Chapter 229

I had been wondering why my shoulder felt so strange and heavy all of yesterday. After a moment of reflection, the answer came to me.

Oh, right. I was shot.

Even with the Lexan plates sewn into the lining of my coat, the laws of physics remained unyielding; the sheer kinetic impact had to go somewhere. Stripping off my shirt in front of the mirror, I found no bruising—a minor miracle in itself—but the lingering, phantom discomfort refused to dissipate. Still, I had managed to extract a solemn vow from Gershom never to attempt such a “test” again. Hopefully, that would be the end of the assassination attempts.

For now.

Our grueling routine resumed. Mornings were consumed by Hebrew and theological debates with Manasseh. Lunch was spent with Gershom, brainstorming the specific tone and content of the newspapers and pamphlets we intended to flood the Empire with. By evening, I was back in the basement, obsessing over the Coven’s strategic interventions in the war.

In the frantic, breathless blur of work, time became a slippery thing. It was only as I was trudging out of the basement one evening that a sudden thought brought me to a dead halt.

Wait… what year is it? Ah, 1630.

The realization sent a chill trickling down my spine like ice water. I had tumbled into this era in 1588. This was my forty-third year in this world. Mathematically, that meant I was now in my late sixties.

And yet, here I was, at sixty-eight, still being worked to the bone.

In truth, these last few years felt like the most exhausting period of my entire four-decade stay. Managing the high-wire act of diplomacy, building a global shadow network from scratch, and undergoing a late-life crisis of biblical studies—it was enough to wear any man down, immortal or not.

“Forty-three years…” I whispered to the empty hallway. “Late sixties.”

Thinking of my age in those terms left me dazed. Elinor, the youngest of the original group, was already in her sixties. The others were scattered across their seventies and eighties. Soon, it would be half a century since we established the first large-scale settlement on Croatoan Island. Chesapeake, which had started as a collection of desperate shacks, had grown into a city of tens of thousands—the thriving heart of the Continental Covenant.

And here I was, halfway across the world.

I’ve completely lost touch with how things are running back home, I realized with a pang of guilt.

It had been nine years since I accepted the East India Company’s proposal and left the Covenant. After several years in Joseon and several more in France, the memory of my own home was starting to feel hazy—no, that wasn’t right. I could never forget that house; it looked like it had been plucked straight out of the 1979 Anne of Green Gables anime.

My God… how have I survived this long in such wretched conditions?

By Paris standards, I lived like a god. I resided in a sprawling estate with a private garden, surrounded by servants who handled every menial task and domestic chore. Even a person who transmigrated into a high-fantasy romance novel would struggle to find a more opulent lifestyle.

But this house lacked the air conditioning of Willis Carrier and the radiant floor heating of Frank Lloyd Wright. There were no faucets that provided instant hot and cold water. There was no television, no massage chair, and certainly no beam projector. The “sophisticated” plumbing of the era was a joke to a 21st-century mind. To me, a 17th-century aristocratic manor was just a drafty, poorly insulated box that leaked sound.

I missed my home. I even missed my old Samsung Porter truck that I’d used as a makeshift camper. I yearned for a house that, while less ostentatious than this Parisian palace, offered a level of comfort these people couldn’t even imagine.

How are my neighbors on Croatoan? I wondered. How big is Elinor’s grandson now? Gideon, was it? Raleigh’s joints were aching the last time I saw him. Manteo was worried about his age, too. Vicente said he wanted to retire from the navy—did he finally do it? Did Mr. Hewitt ever get those new spectacles?

Once the dam of nostalgia broke, the urge to return to Virginia became an all-consuming fire. After all, I had lived in Virginia longer than I had ever lived in South Korea. I told myself that the operations in Europe were finally self-sustaining; surely a brief visit home wouldn’t hurt.

Exhausted, I let myself fall onto the bed. A ship from the Covenant was due to arrive in a few days. I hoped it would bring the long-awaited news of the people I missed so dearly.

However, when the news finally crossed the Atlantic a few days later, it was not the joyous homecoming I had envisioned.

