Nearly three decades had passed since the Angel first descended upon this earth.
The population of the Continental Covenant had surged past three hundred thousand, and the landscape of North America was now dotted with the churches of the Nameless Sect and the formidable strongholds of the Knights. The massive engineering projects connecting Croatoan Island to the mainland were nearing completion, and a handful of steamboats already plied the eastern coast. However, the vital link between the Covenant and Europe still rested on the hulls of the clippers.
The sailors of one such clipper, recently returned with news from the Old World, found themselves summoned by a being of supreme authority. They approached with bated breath.
Strolling south along the paved roads of Chesapeake, they crossed several bridges until the ‘Holy Land’ came into view. Standing before the stone marker that delineated its sacred boundary, the captain and navigator knelt briefly in prayer before proceeding toward the green-roofed cottage.
The Nameless One was waiting for them.
They gazed nervously at the Angel, who was tending to grapes inside a greenhouse. Their lips grew dry, and they swallowed hard. As the population of the community had swelled, the Angel—once a familiar figure who walked among them like a neighbor—had gradually become a distant, revered presence. To these sailors, who had only recently joined the Union, he was less a neighbor and more an object of profound awe. They looked upon him as a celestial being.
Finally, he spoke. “Is there… any news from Europe?”
The captain stepped forward, his voice a respectful murmur. “What sort of news do you seek, My Lord?”
“Anything,” the Angel replied. “Tell me if there has been any significant news.”
The captain tilted his head, puzzled by the vague request. Then, a thought occurred to him. “Ah, the Sultan of the Turks has changed. It is said a nephew has ousted his uncle.”
“Nothing else?”
The captain flinched at the follow-up question. The Angel didn’t give him time to dwell on his confusion. “For instance, news of a new war breaking out.”
“As for that… my knowledge is limited, and I heard nothing of the sort. I beg your forgiveness.”
“Do not apologize.”
The Angel turned his gaze toward the window, whispering something cryptic that the sailors couldn’t quite grasp. “…It seems history has changed.”
Only Kim Lee-sang himself understood the weight of those words. It was July 1618—a time when news of a world-shattering event should have reached him through the British channels. Though the historical descriptions in his catalogue had been simplified, the major events were still marked by year and name.
And 1618 was the year a war intended to soak all of Europe in blood was supposed to begin. The date for the start of the Thirty Years’ War had already passed.
Lee-sang closed his eyes, lost in reflection.
Has history truly changed?
Or… has it merely been delayed?
***
The authority of the House of Habsburg radiated across Europe. They held the reins of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, while their influence stretched deep into Italy. The Habsburgs were the protectors of Catholicism—the vanguard of the entire European world.
They had clashed with the Papacy over hegemony in Italy and the Empire, yet they remained the pivot around which the Catholic nations rallied to defend Europe from the Ottoman Empire. That unity was anchored by the Pope; the Emperor’s power could not stand without the Papal mantle. Thus, regardless of an Emperor’s personal political whims, the dynasty was inextricably bound to the Catholic faith. They were the heart of Europe. They were its masters.
Yet, threats to their dominance persisted.
Poland-Lithuania to the east was not an immediate concern, and Italy to the south was a patchwork of insignificant small states. To the north, however, Denmark-Norway and Sweden were staunch Lutherans. And in France, Henri IV was a Catholic in name only, appointing Protestants to high offices and actively seeking to diminish the Church’s influence within his realm.
To the Habsburgs, the problem wasn’t merely that these powers were Protestant or protected heretics. It was that they coveted things beyond their station. They were targeting the House of Habsburg itself.
At least half of that is true, the man reflected.
Not every Protestant sought to topple the massive Habsburg edifice, but their intentions were always tainted. They didn’t even bother to hide it. Why else did the House of Wittelsbach cling to Lutheranism? They sought to fracture the imperial authority that the Pope protected—not to be free from it, but to seize it for themselves. They wanted to snatch the imperial crown that the Habsburgs had monopolized for three centuries.
And what of the Bohemians, who clung to the teachings of Jan Hus, a man dead for two hundred years? Did every Bohemian peasant truly grasp the nuances of Hussite theology? No. They wanted autonomy—a de facto independent kingdom. They sought to shatter the Holy Roman Empire’s control to claim a larger share of the world. Their nobles dreamed of being kings, and the sweetness of that power made them devout Hussites.
