Agony radiated from the back of Alonso’s head, violently spider-webbing across his entire body. Yet, simultaneously, his limbs grew terrifyingly heavy, refusing to move as though he had been plunged into a deep, paralyzing slumber.
The sharp, piercing agony of the wound and the heavy, cloud-like fog of unconsciousness—two entirely contradictory sensations—burrowed deep into his flesh.
Through his rapidly blurring vision, he witnessed an absolutely chaotic spectacle. Over a dozen men armed to the teeth with muskets and steel swords were being mercilessly pummeled by dozens of slaves fighting back with nothing but jagged rocks and bare fists.
The muskets of this era were excellent tools for hunting wild game or terrorizing the unarmed and ignorant, but they were utterly useless against a swarm of furious enemies rapidly closing the distance. Furthermore, even the gleaming steel swords became impossible to properly wield when dozens of bodies were hopelessly entangled in a chaotic, crushing melee. The armed vigilantes simply could not withstand the sheer, desperate ferocity of men who were biting with their teeth, swinging their bare fists, and ruthlessly kicking.
One by one, the vigilantes crumpled to the cobblestones. Naturally, even more slaves were beaten down in the bloody exchange. As the street instantly erupted into a deafening riot, terrified bystanders and pedestrians frantically scattered in all directions.
And then.
“Over there! The slaves are murdering the vigilantes!”
This was San Agustín.
It was the military epicenter of Florida, boasting the largest garrison of armed troops in the entire colony.
Within minutes, dozens of fully armed Spanish regular soldiers violently shoved their way through the fleeing crowd and charged toward the plaza.
Unlike the drunken, undisciplined vigilantes, these men were clad in proper steel cuirasses and were intimately familiar with the brutal art of slaughter. They crashed into the dying skirmish as the ultimate, decisive variable.
Having snatched up the fallen vigilantes’ muskets and swords, the blood-drenched slaves quickly realized they were outmatched. They scattered into the surging crowd, frantically fleeing for their lives. Watching them retreat, Alonso dimly accepted that his broken body would simply be left behind on the cold cobblestones.
“M-Merciful Lord…! Father! Father!”
Suddenly, a pair of heavy hands urgently grabbed his body. A broad, sturdy back hoisted him up.
Feeling the violently nauseating sensation of being jostled with every hurried step, Alonso could only helplessly watch the surrounding scenery whip past him in a dizzying blur. As his consciousness rapidly faded into the encroaching darkness, his ability to rationally comprehend his surroundings completely vanished.
When he finally blinked his eyes open…
He was somewhere else entirely.
***
Your Excellency! The slaves are instigating a massive riot near the plaza! Of all times, they choose to rebel precisely when the Native Americans are growing defiant… Should we recall the deployed troops immediately?! Pedro de Ibarra, the Governor-General of Florida, desperately scrambled to contain the explosive unrest violently tearing through his capital.
And miraculously, he succeeded.
Well, he succeeded halfway.
Father Alonso Garcia had never been a particularly prominent or famous figure. He was simply a kindly priest who had shown a modicum of compassion to a few slaves in his immediate vicinity. At most, a few dozen to a couple of hundred slaves in San Agustín harbored a deep fondness for him.
Yet, because of that very priest, a massive slave riot had just erupted right in the heart of San Agustín—a heavily fortified coastal capital boasting a permanent garrison of over five hundred regular soldiers. It was utterly unprecedented.
To pacify the terrified, upper-class citizenry, Pedro desperately needed to spin a compelling narrative.
Fortunately, after his men ruthlessly ransacked Alonso’s room and confiscated his personal belongings, the perfect story practically wrote itself.
—”The traitor Alonso Garcia, who had long been secretly colluding with foreign powers to systematically smuggle slaves out of the colony, finally instigated an armed slave rebellion in the heart of San Agustín. Though his violent uprising was swiftly and decisively crushed by our valiant forces, the traitor managed to flee to an unknown location…” The Governor-General firmly believed every single element of his fabricated story was absolutely flawless. Immensely satisfied with his own political cunning, he immediately plastered Alonso Garcia’s wanted poster across every single stronghold and city in Florida.
