Chapter 145

Seville and Lisbon.

And even Madrid and Valladolid.

A deeply unsettling rumor was rapidly circulating through every single city touched by the influence of the Spanish King.

Far to the west. 

Across the vast Atlantic Ocean, a monster resides. 

He does not know death. He possesses a terrifying, immortal flesh. He is a demon. He is the Antichrist. That is the true identity of the so-called ‘Emperor of the Native Americans’ who dared to ally with the heretical Queen of England. Even the much-boasted ‘Saint and Saintess of London’ are nothing more than wicked products of that very demon. 

No. 

He is actually a holy Angel. In the name of delivering the slaves to salvation, he is the very one who thwarted the glorious empire’s slave trade in the past and joined forces with the English pirates. He is the Emperor of the Native Americans, and he possesses a holy, immortal flesh that transcends death itself. 

In this chaotic manner, wildly divergent rumors regarding a single entity rapidly spread, intermingled, and became hopelessly tangled. Deeply contradictory and fiercely conflicting tales were seamlessly woven together into a single, terrifying myth.

Countless individuals naturally took a profound interest in these bizarre rumors. It was no longer merely the idle gossip of uneducated peasants and tavern drunkards who loved to exaggerate.

“Repeat what you just said, Commander.”

“…”

“My personal interests are perfectly aligned with the interests of His Majesty the King. We wish to hear it.”

Gradually… those residing in the highest echelons of power began to extend their probing reach.

The Duke of Lerma meticulously deployed his vast intelligence network, successfully identifying the bustling port cities serving as the epicenters of the rumors. Tracing the whispers back to their source, he relentlessly tracked down the individuals who had initially spread them and confirmed their identities.

This very interrogation was the direct result of that meticulous investigation.

“I command you to repeat it. What exactly did you witness in that land?”

Hearing the Duke’s imperious demand, Juan del Águila y Arellano simply let out a hollow, exhausted chuckle and shook his head. When the Duke of Lerma frowned deeply at his insolent attitude, the general spoke.

“I am destined to be violently stripped of my rank and disgraced any day now. Why do you continue to patronize me with the title of ‘Commander,’ Duke? Whether your will is truly the will of His Majesty or not… your pathetic threats mean absolutely nothing to me anymore.”

“What on earth are you…”

“I am already perfectly aware that you are the one actively maneuvering to pin the entire catastrophic failure of the Florida expedition exclusively on my supposed incompetence.”

“…”

“I… After everything I have sacrificed, after how desperately I have bled for my homeland…”

Juan del Águila ground his teeth together so hard they audibly cracked.

“In Malta, in Corsica, in Flanders, in Brittany, in Ireland! I have fought and bled for the glory of our homeland in every single one of those hellscapes! I have achieved countless military triumphs, and I have served our nation with absolute, unwavering loyalty!”

“I am well aware of your profound dedication. Both His Majesty and I…”

“Shut your damn mouth! I am not a fool!”

“Calm yourself.”

“Calm myself?! Very well! Did you not just order me to repeat my testimony?! I shall gladly oblige you!”

He violently pointed a trembling, accusatory finger directly at the Duke of Lerma’s face.

“An utterly incomprehensible, impossible entity resides in that land. Whether it is a holy Angel, a vile Demon, or something else entirely, I honestly couldn’t care less anymore.”

“…”

“However, you must remember this one, absolute truth.”

“Had ‘that entity’ not been present, I would have smoothly and decisively crushed the Florida rebellion without breaking a sweat. Our catastrophic defeat was not the result of my incompetence; it was the direct, undeniable result of that entity, and the terrifying destiny the Lord Himself has forged!”

With those final, venomous words, Juan del Águila turned on his heel and furiously stormed out of the Duke of Lerma’s private chambers. Releasing a heavy, exhausted sigh, the Duke collapsed into a nearby armchair, allowing his weary body to rest.

…

…

…

Countless thoughts raced through his calculating mind.

