Louis XIII’s eyes sparkled with a predatory light as he listened to the reports filtering in from the Imperial Court.
“They say the Emperor has lost his mind.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” his advisor replied. “He has lost at least ten million florins, so his collapse is hardly surprising. The other monarchs are in a state of equal, if not greater, chaos.”
“······.”
Louis silently opened his private correspondence box and began sifting through letters he had exchanged with a certain individual. His gaze soon landed on a missive he had sent several months prior.
—I hear many monarchs are recently reaping great rewards by investing in trade with China. I am considering participating as well······
The reply had been succinct and unwavering.
—I have a bad feeling about this.
It was a message from “Him.”
Beneath that opening sentence, the letter had listed several logical justifications—how trade with China could not possibly expand that rapidly, or how no such reports had been received from East Asia—but Louis had already made his decision the moment he read that first line. Now, as the various monarchs of Europe faced ruin, France alone was rising as the undisputed hegemon of the continent. It was the reward for walking the path pointed out by that man.
I made the right choice in converting to the Nameless Church, Louis thought with a smirk. (If one could even call it a conversion.) He gripped the letter with a hand trembling from excitement. It was the smile of a victor. He found himself intensely curious about exactly what kind of expression the Emperor was wearing at this very moment.
***
As of 1640, Maximilian, Duke of Bavaria, had long prided himself on being the wealthiest man in Europe. His personal fortune surpassed even that of the Emperor, who had been forced to borrow from the Duke on several occasions. The scale of his wealth was simply staggering.
When Mansfeld had received a massive settlement from the Continental Covenant, he had been overcome with emotion, believing himself a rich man; the sum he had pocketed then was roughly sixty thousand florins. Before the war, Maximilian’s fortune had exceeded ten million florins. Even as the brutal conflict dragged on, his coffers remained deep. He had managed his assets with shrewd efficiency, securing various lucrative rights in exchange for supporting the Emperor’s cause.
Furthermore, he had seen immense returns after dipping his toes into the Taiwan island development project, likely pocketing millions in early dividends. Considering that five hundred thousand florins was equivalent to the entire annual budget of the Holy Roman Imperial Court, the Duke’s wealth had seemingly only ballooned during the war.
“They say the Duke of Bavaria attempted to take his own life by jumping from a window,” a servant reported to the Emperor, his voice hushed. “Fortunately, he survived with only a broken left leg. However, the Duke has since withdrawn into complete seclusion, refusing all but the most basic medical treatment.”
“What on earth happened?” the Emperor demanded.
The servant hesitated, then began to reveal the details piece by piece. “The rumor is that the Duke intended to raise a ‘National Salvation Army’ of his own, similar to Your Majesty’s. To secure the necessary capital for such an undertaking······”
“···To secure it?”
“He reportedly invested twenty million florins into the Taiwan project. That sum represents slightly over two-thirds of his entire accumulated fortune.”
“······.” “······.”
“It is said he gained total confidence after an initial trial investment of five million florins ballooned into seven million. He was convinced that the profits from the Eastern trade were truly limitless······”
Emperor Ferdinand II felt a wave of vertigo and staggered. No, this is wrong. Didn’t Spain and Portugal also see success in Asian trade? Surely one of their merchants would have noticed something was amiss······
“Well, since the merchants of those two nations were practically expelled from Japan, their trade with China has reportedly been drastically reduced,” the servant added.
Ah.
Misfortune never travels alone. Sometimes, calamities arrive in clusters, delicately arranged like a well-prepared trap and packaged to look like good fortune—all the better to pierce the heart of a careless monarch.
Ferdinand paced his room like a man possessed, his mind reeling. He let out a series of hollow, breathless chuckles. “Heh… heh! This… this has to be a dream. The amount of capital invested… it’s simply impossible.”
Even as he spiraled, the news continued to pour in. The King of Denmark had reportedly burst into tears in public. The Elector of the Palatinate had brandished a fire poker to drive off a mob of debt collectors. The scope and scale of the devastation ignored the boundaries of friend and foe. Sweden had declared bankruptcy; Poland was on the verge of an aristocratic revolt; and even the Pope and various Italian dukes were rumored to be liquidating their estates to cover their debts.
It was a catastrophe.
