San José.
A colonial outpost nestled on the western edge of Florida.
It wasn’t a particularly large city. Nor was it a location of monumental strategic importance.
It was merely one of the numerous minor outposts the Spanish had hastily erected across Florida to keep the English and the Virginia community in check. In original history, a settlement wouldn’t have even been established here for another century; it was an utterly unremarkable place.
The fate of this small, quiet village—which previously housed a meager two to three hundred residents—was violently upended during the recent ‘slave rebellion.’
When the shocking news of San Agustín’s fall spread and the uprising erupted into a full-scale colony-wide revolution, the scattered Spanish strongholds across Florida began to systematically collapse.
In the midst of that bloody frenzy, the surviving Spanish colonists from northwestern Florida fled here in droves.
Actually, it wasn’t just the northwest. Like a snowball rolling down a mountain, as word spread that fleeing slave owners had found sanctuary here, even more desperate slave owners from every corner of Florida began pouring into the village.
As a direct result of thousands of terrified colonial refugees cramming into the settlement, San José accidentally swelled into one of the most heavily populated settlements in the entire Viceroyalty of New Spain.
Of course, the reality was that it was nothing more than a glorified refugee camp for ousted slave owners.
“Look! I can see San José!”
“Prepare to make landfall.”
However, even a glorified refugee camp was an incredibly precious staging ground for the current Spanish military.
It was the very last city in the Florida colony that had maintained its absolute loyalty to Spain, making it the perfect rearguard base from which to launch their grand reconquest of the territory.
Therefore, it was no mere coincidence that a massive Spanish expeditionary force numbering roughly two thousand soldiers had just arrived here to brutally suppress the slave rebellion.
Over the past decade, the Spanish colonists had painstakingly constructed a sprawling network of roads radiating outward from San Agustín.
By establishing a beachhead here, re-subjugating the local Native American tribes, and methodically sweeping through the surrounding settlements, their full-scale suppression campaign would officially begin.
The fifteen hundred heavily armed soldiers who had just made landfall were more than enough to completely scour Florida clean.
Commander Gaspar took a moment to relish the feeling of solid earth beneath his boots as he surveyed his surroundings with immense satisfaction. A massive crowd of welcoming refugees was looking up at him with desperate, pleading eyes.
Their gazes made it glaringly obvious they already knew exactly what orders he had received from New Spain.
In truth, there was only one possible reason he would have been deployed here anyway.
Clearing his throat, Gaspar bellowed to the citizens of San José.
“Everything that was lost or stolen through vile treason shall inevitably be returned to its rightful owners!”
An endless roar of euphoric cheering instantly erupted from the crowd as people violently stomped their feet and thrust their arms into the air.
They were intimately familiar with the concept of ‘things lost or stolen through treason.’
In the wake of the rebellion, they had lost their massive plantations, their extravagant luxury goods, their lavish mansions, and their slaves.
The slaves had seized their freedom.
And now, all of those things absolutely had to be returned ‘to their rightful owners.’
Immediately after making landfall, Gaspar’s forces were eagerly supplied with vast quantities of food and logistical resources voluntarily donated by the refugees. Without a moment’s hesitation, the army began its aggressive eastward march. Their first objective was San Marcos, the closest sizable city.
If they could just capture San Marcos, they could utilize the established road network connecting to it to rapidly strike deep into the heart of the various colonies scattered across the Florida peninsula.
As they marched, they systematically reclaimed several abandoned villages, proudly planting the Spanish flag in the soil as they went. They firmly believed these settlements would soon be fully restored to their former glory.
And so, they marched toward San Marcos without encountering a single obstacle…
“Hold! I see something up ahead!”
“…What?”
Because they lived in an era before the widespread use of telescopes, Gaspar had no choice but to squint and rely on his naked eye to assess the vanguard. No matter how hard he peered into the distance, he couldn’t clearly identify the shapes. However, it was undeniably a massive gathering of people.
And if hundreds of people were suddenly blocking their direct path of advance, there was only one possible explanation.
