Flutter. Flutter.

“Hmph.”

I leaned back in the massage chair after a long shower, letting the mechanical rollers knead my weary muscles. It was the kind of relaxation that invited clarity, the perfect state for deep thought.

As I sat there, my head nodding slightly to the rhythm of the chair, I flipped through the historical appendix of the catalog. The weight of the years suddenly hit me. I had been in this era for thirty-two years. One year had bled into the next until, almost without noticing, I had spent more of my life in the seventeenth century than I ever had in the twenty-first.

Over those three decades, Elizabeth had passed, and James had ascended to the English throne. The world’s first joint-stock company had been established, the Imjin War had ravaged the East, and the Tokugawa Shogunate had risen to power. The great gears of history continued to turn, even if I had managed to jam or grease a few of them along the way.

The historical summaries in the catalog grew sparse after the conclusion of the Thirty Years’ War; beyond that point, the timeline drifted too far from the game’s original setting. I was left with little more than a basic chronological table. Even the world history comics I kept at home were designed for middle and high schoolers, requiring me to strain my memory to extract anything beyond the broadest strokes of the era.

Still, I mused, I’ve managed to pin down a few critical truths.

Foremost among them was that gunpowder was becoming the ultimate arbiter of power. The era of the Tercio—those massive, square formations of pikemen and musketeers—was giving way to linear tactics, where the sheer volume of fire from a long, disciplined line determined the victor. National power was becoming synonymous with military might. No matter how brilliant a general might be, a nation without the population and industrial capacity to sustain a modern army would inevitably crumble.

It all came down to population and production. These were elements that usually required centuries to cultivate; under normal circumstances, a population doesn’t simply double or triple overnight.

However, we were the exception to the rule.

The convergence of the English migrant wave and the integration of new indigenous tribes had pushed our population into the millions. Yet, the number of people we could actually mobilize remained frustratingly small. Most were part of a loose confederation of tribes, many of whom didn’t even know Spain or Nueva España existed. It was a logistical nightmare to imagine reaching out to every tiny, isolated tribe across the vast interior just to bolster our national strength.

The people who can actually make a difference are concentrated in Virginia and Florida, I thought.

Even within those regions, there were many I had yet to fully bring into the fold—specifically, the recent arrivals from England and Scotland who remained bewildered by this strange new world. They were the ones I needed.

I stood up, switching off the massage chair, and shed my bathrobe. Walking into the bedroom, I opened the wardrobe. For the first time in a long while, I decided to set aside my twenty-first-century clothes. I sifted through the garments until I found something suitable for a man of the English upper-middle class.

I donned a crisp linen shirt, followed by a velvet doublet and a fine wool coat. I even pulled on the stockings—a garment I had grown begrudgingly accustomed to over the decades. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I looked like a portrait straight out of a history textbook. I appeared to be a minor noble or perhaps a prosperous merchant—a common enough sight in our wealthy community. I looked ordinary, familiar, and that was the entire point.

To reach them, I had to look like one of them.

***

In Bristol, in the southwest of England, Billy Berry had watched his prospects wither. Over a decade ago, when a catastrophic tsunami had left the people starving and broken, the Queen had granted many the right to emigrate to Virginia. Billy often regretted not leaving then; had he taken the leap, he wouldn’t be trapped in the current madness.

Lately, attacks by Papist radicals had become a common terror, matched only by the grim regularity of seeing Catholic neighbors—men Billy had known all his life—hanging from the trees. The King was nowhere to be found, and the land was choked by chaos. The scent of blood had become as familiar as the smell of a butcher’s shop.

But then, a lifeline appeared.

The Federal Trade Company had sent a ship, seeking pioneers. Without a moment’s hesitation, Billy sold the house his family had inhabited since his great-grandfather’s time and headed for the docks. Because he was traveling as part of a family unit, he was given priority, boarding the ship amidst a throng of desperate hopefuls.

He arrived in the New World fueled by the sailors’ tales: stories of free land and a paradise where others did the farming for you. They spoke of a land where the industrious could find wealth and honor—a veritable Eden. While Billy had taken the sailors’ bluster with a grain of salt, he had dared to hope. Even if only half of what they said was true, Virginia had to be better than the hell he had left behind.