In the midst of this carnage, Spain had suffered the least, having received early warnings through its Eastern colonies and having kept its investments modest. Britain, France, and the Netherlands were also rumored to have escaped with only minor losses, letting out synchronized sighs of relief.
It was no exaggeration to say that the gold and silver of all Europe had been gutted. Millions—perhaps even hundreds of millions—of gold and silver coins had vanished into thin air.
“······.”
Wait.
After wandering in a daze for several days, the Emperor finally realized something was fundamentally wrong. A group of swindlers had shaken the foundations of Europe, effectively evaporating the fortunes of its princes and kings. A mere handful of merchants had pocketed hundreds of millions of florins.
A mere handful of merchants.
The Emperor focused on that point. Was it truly possible for common merchants to run off with several centuries’ worth of the Imperial Court’s budget? They had handled tens of millions of florins over the years, punctually returning dividends alongside the principal. How could an individual mobilize such capital while running a fraud?
A single individual cannot be the mastermind.
It was only logical to assume that one or more of the nations that escaped unscathed—Spain, France, England, or the Netherlands—lay behind the scheme.
But… even they shouldn’t have that much capital to spare, should they?
How could they have achieved this? The victims were scattered across both the Catholic and Protestant camps. Whoever this madman was, he had clearly targeted his own allies as well. Who? Where? How? Why?
Ferdinand could not fathom it. Even scouring the entirety of Europe, he could find no tycoon capable of such a feat. Where on earth could they have sourced the money to repay those massive initial investments and distribute those early dividends?
***
“In truth, according to this plan, very little capital is required beyond the initial startup costs.”
I began drawing a diagram for those who were still struggling to grasp the concept. “The plan begins like this.”
First, you accept money from investors by promising them high dividends. “Then, those who actually realize those profits brag to everyone they know. They say, ‘I invested here and made this much.’ Naturally, others follow their lead and invest as well.”
If Investor A puts in 100 units and receives 140 back, the news prompts Investor B to put in 100. Shortly after, Investor C follows suit with another 100. “We no longer need to use our own funds. We simply take Investor C’s principal to pay the dividends owed to Investor B.”
“······.” “······.” “······.”
“Any questions?”
“I… I find I’m missing something,” Eleanor said, looking puzzled.
“What is it, Eleanor?”
“How do you eventually repay Investor C’s principal and dividends?”
“Oh, you simply pay them out of the capital provided by Investor D.”
“And Investor D’s principal and dividends are······”
“Paid out of the capital from Investor E.”
Hearing my answer, Eleanor began counting on her fingers, her face growing increasingly pale as she realized the progression. “T-then… what happens when you run out of new investors?”
“You make sure to reach ‘The End’ before that happens.”
The definition of that “End” was blindingly obvious: you take the money and run. As Eleanor sat in stunned silence, unable to even find words, I set the chalk down and offered a small smile.
“This is called a ‘Ponzi Pyramid.’ It is the name of the bomb we have been planting beneath the feet of the monarchs for the last twelve years.”
“Excuse me, Nameless One? What exactly does ‘Ponzi’ mean?”
“···Are there any other questions?”
A heavy silence descended upon the meeting hall. No one even whispered. They were all too busy trying to wrap their minds around the concept the “Angel” had just explained. Since the money being circulated was entirely provided by the investors, the “operator” could distribute dividends to many without spending a fortune of their own. In fact, the “business” could only be sustained through word-of-mouth that attracted more capital and more investors. But the moment the influx of new money failed to meet the demand······
Pop.
“······.” “······.” “······.”
The heavy silence was eventually broken by a sudden burst of applause.
Clap-clap-clap-clap!
“It is incredible, no matter how many times I hear it,” Oitotan exclaimed, his face flushed with excitement. “I cannot even begin to guess how you conceived of such a stroke of genius.”
I felt a slight prickle of discomfort at the praise. Hearing a renowned professional swindler like Oitotan compliment me made my “virtuous fraud” feel a bit… tainted. Regardless, this was money that would have been used to slaughter thousands, and the victims were all men responsible for massacres that reached into the triple digits. In my mind, I was a righteous thief. Like a certain ‘Saint Tail.’
Of course, that was just my perspective. Eleanor remained visibly shaken, her mind clearly racing with thoughts like, ‘Where on earth did the Angel acquire such dangerous knowledge?’