‘An entity that miraculously resurrects from death itself.’ The factual validity of that specific rumor had been effortlessly cross-verified through the consistent, terrified testimonies of countless surviving soldiers. Therefore, the ultimate conclusion could only be one of two things.

It was either a case of localized, mass psychological hallucination and collective hysteria, or…

‘It is actually real.’ Regardless of which conclusion was true, both possibilities were equally horrifying.

Should he immediately publicly acknowledge this information and actively weaponize it for state propaganda? Should he loudly proclaim that the so-called ‘Emperor of the Native Americans,’ who had been so intimately colluding with England, was actually a literal demon from Hell?

…Perhaps he should.

‘No. I cannot allow that.’ If Philip III had possessed even a sliver of genuine interest or competence in governing his own nation, he might have aggressively pushed for that exact strategy.

However, the Duke of Lerma possessed absolutely zero desire to pursue such a dangerous path.

He could not, under any circumstances, afford to unnecessarily inflate the political influence of the Church. It was painfully obvious how the various powerful clerical families would instantly leverage such a narrative to violently seize power within the royal court, and exactly what kind of manipulative poison they would begin whispering directly into the King’s ear.

He had absolutely no intention of allowing those zealots to slowly gnaw away at his own absolute authority and threaten his hard-won political standing.

Furthermore, there was another glaring issue.

If the Spanish army had at least achieved some modicum of military success during the campaign, it might have been a different story.

But they had suffered an apocalyptic, humiliating defeat.

And that crushing defeat had been inflicted upon battle-hardened European veterans by a ragtag mob of slaves who had literally just picked up their muskets.

To make matters infinitely worse, the Spanish forces had enjoyed a massive, overwhelming numerical superiority. In such a humiliating context, what exactly was there to publicly acknowledge? What part of that catastrophe could possibly be twisted into effective propaganda?

Was he supposed to officially declare that a literal miracle had occurred, allowing the enemy to effortlessly annihilate the glorious Spanish army?!

If he mishandled this delicate situation even slightly, the resulting sociopolitical backlash would be devastating. Considering the foundational stability of his government was already terrifyingly precarious, if public distrust in the administration spearheaded by the Duke of Lerma skyrocketed any further, he was completely finished.

From the perspective of the state, it was a highly volatile, double-edged sword.

And from the personal perspective of the Duke of Lerma himself, this news was nothing but pure, unadulterated poison.

‘It must be buried permanently.’ Having firmly reached that cold, calculating conclusion, the Duke of Lerma slowly made his way to the throne room to deliver his official report to the King.

“Your Majesty, the fundamental reason for our tragic failure to suppress the rebellion in Florida is now glaringly clear.”

“I-Is that so?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Virginia actively provided massive military support to the rebellious slaves. Because they launched an unprovoked, preemptive military strike against our legitimate colonial administration, we are officially in a state of war with them.”

He smoothly, effortlessly shifted the entire geopolitical narrative.

The recent, disastrous battle was no longer a humiliating failure to suppress a simple slave riot; it was merely the opening skirmish in a massive, full-scale war against the sovereign state of Virginia. In the context of a prolonged war between nations, a single tactical defeat was an entirely acceptable, easily rationalized possibility.

Therefore, the bizarre, supernatural rumors currently circulating among the populace were entirely irrelevant.

The war would naturally continue.

And for now, they had simply lost a single, isolated battle.

***

The war against Spain itself was technically still ongoing.

From the very beginning, from Spain’s geopolitical perspective, the brutal conflict in Florida was merely an inevitable extension of their broader, overarching war against England and Virginia.

The entire reason they had heavily fortified Florida in the first place was specifically to keep our rapid expansion in check, and we were the ones who had explicitly provided massive military support to the rebelling Floridians, weren’t we?

Therefore, simply repelling the Spanish expeditionary force from Florida did not magically bring an immediate end to our ongoing war against the Spanish Empire.

The Viceroyalty of New Spain had already exhausted its immediate military capabilities, and the Spanish homeland had just suffered a catastrophic, humiliating burn in the New World, meaning they simply wouldn’t dare to launch a direct, immediate counterattack against this region for the foreseeable future.

