“Huff, huff…”

“Are you alright, my Lord?”

“I’m… I’m fine. Just stay back and rest for a moment while I finish this.”

“But, Lord Nemo…”

“I said I’m fine,” I snapped, though my breath hitched.

The aides and professors from the Agricultural College who had accompanied me stood frozen, caught between obedience and concern, as they watched me drive another stake into the earth.

The viticultural area of Napa Valley spans roughly seventeen thousand hectares. Given our Covenant’s policy of granting twenty-five hectares per person, this was enough land to support about six hundred and forty settlers. On a global scale, it was relatively modest; Bordeaux, the world’s premier region for fine wine, covers over one hundred and ten thousand hectares. Even in the twenty-first century, Napa would only account for four percent of California’s total wine production and a mere zero-point-four percent of the global supply. Compared to its legendary reputation, the physical output was quite humble.

But Napa’s prestige never stemmed from sheer volume.

Among the wine regions of the New World, this was one of the few places with the climate and soil capable of rivaling Bordeaux or Burgundy. It wasn’t just a matter of fertility and sunshine; the valley was a mosaic of diversity. Every plot offered a different foundation—clay, gravelly loam, sand—dozens of distinct soil types packed into one valley.

The climate was a grape’s dream: a dry, mild Mediterranean temperament where, most importantly, it never rained from summer until the harvest.

In the summer! No rain!

Back in Korea, the heavens would always wait for the exact moment before harvest to unleash a monsoon, as if personally spiteful toward grape farmers. To a farmer from that scorched, hellish peninsula, this Californian weather was enough to make one weep tears of blood in envy.

Furthermore, the valley’s topography offered a range of altitudes and terrains that diversified the growing conditions even further. This was the secret to how Napa, despite being a fraction of the size of Bordeaux, could host such incredible variety. It was a veritable buffet for wine grapes.

I could still vividly recall the “Young Farmer’s Winemaking Workshop” I had attended back home.

“This photo shows Napa Valley. Magnificent, isn’t it? Now, everyone take a pamphlet… and let’s watch a video to see what kind of miracles happen in this beautiful valley.”

The video was an episode of a world travel documentary titled KBC Special: Trekking Through the World – Episode 976: California, USA.

I still had the Napa Valley map I’d received that day tucked in my tunic, and it listed exactly which wineries and varieties occupied every corner of the valley. But could I really trust it? It was a document from three hundred years in the future. I was living in the Little Ice Age, while the map came from an era where climate change had people debating whether Napa would even survive another twenty years.

Naturally, I couldn’t rely on it entirely. That was why I was out here personally, doing the legwork. No matter what other duties called, I had to be the one to stake out the boundaries, measuring the temperature and humidity myself. I had to be certain.

With seventeenth-century technology, things like temperature and humidity readings were hit-or-miss at best. How could I trust measuring instruments from an age where astrology and alchemy were still considered valid sciences? Fortunately, soil composition doesn’t change much over a few centuries, so I didn’t need to worry about that. Only after I had scoured every inch of the area did I finally allow myself a moment of respite.

Thump.

I tossed my hammer and tools into a corner and collapsed onto the bare earth. My entire body was slick with sweat. I wiped away a stray bead that threatened to sting my eye and let my mind wander. In my current state of exhaustion, thinking was the only labor I could manage.

Briefly, I wondered if any of this actually mattered. This was a project that wouldn’t bear real fruit for decades. Even for an immortal like me with time to burn, the lack of an immediate result was a nagging weight. If I felt this way, how did the settlers feel?

Wait… that’s a good point.

The thought of the settlers jolted me upright. A sudden flare of worry seized my chest. What am I going to do with those people?

In the original history of the California Gold Rush, towns had sprouted like mushrooms, only to be abandoned just as quickly, leaving behind a trail of ghost towns once the gold dried up. I had made settlement a condition for their journey, but looking back, it felt like an impossibly harsh demand. They were in the middle of a literal wilderness with nothing but gold. To use that gold, they had to build a civilization from scratch.