Two months later, the ship touched the eastern coast of North America, and Billy found himself reeling in a mix of shock and rapture. It was true. All of it. This was an Eden on earth, a place closer to heaven than he had ever imagined possible. Here, Billy believed his family could finally find peace. Their new home was near a chapel, and their neighbors seemed decent, God-fearing folk. He was ready to forget the war and famine of England… until he wasn’t.

“Welcome to the land protected by the Angel!” a neighbor greeted him.

“The… the what?” Billy stammered.

“The Angel. Haven’t you heard? Oh, don’t worry, you’ll understand soon enough. It’s Sunday—let’s head to the service!”

The service, however, was like nothing Billy had ever experienced.

“The Nameless One was born from the flames, rising like Lazarus to speak to the nations. He said to the people…” The preacher’s voice echoed through the hall. “We must fear the sins that grow from hatred of our enemies. Let us remember the love of the Nameless One, who cast Himself into the fire for the sake of man.”

Billy felt a cold sweat breaking out. “A religious order? Is this… is this a Catholic sect?” he whispered to a man nearby.

The man chuckled. “Hardly. I was born Catholic myself, but my friend here is a Puritan. He calls the Father a ‘Minister.’ It’s all the same here.”

“What? A Papist and a Puritan… together?”

“The labels don’t matter much. What matters is that we please the Lord through our labor and devotion to the community…”

It was all too much. From the unsettling sermons to the “Abbot” who ran the workplace, Billy found the culture of the Covenant impossible to navigate. Above all, he could not accept the “Angel.”

“He… he died and came back?” Billy asked, his voice trembling. “He can be burned or cut to pieces and still return?”

“Strictly speaking, no,” the neighbor replied helpfully. “Resurrection is when a mortal is reborn in an incorruptible body. His Majesty was merely resuscitated in his original form, much like Lazarus—”

“Stop! Just stop with this madness!” Billy roared.

Unable to endure the strange, heretical world of the “Nameless Church,” Billy moved his family again. They settled in New Bristol, a secluded village far from the heart of the Chesapeake, populated by those who, like Billy, rejected the “Angel” and his “Apostles.” Billy soon rose to become an elder of the community.

They refused the authority of the government Nemo had established and rejected the bounty provided by the Knightly Order.

“Do you truly intend to fill your bellies with the grain and coin they provide?” Billy would ask the wavering.

“But… Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,” one might argue. “The food is a separate matter from the faith.”

“Then you do as you see fit. I shall keep my faith untainted.”

Fearing the judgment of the radicals, the rest of the villagers followed suit, rejecting the healthcare provided by Eleanor’s clinics and the assistance of the Trade Company. They numbered nearly ten thousand—a small but persistent island of instability within the Covenant.

***

“That is New Bristol,” the guide explained, pointing toward a cluster of humble, wigwam-like dwellings. “As the name suggests, it was founded primarily by migrants from Bristol.”

We had walked a significant distance from the Chesapeake to reach this impoverished village. “It looks like a five-minute walk from here,” I noted. “I’ll go the rest of the way alone.”

“Stay alert, my Lord. If there is trouble…”

“I’ll be in touch immediately.”

It was a beautiful day, the kind of weather that made a business trip feel like a hike. Focus, I reminded myself. This is important.

Let’s be honest: I was never a devout man. In my previous life, I avoided churches. I hated the theatrical prayers and the knowledge that my tithes were likely funding a pastor’s son’s night out. Even the communal noodles they served after the service were terrible.

The fact that someone like me had become a religious figurehead and a head of state meant that this nation was never going to be a traditional Christian stronghold. In Virginia, over half the population were sincere followers of the “Nameless Church,” but across the Covenant as a whole, nearly seventy percent were animists. To them, I wasn’t an angel—I was a powerful spirit who could regrow limbs.

The majority of the Continental Congress was made up of such people. Calling this a Christian nation was a stretch, to say the least. Furthermore, the “Nameless Church” didn’t even have a complex dogma. It mostly boiled down to “be kind,” “don’t call others heretics,” and “be useful to society.” It was a reflection of my own desire for a sensible, productive community, and it worked—largely because I was a living, breathing totem. I was an immortal buff to the nation’s morale.

