After washing my hair and dressing in the familiar comfort of my twenty-first-century casual wear, I headed to the office where my aide awaited his briefing on European affairs. Our sessions had become remarkably productive, yet the true breakthrough of the day lay in a different discovery entirely.

“The current situation in Europe is unfolding in a fascinating manner, my Lord,” the aide began, unfolding his maps. “While England is embroiled in civil war, France is moving to check Spain’s influence…”

As he spoke, I took a deep, centering breath and focused on the mental toggle I had discovered. I flipped the switch to the “off” position.

“…This concerns the Imperial succession… @##@…”

The words dissolved into a static of alien phonemes. I flipped it back “on.”

“…#@%… Ferdinand, currently regarded as the most likely successor to the throne…”

Once again, the bizarre mélange of English and Algonquin was seamlessly translated into the modern Korean I carried in my mind. Back in the twenty-first century, I had tried every language-learning fad under the sun, but the most effective had always been the “no-subtitle” method—watching a show once with subtitles, once without, and repeating until the ear caught what the eyes had previously provided. It worked best with slice-of-life dramas rather than dense fantasy or period epics. Eventually, the meaning would leap directly from the sound to the mind.

Language instructors called it “the opening of the ear and the loosening of the tongue.”

“Tell me, what is Ferdinand’s current standing?” I asked.

“It is complicated. At present, he…”

Now, I could execute that very method twenty-four hours a day in real-time. I already possessed the ability to read and write the English of this era; the grammar and idioms were etched into my memory. Within days of gaining this control, I found I could listen and speak with nearly the same proficiency whether the “patch” was active or not. I briefly considered attempting the same for French and Spanish before deciding against it. Such parlor tricks weren’t my priority.

Exiting the office, I donned my seventeenth-century traveling attire and sought out a resident of Croatoan. “Tell me,” I asked, “how is my accent?”

The man looked surprised. “My Lord? It is as it always is. You sound exactly like a citizen of London.”

“Good,” I murmured. “That will do.”

My preparations were complete. I applied a subtle disguise to alter my features slightly; in an age of slow news and no photography, specific details of my appearance hadn’t traveled far. For a secluded, fearful community like the dissenters, I would be a stranger. I summoned my security detail and set out for the outskirts of the Chesapeake.

“One last request before we enter,” I told my guards.

“Anything, my Lord.”

It was time to bring the holdouts into the fold once and for all. “Hit me,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“And I’ll need to tear these clothes as well,” I added, already reaching for the seam of my coat.

“My Lord, what on earth are you—?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured them with a grin. “I specifically chose an outfit that wasn’t expensive.”

The stage had to be set.

***

“Come now, lad! Put down the spade and eat while the stew is hot!”

“Just a few more rows, Mr. Weller, then I’ll be along,” the youth replied with a cheerful wave. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Willy Weller watched the young man work, shaking his head in fond amusement. “A diligent soul, that one. And pious, too. Did you see his eyes during Sunday’s prayers? They shone with a peculiar light during the Ave Maria.”

Weller leaned on his wooden shovel, wiping sweat from his brow as he reflected on the stranger’s arrival. The young man had staggered into their village weeks ago, tattered and bloodied, claiming he had been pursued by wolves. The villagers had nursed his wounds, and out of a desire to repay the debt, he had stayed to lend his strength to their tiny community.

The youth, who called himself Utis, never shied away from the most grueling chores. He frequently ventured “outside,” returning with gifts of rare herbs, mysterious but effective medicines, or ingenious farm tools that made their hard-scrabble lives significantly easier. He was a godsend to a people living on the ragged edge of survival.

“A few more men like him and we’d be living like kings,” Weller’s companion noted.

Weller nodded silently. The residents of “New Liverpool” were among the few remaining Catholics who had fled the turmoil and persecution of England for the New World, only to be horrified by the heresy they found waiting for them. It wasn’t just a different sect; it was an abomination. Compared to the Church of England, which had been founded merely so a king could divorce, the ruler of this land claimed to be an actual angel. They had heard tales of him rising from the dead and performing miracles to bewitch the masses.

When they realized the rumors from Spain were true, they had been struck with a profound, existential terror. He is the Antichrist, they had whispered.

They had huddled together in this isolated village, without priests or bishops, offering the Dry Mass in their absence. They recited the prayers for each feast day, told their rosaries, and clung to the Ave Maria as a shield. They rejected the wealth and allure offered by the “Idolaters,” choosing poverty over the stain of heresy.

But the cost of their devotion was steep. They shared a single rusted plow, and since few among them were true farmers, they relied heavily on hunting and gathering. As winter approached and the specter of starvation loomed, Utis had appeared.

“What was your name again, lad?” “Just call me Utis, sir.”

A pious, diligent, and kind-hearted American. He honored the saints and knew the prayers of the Mother, suggesting he was a devout Catholic who had somehow maintained his faith through great hardship. It hadn’t taken long for the village to embrace him.

“Willy! The stew is getting cold! Get over here!”