***

The manor was suddenly a hive of frantic activity. Servants hurried through the halls, whispering in hushed, urgent tones, while members of the Order scrambled to organize and pack crates of sensitive documents. Even Oitotan was pacing the courtyard, his face set in a grim, uncharacteristic mask of sobriety.

Manasseh stood in the middle of the chaos, feeling utterly lost. The atmosphere of the estate had transformed overnight, yet he seemed to be the only one who didn’t understand why.

“You there!” Manasseh shouted, spotting a familiar figure. “Gershom! Do you have any idea what’s happening?”

The writer looked just as bewildered. It seemed the two newest additions to the household were the only ones left in the dark. They tried to corner the servants for an explanation, but even the local French recruits knew little more than the rumors.

“Someone tell me what’s going on!” Manasseh demanded, catching a servant by the sleeve.

“The Master is leaving,” the man replied breathlessly. “He has to depart the estate immediately. That’s all we know.”

“Leaving? To where? Is he moving house?”

“No, monsieur. He is leaving Europe. He must return to the Continental Covenant.”

To the Covenant?

The two men exchanged a look of sheer alarm. The mention of “returning for a time” offered little comfort when they didn’t know the underlying cause. They spent the next hour roaming the corridors, intercepting every aide and clerk they could find, desperate to piece together the fragments of information.

“So the Prince isn’t in the basement anymore? Then where—”

“There! He’s there!” Gershom pointed.

Following the writer’s finger, they saw the Prince standing near the main gate. They moved to approach him, but the look on his face stopped them in their tracks. His features were frozen in a severe, cold rigidity. It wasn’t just anger; it was a look of profound, heavy melancholy.

Nemo spoke briefly to a few attendants before turning and disappearing up the stairs to the second floor. As the two men stood there, feeling helpless and discarded, a hand patted them on their shoulders. They turned to see Oitotan. His face, too, was uncharacteristically somber.

“What are you two doing standing around?” Oitotan asked. “Why aren’t you packing your things?”

“Are we… are we going to the Covenant as well?” Manasseh asked.

“Of course. One is his tutor, the other his advisor. If the Prince is to continue his work while in the Americas, he needs his staff with him.”

The Continental Covenant. To a European, it was a mythical empire across the sea, a land that opened its gates only to a select few. No one knew the true nature of its government, the vastness of its borders, or the true scale of its power.

While Manasseh wrestled with the anxiety of stepping into the unknown, Gershom pulled out his notebook and began scribbling furiously. “What has happened to cause such a sudden move? For the Prince to act like this, it must be a crisis of the highest order.”

Oitotan eyed the notebook. “Who are you planning to show that to?”

“No one! It’s just my private journal,” Gershom lied smoothly. “Please, tell us.”

Oitotan stared at them for a long moment. “How important do I look to you?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught Manasseh off guard. Instinct warned him that a direct, honest answer would be a mistake. In Paris, the general consensus was that Oitotan was some high-born eccentric who spent his days flouting etiquette and making nonsensical remarks to the King of France. Since arriving at the manor, Manasseh had mostly seen him eating, drinking, and attending parties, only occasionally deigning to involve himself in the Order’s business.

Suppressing his skepticism, Manasseh offered a diplomatic smile. “You have visited the courts of England and France as the representative of the Covenant. Surely, you hold a position of immense importance—”

“Can I be honest?” Gershom interrupted.

“No,” Oitotan snapped.

The silence grew awkward.

“I am a man who is not easily wounded by the petty gossip of the masses,” Oitotan muttered, though his eyes suggested otherwise. “An important man like myself cannot afford to worry about the opinions of ‘less important’ people like you, Gershom.”

He’s clearly very hurt, Manasseh thought. He’s obsessing over it, Gershom realized.

“There is a man named Vicente Gonzalez,” Oitotan continued, his voice tight. “He is slightly less important than I am. Not that anyone could be as important as me, having served the Prince most closely for all these years, but he is… perhaps half as important as I am.”

“And what is this man’s title?” Manasseh asked.

“He is an Apostle of the Prince. A member of the Virginia Council of Six. A Representative of the Continental Congress. And the Admiral of the Navy.”

Manasseh’s eyes widened. The man sounded significantly more important than “half of Oitotan.”