The problem was that this wasn’t the nineteenth century. Back then, the American population had surpassed ten million, and the world was beginning to shrink under the influence of the telegraph and steamships. Immigrants from Europe, Latin America, and China could flood in and develop the land in a heartbeat.

But us? We had managed to build a few steamships, but the telegraph was still a dream. It would take at least two months for news from this coast to reach the other side of the continent. Furthermore, with our primary rival, Nueva España, looming just to the south, we were more likely to face isolation than global integration. I had brought the people here, but building the ports and ships necessary for trade with Asia would take an eternity.

And I couldn’t even secure enough shipwrights, I lamented.

Trade with Europe had been active in Virginia for years, so most established shipwrights saw no reason to trek to the far west. The arrival of a few sailors was a small consolation, but sailors weren’t shipwrights. Unless we planned to haul ships over mountains like Vikings, trade with Asia was a distant fantasy.

And if Nueva España attacks before then? We’ll be ruined before we even recoup the cost of the journey!

Admittedly, the Spanish military presence in the north was currently pathetic, and their grip on the region was weak. But that could change the moment they realized their enemies were building a stronghold right above them.

Hmm. I was drowning in worries when a voice broke through my thoughts.

“My—my Lord! There is trouble!”

“What is it?” I asked, my eyes snapping open.

“The Spaniards…!”

I scrambled to my feet, using a nearby shovel as a makeshift cane. Talk of the devil and he shall appear! The Spanish were moving faster than I’d anticipated. I had grown complacent, thinking they wouldn’t notice this region for a while yet. At most, a few merchant galleons would pass by the coast on their way across the Pacific. How had they found us? Had they made contact with the allied tribes? Or was there a traitor among us?

As I waited in agonizing suspense, the messenger continued his report.

“…Pardon?”

I stood there, utterly dazed by what he had just said.

***

It had been over a hundred years since Magellan first circumnavigated the globe. The seventeenth century was the golden age of sail, an era where the blank spaces on European maps were being systematically filled. As evidenced by Hasekura Tsunenaga’s earlier shipwreck, trans-Pacific voyages were becoming commonplace. Even the colonization of the Philippines had been managed not from mainland Spain, but from the Viceroyalty of Nueva España in Mexico, on the opposite side of the Pacific.

Driven by Nueva España’s aggressive expansion, countless vessels swarmed across the Pacific, plying the routes between the Philippines and Japan. Typically, they would depart from Acapulco, Mexico, riding the North Equatorial Current to Manila. From there, they would catch the Kuroshio Current north past Southern China and Japan before following the North Pacific Current back toward the Americas.

The only catch to this established trade route was that the North Pacific Current deposited returning ships right around the coast of California. For the Spanish, this was a useless, primitive wilderness. Sailors would usually just catch the California Current and turn south toward Mexico without a second thought. To them, California was nothing more than a passing landscape.

Until now.

“It’s been over three months since we’ve set foot on solid ground,” a sailor grumbled as he climbed down from the crow’s nest. “By the Saints, I can’t live like this!”

That single complaint changed the course of history. The other sailors dropped their ropes and joined the chorus of discontent.

“The man is right, Captain! It’s empty land anyway. With our steel and powder, those savages won’t dare lift a finger against us.”

“Just a day or two of rest, Captain. It’s not as if the cargo will spoil. Let the men gather some fruit and hunt for a bit to settle their nerves…”

“Hmm.”

The Captain looked at his weary crew and realized their frustration had reached a breaking point. He nodded reluctantly, promising to drop anchor at the first suitable harbor. They soon found a wide, sheltered bay with a flat sandy beach and deep enough water for their vessel.

The ship glided into the waters of what would one day be known as San Francisco Bay. Since it was not far from Napa Valley and the gold-rich hills—and because it was indeed a “perfect place to anchor”—they weren’t the only ones there.

Crunch. Crunch.

“What was that?”

“Was that… Spanish?”

The English settlers had chosen the very same spot to begin their harbor construction. The Spanish sailors, spotting the bedraggled settlers of a rival nation, licked their lips in anticipation. They quickly captured a few stragglers and confirmed that a permanent settlement had been established nearby.

