As the prayers and songs of the fiftieth-anniversary celebration of the Nameless One’s descent faded into echoes, the citizens of Chesapeake began to drift away from the central square. They had gathered in their thousands to celebrate the divine grace that had sent their protector and to praise the grand design of salvation that had shaped their lives. Amidst the dispersing crowd, a young man walked with a purposeful stride, eventually turning into the gates of a dignified manor.

The residence was no larger than the mysterious villa belonging to the Nameless One himself—a deliberate choice reflected throughout Chesapeake, where no home exceeded that humble scale. This modesty served a dual purpose: first, as a mark of profound respect for the leader who ruled millions yet lived simply; and second, out of practical necessity. In this New World, where every citizen was “gifted” enough resources to live with dignity, few were willing to spend their time and labor scrubbing someone else’s floors.

Gideon walked through the quiet halls until he reached a familiar, half-closed door. Pushing it open, he found an elderly woman sitting up in bed, looking up from her book with a warm, knowing smile.

“Grandmother,” Gideon said, bowing respectfully.

“Ah… Gideon,” Eleanor replied, closing her volume. “Tell me, how was the ceremony? Mr. Harriot mentioned he was planning something special, but I was unable to attend the last council meeting.”

“He announced that the Book of Harriot will receive no further revisions,” Gideon explained, stepping forward to gently pluck a stray leaf that had drifted through the window onto her hair. “He plans to edit all the previous writings into a single, comprehensive volume. He also mentioned he intends to gradually withdraw from all public offices.”

“I see,” Eleanor mused, looking out the window as a soft breeze stirred the curtains. “It seems he is finally settling his affairs.”

“Grandmother?” Gideon asked, noticing her pensive silence.

Eleanor scrutinized her grandson’s face, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “And what were you doing? Your face is positively glowing.”

“Oh… that is…”

“You were talking to that mercenary again, weren’t you?”

Gideon nodded sheepishly. Eleanor sighed but beckoned him closer. She rose slowly from her bed to retrieve a steaming kettle from the hearth, setting it beside a teapot on the low table. As she steeped the leaves, she asked, “Is it truly that fascinating to you?”

“It isn’t just fascinating, Grandmother,” Gideon said, his voice rising with conviction as he accepted a teacup. He leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists. “Across the ocean in Europe, tens of thousands of troops are evolving every day, refining new strategies and tactics through the fire of experience. If we can transplant that knowledge into our own underdeveloped forces, I can see exactly what we could achieve.”

“Is that so?” Eleanor asked softly.

“Yes. We need a modern military. We need commanders who understand tactics and a systematic method for conscription. When a true war breaks out, our tractors will be nothing more than toys, but the rifles and gunpowder pouring out of our factories won’t be. With a little more research, we could build an army more powerful than any in Europe.”

Gideon saw the vision of a new era. With just a little more effort, the Continental Covenant could topple Nueva España, liberating Mexico and everything down to South America. To him, the path was clear: systematized logistics, a structured military hierarchy, and a unified sense of loyalty. The battlefields of Europe were being fertilized with blood to produce change; the Covenant could reap those fruits without suffering the loss.

Reform had to happen before Spain, Portugal, or any other power could reach out with a dark hand. As Gideon spoke, Eleanor saw a fierce light in his eyes. She reached into a small box on her desk, pulled out a sheet of stationary, and scribbled a quick note. After folding it neatly, she handed it to her grandson.

“Take this. Deliver it to Chief Oitotan. Lord Raleigh has retired, so he is the one you must see.”

“What is this?” Gideon asked, his eyes wide.

“A letter of recommendation,” she replied. “Requesting that a talented young man be accepted into public service.”

Gideon’s face brightened instantly. He held the letter—signed From Eleanor Dare—like a sacred relic and bowed deeply. “Thank you, Grandmother! I have so much I want to do.”

“Then go and do it,” Eleanor whispered, leaning back into the cushions as a dry cough shook her frame. The brief conversation had drained her strength. Gideon helped her lie back down and tucked the covers around her. As she drifted off, she murmured, “It feels like only yesterday He saved us… fifty years ago… Virginia was no bigger than a palm then, and now… it has given birth to you.”

Gideon stepped out of the room, clutching the letter. He felt as though the world was finally opening up before him.

***

“Peace for Germany! Peace for the Germans!” “Foreigners, begone! Why do you meddle in a land where you do not dwell?”

Gershom’s propaganda campaign was a masterpiece of careful calibration. For the intellectuals, he published academic treatises—co-authored with Manasseh and other scholars—that defended German peace through sophisticated logic, citing and critiquing the works of Aristotle, Machiavelli, Bodin, and Althusius. For the common citizens, he flooded the streets with fables and satirical novellas. He mocked the absurdity of the religious wars through stories of people fighting over how to tie their shoelaces, and encouraged unity with tales of ants joining forces to repel a swarm of wasps.

Finally, for the illiterate masses, he printed woodcuts. These simple, powerful images depicted Swedish, Spanish, and Danish nobles being swept out of cities with brooms. The imagination that had once fueled his tales of a Holy Land he had never seen was now being used to set a continent on fire.

