Chapter 159

The universities of this era are… well, they’re essentially dens for thugs.

That’s the most accurate way to describe them. I mean, why on earth would anyone guarantee a student the “right to beg”? I can almost wrap my head around the concept of extraterritoriality as a lingering medieval quirk, but the rest of it?

Wait. 

Maybe I’m being too prejudiced.

Francis Bacon, Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, Isaac Newton—these were all men who received a university education in this era and went on to become brilliant scholars. Their works were published, debated, and disseminated, eventually influencing countless others. If the universities provided the infrastructure for that, then they were doing their jobs. It’s not like Newton was out there personally operating a printing press and handing out pamphlets on street corners.

Deciding I needed a more objective perspective, I gathered the returnee students again to listen to their experiences.

“Everyone does as they please,” one muttered, shaking his head. “There were plenty of fellows who missed half the lectures because they were rotting in a jail cell somewhere.”

“I spent far too much time struggling with Latin grammar I had no interest in,” another added, looking weary. “And half the professors were less skilled at treating patients than I was.”

“I intended to major in law,” a third student confessed. “England became too chaotic so I had to return, but I still hope to earn my doctorate someday…”

As they spoke, the underlying structure finally became clear to me.

In these universities, students start with the seven liberal arts: the Trivium (grammar, logic, and rhetoric) and the Quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, astronomy—which sounds like a messy cocktail of science and astrology—and music). This is the foundation. Those who hunger for more knowledge take advanced courses in these subjects, eventually joining the university community as teachers themselves. It’s a self-sustaining cycle where the learned reproduce their own kind.

This is the process of the Liberal Arts—the path to a Master’s degree.

There is no “major.”

A “Master” is simply a person of culture, proficient in Latin, mathematics, astronomy, music, and philosophy, and thus qualified to teach others. It doesn’t mean they are a specialist in a single field. To obtain a “real major” in theology, law, or medicine, one must first complete the liberal arts and then proceed to the respective faculty to earn a doctorate.

Wait. A doctorate isn’t just the next step after a Master’s? And there are only doctorates in theology, law, and medicine?

The “colleges” weren’t departments; they were residential communities for students, and the tutoring they provided was separate from the university’s formal lectures. It was all so different from the modern academic structure I carried in my head.

I realized my mistake: I had been viewing 17th-century universities as mere “schools” or “educational facilities.” In reality, a university in this era was a “guild.” It was a guild of intellectuals, much like the craft guilds of the Middle Ages.

Thinking of it that way made everything fall into place—the extraterritoriality, the autonomy, and even the “right to beg.” They were privileges granted to a guild. It was a community of knowledge where “masters” (professors) gathered to train “apprentices” (students) and eventually grant them the status of a master (Master’s or Doctorate).

Since that’s how technicians and professionals were generally reproduced in this era, the universities weren’t particularly unique in their structure. By the standards of the 17th century, still heavily cloaked in the shadows of the medieval period, it was actually quite normal.

But that isn’t what I’m looking for.

The system itself is surprisingly advanced. If I had envisioned pre-modern education as a state-run machine for churning out bureaucrats—like the Seonggyungwan in Joseon—this was something entirely different.

It was free.

The European university is one of the few hubs where diverse intellectuals and various branches of knowledge can converge. People often compare the Seonggyungwan of Goryeo and Joseon to a university, but let’s be honest: no one was doing actual academic research at the Seonggyungwan. That wasn’t its purpose.

In contrast, the European university is a literal community of free knowledge. They produce new ideas, disseminate them to other institutions, and facilitate exchange among scholars. By forming an “academia,” they create a space where knowledge can evolve and spread. In that sense, it’s actually more aligned with the roots of a modern university than I had initially thought.

However, the knowledge being produced is… questionable.

There are still deep-seated problems. If a university is a guild, how does it survive? A guild usually sustains itself by passing on trade secrets and controlling its local industry to generate revenue.

But a university?

Learning Latin grammar doesn’t put bread on the table. Outside of theology, law, and medicine, there were no practical majors. This meant the university’s primary goal was “cultivating a man of culture,” not training a professional. That’s all well and good—cultured men gathering to create and share knowledge—but how is it funded?

Usually, by bleeding the students’ parents dry. It’s remarkably similar to a 21st-century liberal arts college; that part, at least, felt familiar. And since not every student was wealthy, the “right to beg” was a necessary survival mechanism for those who couldn’t afford tuition and books.

The professors weren’t much better off. As I said, Latin grammar doesn’t pay the bills. Professors had to moonlight as private tutors for nobles or find other ways to scrape together a living.

So, while the community of intellectuals was a fine idea, it was desperately impoverished. The reason was clear: It wasn’t an educational institution designed to train professionals for the modern world.

It was a place where the younger sons of landless nobles or wealthy commoners went to build social networks, gain some polish, and secure the backing of a community that would serve as their political foundation.

A modern university, regardless of whether the field is engineering or the humanities, responds to the needs of society. History, social sciences, natural sciences—even the fields that seem removed from the “real world” contribute to society in tangible ways.