However, for all practical intents and purposes, the immediate, physical fighting had finally concluded.

It was our community’s very first glorious military triumph. And we had achieved it against the absolute most powerful empire in contemporary Europe.

I was overwhelmed by a profound, deeply emotional sense of awe.

Regardless, the urgent need to rapidly arm thousands of men with muskets and combat gear, and the desperate necessity to mass-produce the logistical supplies required to feed, house, and clothe those thousands of soldiers, had vanished entirely. It was finally time to formally demobilize our forces and return to our peaceful…

“You decided to… continue producing and exporting them? Is that the official decree of the Council of Six?” I asked, utterly baffled.

“Yes, Nameless One. The apostles have formally ratified the decision. It appears they intend to aggressively offload the massive surplus of logistical supplies to Liberia in Africa as well,” the aide reported smoothly.

“I-I see.”

…Hmm.

Right. I suppose that makes a certain degree of economic sense.

Because we had drastically overproduced military supplies in our frantic preparations, our warehouses were overflowing. It was only natural to aggressively push that massive surplus inventory onto foreign markets to recoup the costs. Since it would inevitably take quite some time to fully liquidate those stockpiles, keeping the factories running temporarily wasn’t the worst idea.

However.

“Here, my lord. These are the official documents recently forwarded by the Council of Six. Please, take a look.”

“…That is quite a massive stack of paper, isn’t it?”

“Ah, yes, my lord. Paper has become incredibly abundant recently. A massive new paper mill was successfully established not too long ago, you see.”

They were printed single-sided.

I instantly contorted my face into a vicious scowl, looking exactly like an enraged, penny-pinching CEO of a struggling small-to-medium enterprise discovering his employees weren’t utilizing both sides of the printer paper, before forcing my expression to relax.

Until very recently, paper had been a highly precious, fully imported commodity, meaning we suffered from a chronic, absolute shortage. That was exactly why I had strictly mandated the use of scrap paper whenever physically possible!

I barely managed to suppress my urge to click my tongue and grumble, ‘You still need to use scrap paper for trivial things like this… Tsk, tsk.’ No matter how abundant paper had suddenly become, it was still relative to 17th-century standards! They needed to understand the profound value of precious resources…!

Wait. What the hell. What is wrong with me? Why am I acting exactly like a grumpy, stingy middle-aged man in his late forties?! I’m currently in my vibrant, energetic twenties… …Wait, no I’m not. I actually am in my late forties now. The moment that horrifying realization violently crashed into my mind, I visibly shuddered.

N-No, that can’t be right! Mentally, I’m still in my twenties! My physical body is permanently locked in its twenties…! Does this mean I’m eventually going to start intensely craving late-night StarCraft matches and red ginseng candies?! Of course, since my physical body is permanently frozen like this, I won’t suddenly lose my ability to digest greasy food, and I definitely won’t develop a massive beer belly as I age, but… Is this the exact reason why I’ve been finding it so incredibly exhausting to go out and socialize with people lately?! Is this why I keep randomly thinking of absolutely atrocious, undeniably terrible ‘dad jokes’ while walking down the street, giggling to myself like an idiot before nervously checking to see if anyone noticed?! Is this why I keep nostalgically reminiscing about my past life in South Korea, grumbling, ‘Tsk, tsk… kids these days don’t make decent games or movies anymore…’ (Which is technically true in this era, but still!) Am I… actually growing old…?! 

“U-Umm…”

“Yes, my lord?”

“…Exactly how old… do I look to you?”

Only after the pathetic words left my mouth did I fully realize the horrifying gravity of what I had just done.

With that single, desperate question, my transformation was finally ‘complete.’

“You look exactly like a vibrant young man in his late teens, my lord! Though, naturally, it is entirely impossible for us mere mortals to accurately fathom your true, divine age…”

I had literally just asked my subordinate if I looked young for my age.

…Regardless.

Something was definitely strange.

