Alonso Garcia lingered in critical condition for nearly a few weeks.
The fact that a man beaten halfway to death had managed to survive at all was nothing short of a miracle. And even though his hidden caretakers had continuously cleaned his wounds and desperately spoon-fed him using whatever meager means they possessed, his physical emaciation was simply inevitable.
It took several days just for Alonso to regain the strength to stand up and barely hold his balance, and several more weeks before his hollow, sunken cheeks began to regain some color.
For a man who had practically placed one foot firmly inside the grave, it was a remarkably swift recovery. Considering it yet another miracle and a profound blessing, Alonso listened in stunned silence to the news delivered by those who had nursed him back to life.
As was already blatantly obvious to the naked eye, San Agustín had completely fallen.
The Spanish military forces that had previously maintained absolute control over the colony had either surrendered, been slaughtered, or fled desperately out to sea.
Upon hearing the shocking news that their impregnable capital had collapsed, the remaining Spanish strongholds across Florida crumbled in rapid succession. Ultimately, Spain’s iron-fisted hegemony within Florida was entirely obliterated.
And just like that, the slave rebellion—which had been violently ignited by Alonso’s brutal assault—had emerged completely victorious.
“…”
Hearing the incomprehensible news, Alonso sat in a stunned, hollow daze for a long time.
If anyone were to wake up from a near-death coma only to be told that the entire world had been turned upside down because of them, they would likely react the exact same way.
For the time being, Alonso remained cooped up inside the building that used to be the Governor-General’s official residence to focus on his physical rehabilitation. Yet, whenever he merely glanced out the window, he could see dozens—if not hundreds—of people constantly gathered outside, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
Look, it’s the Priest! It’s Father Alonso! He’s alive! Those fervent, reverent shouts echoed through his window constantly.
…It was an incredibly bizarre, alienating sensation.
He hadn’t actually done anything, yet he had somehow become the ultimate symbol of their conscience and the absolute, ideological focal point of their entire revolution.
Simply because he had previously helped slaves escape and shown them a sliver of genuine kindness, he was now being revered as a living saint. The anecdotes of his righteous deeds underwent massive embellishment and exaggeration as they spread like wildfire across the land.
For an ordinary, worldly-ignorant priest from a remote frontier outpost to suddenly become the most important man in the nation… it was only natural for his sense of reality to completely shatter. He still felt as though he were trapped in a bizarre, feverish dream.
Regardless, with the Spanish military entirely expelled, a new leadership naturally emerged within the newly liberated San Agustín.
The coalition was comprised of the southern Florida slaves who had initially ignited the uprising; the northern Florida slaves (including those within San Agustín) who had joined the fray upon hearing the news of Alonso’s assault; and a handful of sympathetic clergymen and former Spanish soldiers who had reportedly thrown open the fortress gates and disrupted the defenses from within during the siege.
A central council formed by the representatives of these distinct factions maintained order within San Agustín. They were the new, sovereign government of this land. And naturally, the recently awakened Alonso had been quietly slipped into their ranks.
And the conclusion this newly formed government reached was chillingly clear.
“No matter how heavily we delay it, the Spanish suppression forces will inevitably crash upon our shores within a few years at the absolute latest.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“The only foreign power we could possibly beg for assistance is England. However, I have heard that England is currently waging a massive war in Ireland against the allied Catholic forces and the Spanish military, meaning they are highly unlikely to spare us any meaningful aid…”
The grim assessment came from a former colonial bureaucrat who possessed at least a rudimentary understanding of the geopolitical situation across the ocean.
A heavy, collective sigh swept across the room as the representatives looked around at one another, desperately praying that someone—anyone—would offer a brilliant solution.
No one had an answer.
Their entire arsenal consisted exclusively of the weapons they had violently stripped from the former occupation forces and slave owners. Naturally, it was laughably insufficient to arm even a fraction of the newly liberated slaves. They were critically short on gunpowder, steel weapons, and essentially everything else required to wage war.