The 17th-century university didn’t function like that. It produced a handful of lawyers and theologians for the ruling class, but that was the extent of its social utility. Since it wasn’t designed for a productive purpose, it was perpetually short on funds, and the knowledge it generated was rarely practical—with the possible exceptions of law and medicine.

That was the limitation of the era’s academia. While it shared some DNA with its modern descendants, the qualitative difference was massive.

What I want is professional education. But I want more than just training experts. We already have the Knight School and the Mechanic School, but those are focused on practical skills—they’re more like technical institutes than true centers of higher learning.

I need an organization of specialists who actually produce knowledge. And I need that organization to be capable of continuously reproducing those specialists. In the modern world, we call that a university.

And as it turns out, I already have something like that in our community.

Wait… I do?

I slapped my cheeks a few times, blinking my eyes clear. I was in my home on Croatoan—the charming green-roofed pastoral cottage my mother, a die-hard fan of Anne of Green Gables, had built with such care.

My home. My farm. And…

I looked out the window.

My gaze landed on a structure that had grown steadily over the years until it now shimmered like a magnificent Crystal Palace. It was our new greenhouses, made of Lexan panels, all linked together into one massive complex.

And inside…

“Ah, Lord Nemo? You’ve arrived?”

“I’ve been trying to cross-breed the varieties you mentioned last time,” a voice called out, “but the quality is severely lacking, so I’m planning to discard them.”

These were the vineyard keepers who managed the sprawling grapevines of Croatoan Island.

“How are the other European varieties doing?” I asked, stepping closer.

“Well, as you said, we have the trees brought over from France,” one of them replied, “but the moment I tried to take cuttings, mites swarmed them. They have no resistance to local pests; I think we’ll have to keep grafting them.”

“So… you’ve been experimenting on your own? Even without my specific orders?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

I looked out over the millions of square meters of vineyards I had poured my soul into. Throughout this island, the preservation, collection, and improvement of seeds were happening every day.

“Lord Nemo?”

I had been searching for a model far across the sea, when the perfect example was right under my nose.

***

Grapes are the primary export of the Virginia community—our signature product. It started with the Shine Muscat, which caused a sensation in England, followed by the Ruby Roman and the Black Sapphire. Our position is even more secure when you factor in processed goods like raisins and wine. If the grape crops were to vanish tomorrow, our community would plunge into immediate chaos and economic depression.

Our connection to the Christian world was the key.

Among Christians, some venerate saints while others reject church decorations; some acknowledge priests while others don’t. But one thing is universal: they all use wine in their rituals.

They can argue until they’re blue in the face about whether the wine actually turns into the blood of Christ or who gets to drink it during the sacrament, but if you ask, “Are you going to stop using wine?” no one can say yes. Furthermore, in an era where clean drinking water is a luxury, low-alcohol wine or beer is a daily necessity.

In short, wine is the “kimchi” of the Christian world—a sacred, indispensable staple. Even if the fresh grapes don’t sell, the wine will. As long as Christianity remains rooted in Europe, grapes will stay at the top of our export list.

But people are creatures of habit; they tend to eat and drink what they know. And if a product comes from across the ocean, the shipping costs alone make people hesitate. Therefore, we must constantly differentiate ourselves. We have to maintain consistent quality and protect our brand to ensure no cheap imitations can compete.

Ugh, my head.

A bitter, traumatic memory surged up—of those scoundrels back in Korea who flooded the market with watery, low-quality Shine Muscats, leading people to say, “Isn’t Shine Muscat just a passing fad?” or “They taste like garbage these days.” Those people likely made a quick buck and ran, suffering only a minor loss when the bubble burst. But the pain our farm had to endure after the craze died out…!

I ground my teeth.

“Lord Nemo? W-What’s wrong?!”

“Nothing,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

Just thinking about it made my skin crawl and my hands tremble with a phantom fury. That can never happen again. Now that I’m here, the grapes of Nemo’s Farm must reign eternal. I refuse to return to the tragedy of handing out free grapes to people while sobbing, or stuffing myself with Shine Muscats for three days straight just to clear the stock. I will not let the blood, sweat, and tears of a poor grape farmer turn into a mountain of debt again. I won’t. I absolutely won’t—

Breathe. Calm down.

I’ve been stabbed and burned in this world, so why is that my most traumatic memory?

Regardless, our grape varieties are meticulously managed. I taught them in the beginning, but now they are grafting trees on their own, experimenting with different soils and climates to see what thrives. It isn’t just on Croatoan. From the lands of the Wabanaki Confederacy in the north to the Bishopric of Florida in the south, these experimental vineyards are taking root. They gather data, new varieties, and research results, meeting here periodically to improve our crops.

Aren’t these people specialists? Isn’t this an “academia”?

As far as I’m concerned, the answer is yes. I have already raised a group of experts under the name “Vineyard Keepers.”

“Everyone,” I said, my voice carrying a newfound weight that silenced the room. I looked at the gathered keepers and offered them a bright, visionary smile. “How would you like to start training the next generation?”