settlement harboring roughly 1,200 residents, equipped with a coastal fortress and a missionary base.

Approximately one-sixth of the population consisted of the infantry company that had originally established the settlement. Naturally, the governor of Santa Lucia was also the commanding officer of that very company.

The governor had swiftly detected the undeniable signs of ‘rebellion’ simultaneously flaring up from every direction. He immediately concentrated a force of about two hundred soldiers and launched localized, village-by-village suppression operations.

However, the Spanish troops dispatched from Santa Lucia soon slammed headfirst into a wall.

The rebellion was spreading far, far faster than anyone could have ever anticipated.

It wasn’t a highly coordinated, organized movement. Instead, it spread like a ravenous wildfire; the moment one or two runaway slaves reached a neighboring village, their blinding fury instantly infected the local slave population. This chaotic, explosive method of transmission made it agonizingly difficult for the military to suppress.

Desperate petitions flooded into the Santa Lucia city council from numerous unprotected villages left completely vulnerable by the overstretched military. Left with no other choice, the residents of those villages banded together and formed their own armed vigilante militias.

It was a direct infringement upon the governor’s exclusive police powers. Furthermore, because these vigilantes frequently trespassed into Native American territories, violent friction with the indigenous tribes began to erupt as well.

The governor was suffering from a massive headache. If this chaos continued, there was an incredibly high probability he would face severe reprimands from the Governor-General of Florida residing in San Agustín. Yet, successfully suppressing the rampaging slave rebellions with his limited troops seemed entirely impossible.

…Wait a minute. As he furiously racked his brain, the governor suddenly struck upon a brilliant idea.

—”Any armed resident within the respective villages who registers with the governor’s office may voluntarily organize and operate as an official vigilante militia.” He simply needed to officially absorb their vigilante activities under his own jurisdiction.

Although the Native Americans violently protested the increasingly aggressive actions of the newly legitimized vigilantes, the governor couldn’t have cared less.

Once he formally recognized the militias and actively supplied them with weapons, the slave uprisings actually seemed to gradually subside. Immensely satisfied with the results, the governor proudly submitted his report to the Governor-General.

—”The Governor of San José hereby decrees: The residents of the surrounding areas are to immediately organize vigilante militias to ruthlessly crack down upon the recent acts of treason…” —”To the citizens of San Antón and the residents of its subsidiary territories: Currently, in the face of the slave rebellions…” This revolutionary, highly effective measure rapidly spread to other cities and regions.

Florida already possessed an overwhelmingly larger military presence compared to other colonies. By augmenting those forces with localized vigilante militias organized primarily by the urban citizenry, the Spanish were able to respond to the rebellions with blistering speed.

Watching this highly successful trend…

“These vigilante militias. It seems they are being organized across every region,” noted Pedro de Ibarra, the Governor-General of Florida.

“Yes, Your Excellency. They appear to be highly effective at suppressing the slave uprisings. Currently, across four separate fortresses…”

“What if we organized them here as well?” Pedro mused, wary of the rebellion creeping northward toward his capital.

Naturally, he followed suit.

The already anxious citizens of San Agustín and its surrounding areas immediately organized their own vigilante militias and reported for duty.

Thanks to this buffer, Pedro was able to completely dedicate his time and resources to fortifying his defenses against the recent wave of English pirate attacks, rather than wasting troops on local disturbances.

Everything seemed to be operating with ruthless efficiency.

Clicking his tongue in sheer bafflement, Pedro turned to his aide.

“I simply do not understand it. Why on earth are those wretches instigating uprisings in the first place? Because they have nothing left to lose? Is their own life not an asset?”

“Is it not simply because they have not yet properly learned how to submit to absolute authority, Your Excellency?”

“…I still do not understand it. I cannot fathom what exactly drives them to behave this way.”

Unable to comprehend why anyone would willingly throw themselves into the jaws of certain death, the two men merely shook their heads.

They soon commenced a brief strategic meeting.

“Perhaps… it is the vile machinations of those heretical cultists?”