The lords and kings who converted did so to place themselves above the Church. Elizabeth of England, for instance, taxed the clergy and halted their charities, using the funds to pass Poor Laws as a show of personal benevolence. They tore chunks from the Church to make them part of their own bodies. The Protestant monarchs refused to tolerate any ‘foreign substance’ within their territories.
The man could hardly bear to imagine what such kingdoms would become. If a Lutheran ‘Emperor’ were ever born, what would happen to the Empire? How could the imperial office—born when Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne—endure without the Pope? It was like imagining a human body without a skeleton.
A nation standing solely on the strength of its monarch… where the ruler’s authority radiated like the light of a star, forcing all to kneel and obey, even the clergy. Such a country, such a king, such a church…
I cannot understand it. No, I have no need to understand it. It is an ideal I will never reach.
It was their ideal. They sought to crack the world. Grant them one demand, and another would follow. Their greed was bottomless. They knew no satisfaction, for it was dissatisfaction that had led them to convert in the first place.
…But that makes them useful, the man thought.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Your Majesty, it is time for business.”
At the sound, he rose from his seat, surrounded by attendants who guided his steps. Until recently, the Holy Roman Empire had been under the rule of his incompetent brother, Rudolf II—a man who had squandered political capital on Protestant persecution and bungled the war against the Ottomans.
But the man, who had commanded the front lines against the Turks, had proven his competence. He had whispered of dialogue to the embattled Protestants, and they had promptly become his allies, rising in rebellion against Rudolf.
And so…
“Your Majesty.”
“Open the doors. I must go to the office.”
The man, Matthias von Habsburg, had become the Holy Roman Emperor. His health was failing, and he felt he had ascended the throne too late in life, but it was a position he had fought to earn. His brother Rudolf had died in despair shortly after abdication, leaving Matthias as the sole master of the Empire.
He sat with dignity, letting out a dry cough. His ministers, dressed in their finery, presented various reports. He sighed with relief as he scanned the documents.
“The Siege of Aachen is over. Has silence finally returned to both sides?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Both Wolfgang Wilhelm and Johann Sigismund are reportedly open to negotiations.”
The princes had been split into two factions by the previous Emperor’s incompetence: the Protestant Union, formed to resist Rudolf II’s Catholic crackdowns, and the Catholic League, formed in response. Though the Protestant Union had rebelled against Rudolf to place the crown on Matthias’s head, they wanted too much. They demanded a reorganization of the Imperial Diet and the right to build churches and worship freely in Austria and Hungary.
The price they offered was an oath of loyalty.
Matthias had been incensed that they would bargain with their loyalty, and the Protestant Union had prepared for war. Just as the crisis reached its peak, Matthias had stepped back and accepted their terms. Yet, they continued to push.
Last year, in 1613, when an Ottoman invasion seemed imminent, the Protestant Union demanded an end to the persecution of Protestants in Catholic territories and a restructuring of the imperial judicial system in exchange for their military participation. They made it clear that without these concessions, they would offer no support against the Turks.
This time, the Catholic League stepped in, throwing their full support behind Matthias. Though the Ottoman threat dissipated without a war, Matthias now found himself indebted to the Catholic League. He struggled to prevent a clash between the two factions, constantly preaching reconciliation and appeasement, but he knew they were merely stopgap measures.
Whenever it seemed peace had arrived, war broke out again. Wolfgang Wilhelm, the Count Palatine of Neuburg, and Johann Sigismund, the Elector of Brandenburg—both once fellow Lutherans—had clashed over the ownership of the Jülich-Cleves-Berg territories. Wolfgang Wilhelm had even converted to Catholicism to secure the support of the Catholic League and Spain, while Johann Sigismund leaned on the Protestant Union and the Netherlands.
A massive war had been on the verge of erupting.
“Good… Aachen has been settled, and both are willing to talk…”
Once again, the wound was barely sutured. Matthias set the papers down, feeling a profound sense of exhaustion. War breaks out, it’s patched up. It breaks out again, it’s patched up again. He was weary of it. How long could this continue?
Another report arrived. Frederick V, Elector Palatine, had made another radical speech somewhere. Then another report from Bohemia…
He blinked, having drifted off for a moment. Where was I? I… I can’t quite remember.