For over a decade, this colony had grown at an abnormally rapid, deeply unhealthy pace, meaning it was leagues away from ever achieving true self-sufficiency. Now that their umbilical cord to the mainland had been permanently severed, they would face crippling shortages of absolutely everything.
Weapons. A trained military. Bureaucratic organization.
Everything.
The only silver lining was that they had somehow managed to peacefully resolve their relations with the various Native American tribes without sparking any major conflicts. If they had stumbled into a senseless, resource-draining war against the natives right before the Spanish military arrived, their annihilation would have been guaranteed.
Regardless, the fate awaiting these newly liberated people was… not exactly overflowing with hope.
In fact, it was utterly brutal. They had to frantically worry about whether they would even be alive a few years from now.
And so, the council meeting was adjourned without producing a single meaningful result.
Leaning heavily on his walking stick and supported by a few aides, Alonso slowly made his way back to his room. Utterly drained of energy, he didn’t even bother changing his clothes before attempting to collapse onto his bed, when—
“Please, look over here.”
“…”
He nearly screamed.
As Alonso stumbled and awkwardly sat on the edge of the bed, he realized someone had been silently watching him from the dark corner of his room.
“I bring a message from the ‘Bishop,'” the shadowed figure stated.
The Bishop.
It certainly wasn’t the Catholic Bishop of San Agustín, who had long since fled with the retreating Spanish forces.
It was the ‘Bishop’ of the underground network.
The very same secret organization he had worked alongside for years to smuggle slaves out of the colony. The very same organization whose operatives had played a spectacularly crucial role in spreading the localized uprising into a colony-wide revolution.
…The organization that almost certainly had deep, direct ties to England.
While several members of the network had actively integrated themselves into the new leadership council, the ‘Bishop’ himself had never made an appearance. Alonso had been intensely curious about the man’s circumstances, but to think he would send a covert messenger like this…
“…What message has the Bishop sent me?” Alonso asked cautiously.
“It is a message not only for you, but for the rest of the leadership council as well,” the messenger replied in a dry, emotionless tone.
“Virginia will aid you.”
Virginia.
Right. That was the destination where they had been secretly sending the liberated slaves all this time. Yet, Alonso had absolutely no idea what kind of place Virginia actually was.
Some claimed it was a land where a massive, prosperous new empire was rapidly flourishing. Others insisted it was a mythical realm lined with cities of solid gold. Still others argued it was nothing more than a savage wilderness dotted with scattered Native American tribes.
Because every single rumor carried a tiny grain of plausibility, it was impossible to discern the truth. Alonso had simply funneled the slaves northward because he believed living in a land ruled by a supposedly ‘benevolent Native American warlord’ was infinitely better than rotting in this hellhole.
But… they were going to aid them? Aid the slaves?
Not as an auxiliary force of England, but as a completely independent sovereign power?
“…Why?” Alonso couldn’t help but ask. No, he had been burning with this exact question for years.
What kind of place was Virginia, and exactly what kind of man was this so-called ‘Emperor,’ that they were willing to go to such extreme, violently desperate lengths to save the slaves of a foreign, hostile nation?
At Alonso’s question, the messenger’s stoic expression finally shifted.
A faint, knowing smile playing on his lips, the messenger answered as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.
“Because He declared that it was the right thing to do.”
With that, the messenger opened the door and stepped out. Through the crack in the door, Alonso watched in stunned silence as the messenger strode down the hallway. Not a single person asked who he was or attempted to stop him.
It seemed every single person guarding the hallway was an operative of the organization.
***
“The leadership of the Florida organization has sent word that, per your advice, they will not officially participate in the formation of the new government,” Raleigh reported. “However, they have inevitably permitted a handful of individual deacons and priests to participate on a personal level…”
“That is more than sufficient,” I replied, stretching my stiff limbs as I listened to the incoming report from Florida. I had been agonizing over our next move so intensely lately that I was utterly exhausted.