“Coming, Mr. Weller!” the youth called back.

Willy Weller smiled as the sweat-soaked young man approached. He handed him a piece of potato, and Utis took it with such reverence it was as if he were being handed a nugget of gold. As they ate, one of the men leaning against the fence spoke up.

“Tell me, Utis. Was it hard for you out there? It couldn’t have been easy for a man of faith to survive in the world beyond these woods.”

The group went still, everyone straining to hear the answer. Even those who had been about to return to work lingered nearby.

“The persecution must have been terrible,” another added. “The heretics are never kind to our sort.”

“I still have nightmares about our neighbors being marched to the gallows,” a third man shuddered.

They all knew the weight of oppression. Hundreds of Catholics had been hanged, burned, or drawn and quartered in England. They assumed the “Idolaters” of this land had prepared equally savage punishments for the faithful.

“Persecution?” Utis asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“Aye,” Weller pressed. “Surely you’ve seen it.”

“Catholics are not persecuted in this land,” the youth replied simply. “There are many besides myself who honor the Mother and the saints and keep the liturgical calendar.”

“What?” Weller gasped.

“Why do you look so surprised, Mr. Weller?”

The answer was so unexpected that Weller found himself the center of every gaze. He leaned in, his voice a cautious whisper. “But… they don’t have priests from the Apostolic Church. They appoint their own leaders to lead their prayers, don’t they?”

“Ah, you didn’t know,” Utis said. “Vicente Gonzalez, who is also an Apostle of the Nameless One, gathers the Catholics for prayer. It is a provision made for those here who are cut off from the Roman Church.”

Silence fell over the group. Most of the villagers had fled to the woods shortly after arriving, shocked by the initial encounter in the Chesapeake. They had never even heard the name of this “Apostle.”

Vicente Gonzalez—a Spanish name. A man who held Catholic services right in the heart of the “Nameless Church” and was treated with the utmost respect. The questions began to fly.

“Don’t they use a strange book instead of the Bible in their services?”

“That is a misunderstanding,” Utis explained. “The Book of Thomas Hewitt is not a replacement for Scripture. It is more of a commentary—a guide one might refer to. It isn’t mandatory, and it certainly isn’t held as equal to the Bible. Most Catholics here don’t use it at all.”

“And what of this ‘Angel’ they worship? That is heresy, plain and simple!”

“The Nameless One strictly forbids idolatry,” the youth countered. “That is why he has never revealed his own name.”

“And… those who aren’t members of the Nameless Church… are they not oppressed?”

“Look at the people of New Bristol,” Utis said. “They accepted the support of the Order recently, yet they remain outside the Church. It seems the Ruler doesn’t care whether one believes he is an angel or not.”

“Then… if that’s true…”

“That’s enough,” Weller interrupted, setting down his empty bowl. He looked at the villagers, who were staring at Utis in a daze. He turned to the youth and spoke softly. “And what of you?”

“Sir?”

“Do you believe he is an angel? Or do you think him the Antichrist?”

Utis scratched the back of his head, a sheepish, difficult smile touching his lips. “Does it really matter?”

Weller found he had no answer to that. It was a response that invited a terrifying amount of thought.

***

A few days later, Mr. Weller set out to gather mushrooms. He had excused himself from the heavier farm work, claiming his joints were aching—a reasonable request, though the trekking and stooping required for foraging were often just as taxing. But the labor wasn’t his concern; the true reason for his departure was the guide he required.

“Utis?”

“Ah, you’re here, sir. There are several good patches nearby. You’ve chosen the perfect time for a harvest.”

Without the youth’s knowledge, one could easily end up picking a cap that would send a man into a fatal delirium. Weller followed in silence, his eyes fixed on the young man’s back, watching his every move with a feigned indifference. They walked for nearly an hour until the forest grew still and the green canopy swallowed the sunlight. The only sounds were the trill of birds and the soft rustle of the wind.

“Listen, lad,” Weller said, finally breaking the silence.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you no thought of repentance?”

This was the moment Weller had engineered. Utis stopped and turned slowly, his expression one of mild confusion. “Repentance? I’m not sure I follow your meaning, sir.”

But his eyes were steady, showing no hint of surprise. He had expected this.

“You believe that Antichrist is an angel, don’t you?” Weller pressed. “That’s why you spoke as you did the other day.”

Utis remained silent, and in that silence, Weller found his confirmation. He shook his head sadly. “To bow to the beast and follow a false prophet is to condemn your soul to the lake of sulfur. I beg you, lad, turn back while you still can.”

The youth didn’t lose his gentle smile, but he didn’t respond. He simply stood there, his composure so absolute that Weller briefly wondered if the boy had even heard him.

“The people of the village look as though they will struggle to see the winter through,” Utis said suddenly, his voice distant.

“What?”

“That is why I’ve worked so hard to help. Even if things come to the worst, I don’t want to see people starving or freezing to death.”

Weller flinched, the words striking a raw nerve.