The decree was packed to the brim with every inflammatory buzzword guaranteed to stoke the furious outrage of the ‘patriotic’ slave owners.
Systematic slave escapes.
High treason.
Armed rebellion.
Evading justice.
By deliberately emphasizing that a violent uprising had breached the very capital where the Governor-General himself resided, Pedro intended to force the slave owners to remain fiercely vigilant. In turn, the military detachments stationed across the colony would redouble their efforts to brutally suppress any further slave insurrections.
However, the Governor-General completely failed to consider the exact opposite perspective.
Systematic slave escapes.
Armed rebellion.
Evading justice.
If one were to flip every single element of that fabricated story upside down, it contained absolutely everything necessary to make the enslaved population roar in euphoric triumph.
A holy priest had selflessly dedicated his life to liberating slaves, boldly instigated a righteous armed rebellion against their oppressors, and successfully escaped the clutches of the empire.
Because the Governor-General’s wanted posters had been plastered across the entirety of Florida, the slaves naturally caught wind of the spectacular news as well.
Within days, a raging, unquenchable wildfire of righteous fury engulfed the spring landscape of Florida.
***
Alonso hesitated for a long moment before slowly pushing his upper body up from the mattress.
To his absolute astonishment, his body felt incredibly light.
He was lying in a modest, unadorned room. The windows were drawn shut with thick curtains, and the only furnishings were a simple bed, a desk, and a wooden chair. It was the exact room Alonso had resided in for years.
Someone was sitting at the desk, facing the wall. Just as Alonso opened his mouth to speak, the figure slowly turned his head.
“You’re awake,” the man noted softly.
It was Sebastian, the Bishop of San Agustín.
“Is this…” Alonso trailed off, bewildered.
“As you can see, you are exactly where you belong,” Bishop Sebastian replied calmly. “Your home. The rectory attached to the cathedral.”
“…”
“It is the very place you have resided for the past decade. Is it not comfortable?”
“…W-Was it you who saved me, Your Grace?” Alonso stammered. “But…”
“You are currently a wanted fugitive, charged with the crime of instigating a violent slave rebellion,” Sebastian stated flatly.
“…”
Of course. Alonso heavily dropped his head. A slave rebellion. It was painfully obvious that countless people must have died in the ensuing chaos.
And it was all because of him.
Because he couldn’t suppress a fleeting moment of blinding fury. He had been beaten into critical condition, the slaves in the plaza had desperately fought back against the armed vigilantes, and in the end, countless lives had been horribly lost or ruined.
He was absolutely certain that the vast majority of the slaves involved had been slaughtered.
Agonized by the crushing weight of that realization, Alonso’s hands trembled violently. He buried his face in his hands, gripping his hair. Sebastian quietly walked over and gently patted his trembling shoulder.
“Do not… blame yourself too harshly,” Sebastian murmured. “While your mistake was indeed grave, you could not have possibly foreseen that a drunken vigilante would violently assault an ordained priest, could you? Though, perhaps you should have known. You should have known exactly what kind of horrific tragedy unchecked, reckless self-righteousness inevitably breeds.”
“…”
Pouring a chalice of red wine, Sebastian offered it to Alonso.
“You undeniably worked tirelessly for the sake of the slaves. But look at the results. Just how many slaves did you actually manage to liberate? A hundred? Two hundred? Because of your reckless actions today, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people will now be brutally slaughtered.”
Bishop Sebastian’s voice was somehow deeply compassionate, yet terrifyingly cold. Crushed by the agonizing truth of his reprimand, Alonso kept his mouth firmly shut.