The Emperor was old. He was growing frail. He slipped into sleep again, caught in a tide of drowsiness that felt like a series of small faints. Reports continued to pile up.
Those who hungered for more struggled to seize what they could. They clawed at the churches, communities, and societies within their territories, desperate to swallow them whole. They acted as if they couldn’t endure without tearing apart those above them and consuming those below.
What can satisfy these ravenous beasts?
In his dreams, the Emperor saw a savage beast that consumed everything in its path. He saw an omen. And that beast was growing, starting from the island of Britain.
***
“Finally… the supply of goods from the New World is stabilizing.”
James leaned back in his chair, filled with a sense of relief. He knew that the goods sent by Virginia—or rather, the Continental Covenant—were a gesture to maintain the alliance. Politically speaking, every item was a debt. But it was the kind of debt he could pay—a debt with a very low interest rate.
He looked at France.
How much had Henri IV benefited simply for keeping Spain in check? The Emperor of the New World rewarded those who served his interests. James smiled as his attendants listed the grapes, furs, and aluminum that had arrived.
Of course, that loathsome Walter Raleigh still remained at the Emperor’s court—the Queen’s favorite, the man who was essentially her paramour. But if he knows how to separate personal feelings from business, he will follow the Emperor’s interests.
Scotland was smaller and poorer than England, with barren land and a population five times smaller. Geographical barriers left political power fragmented among powerful lords and clan chiefs whose challenges had left James utterly exhausted. Without the resources from the Continental Covenant, he couldn’t break the rebellious Scottish lords.
And if I cannot break them, I cannot truly hold England.
He was officially the King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland. But in Ireland, thanks to the Queen’s machinations, he couldn’t even gain a foothold. His claim to the French throne was a legendary relic of the past.
And England…
He ground his teeth. Every time he thought of England, his jaw tightened. He turned his gaze toward the south.
***
“How old are you now?” Robert asked.
“Fifteen, Father,” Oliver replied.
“Fifteen! A perfect age to start taking responsibility for one’s own destiny.” Robert smirked, patting his son’s cheek. “I’m an old man now. I don’t know if I have five years left in me.”
“…”
“If I last five more years, you’ll be twenty. What will you do then?”
“I… I suppose I will have finished university. I will marry to take responsibility for our house.”
“A fine thought. But what if I die before then?”
Oliver didn’t resent his father for the mischievous question. He knew the man, and he had grown accustomed to his ways. He replied in a calm, steady voice. “I would quit university, or whatever else I was doing.”
“Why? Because my death would grieve you so?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“To gain experience. I think going to Lincoln’s Inn wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“Experience… And what about managing the family estate?”
“Father,” Oliver said, his voice flat as if stating a simple mathematical truth, “I know why you are welcomed in Liverpool. Is it not because your wealth and reputation are modest?”
“What?”
“I don’t think focusing on the estate would be very meaningful. Instead, I would move around Liverpool and inherit your connections.”
Oliver knew exactly what kind of man his father was. He waited a moment before he felt Robert strike him boisterously on the back.
“Hah! Exactly! The future lies here.”
Robert, looking proud, continued to clap his son’s shoulder. He pulled back the curtains to show Oliver the view outside. A large building, resembling a government hall, was being constructed—an incongruous sight for a small fishing village.
“This is now the heart of England!”
The place where the Queen’s footsteps had trod, and thus a symbol of holy England’s purity and greatness. The final fortress preventing that foreign king from carving up the country as he pleased.
While the north of England, closer to Scotland, complied with King James’s rule, the vast majority of the territory ignored him, operating autonomously. And this was the center of that autonomy.
London was dead.
A decade had passed since the Queen had departed, and in that time, its population had plummeted to fewer than a hundred thousand. James lacked the resources to intervene in London, and the ‘Liverpool Faction’ watched from the sidelines, fearing that reclaiming London would spark a dispute over the English throne.
As a result, the old-world royal authority that London represented had become useless. The lavish anniversary parties the Queen used to host and the elegant banquets at Whitehall Palace were forgotten. Now, the ‘Parliament’ they had newly formed—clunky and creaking, yet undeniable—ruled most of England, albeit De facto-styled.
There was little they could do, as the massive war with Spain had only just ended. Both James of Scotland and this self-proclaimed ‘Parliament’ were exhausted. Everyone remembered the days when Spanish warships raided the coasts, turning them into wastelands and cutting off all shipping that didn’t go through Virginia’s clippers.