“Oh, it appears one of your buttons has fallen off. Allow me to offer you a spare—”

“Ah! I deeply appreciate the gesture, my lord, but it is perfectly fine. A massive new button factory was recently established, so we are currently practically drowning in buttons! I can simply sew on a brand new one from the batch I purchased the other day.”

“…Ah, I see.”

The casual, entirely nonchalant attitude of the administrative clerk dispatched from the community felt incredibly… decadent.

No, to be fair, the citizens of our community had always lived somewhat luxurious, decadent lifestyles. But this specific feeling was fundamentally different.

We had previously always suffered from a chronic, inescapable shortage of everyday household items. After all, the vast majority of basic daily necessities had to be entirely imported from Europe.

And no matter how absurdly wealthy we were, there was a strict, physical limit to the sheer volume of everyday goods we could realistically have shipped across the vast Atlantic Ocean.

Paper, safety pins, buttons, hair oil, ink, etc… these mundane items were always in desperately short supply, no matter how frugally we attempted to ration them.

Yet, somehow… the entire atmosphere had drastically changed.

What the hell? Why have everyday manufactured goods suddenly become so overwhelmingly abundant? 

***

Rewinding the clock slightly to several months prior.

The Virginia Community Assembly and the Council of Six received the glorious, official report declaring absolute victory across the entirety of Florida.

Upon hearing the spectacular news, the entire community erupted into a massive, euphoric festival of eating, drinking, and celebrating. Crowds flooded into the streets, joining hands as they danced wildly and sang at the top of their lungs.

As the largest, most vibrant festival the community had experienced in years kicked off, the various monastic orders and factories temporarily shuttered their doors to join the celebrations.

“I suppose… we won’t be needing any more military supplies, will we?”

“That seems highly likely.”

“Should we drastically slash our outstanding order volumes then? By how much?”

“Reducing them to roughly one-tenth of our current volume should be more than sufficient, Mrs. Dare.”

And just like that, many factories were slated to close their doors permanently.

“NOOOOOOO! MY FACTORY!”

The highly lucrative shoe and military uniform factories proudly owned by Taron, the Welsh carpenter who had finally been raking in massive profits, were no exception to the impending doom.

In hindsight, hastily constructing a massive industrial facility explicitly designed to churn out thousands of pairs of boots per week in a community boasting a total population of merely a hundred thousand was likely a catastrophic overreach from the very beginning.

Every single factory that had reaped massive, unprecedented profits while the community was frantically buying up every scrap of logistical supplies to support Florida and the Knights was suddenly teetering on the very brink of total bankruptcy and permanent closure.

Furthermore, the roughly 15,000 ‘monks’ and the 170-plus distinct monastic orders scattered across the community were instantly plunged into a state of absolute, sheer panic, desperately crying out, “Then where exactly are we supposed to work now?!” There was no one left to buy their products! Where on earth were they supposed to offload their massively overflowing inventory?!

There were no jobs left to perform! There was nowhere left for them to continuously accumulate ‘honor’ by selflessly dedicating their grueling labor to the community!

Of course, the specific factories churning out the highly advanced, utterly essential goods the community permanently required easily survived the crisis.

The primary tractor manufacturing plant, meticulously established by Kim Lee-sang and several master artisans, remained perfectly intact and operational. Tractors were the absolute, indispensable lifeblood of their modern agricultural economy, and numerous machines had been severely damaged or destroyed during the recent war, requiring immediate replacement.

Similarly, the highly specialized factories dedicated exclusively to manufacturing and repairing the intricate, standardized components required to keep the tractors running continued to operate flawlessly without a single hitch.

“Did you state that you wish to formally join the Tractor Monastic Order?”

“Y-Yes, sir. I do.”

“Very well. First, we shall issue you your standard safety manual and protective equipment. Following a rigorous three-month period of intensive education and probationary labor, if you fail to meet our exacting standards, you will absolutely not be ordained as an official monk.”

“U-Understood, sir!”

The intense social prestige and ‘honor’ associated with the monastic orders directly attached to those highly essential, surviving industries began to shine brighter than ever before.