“The game is becoming scarce in these woods, and the fish are disappearing from the streams,” Utis continued. “Do you know what happens then? The wolves and bears, deprived of their natural prey, will move closer to the settlements. What will you do then?”

Weller had no answer. The youth was right. The meager supplies they had brought from the Chesapeake were gone, and the forest was no longer providing enough to sustain them. Without Utis’s help, they likely wouldn’t survive the coming months.

“Don’t trap yourself and your family in this tiny village,” Utis said. “The world is vast and bountiful, and this nation especially so.”

“And what would you have us do? Abandon our faith?”

“There is no need for that, as I told you before.”

“Stop speaking in riddles!” Weller snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. “You believe in him, don’t you? That’s why you’re trying to persuade me!”

Utis said nothing. Weller let out a long, weary sigh and sat on a mossy log, the strength seeming to drain from his limbs. “Fine. I shall act as if I never heard your words. You are a kind lad, despite the dark path you’ve chosen, and I hope you can understand my position.”

It was the best he could offer. As a man who owed his survival to the youth, he couldn’t bring himself to say more. “Repent, lad. That is why I brought you out here. I’ve grown fond of you…”

“I do not speak in riddles,” Utis interrupted.

“Eh?”

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. The easy, boyish smile vanished from the youth’s face, replaced by a terrifying, cold dignity. It was as if a mask had been cast aside, revealing a presence so commanding that Weller found himself swallowing hard, his breath hitching. Is he a prince of some tribe? Weller wondered. How can a mere look carry such weight?

“Utis?” Weller whispered.

The youth remained silent until the tension in the air was almost unbearable. “When I said it didn’t matter… I meant it. It truly does not matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“What does it matter if he is an angel or not? Does that justify turning your back on your neighbors and allowing your family to starve?”

Of course it matters! Weller wanted to shout. Earthly life is a fleeting shadow, but the soul’s destiny is eternal! But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he managed a shaky reply. “I only want you to reach heaven…”

“It is fine,” the youth said with a small, sad smile. “Such things do not concern me.”

“What? What manner of talk is that—?”

“Hush. Wait a moment.”

Utis stepped forward and placed a hand over Weller’s mouth. Weller struggled, but the youth’s grip was like iron, and in the scuffle, Weller tumbled to the ground.

“I told you,” Utis whispered. “The wolves will come to where the people live.”

As Weller scrambled to his feet, a low, guttural growl vibrated through the air—a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He turned to see a massive brown shape detached itself from the shadows of the trees. The shape grew larger as it lunged toward them.

Crunch!

Weller squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the end. When it didn’t come, he opened them slowly.

Gurgle… urgh…

The wolf was dying, its throat pierced by a blade. Its jaws were clamped shut around a man’s arm—the arm of the youth who had thrown himself between the beast and the old man. As the wolf’s strength faded, its grip loosened, and its heavy body slumped to the forest floor. Utis, his face pale, stumbled back and leaned against Weller for support.

Weller stared at the blood pouring from the youth’s mangled arm, his own face turning ashen. “Lad! My God, are you—?”

“It is fine,” Utis gasped.

“How can you say—!”

“Even when I turn the ability off… it resets itself if it senses my life is in danger.”

“What? What are you talking about? Your arm is shredded! It’s—”

Weller reached for a bandage, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. “Oh… oh my…”

The arm was pristine.

Weller looked at the youth’s knee, where a scrape from a few days ago had lingered. It, too, was gone. Weller couldn’t find his voice.

Before the trembling old man, the Nameless One stood.

“Does it truly matter… what I am?”

Weller could only stare in stunned silence. The youth—or the being who had likely lived longer than any mortal man—spoke again. “Simply live in happiness. Do not starve, and do not suffer from illnesses that can be cured.”

Weller began to weep, his body shaking as he looked up at the figure before him. “But… if my family… if we go to hell…”

“Then continue to believe I am the Antichrist,” Nemo said softly.

“What?”

“I am telling you that you may keep your faith.” The youth smiled. “What I am is of no consequence. ‘Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass.’”

Psalm 37:5. Weller found himself reciting the next verse instinctively. “‘And He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday.’”

Weller closed his eyes and began to pray. He didn’t know if he was praying to the heavens, against the being before him, or in gratitude toward him. When he finally opened his eyes, he was alone, with a basket of fresh mushrooms sitting at his feet.

When he returned to the village, the others looked at him in confusion, their eyes searching for the youth. But one look at Weller’s haunted, transformed face silenced them.

Weller gathered the villagers and began to distribute the mushrooms. “I have decided,” he said, his voice steady. “I shall accept the land they offer.”

No one questioned him. They had all been wavering under the weight of Utis’s kindness. They collectively decided to accept the bounty of the Knightly Order.

They continued their Dry Masses, and they never approached the chapel of the Nameless Church. Only one person in the village ever formally converted. They lived for a time in a state of wary surprise, marveling at the freedom of faith they were suddenly granted. They even swore an oath of loyalty to the Continental Covenant.

And they often wondered what had become of that kind, mysterious young man.

Thus, the doors of the final “cult” village were opened.