They were all essentially paupers now. The brilliance of the Elizabethan era had vanished. Thus, no one could say for certain who would seize hegemony—the King of Scots, the ambitious gentlemen, or the haughty nobles. Instead of starting a bloody war to kill ‘traitors’ or ‘tyrants,’ they focused on filling their armories and preparing for tomorrow’s confrontation.
“Yes… the future is here.”
The two Cromwells looked up at the temporary parliament building, envisioning tomorrow’s victory.
Meanwhile…
“Freedom of faith is coming!”
“The teachings of Rome shall return to this land!”
Some whispered, while others shouted. They cried out for the day when they would purify an England that had been corrupted during the Queen’s long reign. They were organized.
“Guy Fawkes! Your supporters have gathered!”
“Excellent.”
They gathered to incite terror, to force Spain into a new war against this immoral country and fund the revival of the Roman Catholic Church. A plot smelling of gunpowder, steel, and blood was being woven. For the sake of the Holy Father’s rule once again over this land.
***
Pope Paul V reflected on the past.
Since 1517, everything had seemed like a crisis. Every step the Holy Church took felt like a pre-ordained stage in a coming catastrophe.
The Mediterranean, the cradle of wealth and abundance that surrounded Italy, was clearly becoming a backwater, surpassed by the Atlantic. The world’s wealth now flowed from the western seas. The successors of Peter were becoming laughingstocks in England, France, the Empire, and beyond. In truth, being a laughingstock would have been a mercy.
Only a few decades ago, the fires of heresy had ignited like a wildfire in southern France. Germany had been swept away by the Protestant tide, and Poland, Hungary, Sweden, Denmark, England, and Scotland had all faltered and fallen. Even the most devout monarchs had joined the wave of apostasy, each with their own hidden motives. The Christian world had been torn apart.
This upheaval had begun a century earlier, when the barbarians of the north began shouting the cursed names of Luther and Calvin. As the teachings of the devil spread, Rome, the city that held the sacred legacy of the First Apostle, seemed on the verge of collapse.
However, this seemingly insurmountable crisis was about to be reversed. In the past few decades, parts of France, the Netherlands, and Germany—along with Austria, Hungary, and Poland—were once again embraced by the Holy Catholic Church.
It had taken decades.
Decades for the Holy Catholic Church to crawl back from the pit of intended defeat. Pope Paul V, the successor of Peter, trembled as he reflected on the fact that he stood at the end of that holy and magnificent journey.
They had endured years of humiliation. Many Popes had lived pious, ascetic lives to restore Rome’s fallen honor. The saints of the Lord now stood upon a doctrine far more refined than before. The priests of the Lord were protected within an organization more solid than ever. He, the Vicar of Christ, enjoyed an authority firmer than any of his predecessors.
Decades of relentless reform and struggle had made the Holy Catholic Church more pious, more upright, and more passionate than ever. Under his reign, Rome had grown more brilliant. France remained a Catholic nation, at least in name, and the bishops of the Empire still wielded great power. In fact, were not the heretics who once acted as if they would conquer the world now shrinking by the day?
“Holy Father, a request from the Emperor…”
“Holy Father, the emissaries from Japan are returning via America…”
Conversely, the influence of the Holy Catholic Church was spreading day by day to America, Asia, and Africa. They were winning in China, the Philippines, and the Congo. He thought with absolute conviction that one day, hundreds of millions would bow their heads before the Pope. Everyone would kneel in the name of the Holy Lord. Only victory remained.
“It seems Britain is in chaos,” the Pope mused. “Naturally, a land ruled by heretical teachings is bound to be filled with such disorder.”
“Indeed, Holy Father. But is it not a blessing that faithful saints send such news?”
It didn’t matter.
Chaos was opportunity.
Paul V issued several orders and then hurried to his station as the time for prayer arrived. He knelt before a cross adorned with pearls and gold.
Chaos is opportunity.
And it would be the successors of Peter, who held his keys, who would seize that opportunity. He held a letter sent by Guy Fawkes. Opening it, the Pope smiled. He believed that only the Lord of All would be victorious.
And every gambler gathered at the table of Europe, cards in hand, believed the same. They had no idea what fires of war awaited them beyond that victory.