“Hmm… that is highly probable.”

They confidently discussed what had sparked the slave uprisings.

“Then, is the answer to push for the absolute eradication of their demonic worship with even greater extreme prejudice?”

“That would likely be the best course of action, Your Excellency.”

They decisively planned how to prevent future slave uprisings.

However, their entire conversation never once managed to brush against the true core of the issue.

They were utterly, hopelessly ignorant.

***

Scratch. Scratch. 

“…That settles it. Eight slaves, two Native Americans, and one Spaniard. Does this account for every single member of this household? And I see you have a total of four muskets.”

“That is perfectly accurate, haha!”

In the rugged land of Florida, where literacy was a rare luxury, priests and monks served as highly valuable administrative personnel.

Under the direct orders of the Governor-General of San Agustín, Father Alonso Garcia had been drafted alongside other priests. He was currently going door-to-door, meticulously cataloging the exact number of slaves and firearms possessed by every household.

“By any chance… do you require an armed escort, Father? The streets of San Agustín have been quite perilous lately.”

“Perilous? Whatever do you mean by that…?”

“Well, the slave rebellions are one thing, but having hordes of armed men roaming the streets tends to make life exhausting for everyone, doesn’t it? It could be quite troublesome if you were to accidentally cross paths with the vigilantes while walking alone.”

“Ah, I understand.”

“I always take your sermons deeply to heart, Father. Miguel! Come here and escort the good Father safely back to the cathedral!”

“Understood, Master.”

A powerfully built slave named Miguel stepped out at his master’s command. Falling into step behind Alonso, they made their way out onto the street. Once they were a safe distance away from the house, Miguel leaned in and whispered excitedly.

“It actually worked! I treated that bastard nicely for just a few days, and he completely dropped his guard and let me out of the house…!”

Miguel’s voice was trembling with barely contained excitement, and his face was flushed.

“If this keeps up, escaping might not just be a distant dream anymore—”

“Shh. Keep your voice down,” Alonso hissed, quickly silencing him.

However, Miguel’s face remained brightly flushed. There was simply no way to conceal his overwhelming excitement.

Though he obediently clamped his mouth shut, he never stopped flashing beaming, deeply grateful smiles at Alonso. Miguel had been plunged into a deep, crushing depression ever since his closest friend had been beaten to death by their master. Seeing this sudden spark of life, Alonso couldn’t bring himself to entirely crush the man’s hopes.

“Please… do not get your hopes up too high,” Alonso murmured grimly. “Several of the ‘pathways’ have been permanently blocked recently.”

The ‘pathways’ were the secret underground routes used to liberate slaves.

As the absolute core of the Florida colony, San Agustín was simultaneously the most dangerous place to be, and the ultimate hub where the most critical information leaked and changed hands. Paradoxically, it was the location where the highest volume of slaves could be successfully smuggled out to freedom.

And yet, several crucial ‘pathways’ had been severed. No new routes had been established recently, either. It was a terrifying testament to just how severely security had been tightened across the colony.

Despite Alonso’s grim warning, Miguel merely nodded with overwhelming gratitude, his smile never faltering.

“Please do not worry yourself too much, Father. There is always a way, isn’t there?”

“…”

Alonso knew exactly how fragile Miguel’s newfound optimism truly was. The man, who had been pushed to the absolute brink of death countless times by his master’s brutal abuse, had only dramatically brightened up after meeting Alonso.

On the surface, the master allowed it because Alonso was renowned as a remarkably kind priest to the slaves. By using the excuse of ‘escorting’ the holy man, Miguel was occasionally granted a sliver of free time and a meager allowance.

But in reality… it was far more than that.

Ever since Alonso had whispered the existence of the ‘pathways’ to him, Miguel had miraculously resurrected from his near-comatose state of despair. Naturally, he began working with far greater diligence as well.

Immensely satisfied by this sudden spike in productivity, the master frequently entrusted Miguel to Alonso. Soon after, other masters began eagerly requesting that Alonso meet with their own slaves as well.