“Did I not warn you?” Sebastian continued softly. “You are a priest. Your sacred duty is not to wash the dirt from the feet of every individual slave and fill their bellies. Your duty is to cleanse and nourish their eternal souls. What if you had simply accepted the harsh reality of this world? What if you had dedicated your efforts to gently persuading the slave owners across this colony? If you had merely urged them to treat their slaves with Christian love rather than brutal abuse…”
“…”
“How many more lives could you have saved?”
Alonso physically flinched at Sebastian’s piercing question. Glancing sideways at the trembling priest, Sebastian quietly turned his gaze toward the curtained window.
“If you had simply taught the slaves how to obediently submit to their earthly masters, and guided their souls so they might one day enter the Kingdom of Heaven, this horrific river of blood would never have been spilled—”
“Your Grace.”
“Yes, Alonso?”
Bishop Sebastian was a fundamentally good, upright, and fiercely principled man. He was also the very man who had constantly urged Alonso—who vehemently opposed the institution of slavery—to wake up and accept the harsh realities of the world.
“I… cannot do that,” Alonso replied hoarsely.
Forcing his battered body up from the mattress, Alonso fiercely rubbed his deeply furrowed brow. His head was throbbing with agony, but a familiar, righteous fury was rapidly boiling up from the very depths of his soul.
If that is your path, it is better to spill less blood, Sebastian had argued.
Staring directly at the Bishop, Alonso spoke with absolute conviction.
“If that is the reality we must accept… then it is infinitely better that the blood flows.”
***
“He tried to save us! Even as he was brutally struck down, his only thought was to protect us slaves!”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Therefore, it is only right that we carry on his holy will!”
Miguel roared at the top of his lungs. He vividly remembered the profound, life-altering hope Alonso had so gently planted within his shattered heart. The hope of escape. The hope that he could actually survive this suffocating hell.
He also vividly remembered the exact moment that very hope was violently, mercilessly obliterated the second Alonso’s bleeding body hit the cobblestones.
From the exact moment his hope was murdered, his mind had been consumed entirely by pure, blinding fury. His blazing wrath toward the monsters who had crushed his fragile hope utterly eclipsed his despair and frustration. He clenched his fists until his knuckles popped.
Having carried Alonso’s unconscious body on his back as they fled San Agustín, Miguel finally screamed the burning conviction he had been harboring ever since.
“We will not stop until the very concept of a slave is violently erased from this land!”
His desperate scream instantly ignited into a thunderous battle cry. Countless others, echoing his blazing fury with their own tragic stories, hoisted the bloody muskets and steel swords they had violently ripped from the hands of their dead masters.
The countless ‘rebels’ surging up from the deep south, the massive crowds gathering from every corner of Florida—they merged into a colossal, unstoppable tidal wave crashing directly toward San Agustín.
The name of a single, widely known ‘martyr’ had miraculously concentrated the previously chaotic, disorganized marches of the slaves into a singular, unified spearhead.
It left them with only one absolute objective.
Toward the capital guarded by heavily fortified walls.
Toward the epicenter of their oppression, defended by hundreds of armed regular soldiers.
And within the walls of San Agustín itself, the frantic, terrified whispering among the citizens grew increasingly louder.
“I saw it with my own two eyes! Father Alonso never once instigated a rebellion among them! He was merely trying to stop the vigilantes from senselessly butchering an innocent man!”
Because the horrific inciting incident had occurred right in the middle of San Agustín’s bustling plaza, it was impossible to silence the countless eyewitnesses. Furthermore, Alonso was a deeply respected, beloved priest.
The other priests and missionaries stationed in the area immediately launched fierce protests against the Governor-General. When several of them were violently detained for speaking out, the rest fell terrifyingly silent.
On the surface, at least.
“Good Lord… are we truly expected to stand by and do absolutely nothing while drunken vigilantes butcher a man of God in the middle of the street? What happened to the Ten Commandments? Where is the justice in this colony?!”
“Not a single vigilante has been punished for their vile actions. True justice… will not be found with the Governor-General.”
Plunged into sheer shock and disillusionment, the citizens whispered furiously in the shadows. And just as a massive, unstoppable tidal wave of slave rebels was bearing down upon San Agustín, they quietly began formulating their own desperate plans.