Regardless of how it came about, Florida was now a newborn, sovereign nation. If our secret society were to completely infiltrate and commandeer their newly formed government, it would be no different from us puppeteering a proxy state.
Our secret society was an organization strictly focused on espionage and slave liberation—essentially a 17th-century precursor to the Underground Railroad. Supporting them from the shadows was the most we should do.
As I cracked my neck, producing a loud series of pops, Raleigh—who had just entered the council chamber alongside the other apostles—looked at me in mild surprise.
“Did you… sleep in here, my lord?”
“Yes.”
This room was the political heart of Chesapeake; the official government building where the six-member council and I conducted our official duties and held our meetings.
Having slept in a horribly crooked posture in my chair for hours, my entire body was currently screaming in agony, prompting me to do some light stretching. Instantly, my body felt completely rejuvenated. Wow, to think I finally possessed a body where I didn’t even have to worry about scoliosis.
Regardless, I swallowed a yawn and turned to Raleigh.
“We simply have far too many critical issues to consider right now. I figured it was better to stay here and work rather than waste time traveling back home.”
And the ‘critical issue’ we had to consider was blindingly obvious.
Florida.
“How much time did you estimate we have left before they retaliate?” I asked.
“…A minimum of one year. Perhaps longer,” Raleigh replied grimly.
“Right. And because we have that much time, we have a mountain of preparations to complete.”
The Viceroyalty of New Spain didn’t exactly have any massive, heavily armed enemy nations breathing down its neck. Their primary military concerns were swatting away the annoying English and French pirates constantly nipping at their heels, and controlling the Native American populations rapidly dying off from disease.
Consequently, their military forces—numbering only in the hundreds or low thousands per garrison—were thinly scattered across an unimaginably massive territory several dozen times the size of the Korean peninsula, inhabited by millions of people.
The military might of New Spain wouldn’t truly explode in scale until the other major European powers began aggressively expanding into the Americas in earnest.
Therefore, even if New Spain managed to scrape together every single regular soldier they currently possessed, it would still be woefully insufficient to properly reconquer Florida right now.
It would take a considerable amount of time for them to properly consolidate their forces, complete their logistical preparations for a massive invasion, and officially launch round two.
However, that also meant…
“It will take us just as long to fully prepare ourselves,” I sighed. “Isn’t that right?”
“…”
There was simply too much to prepare.
Right now, we fundamentally lacked the very means to wage a proper war.
In other words, if a massive enemy army were to march directly onto our soil, we possessed absolutely no countermeasures beyond our basic defensive perimeter.
“The severe shortage of modern firearms is one thing; I suppose that is to be expected,” I continued, rubbing my temples. “But if we exclude the handful of Spanish sailors who defected to us, we literally do not possess a military. We don’t have any soldiers. We don’t have anyone who actually knows how to fight a war…”
“Excuse me? We don’t have anyone who knows how to fight? Whatever do you mean by that, my lord?”
“…Pardon?”
The person who had just boldly interrupted me and asked that absurd question was… uh…
Of all people, it was Oitotan.
How the hell did this guy end up as a council member again? …Ah, right. Because he had successfully peddled massive quantities of our goods in France, completely monopolized the Native American trade routes, and achieved massive, undeniable diplomatic triumphs.
Not only was he the only person on this continent who even remotely resembled a professional diplomat, he had somehow managed to snag the title of Agricultural Knight Commander on top of it all.
Annoyingly enough, Oitotan was actually incredibly competent in highly specific, bizarre ways. Which was exactly why I was currently forced to deal with him as a peer on the governing council.
Stifling a heavy sigh, I turned to Oitotan.
“Of course, we possess plenty of highly skilled Native American warriors. We could likely mobilize several thousand of them if necessary. However, sending them to face a fully armed, organized Spanish military with nothing but bows and spears is… literal suicide.”