“He is dying,” Oitotan said, his voice dropping an octave. “At his age, it is to be expected, I suppose.”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

“Anyway, pack your bags,” Oitotan barked, waving them away. “Don’t keep people waiting. Actually, forget the luggage; let the servants handle it. Follow me. I’ll show you the way.”

Guided by Oitotan, they made their preparations. A few days later, they stood on the docks of Le Havre.

“There,” Oitotan said, pointing. “The Nautilus. The ship that brought the Prince and me to these shores.”

“My God…” Manasseh whispered. “I had heard the rumors, but to see a vessel of such scale… how can men build such a thing?”

“It’s a monster,” Gershom added, his charcoal pencil flying across his sketchpad. “May I draw it?”

“Do what you want,” Oitotan shrugged.

They boarded the Nautilus, the largest vessel on the planet, and began the journey across the Atlantic. Weeks later, the rugged coastline of the Americas appeared on the horizon.

“Behold, Chesapeake,” Oitotan announced as the city came into view. “The capital of Virginia. I effectively built it myself.”

“This massive city belongs to you?” Gershom gasped.

“It was here that I fought valiantly against the great Powhatan Confederacy,” Oitotan recounted, his chest swelling. “I was eventually overwhelmed by their numbers and sought refuge with Nemo. I named this place after our tribe.”

“I see!”

They docked and began a whirlwind tour of the city.

“That is the Continental Congress,” Oitotan noted, pointing to a grand structure. “Where individuals slightly less important than myself handle the affairs of the entire Covenant. Those representatives are the leaders of the Congress.”

“So they are the most important—”

“And that,” Oitotan interrupted, pointing to another building, “is the Virginia Government House. Where I, and the Council of Six—who are slightly less important than me—manage the affairs of Virginia.”

“Ah!”

“And there is the White Castle, the office of the Grand Master of the Agricultural Order—the true supreme leader of the Covenant. It is the most vital institution in the land, which is why it was built with such splendor.”

“What exactly does the Agricultural Order do?” Manasseh asked.

“Important things.”

“…”

“Now, we shall visit the Chesapeake district, where the most important tribe in the Covenant resides.”

As they toured the city, Oitotan’s constant, flowing commentary led them to the “logical” conclusion that the Grand Master of the Agricultural Order was more powerful than the entire Congress combined. They learned that Nemo trusted Oitotan so implicitly that he had summoned him personally from Europe. Manasseh felt a flicker of doubt—something about this doesn’t add up—but Oitotan’s sheer confidence was enough to drown out any skepticism.

“And here,” Oitotan said, his voice finally losing its bravado, “is the Chesapeake Infirmary. The finest medical facility in the Americas—perhaps the world. It is run by a man slightly less important than me, but very important nonetheless.”

They reached the doors of the infirmary. Oitotan’s face hardened into a solemn mask. “Inside, Vicente Gonzalez is waiting for the end.”

They entered the building and saw Nemo up ahead, his posture stiffer and more forbidding than they had ever seen.

***

Treading softly, they followed Oitotan down a long hallway lined with spacious rooms. At the very end, they reached a quiet, sun-drenched chamber containing a single bed. Oitotan entered without knocking. The people inside didn’t seem to mind.

The first person they saw was Nemo. He was leaning over the bedside, his face pale with grief, whispering something to the man in the bed. Surrounding the bed were several elderly men and women. Oitotan slipped into the circle for a moment before returning to whisper to Manasseh and Gershom.

“These are the ‘Apostles’ I told you about,” Oitotan said.

Apostle. In the Christian tradition, it referred to those sent by the Lord to spread the Gospel. In the Nameless Church, it referred to the six individuals who had pledged to follow Nemo when he first descended to earth. While the members of the Church didn’t equate Nemo with Jesus, the title was used with deep, metaphorical reverence.

“But they aren’t called that just for show,” Oitotan whispered in French. “Every one of them is an individual of immense importance—almost as important as myself.”

He pointed to a woman with a kind, weathered face. “That is Elinor Dare, the Saint of London. She was the first to serve Nemo. She is the spiritual anchor for every Englishman in the Covenant and the founder of the Holy Land. She is the daughter of the late Apostle John White. She is… perhaps half as important as me.”