Some quietly slipped out of the city under the cover of darkness to join the slave rebellion.
Some secretly joined forces with the slaves trapped inside the city walls, attempting to throw open the fortress gates from within, only to be caught and publicly executed.
Some marched into the streets, screaming the name of the Lord as they fiercely protested, only to be brutally beaten and dragged away by the enraged slave owners.
Yet despite the brutal crackdowns, their collective fury only grew sharper and more profoundly defined.
It was a blazing wrath that simply could not be extinguished.
***
“Do you truly not understand, Your Grace? Even if I had done absolutely nothing… this rebellion was an inescapable inevitability. When hideous injustice flows as freely as water, and true justice becomes nothing more than a parched, cracked riverbed, how could they possibly not rise up?”
“Injustice… I suppose you could call it that,” Bishop Sebastian replied, his eyes flashing sharply. “But it is a fundamental truth that not everyone can live equally while enjoying absolute freedom. Some are destined to rule, and others are destined to be ruled. Do you not swear absolute loyalty to His Majesty the King? Does His Majesty not rule over you from high above?”
“…”
“Your argument is nothing more than childish sophistry, Alonso. It is physically impossible for everyone to be truly free.”
“Yes, you may very well be right,” Alonso admitted softly.
Clenching his fists tight, Alonso threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Slamming his hands down onto the desk where Sebastian was resting his chin, Alonso glared fiercely.
“If that is true, then the slave owners cannot be allowed absolute freedom either! The terrifying power to ruthlessly abuse human beings on a whim, the absolute authority to work men to death as they please—such vile, unchecked power must never, ever be granted to them!”
“Which is exactly why I constantly urged you to educate and gently persuade the slave owners—”
“Educate them?! Persuade them?! This is far beyond the realm of gentle persuasion!” Alonso roared, absolute fury bleeding into every single syllable. He fired back at the Bishop with sharper, more ferocious clarity than he ever had in his entire life.
“The absolute freedom to mindlessly torture and abuse another human being without reason or consequence—that is a ‘freedom’ no human being has the right to possess! And those who casually demand such vile authority… I absolutely refuse to tolerate them!”
***
As always, they had meticulously plotted out a new overland smuggling route, rallied the necessary personnel through their network of sympathetic Spanish collaborators, and prepared to send another group of slaves safely north to Virginia.
Once they reached Virginia, they would finally be able to bask in true freedom and celebrate their newly discovered prosperity.
It was a glorious, impossible life the slaves had never even dared to dream of. Imagining the sheer happiness they would experience for the rest of their lives, the ‘Priest’ had initially been overjoyed.
“I just received word that an absolutely massive battle is currently raging near San Agustín.”
“…”
“I have to go back.”
That was the shocking declaration the ‘Priest’—a key operative of the underground liberation network established by Kim Lee-sang—had just heard.
Gathered before him was a diverse group of runaway slaves, ranging from vibrant young men to grizzled elders.
Staring at them in sheer disbelief, the operative asked honestly, “Are you all completely out of your minds?”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“If you just follow this hidden path right here, you can live a happy, peaceful life starting today! Why would you—”
“And then what?” a young man interrupted fiercely. “Are you telling us to just turn our backs and leave our brothers and sisters behind to die? That Spanish Priest didn’t turn his back on us.”
“…”
“…And are we simply supposed to swallow this burning rage? The fury we owe to the very monsters who have mocked, tortured, and slaughtered us our entire lives?!”
The operative couldn’t utter a single word in response.
Countless slaves violently reversed course along the underground railroad, sprinting frantically back toward San Agustín. Back to the very place where their people desperately needed their help.
Furthermore, numerous underground ‘Priests’ and ‘Deacons’ charged into the fray alongside them.
The absolute leaders of our oppressors are holed up in that city. If we tear it down, we will finally win our freedom. It was a breathtaking, beautiful paradox.