Sure, the Spanish didn’t have machine guns yet, so one could argue that the absolute disparity in firepower between Europeans and non-Europeans wasn’t quite insurmountable.
But I wasn’t just talking about raw, physical firepower. Yes, the technological gap between stone axes and Toledo steel swords was massive, but there was a far more critical issue at play.
“They are accustomed to waging total war with armies numbering in the thousands or tens of thousands, operating under a single, unified chain of command, with the explicit goal of utterly annihilating their enemies,” I explained patiently. “Furthermore, they possess dedicated personnel who have been rigorously trained for the sole purpose of waging war.”
Organization. Discipline. Tactical training.
Spain boasted one of the largest, most battle-hardened standing armies in all of Europe. They were a military juggernaut that could never, under any circumstances, be underestimated…
“Hmm? But do we not possess people exactly like that as well?” Oitotan asked, tilting his head.
…Is he about to spout some absolute nonsense again? It had been nearly twenty years since we first met, yet the image of Oitotan permanently burned into my brain was still that of the young, reckless gamer screaming for a desperate all-in team fight.
How persuasive could anything coming out of his mouth possibly be?
Still, he was a member of the council, so I figured I shouldn’t completely ignore him. Resting my chin on my hand, I nodded for him to continue. Instantly, Oitotan’s face lit up with excitement.
“We have the Knights!”
…See? I knew he was going to say something completely stupid. “I was informed that in Europe, the title of ‘Knight’ is exclusively bestowed upon the most elite, terrifying warriors!” Oitotan beamed proudly.
“That is technically true, but we merely borrowed the name for administrative purposes. They were never intended to serve as a military—”
“Because we frequently battle wild beasts and must constantly plow massive tracts of land, our men are incredibly skilled at riding horses!” Oitotan interrupted passionately. “Furthermore, the squires take absolute orders from the Knights, the Knights obey their Captains, and the Captains report directly to the Knight Commander! Why wouldn’t we be able to fight against other men?!”
“…”
Tsk. It actually sounded somewhat plausible…
Uh…
“Therefore, if our hundreds of Knights charge forward toward the enemy! Driving those mighty tractors! And crush the enemy lines…!”
“How exactly do you propose they do that?” I asked flatly.
Yep, he was definitely full of shit.
“The steam tractors are incredibly slow; their top speed is barely a brisk walking pace. Changing direction is an absolute nightmare. They were never, ever designed to be used as offensive weapons.”
“But did you not personally drive an excavator into the Spanish soldiers and crush them, my lord?” Oitotan countered stubbornly.
“That was because the excavator was relatively fast and highly maneuverable! Even if it wasn’t explicitly designed as a weapon, it could still be effectively utilized as one! But the tractors—”
“…”
Just when I thought he might actually offer a somewhat plausible strategic opinion, he had spouted the utterly absurd, brain-dead suggestion of using agricultural steam tractors as weapons of war.
No matter how hard I tried to justify it, it made zero logical sense. There was absolutely no way a clunky machine that moved slightly faster than a walking man could ever be used as a weapon—
“A tractor battalion? That is actually a rather brilliant idea.”
“…Walter?” I blinked.
…Huh? “No, thinking about it now, the tactical applications are incredibly clear,” Raleigh muttered, his eyes widening in sudden realization. “It cannot possibly fail.”
“What on earth are you—”
“Think about it, Lord Nemo!” Raleigh urged excitedly. “What if we were to take those massive, hulking tractors, and completely armor them on all sides with thick steel plating and Lexan glass?!”
Armor them with Lexan and steel plates? Well, sure, that would obviously protect the driver from enemy fire. But…
“…”
“…”
“…”
Wait. Why couldn’t I think of a single tactical drawback to that?
“Imagine driving that heavily armored beast straight into the heart of the enemy lines,” Raleigh continued, his voice rising with excitement. “Is there any weapon on this earth better suited to utterly shattering a tightly packed infantry formation?!”