He moved his finger to an intellectual-looking man wearing thick glasses. “Thomas Hewitt. The author of the Book of Thomas Hewitt and the practical leader of the Nameless Church. He laid the foundation of our faith and organized our theology. He is also a founder of the Holy Land on Croatoan. He is about a quarter as important as me.”

“…”

“And Manteo. The Chief of Croatoan and the surrounding tribes. He is the second most important American in the Covenant. Without him, our tax-free system could never have been established. Another founder; about a quarter as important as me.”

“And who,” Gershom asked, “is the most important American?”

Oitotan stared at him in silence.

“Ah. Right.”

“The man in the bed is Vicente Gonzalez,” Oitotan continued. “And that man over there is Walter Raleigh, the Baron of Roanoke—”

“I’ve wondered since I heard the name,” Manasseh whispered. “Is he a Spaniard?”

Oitotan’s explanation faltered, a look of annoyance crossing his face. Manasseh quickly added the question, prompting Oitotan to sigh. “He is. The founder of the Navy of the Covenant and Virginia, and the first of the Prince’s enemies to repent. And there is Walter Raleigh, who oversees the majority of our foreign trade. He is next in Nemo’s favor after me, and perhaps half—”

“I can understand French, Oitotan,” Raleigh said, not looking up from the bed.

“…”

“Come and pay your respects,” Raleigh added softly.

“I was just about to,” Oitotan replied, recovering his composure instantly and sliding into the circle of friends.

From their vantage point, Manasseh and Gershom watched the quiet, intimate conversation of the seven individuals. They felt an overwhelming sense of distance and authority. These were the true rulers of a vast empire, and at the center of their devotion was Nemo—the man who looked the youngest, yet had lived the longest. The eternal Emperor.

As they stood in awe, a hand tapped them on the shoulder.

“Ah… Philip?” Manasseh asked.

“The same,” replied Oitotan’s son. He beckoned them to follow. “My father is busy. Allow me to show you Chesapeake.”

They followed Philip out of the infirmary. “The history of Chesapeake began when my father fought heroically against the unprovoked aggression of the Powhatan,” Philip began, his voice a mirror of his father’s fluent, rhythmic storytelling. “He was the leader of the Chesapeake tribe back then, and his majesty was such that the surrounding tribes and the English pledged their voluntary loyalty to him.”

“Nemo, moved by my father’s wisdom and his heroic struggle for liberty, named this city after our tribe. When my father moved here, the other tribes followed his lead.”

“I see…”

“If you visit the museum, you can see the records of those days,” Philip added. “It is the Museum of Chesapeake History, established under my father’s patronage. It will make it clear why my father is a more vital figure than even the Apostles.”

Philip’s narrative was as seamless and unyielding as his father’s. They entered the museum and were greeted by an introduction to the Continental Covenant. And there, they ‘saw’ it.

In any era, a precise map is a vital strategic asset. During the age of imperialism, the first thing any European power did upon reaching a new land was to survey and map it—an act the local inhabitants often viewed with justified suspicion. Even in the 21st century, governments restrict access to detailed maps of strategic installations.

The Covenant was no different. Except for French merchants with royal charters and a few English traders from the Federal Trade Company, no foreigner was permitted to set foot on Covenant soil. Naturally, the outflow of maps was strictly controlled. Manasseh and Gershom had only heard rumors of the “vastness” of the land. On the voyage over, they had speculated that it might be larger than the Holy Roman Empire and France combined—perhaps even larger than Russia.

Now, they stood before a map of the world and a complete chart of the Continental Covenant.

“My God…” Manasseh whispered.

They were speechless. Manasseh asked Philip if the scale of the map was incorrect, but Philip assured them it was the most accurate chart in existence. To their eyes, it defied belief.

The Continental Covenant was not just a nation; it was a continent. It was vast beyond their wildest imaginings, sprawling across the map with a size that dwarfed all of Europe combined.

Remembering the conversation of the “great ones” in the infirmary, the truth began to sink in. The Continental Covenant was a superpower far beyond anything they had conceived.

As they looked at the map, an identical thought bloomed in both of their minds.

With territory this vast…

A new plan began to take shape in the minds of the two men.