Countless souls willingly rushed back into the jaws of hell, eagerly offering to spill their own precious blood upon the altar of revolution.
And then.
The heavy iron gates of the fortresses surrounding San Agustín were thrown wide open.
***
“…”
“…”
The two men stared at each other in heavy silence. Finally, Alonso spoke.
“Thanks to your harsh words, Your Grace… I have realized that I possess absolutely no regrets.”
“…”
“Thanks to your arguments, I now know with absolute certainty that my actions that day were undeniably right. Even if I were forced to relive that exact moment a thousand times over, I would still step forward to stop those vigilantes.”
“…”
“Even if it means a river of blood must be spilled, I will proudly tell the people to rise up and seize their freedom.”
Sebastian silently stared at Alonso for a long time.
Then, he quietly added a single sentence.
“Then… allow me to ask you one last question.”
“Yes?”
“When exactly did I die?”
“Pardon? You passed away three years ago…” Alonso began to answer automatically.
“…”
“…”
Bishop Sebastian was a fundamentally good, upright, and fiercely principled man. He was also the very man who had constantly urged Alonso to wake up and accept the harsh realities of slavery. He was Alonso’s beloved mentor and superior.
A mentor who had been fundamentally, tragically wrong.
“Where are you right now, Alonso?” Sebastian whispered. “Where exactly were you when you finally lost consciousness?”
“In San Agustín… I was being carried away on someone’s back while we were escaping…”
The scenery of the modest rectory violently warped and distorted.
Alonso blinked his eyes open once more.
He was lying in an entirely unfamiliar, lavishly decorated room.
Countless people were staring down at him.
Some were familiar faces he had seen before, while others were complete strangers. There were runaway slaves, fellow clergymen, and the hardened operatives of the underground network who had helped him smuggle slaves to freedom.
Slowly sitting up, Alonso pulled back the thick velvet curtains covering the massive window.
An ocean of people standing in the plaza below looked up at him in reverent silence.
Alonso instantly realized exactly where he was.
He was standing inside the building that had, until very recently, served as the official residence of the Governor-General of Florida.
***
“…To be completely honest with you, my lord, I never imagined something like this was actually possible.”
Slowly shaking his head in sheer disbelief, Raleigh handed me the intelligence report.
“San Agustín was heavily fortified by six distinct fortresses, permanently garrisoned by over five hundred regular soldiers, and was the absolute crown jewel of Spain’s colonial efforts in the region. For it to completely collapse like this…”
“It seems it is entirely possible,” I murmured.
“…”
“Even when I first ordered the establishment of the underground network, I never in my wildest dreams imagined it would escalate to this terrifying scale…”
Taking a quill, I firmly crossed out the words ‘Spanish Territory’ written over ‘Spanish Florida’ on the map spread across my desk.
Then, I slowly, meticulously estimated the sheer geographical distance between Mexico City and San Agustín.
2,140 kilometers.
Calculating the average speed of 17th-century galleons, the agonizingly slow pace of military mobilization in this era, and the logistical nightmare of crossing the Gulf, I bit my lip hard.
“Walter.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Just how massive of a force do you think the enemy can mobilize?”
“…”
“…”
I didn’t need to specify who the enemy was or what they would be mobilizing. Raleigh understood immediately without a single moment of hesitation.
Raleigh remained deathly silent for a long moment before finally answering.
“I… do not know. I cannot even begin to fathom the sheer scale of it.”
We couldn’t possibly know.
The Spanish Empire had just lost an entire, massive colony inhabited by thousands of their loyal subjects in the blink of an eye.
If that was the case, just how many tens of thousands of soldiers, just how many hundreds of towering warships would the Spanish Empire ruthlessly mobilize in response?
Just how violently were they planning to obliterate Florida to make an example of it?
The tree of liberty had only just barely taken root in the bloody soil.
And an apocalyptic hurricane was already rapidly approaching to violently rip that tree out by its very roots.
The following day, the assembly was immediately convened once more.