But when they heard the word “gold,” the sailors’ eyes turned predatory. With practiced ease, they prepared to transition from merchants to pirates, reaching for their muskets and blades. They moved through the dense forest with practiced stealth, smearing dirt on their faces to mask their scent and creeping forward through the undergrowth.

They spent the night in tense silence, forgoing wine as they prepared for a dawn raid. They watched as the lights of the settlement flickered out one by one. This was the moment.

“Alright, men! Charge—”

Bang! Bang-bang!

“…”

The Captain stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had just happened to his body. He looked down and saw that he had been turned into a sieve.

As the Captain collapsed, the gold-fevered sailors were jolted back to reality. They turned their heads, only to find themselves staring into the bloodshot, manic eyes of a swarm of Englishmen.

The settlers had been hiding in carefully camouflaged trenches right under the Spaniards’ noses. Every one of them held a high-priced flintlock musket, and they were licking their lips with a primal hunger that far surpassed the sailors’ own greed.

“You… you have a ship?” one settler hissed.

“They have… a vessel?” another whispered, his voice trembling with excitement.

These were Englishmen whose limbs had been hardened by months of grueling manual labor and whose marksmanship had been perfected by the necessity of hunting to survive. Hundreds of them swarmed out of the shadows, surrounding the Spaniards. The bushes behind the sailors rustled as more settlers emerged.

“…Oh?”

Before the Spanish sailors could utter another word, the advanced firearms of the English erupted in a simultaneous roar.

Those who survived the initial volley were captured before they could even think of flight. As the sun rose over the battlefield, the Englishmen ignored the groans of the wounded and raced toward the shore like the “fast zombies” of a twenty-first-century film.

And there, they saw it.

“The ship! It’s a ship!”

Their prize was anchored gracefully in the bay, a beautiful silhouette against the morning light.

“We’re saved! We’re going to be rich!”

“I was worried because we didn’t have any shipwrights! But with this…!”

The Englishmen whistled and danced on the sand, celebrating their windfall as they prepared to loot the Spanish vessel in reverse. The ship was a treasure trove; beyond the vessel itself, they found crates of spices, ivory, silk, and porcelain from the East.

There were sailors among the immigrants—Nemo had specifically lured them with the promise of making a fortune through Pacific trade. Now, with this ship, they could finally sail out and sell their gold to the markets of Asia.

“Wait! Hold on!”

“What is it? Why are you stopping us?”

“Don’t move the ship! And leave everything inside exactly where it is!”

“What? Why on earth would we do that?”

But those were the thoughts of amateurs. The true visionaries knew how to defer immediate satisfaction for a far greater future gain. A few of the cleverer leaders whispered to the rest of the greenhorns, and soon, they retreated into the trees, leaving only a few crates of spices as bait.

It was March—the exact time when the ships that had crossed the Pacific the previous June would be returning.

And sure enough…

“Look! A ship! It’s one of ours!”

“There’s smoke on the shore… they must be resting. Shall we drop anchor as well?”

“Why not? Prepare to moor, men!”

Seeing a familiar flag and a ship already resting in the bay, the returning Spanish vessels decided, one by one, to stop for a break in San Francisco Bay.

“Fire.”

Bang! Bang-bang!

By the time the Spaniards noticed the English hidden behind the dunes with their rifles, it was already too late.

By May, the English settlers had successfully seized five massive trade galleons.

It was a monumental achievement in the history of human progress. In 3500 BC, the Mesopotamians invented the wheel, allowing man to move across the land without using his own legs. In 1769, Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot invented the automobile, allowing man to move a carriage without a horse. In 1783, the Montgolfier brothers invented the hot air balloon, allowing man to fly without wings.

And in 1620, the English finally perfected the art of piracy without ever having to step foot on a boat.

It was a quintessentially English invention.

***

“It seems the delay of the shipwrights is no longer an issue, my Lord. We expect to begin trade with East Asia almost immediately.”

“…”

“My Lord? Are you alright?”

I was not alright.