“Prepare for battle! Prepare for battle!”
“Uwaaaaaah!”
To think they would encounter the enemy when they were so incredibly close to San Marcos.
Yet, despite the sudden command, the morale of the Spanish forces didn’t waver in the slightest; in fact, it skyrocketed.
There wasn’t a single ounce of fear in their eyes.
After all, the enemy was nothing more than a disorganized mob of completely untrained slaves. Their equipment was bound to be utterly pathetic, and their actual combat experience was practically non-existent.
Filled with absolute confidence, Gaspar and his soldiers proudly marched forward.
“…What on earth is that?”
“I have… absolutely no idea, sir.”
Soon, they were plunged into absolute shock as they finally came face-to-face with the enemy.
Soldiers wearing perfectly standardized, identical military uniforms? It was incredibly unexpected, but it was physically possible.
The enemy troops looked far more disciplined and elite than anticipated, and they were wielding a wide array of proper military equipment. But again, it was possible they had somehow managed to scavenge and pool together all the gear previously owned by their masters and the dead Spanish soldiers.
However, the most crucial, glaringly obvious detail was…
It was… well, the thing was…
It was something entirely, unfathomably different from anything they could have ever possibly expected.
***
A short time before the Spanish army arrived.
The military forces of the Virginia community had officially entered Florida first.
“A-Aaaargh! M-Monster! What the hell is that… What is that thing?!”
“Ah… are you unaware? This majestic beast is known as a [Tractor].”
“I don’t know what the hell that is! Get it away from me!”
While occasionally causing massive waves of sheer, mind-breaking panic among the locals…
“W-Welcome to our land, Oitotan. Are you truly the supreme commander of these forces?”
“I am.”
“Then, the man you were just speaking to with such profound reverence and honorifics a moment ago…”
“He is no one.”
“Pardon?”
“I said, he is no one.”
…And while occasionally receiving baffled, awkward welcomes, they successfully marched into San Agustín.
Immediately upon arrival, they convened a grand strategic meeting.
“The defending side is inherently forced to act more passively than the attacking side,” Oitotan declared, taking absolute control of the war council. “The attacking force has the luxury of choosing the battlefield. We do not.”
“So, what exactly are you proposing?” a local rebel leader asked.
“First, I was informed that you have successfully brought the local Native American tribes over to our side. That is a tremendous relief. The sheer geographic area we must defend is already agonizingly vast as it is.”
Ultimately, their strategic conclusion was brutally simple.
They had to widely disperse their forces.
They had absolutely no way of knowing exactly where the massive Spanish army would strike.
Therefore, they had to heavily guard every single conceivable route the enemy could possibly take.
Identifying roughly ten highly probable landing zones in and around San Agustín, they deployed two or three armored tractors to each location. They then assigned local Native American warriors and liberated slaves to act as auxiliary infantry supporting the machines.
Out of the forty total war tractors brought down from Virginia, thirty were dedicated to locking down these critical defensive chokepoints across the region.
And what about the remaining ten tractors?
They were aggressively deployed along the main road connecting San José—the final remaining Spanish stronghold—to the newly liberated territories of Florida.
After all, there was an incredibly high probability the Spanish would choose to march their army through a stronghold they already controlled, rather than risking a highly dangerous, contested amphibious landing.
The remaining Virginian infantry was split straight down the middle. Half remained stationed within San Agustín, while the other half marched westward alongside Oitotan.
And so.
Roughly two hundred Virginian infantrymen, supported by approximately three hundred liberated African slaves.
A combined force of roughly five hundred men stood directly in the path of the approaching fifteen-hundred-strong Spanish army.
Accompanied by ten armored war tractors.
“A m-monster… A monster made entirely of solid steel! It’s a monster…!”
“Do not panic! Anyone who breaks formation and flees will be immediately hanged!”
It was a sight guaranteed to strike absolute, mind-shattering terror into the hearts of the Spanish.
***
The moment Gaspar laid eyes on the opposing force, a chilling realization washed over him.