This groundswell of public opinion was not something that could be conjured by cheap pamphlets alone; you cannot fan a flame where there is no tinder. The explosive reaction was rooted in a deep, long-simmering resentment. The constant, aggressive interference of European powers in the Empire had lit a fire in the hearts of the people; Gershom had simply given that anger a direction and a voice.

The sentiment grew so fierce that even a Mr. Hiedler in a remote Austrian village was heard shouting in agreement. The attempts by various monarchs to suppress the movement only seemed to fuel the rage. Some rulers scrambled to confiscate any material portraying their allies negatively, threatening detention for mere possession. Others, realizing the tide was unstoppable, tried to co-opt it, reprinting edited versions of Gershom’s pamphlets that swapped out “Spanish” for “English” to suit their own sectarian needs.

Regardless of the strategy, every monarch was forced to recognize that they were now fighting on a new, incredibly troublesome battlefield: the field of public opinion. And as always, war remained a ruinously expensive endeavor. Rulers wept as they diverted funds meant for grain and wages into this new ideological conflict. Financial ministers shrieked as the debts mounted, bankers scurried to lend to empty treasuries, and merchants fretted over whether their contracts would ever be honored.

Yet, while everyone else was struggling just to stay afloat, one man saw an opportunity to surge forward. Emperor Ferdinand II realized that this public fervor could be more than just a nuisance to be managed—it could be a weapon. He was the first to grasp that this boiling sentiment had naturally produced a loyal, patriotic, and disciplined mass of men.

“If I consider the investment in the Taiwan island project,” Ferdinand mused during a treasury briefing, “and assume a forty percent return… it will be tight, but the accounts should balance.”

Having executed Wallenstein and seized his vast network of factories, the Emperor was well-supplied with military hardware. By absorbing Wallenstein’s logistics system, he felt confident he could equip an army of a hundred thousand men. The only missing piece was the coin to pay them. He found his solution in the very nationalism currently racking the Empire.

“Begin the proclamation like this,” he commanded his secretary. “‘My army shall receive low wages, for My Empire is in peril.’”

“···P-your Majesty?” the scribe stammered, his pen hovering over the parchment. It was a statement that would normally trigger a mutiny. Ferdinand simply gestured for him to continue.

“‘You shall be paid little; you shall toil in the mud of the trenches; and your lives shall be threatened by traitors at every turn. I demand that you come to this battlefield. Why? Because unless you, who are willing to sacrifice, stand forth, no one can save this Empire.’ Now, polish the language and distribute it. What do you think?”

The proclamation spread through Ferdinand’s territories with almost no changes.

“Protect your Emperor! Protect the Fatherland!” “The Fatherland is in danger! Will you merely watch?” “Drive out the foreign armies!”

Miraculously, Ferdinand managed to conscript an army several times larger than any other, while paying them half the standard mercenary rate. The Emperor smiled with cold satisfaction as his enemies broke into a cold sweat. This new “National Salvation Army” excluded foreign mercenaries entirely. Commanders personally hired by the Emperor traveled the land, enlisting local volunteers and stoking their fighting spirit with vows of German unity and loyalty to the Crown.

It was a method of military training the world had never seen, and its efficacy was proven when they utterly shattered the allied forces of the Palatinate, Sweden, and England. Seasoned mercenaries were crushed by the weight of unified, zealous “citizen soldiers.”

“Prague is in danger! The King must flee immediately!” “Flee where? The Emperor’s forces are everywhere!”

The balance of power shifted in an instant. Successive victories in Brandenburg, Saxony, and Bohemia left the Dutch terrified, the Spanish jubilant, and the English in despair. The Emperor’s banners fluttered across the land, and for the first time in fifteen years, the end of the war seemed to be in sight.

“Ha… hahaha! Finally!” Ferdinand pounded the table during a council meeting, his generals mirroring his triumph. Every indicator pointed toward total victory.

The most promising indicator of all sat in the Emperor’s vault. “We are short on liquid capital now,” he noted, “하지만 (but) soon the investment will return with that forty percent profit. With that, I will clear all remaining debts and fully fund the supplies and wages for the National Salvation Army.”

Normally, tens of millions of livres in debt would have crushed him, but Ferdinand’s financial standing was inexplicably strong. Despite having more debt than in the original timeline, no one questioned his solvency. The consistent returns from his previous investments had ballooned his perceived assets enough to cover his liabilities. Once the Taiwan development funds returned, his loyal army would sweep the Empire clean.

The promised day for the investment return arrived.

“······.” “······.”

“He is… a bit late,” Ferdinand remarked.

In a rare occurrence, the merchant did not return. But the Emperor waited patiently. With victory so close, what was a short delay?

Seven months passed.

It was only when the other monarchs who had joined the “investment group” began declaring bankruptcy one by one that Ferdinand felt the first chill of reality. Just as he was summoning bankers to scrape together emergency funds for his soldiers’ wages, the news broke.

“P-your Majesty… the Spaniards… they went to that island, Taiwan······”

“And?”

“They say there was nothing there. It was empty.”

“······.”

For a moment, the Emperor’s mind refused to process the words. He called for the merchants associated with the project. No one came.

Only then did the truth sink in.

“Your Majesty! The Duke of Bavaria has smashed his window and attempted suicide······!”

They were fucked.