They were viewed as the steadfast, immovable pillars of the community, quietly and consistently dedicating their holy labor to the survival of the settlement without ever being swayed by the chaotic fluctuations of the war or passing trends.

Furthermore, simply operating the machinery required the applicants to possess the sheer intellect to memorize highly complex, dangerous manufacturing processes, and the remarkable manual dexterity to execute incredibly precise, rapid labor for hours on end.

Before long, the monastic orders dominating these critical, highly specialized sectors began implementing increasingly demanding skill assessments and ruthlessly strict, unforgiving disciplinary codes to aggressively weed out unworthy applicants and thoroughly educate their chosen monks.

Consequently, the sheer level of profound respect and borderline worship directed toward these elite monastic orders and their highly skilled monks skyrocketed exponentially, making it significantly easier for them to provide their members with the intense social prestige and elevated status they so desperately craved.

In this manner, a select few monastic orders organically evolved into highly prestigious, elite institutions dedicated entirely to the rigorous training and education of master craftsmen.

However, the grim reality for the remaining factories and monastic orders was entirely different.

A significant number of factories were forced to permanently shutter their doors, and the monks previously attached to those specific orders scattered in every direction, desperately searching for similar, menial work to continue their ascetic lifestyles.

The surviving factory owners, equally desperate to avoid bankruptcy, frantically scrambled to somehow invent entirely new forms of ‘honorable labor’ that could actively contribute to the community. And soon enough, they finally discovered a brilliant, highly lucrative escape route.

“…Buttons.”

“Pardon? What on earth are you talking about, Taron?”

“Buttons and pins! People constantly lose them, so they are always forced to buy replacements! What if we completely stop manufacturing full uniforms, and exclusively pivot to mass-producing buttons and pins? And instead of thick military scarves, what if we manufacture simple, cheap handkerchiefs that people will use a few times and immediately throw away?!”

Everyday, highly consumable household goods.

Items that people could rapidly burn through in massive quantities, guaranteeing a practically endless, infinitely recurring cycle of high demand.

—”Dedicate your holy labor to the esteemed public officials of our community! Personally manufacture the very paper required to draft our community’s sacred official documents!” 

—”Let us weave handkerchiefs for the pristine cleanliness of our holy community!” 

Having successfully pivoted to these highly lucrative, consumable sectors, the factory owners desperately sought to lure back the massive swarms of simple, unskilled laborers.

The public bulletin boards prominently displayed in every single village square were instantly plastered with aggressively worded promotional flyers. And naturally, a brand new factory dedicated exclusively to mass-producing those very flyers sprang up overnight.

As numerous factories rapidly dissolved and entirely new ones violently took their place, the monastic orders directly tied to those industries had absolutely no choice but to drastically evolve as well.

“I… I deeply regret to say this, but I believe it will be incredibly difficult for us to continue living communally like this.”

“…”

“…”

It was utterly unavoidable. As the original factories they had serviced went bankrupt, their subordinate monks had already scattered to the four winds, seeking out ‘unique ascetic trials’ at various new factories sprouting up across the community.

“However, even if we cannot live together, let our monastic order continue to hold regular assemblies! Since we are all ultimately performing similar holy labor in our respective fields anyway, let us strictly uphold the sacred, rigorous disciplines we previously established!”

“Agreed! For the eternal honor of our holy order!”

Despite the geographic separation, the core essence of the monastic orders did not disappear.

After all, the specific order you belonged to, and the specific type of labor you performed, directly dictated the exact level of social ‘honor’ bestowed upon your asceticism.

Waking up at a strictly mandated hour, meticulously cleansing one’s body every single morning, strictly observing the designated hours of prayer…

Even though they now resided in their own private homes, they organically developed far more flexible, slightly looser disciplinary codes that allowed them to maintain the exact same rigorous, highly structured lifestyle they had practiced while living communally in the monasteries.

They evolved into highly organized associations that explicitly demanded their members cultivate profound diligence and unwavering sincerity, constantly honing their own unyielding, deeply pious selves through a highly structured, strictly disciplined daily routine.