No matter how hard he tried to rationalize it, there was absolutely no way the local Florida slaves could have possibly scraped together a military force of this caliber.
That meant they had either received massive logistical support from a foreign power, or a foreign military had actively joined the war on their behalf.
This terrifying fact forced Gaspar into a delayed, horrible epiphany.
Another faction has arrived in this region to actively aid the Florida rebels? That meant… the rebels had deliberately reached out to an external sovereign power and formally requested military intervention.
And the rebels were the ones orchestrating it.
If that was the case, this impending battle was no longer a mere ‘rebellion suppression’ operation.
The Viceroyalty of New Spain had entirely dismissed the recent slave uprising as nothing more than a massive, utterly disorganized, chaotic riot.
Consequently, the entire strategic objective of Gaspar’s current campaign had been designed purely for ‘riot suppression’—methodically occupying every stronghold and violently pacifying the rabble.
But now?
The enemy possessed a unified, highly organized military structure.
The enemy possessed a central command. They had formally summoned their ‘allies’ and officially dragged them into a war.
In other words, this current conflict was no longer a simple suppression operation; it was a full-scale ‘War’ between sovereign nations.
But more importantly than any of that.
What the hell was ‘that’? What on earth was ‘that’ massive, terrifying monstrosity seemingly forged entirely from solid steel?!
It is impossible to defeat an enemy you cannot comprehend. Even though a quick visual assessment confirmed his forces outnumbered the enemy by a staggering three-to-one margin, Gaspar couldn’t afford to lower his guard for even a second.
Tense and sweating profusely, Gaspar agonized over his options before finally spurring his horse forward. He bellowed across the battlefield.
“I am Gaspar! I have arrived upon these shores bearing the official title bestowed upon me by His Excellency, Juan de Mendoza y Luna, Viceroy of New Spain! Let the supreme commander among you savages step forward! Abide by the honorable laws of European chivalry!”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Everyone on both sides briefly wondered what the hell this madman was spouting.
No, honestly, a supreme commander suddenly riding out alone to the very front lines was already an act of sheer lunacy. But for him to suddenly scream his name and affiliation, and then demand the enemy commander step forward to formally greet him? Who in their right mind would ever respond to such a—
Vroooom! “I am Oitotan! I am the Knight Commander of the Virginia Community, and a sitting member of the Council of Six serving His Nameless Lordship!”
He actually responded.
Only then did the Spanish lieutenants turn to stare at Gaspar in absolute awe.
Only then did they finally comprehend his profound, terrifying tactical genius.
“Excellent! I swear upon my sacred honor that I shall guarantee your safety! Let the two commanders meet in the center of the battlefield!”
“…Huh?”
“That is the unbreakable law of ‘European Chivalry’! You must respect our sacred customs!”
“…Well, if you insist.”
Since the enemy appeared to be comprised almost entirely of Native Americans, Gaspar was absolutely certain they had no earthly idea what ‘European Chivalry’ actually entailed.
“Hmm…”
“Do you truly possess no honor whatsoever?!”
“…Very well!”
Therefore, as long as Gaspar stubbornly insisted that absolutely anything and everything was a sacred tenet of European etiquette and chivalry, he could easily manipulate them into doing whatever he wanted.
Thanks to this brilliantly manipulative tactic, Gaspar was able to extract several highly critical pieces of intelligence during Oitotan’s ensuing self-introduction. For instance…
“Virginia! They came all the way from Virginia!” Gaspar announced triumphantly upon returning to his lines, greeted by the euphoric cheers of his lieutenants.
The enemy hailed from Virginia.
Furthermore, their government was composed of six individuals and was officially titled the ‘Council of Six.’
The expeditionary force dispatched from Virginia to Florida numbered roughly five hundred men, and that man, Oitotan, was their supreme commander.
Having successfully uncovered all these incredibly vital strategic secrets—
“Our Noble Order of Knights originally began our sacred journey by plowing the fields! Ah, have you ever tasted the wine from our homeland? Of course you haven’t! Let me tell you, the flavor is absolutely exquisite…”
“T-That’s enough! Stop talking! I have heard more than enough!”