They had absolutely no idea why their slaves had suddenly become so vibrant and obedient.

They, too, were utterly, hopelessly ignorant.

Regardless, as Alonso and Miguel continued down the street, their faces abruptly hardened.

Screams and violent, pleading sobs filled the air.

Dozens of Africans were lined up in a row in the center of the plaza, trembling violently. Over a dozen men armed to the teeth with muskets and swords swaggered around them.

It was the vigilante militia.

I-I-I didn’t do anything wrong! Please, just call my Master! 

Several slaves shivered in absolute terror, whimpering pitifully. The vigilantes casually kicked any slave whose posture slipped, screaming aggressively to maintain an atmosphere of absolute, crushing terror.

Under the guise of the Governor-General’s orders to conduct ‘inspections,’ the vigilantes routinely used these opportunities to violently beat the slaves and brutally confiscate their meager belongings.

Because the owners of these slaves were either deeply intimidated by the vigilantes’ mob mentality or had outright joined their ranks, there was absolutely no one willing to step in and stop them.

The vast majority of the militiamen were already blind drunk in the middle of the day. They had likely been drinking heavily since the previous night.

Averting his gaze, Alonso quickened his pace, trying to quietly lead Miguel toward the cathedral. Feeling the desperate, pleading stares of several slaves boring into his back, Alonso forced his head down.

Until…

“I am on an urgent errand! This item doesn’t even belong to me; it belongs to my Master! Please let me pass—!”

A blade flashed blindingly in the sunlight.

A slave who had dared to protest the ‘inspection’ shrieked in agony. As Alonso and Miguel whipped their heads around, they saw the slave curled into a tight ball, weeping as he was mercilessly beaten.

One of the vigilantes had drawn his sword and was currently threatening the slave with the naked steel. As the slave desperately curled up to protect the item he was ordered to deliver, the surrounding militiamen encircled him, hurling vicious, mocking laughter.

When the slave still refused to hand over the item after a few moments, their laughter abruptly died.

When he still refused to yield even longer, deep, murderous irritation bled into their voices.

They stopped using their fists and began ruthlessly kicking him with their heavy boots. The man violently coughed up blood.

“W-Wait!”

Every single head snapped toward Alonso. Bearing the full weight of the vigilantes’ bloodthirsty glares, Alonso shouted.

“That man is a trusted servant frequently sent on errands by his master! I know his master personally! Therefore—”

“Father.”

“…”

“Walk away.”

The vigilantes began whispering among themselves. Who the hell is this guy? Oh, you know him. He’s that priest who’s always preaching about not whipping the slaves. Ah, that guy. As dozens of hostile eyes bore into him, Alonso hesitated for a split second. Feeling someone urgently grab his arm, he turned his head.

“…F-F-Father,” Miguel stammered, his face entirely drained of color, his eyes wide with sheer terror. “W-What if they decide to hurt you too? If that happens…”

“…”

While Alonso hesitated, a sickening shhk suddenly echoed through the plaza. Whipping his head back around, he saw a sword buried deep into the back of the slave who had been cowering on the ground just seconds before.

“…”

Alonso’s eyes shook violently.

Seeing the sheer shock on the priest’s face, even the other vigilantes seemed slightly flustered as they turned to the man who had drawn the blade. Hey, what are we supposed to do if you kill him? What if his master demands compensation? Pulling his blade free, the man sneered.

Then we’ll just… compensate him. He turned toward Alonso, flashing a twisted, mocking smile.

Alonso felt the blood instantly rush to his head. As he tried to furiously march forward, Miguel grabbed him again, pulling him back.

Father, please… think of me and the other slaves, Miguel whispered desperately.

“…”

The tension in Alonso’s fists coiled tight, then finally went slack. Seeing this, the man with the sword confidently rallied the vigilantes and resumed their brutal ‘inspection.’

Cold sweat trickled down Alonso’s forehead. The first murder was always the hardest; the second, third, and fourth became progressively easier. And the murder he had just witnessed was merely the first one to occur during this specific ‘inspection.’