But to an outsider? Our doctrine of “let us all—animists, Muslims, Protestants, and Catholics—live in harmony” was a standard modern virtue, but in the seventeenth century, it was a one-way ticket to the stake.

“That barbarian is an angel? Or a heresiarch?” “They say he died and came back!” “…Then is he the Antichrist?”

In this age of religious frenzy, a man who survived being stabbed and burned was a demon by definition. The people who had crossed the Atlantic hadn’t suddenly become enlightened modern citizens; they carried the prejudices of their birth. My strategy of using land and wealth to lure them into the faith had reached its natural limit. People aren’t moved by material rewards alone.

“Huff… this cloak is damnably uncomfortable!” I muttered, adjusting the heavy fabric.

I was approaching the villages where the dissenters—the English and Scottish who rejected our “cult”—had gathered. There were several such settlements. They didn’t fight us, which was a mercy, but they remained a potential powder keg.

Why had Elizabeth been so ruthless in her persecution of Catholics? Why did every European nation purge and massacre heretics? Because they were dangerous. In a world where church and state were one, a different faith was a different loyalty. A monarch of a different sect was a heretical usurper, and killing them was a holy act. That was why French Catholics had killed Henry IV, and why English Puritans had plotted against James I. Heretics were naturally a vanguard for rebellion and a magnet for foreign spies.

If we were to face a war against a nation of a different faith, I had to ensure our internal unity first.

“Good evening,” I called out as I reached the edge of the village. “May a traveler rest here a while?”

A man looked up, his expression wary. “Who are you?”

“Just a traveler passing through.”

***

When Billy Berry returned from gathering firewood, he found the village in a stir. He followed the crowd and saw a man who appeared to be an American. Likely a pagan or a heretic, Billy thought, dismissing the stranger and heading home. He had much to prepare; the Walker family from next door was joining them for dinner.

The scent of stew and baking pies soon filled the house. They moved the tables outside, joining them together for a communal feast. It was a pleasant scene of fellowship until a voice interrupted.

“Good evening.”

The tables fell silent.

“Might I join you?” the American stranger asked. “I’ve brought some food of my own to share.”

Billy was startled to hear the man speak with a perfect Westcountry accent, as if he had been born and raised in Bristol. The familiarity of the voice caused Billy’s guard to drop instinctively, and he gestured to an empty seat.

As the stranger sat, the villagers’ curiosity became palpable. “Did you learn your English from a man of Somerset or Bristol?” Billy asked. “Or perhaps you are of mixed blood? You look young, and your skin is quite fair.”

The stranger only offered a thin, enigmatic smile. Another guest, a man from the Scottish Lowlands, shook his head. “What are you talking about, Billy? The man clearly speaks with the tongue of the Lowlands. He must be of my kin.”

“The Lowlands?” a third guest interrupted. “You’re both mad. He’s clearly from Surrey. I can hear it plain as day.”

Billy frowned, looking between the guests. Then, he looked at the stranger again. A sudden, cold realization washed over him. He looked around the table and saw that the others had also fallen silent, their faces pale and set.

The stranger didn’t seem to notice the tension. He reached into his bag and pulled out a beautifully baked beef pie, placing it on the table. No one moved to touch it.

“My name is Nemo,” the stranger said softly. “It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

The silence was absolute.

“Please, eat,” Nemo continued. “The pie is quite good.”

Billy’s young daughter reached for the pie, but her mother’s hand snapped out, pinning her arm to the table. They sat in frozen terror, watching the man eat. When he had finished, Nemo stood up and placed a single gold Othello coin on the table.

“A token of my gratitude for the meal. Thank you, Ma’am.”

Margaret Berry could only stare, her mouth working but no sound coming out.

“I hope your life here is comfortable,” Nemo added, glancing around the village. “Though I noticed the well is poorly positioned. You might consider moving it.”

When Margaret failed to respond, he gave another gentle smile, bowed his head, and turned to leave.

As the man faded into the distance, Margaret reached for the gold coin, but Billy snatched it up and hurled it into the woods.

“Billy!” Margaret shrieked. “Do you have any idea what that was worth?”

“I don’t care if it was worth ten thousand pounds!” Billy roared. “To take that money is to invite a curse upon this house!”

The feast was ruined.

No one had the stomach for food, and no one dared to touch the beef pie the stranger had left behind.