—Gaspar was also forced to listen to a massive, excruciatingly detailed barrage of utterly useless information he had absolutely zero desire to know.
What did he just say? ‘That’ steel monstrosity is agricultural equipment?! Furthermore, every single one of you is a literal farmer?! Then why the hell are you calling yourselves Knights?! Did you inherit the title through your noble bloodline?! Uh… wait, what? You have to pass an exam to get a ‘Knight’s License’?!
Plunged into a state of absolute, mind-breaking confusion, Gaspar and the rest of the Spanish high command could only stare blankly at Oitotan’s retreating back as he casually strolled away after cheerfully dumping a mountain of utterly nonsensical trivia on them.
Regardless.
They claimed to be Knights, yet their social standing was incredibly bizarre.
They didn’t inherit any special privileges through a noble bloodline, their primary occupation was literally plowing other people’s land, and on top of that, they were forced to march into war.
‘Isn’t that just the exact definition of a serf?’ Gaspar genuinely had no idea anymore.
Furthermore, they insisted that horrifying, steel-clad monster was a simple farming tool.
“…”
“…”
“…”
Oitotan had genuinely, honestly provided Gaspar with almost all of the factual information. He had done so entirely because he had been successfully tricked into believing that fighting with such absurd ‘fairness’ and ‘transparency’ was the epitome of ‘European Chivalry.’
Consequently, the Spanish army and Gaspar were now fully aware that the tractors were heavily armored with solid steel and were equipped with violently spinning, lethal blades mounted to the front chassis.
…While Gaspar had been slightly offended by Oitotan’s incredibly boastful, arrogant tone while explaining it, gaining free intelligence was always a good thing, wasn’t it?
Regardless, they immediately began preparing for battle.
In truth, the situation was incredibly bizarre if one thought about it logically.
The Agricultural Knights explicitly included a massive number of native Europeans in their ranks. Yet, despite hearing Gaspar spout such blatant, hilariously inaccurate nonsense about ‘European Etiquette’ and ‘Chivalry,’ not a single European Knight had spoken up to correct Oitotan or point out the deception.
The reason for their silence was painfully simple.
“Alright, I have returned! Let us commence the attack!” Oitotan declared.
“Please wait just a moment, Commander. The enemy has not yet assumed their combat formations. Did their commander not explicitly request that we wait until they had finished their preparations?”
“Hmm? Well… I suppose he did, Sir Skinner. Do you possess some brilliant tactical insight?”
“I possess no such strategic insight… but shouldn’t we wait for them regardless? Are we not honorable ‘Knights’ ourselves?”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…That is an absolutely brilliant idea.”
The Europeans of Virginia were already halfway out of their damn minds.
Sir Skinner, a Knight Captain hailing from the outskirts of Chesapeake, stared at the enemy lines, his entire body trembling with ecstatic, overwhelming thrills.
Currently, the enemy was allowing their soldiers to casually rest, meticulously reload their muskets, finish their meals, and slowly, leisurely prepare their battle formations.
And the Virginian Knights were actively stopping Oitotan from attacking, willingly waiting for the Spanish to finish.
Why? Because that was the truly ‘Knightly’ thing to do.
The year was 1611. This was an era where the romanticized concept of the medieval Knight had long since devolved into a literal laughingstock.
Skinner, a man who had lived his entire life as an impoverished commoner and was utterly destined to die as one back in Europe, had come to the New World, miraculously ascended to the rank of ‘Knight Captain,’ and promptly lost his absolute damn mind.
‘I am finally… a true Knight and a noble!’ Of course he wasn’t.
If Kim Lee-sang—the man who had originally established the Agricultural Knight system for purely administrative reasons—had heard this conversation, he would have instantly woken up from his nap in San Agustín, sprinted all the way to the battlefield, and ruthlessly smacked this lunatic in the back of the head.