I cut off Oitotan’s applause and continued. “We have decided to move the gold and silver coins earned from this endeavor to Asia over a period of several years. Once we cycle it a few times through trade with China and Japan via Joseon, the Europeans will have no clue where the missing fortunes went.”
It was money laundering, plain and simple. In my eyes, it was a necessary operation to move “innocent” money far away from “bad people” who might use it for harm, while also ensuring the economy of the Continental Covenant wouldn’t be destabilized by a sudden, massive influx of bullion.
Everything had gone according to plan. The Continental Covenant had secured hundreds of millions of florins as a reward for its good deeds.
***
“···Hundreds of millions.”
“······.”
“That sum is enough to pay off the entire debt of the Spanish Kingdom, sustain the Imperial Court for several centuries, and maintain an army of a hundred thousand for ten years with plenty to spare.”
“I am aware,” Gershom replied.
“My God… to think that much capital is evaporating from Europe all at once… it’s simply······”
As Manasseh muttered in a daze, Gershom scanned their surroundings. The room was empty, and the guards outside were all from the Continental Covenant. Since they were speaking Hebrew rather than Yiddish, there was no one who could understand them anyway. Still, they spoke with extreme caution. It was a subject that demanded it.
They were, after all, the middle managers for the “swindlers” that every monarch in Europe was currently hunting for with murderous intent. Of course, all physical evidence had already vanished. All relevant documents had been incinerated, and the gold and silver coins were currently buried on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific, destined to be slowly funneled through Joseon.
In the midst of this cataclysm, the fact that a currency-based economy had somehow taken root in a distant Asian nation called Joseon and that its tribute system had been completely abolished was a trivial detail. Such matters were not their concern. They focused on the immediate future instead.
“Will this… will this truly end the war?” Manasseh asked, posing the question that had been weighing on him. He had spent his energy managing the Jewish communities and preparing for their migration; the work of gathering intelligence across Europe and manipulating public opinion had fallen to Gershom. Manasseh had merely assisted.
“······.”
Gershom slowly shook his head. They both fell into a somber silence. They knew roughly when the most desperate fighting occurred: it was when everyone was starving.
Sweden, Denmark, Brandenburg, Bohemia, Austria, Bavaria, Poland, Spain······ Every monarch in Europe was now starving for coin.
“Aaargh! It’s a lie! It has to be a lie!”
“P-please, calm yourself! The Emperor and the others have all suffered the same blow······”
“Shut up! Does it hurt any less because everyone else was hit, too?”
Frederick V, Elector Palatine and King of Bohemia, no longer wore the ambitious, confident face he’d had at the start of the war. His sunken eyes were shrouded in shadow, his cheeks were hollow, and his lips were parched. He was a shell of a man.
He huddled in his chair, trembling as he looked around the room. Only when he was convinced that no more debt collectors were coming did he finally settle, taking a sip of the hot beverage offered by his servants. As he regained a modicum of composure, he lifted his head to look at his wife, Elizabeth Stuart, whose face was etched with worry.
“Can… can your father help us?”
As her name suggested, Elizabeth Stuart was a princess of the British Stuart dynasty—the daughter of King James. There was a reason Frederick had been able to secure British support for so long.
“It is… possible,” she whispered. “But he cannot repay all our debts immediately.”
“I suppose not. Four million florins… no matter how wealthy your father is, he couldn’t possibly cover it all······”
Still, help was coming. Bolstered by his wife’s words, Frederick managed to stand. Elizabeth approached him and whispered, “Are you going to continue the war? Perhaps we could send a missive to Emperor Ferdinand······”
“That man is no Emperor,” Frederick spat. “He is a mere pretender who did not win a legitimate election.”
“······.”
“Even if he were, I cannot propose a half-hearted peace now.”
They had lost too much. There were only two options left: win and survive, or lose and die. Frederick turned to his attendants and issued his commands: they were to petition the creditors for an extension on their repayment deadlines. His intent was clear.
“We cannot end the war here.”
Frederick was not the only monarch to reach that conclusion. Across the continent, unpaid armies ground to a halt, mutinied, or simply dissolved. Yet, the resolve of the monarchs remained unshaken.
Not yet.
However… the end was drawing near.