Certain monastic orders that placed the absolute highest value on extreme punctuality and the rigorous strictness of the manufacturing process exclusively signed lucrative contracts with factories that demanded highly precise manual dexterity and flawless, synchronized collective action, supplying them with a steady stream of elite monks.

Other monastic orders, determined to strictly uphold their core doctrine of ‘never refusing even the most despised, grueling labor,’ aggressively dispatched their monks to factories requiring brutal, exhausting night shifts.

In this manner, the rapidly expanding factories were able to effortlessly secure the exact type of highly specialized, dedicated labor force they required directly through the various monastic orders.

The Industrial Monastic Orders had effectively taken on the massive, societal responsibility of nurturing, educating, and molding their members into highly disciplined, perfectly optimized workforces perfectly tailored to the specific needs of various industries.

Hundreds, thousands of highly disciplined laborers were seamlessly injected into countless burgeoning industrial sectors.

If Kim Lee-sang had witnessed this bizarre evolution firsthand, he likely would have instantly drawn parallels to modern vocational training centers or highly specialized technical academies.

However, while the vast majority of the monastic orders were rapidly evolving and mutating, there was one specific factory… no, one specific farm, whose core nature remained almost entirely unchanged.

“I-It’s raining! It’s raining, my brothers and sisters!”

“Move the harvested cotton inside immediately! Hurry!”

It was the massive cotton plantation.

The sprawling cotton fields, which Kim Lee-sang had initially planted in a desperate bid to reduce their crippling reliance on imported cotton textiles, had been practically abandoned and left entirely unmanaged.

Due to the inherent nature of the crop, cotton plantations had to be situated in incredibly remote, sparsely populated areas. Furthermore, they required a massive, instantaneous influx of grueling manual labor highly dependent on the chaotic whims of the weather.

If the cotton bolls were exposed to rain near the harvest season, they became damp and utterly impossible to pick, forcing the entire operation to completely halt. Conversely, once the bolls fully burst open and dried, the precious cotton could easily be blown away by the wind or fall to the dirt, meaning the agonizing harvest had to be completed as rapidly as humanly possible.

That was precisely why enslaved populations—who could be permanently housed directly next to the fields and forced to work 24 hours a day on command—had historically been deemed the ‘ideal’ labor force for cotton cultivation.

In other words, the work required individuals willing to live in complete, communal isolation in a remote wilderness, available to work 24 hours a day, while enduring incredibly grueling, agonizingly difficult physical labor.

That’s right.

An ascetic monk perfectly fulfilled every single one of those horrific requirements.

Therefore, while countless other monastic orders were rapidly ‘corrupted’ and mutated by the shifting economic landscape, the Cotton Cultivation Monastic Orders managed to preserve a lifestyle that was terrifyingly close to the original, pure archetype of grueling asceticism.

Ironically, due to the extreme rarity and sheer, agonizing brutality of their specific trial, the number of eager applicants practically exploded.

Of course, the vast majority of these applicants had never even touched a cotton plant in their lives, let alone actually farmed one. Most of them had never even properly dirtied their hands with honest soil.

These hopelessly inexperienced monks desperately needed someone to directly supervise, train, and guide them.

“We humbly beseech you, Sir Pedro…”

“Well, if you’re going to beg me like that, I suppose I have no choice.”

And so, the former African slaves who possessed extensive, horrific firsthand experience with the brutal realities of cotton cultivation were officially appointed as the supreme overseers and directors of these elite monastic orders.

“I still don’t understand it. Why on earth would anyone willingly choose to subject themselves to such agonizing, backbreaking labor?” an overseer muttered in sheer disbelief.

“Well… they claim it brings them significantly more ‘honor,’ whatever that means,” his companion replied, shaking his head.

“Hah, I’ll never understand them. I guess it’s true what they say; Englishmen really are bizarrely eccentric creatures.”

And so, the former slaves quietly patrolled the sprawling edges of the massive cotton fields, strictly overseeing the grueling labor and meticulously teaching the wealthy English monks the proper, highly efficient techniques for picking cotton.