These men would soon become entirely desensitized to slaughter. Even if they murdered another man’s slave in cold blood, they would simply laugh it off, claiming they could just ‘pay the compensation.’ They would eventually stop being surprised by death entirely…

…I cannot let this stand. “F-Father?”

Completely ignoring Miguel’s frantic pleading, Alonso marched straight toward the man holding the bloody sword. Predictably, the man was currently threatening a female slave with his blade, viciously harassing her.

This time, his comrades didn’t even bother to feign concern. It was painfully obvious that the woman belonged to one of the men currently standing in the mob. As the man shrugged nonchalantly, someone in the crowd actually burst into laughter.

“Stop right there.”

Stepping directly in front of the vigilantes, Alonso spoke.

A cold, meticulously refined fury was frozen into every single syllable.

“You men are not contributing to the suppression of the rebellion in the slightest. You are merely using these people as outlets for your own vile anger, murdering and torturing them for your own twisted amusement. You are all—”

“Didn’t I tell you to walk away?” The man with the sword glared at Alonso, his eyes bulging with psychotic rage.

Without missing a beat, Alonso firmly grabbed the arm of the terrified female slave, pulling her safely behind his back.

“And didn’t I… tell you to stop?” Alonso retorted, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The vigilantes’ faces instantly hardened.

The faces of the utterly ignorant hardened.

They are such absolute fools, Alonso thought coldly.

They truly believe they can endlessly dominate human beings through sheer terror. Glaring fiercely, Alonso stared down the mob of ignorant, violent men.

Then, he looked past them, locking eyes with the slaves trembling in the plaza.

The terrified ones. The ones who hadn’t even been able to mount a single shred of resistance against the sudden, overwhelming violence crashing down upon them.

…No. They aren’t paralyzed by fear. They are… A half-drunk vigilante stumbled toward Alonso, hiccuping loudly as a torrent of utterly repulsive profanity spewed from his mouth.

The slaves watched the scene unfold in absolute terror. Surely… surely they won’t dare harm the Priest. They wouldn’t dare strike him… And then, one of the heavily intoxicated vigilantes ruthlessly smashed Alonso in the back of the head.

Thud. 

The man was gripping a bloodstained hammer.

Even the other vigilantes, who had only intended to properly intimidate the stubborn priest, jumped in shock and hurriedly rushed toward the attacker. Hey! Are you out of your damn mind?! You just assaulted a Priest! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?! The man holding the hammer swayed drunkenly and giggled. That bastard… was pissing me off… these slave shits are looking down on us… we have to scare the holy hell out of them so they’ll listen to us… They were truly, hopelessly ignorant.

Their conversation would never be finished.

Crack! 

The man with the hammer widened his eyes in brief shock. He slowly reached around to touch the back of his head. His fingers came away slick with blood.

As he sluggishly turned his head, he saw Miguel—the man who had just hurled the jagged stone—charging directly at him with bare, clenched fists.

As the other vigilantes frantically scrambled to intercept Miguel, the rest of the slaves simultaneously lunged forward.

The vigilantes were hopelessly ignorant.

They truly believed that terror could eternally dominate the human spirit.

They truly believed the slaves obeyed them entirely because of that terror.

They were dead wrong.

The slaves were no longer looking at the terror.

They were looking at Alonso, bleeding out on the cobblestones. They were looking at their only pathway to escape, brutally crushed before their very eyes.

They were looking at the one priest who had consistently preached to the masters to stop abusing them. They were looking at the man who had been their absolute last, fraying lifeline in this hellhole.

A human being simply cannot survive once every last shred of hope for life has been violently ripped away.

The vigilantes still couldn’t comprehend this fundamental truth. All they saw were dozens of slaves suddenly launching themselves at their throats.

They were utterly ignorant.

The Governor-General of Florida, the man with the bloody sword, the man with the hammer—every single one of them was terrifyingly, hopelessly ignorant of the sheer depths of human desperation.

Smash! Crunch! Crack! 

…And they would likely remain ignorant for the rest of eternity.