During the bloody, mechanized slaughter of the First World War…
It was the very first era where the ‘Air Force’ began to actively participate on the battlefield, and European nations frantically began training combat pilots in earnest.
While the infantry was being meat-grinded in the apocalyptic, mud-soaked hellscape of trench warfare on the ground, massive waves of romanticized propaganda flooded the nations, depicting the pilots engaged in glamorous, highly stylized dogfights high above the clouds.
Countless young nobles, entirely seduced by glorious propaganda dubbing them the ‘Knights of the Sky’ and the ‘New Aristocracy,’ eagerly joined the Air Force during WWI. Drunk on these romanticized delusions, many of them stubbornly established their own absurdly chivalrous rules of engagement: ‘I shall never cowardly attack an enemy from behind…!’ or ‘I completely refuse to launch a surprise attack! I shall only fight my opponent fairly, face-to-face…!’ Naturally, every single one of those absolute morons was quickly and violently shot out of the sky.
Countless prestigious, centuries-old Germanic noble bloodlines were permanently severed during WWI purely thanks to those chivalric idiots. In fact, it was one of the primary historical reasons why true aristocratic bloodlines became so incredibly rare in 20th-century Britain.
Regardless.
The current situation was frighteningly similar to that historical absurdity. No, it was actually infinitely worse.
These men weren’t even actual nobles, nor were they even riding actual horses! Yet they were so hopelessly intoxicated by their own delusional ‘Chivalry’ fantasies that they were actively committing tactical suicide. If Kim Lee-sang had witnessed this sheer, unadulterated lunacy, his stomach would have exploded from pure stress, but there was nothing he could do.
Because Kim Lee-sang wasn’t here.
Sir Skinner and the rest of the Virginian Europeans were already hopelessly addicted to their chivalric delusions, and Oitotan and the Native Americans simply nodded along, assuming this was just how Europeans naturally fought wars. Consequently, there was absolutely no one left to stop them.
“Um… shouldn’t we at least attempt a flanking maneuver to secure the enemy’s rear—” a sensible squire began.
“Cowardice! How dare you call yourself a Knight with such vile thoughts?!” Skinner roared.
“…”
They would fight fairly.
“Then, shouldn’t we at least strike them while they’re vulnerable crossing the river—”
“That is utterly devoid of honor! We shall wait until the enemy has perfectly assembled their formations!”
And they would fight honorably.
Skinner, and the rest of these completely deranged Europeans, proudly stood their ground and faced the Spanish army head-on.
They faced an enemy that outnumbered them three-to-one, utterly refusing to make a single tactical preparation or secure any geographic advantage.
Watching this unfold, the Spanish high command slowly began to hesitate.
Isn’t something terribly wrong here? Why the hell are they actually listening to us so perfectly? Just as the Spanish officers began whispering nervously among themselves, deeply terrified that this was all a massive, elaborate psychological deception masking a lethal trap…
“FOLLOW ME!”
Hearing Sir Skinner’s thunderous battle cry and watching the Virginian Agricultural Knights immediately launch a screaming, frontal assault, every single ounce of Spanish suspicion instantly vanished.
If this were a tactical deception, there was absolutely no way they would be charging with such terrifying, genuine sincerity.
“I feel as though… I am watching a literal play of Don Quixote unfold before my very eyes,” Gaspar muttered in sheer disbelief. Drawing his sword, he confidently ordered the advance.
To think that merely humoring their pathetic, delusional ‘Knight’ roleplay for a few brief minutes would result in such an effortlessly guaranteed victory. He had merely thrown out a few buzzwords about ‘Chivalry,’ and they had swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker!
These Virginian savages, these backwater peasants playing dress-up as Knights and performing absolute clownery on the battlefield. There was absolutely no way his veteran army could possibly lose to them.
What an incredibly easy war.
What a pathetically easy victory.
Chuckling incredulously, Gaspar spurred his horse forward, overflowing with absolute certainty.
And exactly two hours and forty-three minutes later.
The Spanish army was completely and utterly annihilated.