There wasn’t.
“Furthermore, if our infantry were to advance while using the armored tractors as moving shields, wouldn’t they be automatically provided with impenetrable, mobile cover?”
He was absolutely right.
“And if such terrifying, hulking metal monstrosities were to spearhead our vanguard, the sheer psychological terror inflicted upon the enemy would be catastrophic! Now I see your brilliant vision, Lord Baron!” Vicente chimed in eagerly.
“Precisely, Vicente!” Raleigh beamed.
…He’s right. Come to think of it. This sounded incredibly familiar. Hmm.
“If we attach cannons or massive blades to the front, couldn’t we actively massacre the enemy as well?!” Eleanor suggested brightly.
“Eleanor, that is a truly spectacular idea,” Raleigh agreed warmly.
Ah. They were describing tanks and armored personnel carriers.
Wait a second. There has to be a critical technological limitation preventing this, right? The theoretical concept for armored vehicles had existed since the Renaissance, but they had never been successfully implemented until the 20th century.
There had to be a very specific, insurmountable reason for that… there definitely was…
“…The power source.”
“Pardon? What did you say, my lord?”
“It’s nothing.”
I had found the limitation.
Prior to the 20th century, humanity simply didn’t possess a power source capable of driving such impossibly heavy, armored vehicles across uneven terrain.
But we did.
We had successfully built fully functioning steam engines.
…
…
…
I slowly turned my head to stare at Oitotan.
“That is truly magnificent, Oitotan! What a terrifyingly brilliant tactical insight!” Raleigh praised genuinely.
“It was nothing much,” Oitotan replied, puffing out his chest.
“Thanks to your genius, the entire history of warfare is about to be rewritten!” Vicente cheered.
“It was nothing much.”
“You are a strategic genius!” Eleanor added.
“It was nothing much.”
…His shoulders were practically touching the ceiling.
Setting aside my profound annoyance at his smugness, I was utterly dumbfounded.
Is this… actually going to work?
***
“Yes, Your Majesty. I have relayed all of your messages.”
“…And despite all that, they still explicitly intend to provide military support?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“…”
Queen Elizabeth took a delicate sip of the dark, bitter beverage known as ‘coffee’ before asking her next question.
“This is an utterly absurd question, but given that we have already experienced countless absurdities in this land, I shall ask it anyway.”
“Please, ask whatever you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Does the Angel, by any chance, possess the divine power to effortlessly slaughter thousands of armed soldiers with a wave of his hand?”
“He has never revealed such terrifying authority to us, Your Majesty.”
“Then why? No, the better question is how?”
She was right. The question of ‘how’ fundamentally preceded the question of ‘why’.
“The total population of this community is smaller than that of a minor Italian city-state,” Elizabeth pointed out sharply. “If they draft thousands—or even mere hundreds—of able-bodied men for this war, there will barely be any strong men left to sustain the community.”
“Your assessment is entirely accurate, Your Majesty. And He is fully aware of that fact.”
“…And he genuinely believes he can alter the entire course of a massive war with such meager numbers?” Elizabeth frowned deeply. “He will send a few hundred men, at most. What meaningful impact could a few hundred men possibly have against the thousands of veteran soldiers Spain will inevitably unleash?”
Listening to the Queen’s entirely logical doubts, Raleigh tilted his head for a moment… and smiled.
“As for exactly what kind of meaningful impact they will have, Your Majesty… you will understand in a few days’ time.”
“In a few days?”
“Yes. Lord Nemo intends to officially invite you to observe the preparations. When you attend, you will understand everything.”
“What exactly… will I understand?”
Raleigh answered simply.
“The true meaning of overwhelming presence.”
And then.
“Attach the combat-grade plows!”
“Mount the steel blades!”
“Power them up!”
“Yes, Lord Oitotan!”
The Queen witnessed it with her own two eyes.
RUMBLE! RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
Overwhelming presence… was forged entirely from solid steel.