“This… this cannot be. I could not have lost… This must be a dream. It has to be…”

Emperor Ferdinand II—or rather, the ‘Pretender’ Ferdinand von Habsburg, now stripped of every title he once held—was spiraling into the abyss of madness.

Out of a lingering respect for his former imperial status and the nobility of his blood, he had not been cast into a literal dungeon. Instead, he was confined to a secluded manor, his every movement and word scrutinized by a constant rotation of guards. Yet, to a man of his ambition, such a gilded cage was a special kind of hell. This was especially true when he allowed himself to ruminate on the glory that had been within his grasp.

He was certain he had made no mistakes. With just a sliver more time, a single stroke of fortune, it would have been that upstart Frederick fleeing for his life while Ferdinand stood tall. He had championed the ideologies of a new age; he had forged an innovative army. The tide of the era should have swept his enemies away.

If only those insolent fools hadn’t vanished with the investment funds. If only I hadn’t been seduced by the siren song of colonizing Taiwan. If only I hadn’t doubled down on those investments, pouring every last coin into that void. No—if only the fraud had been exposed just a few months later, after my victory was secured…

As his fury and resentment fermented into paranoia and nervous exhaustion, a bizarre certainty began to take root in his mind. He became convinced that his downfall was the result of a grand, coordinated “Stab in the Back” orchestrated from the shadows.

Perhaps there was a secret cabal—Jews or some other unknown entity—controlling events from behind a veil of secrecy. What if their influence permeated the entire Empire? What if their underground cells had burrowed into every level of society? What if they were the ones who had sapped the strength of his armies and triggered the financial collapse just to ruin him?

Had Ferdinand been in his right mind, he would have dismissed such thoughts as the ramblings of a lunatic. Even during his reign, he had secretly mocked the fools who believed the very “Stab in the Back” rumors he himself had disseminated. It was logically incoherent.

But for the fallen Emperor, the narrative he once used as a political tool had become the final bastion of his pride. He clung to this “truth” as if it were a lifeline; if he could only expose this conspiracy, he believed he could reignite the people’s fervor and shatter the doors of his prison. He began to draft clandestine letters to his remaining supporters.

The guards, who intercepted every letter, found his ramblings so hilariously pathetic that they didn’t even bother with formal censorship. In fact, letting the letters circulate proved to be an effective psychological weapon; more than half of his remaining loyalists, upon reading his manic prose, abandoned their support in utter disappointment.

“It is true! Our Holy Majesty was betrayed by a dagger in his back! The time has come to find the true puppet masters who pull the strings of our enemies!”

The other half, however, were just as broken by reality as their Emperor. Sharing his delusion, they liquidated their meager remaining assets to hunt for evidence of the grand conspiracy.

“I was told… this was the headquarters of the secret society. Why is there nothing left?”

Naturally, no one could find a shred of proof. Ironically, it was the Emperor himself who had wiped the slate clean. The Jews, the most fervent adherents to the “Order,” had seen their communities systematically dismantled by Ferdinand’s earlier pogroms. Most had already fled to France or the Continental Covenant.

Simultaneously, the Order was so exhausted by the chaos that it had retreated into a decentralized network of sleeper cells, maintaining a profound silence. Even the printing houses that had first disseminated nationalist slogans were reduced to ash during the riots. There was nothing left to find.

“Let’s just go home. We’re wasting our time on a ghost story.”

With that, the last of the Ferdinand faction dissolved into the shadows. While a truly determined power might have eventually uncovered evidence of the Covenant’s intervention, the new rulers of the Empire had no interest in such investigations. To acknowledge the conspiracy would be to admit that they were either puppets or beneficiaries of a shadowy cabal—a truth they preferred to bury alongside Ferdinand’s legacy.

As for the other European powers, they were too drained by the war to squander their remaining strength on a wild goose chase. Time continued its inexorable march, and the tracks of the Covenant’s interference in the Seventeen Years’ War were slowly reclaimed by the dust of history.

“Phew! It’s a relief, in any case.”

“Well… it’s not as if we did much to hide it, Mr. Hewitt,” Kim Lee-sang noted with a dry smile.

Lee-sang had ordered that any potential leads for Spanish or European retaliation be severed, but he found that the Europeans had largely done the work for him. Most of the loose ends were tied. Yet, one final task remained.

“We must redefine the structure and purpose of the Order,” Lee-sang declared. “Maintaining such a bloated organization is unnecessary during peacetime, and it only increases the risk of exposure. Oitotan, how many members do we have left?”

“There are at least three thousand members currently across Europe, all waiting for your command,” Oitotan replied.

These were the elite—the ones who had neither fled to the New World nor perished in the chaos. They were the ones who had remained loyal despite the danger, desiring to stay on the front lines. They were the Order’s finest.

Lee-sang’s eyes sharpened with a cold, focused light. “The nature of the Order is about to change. It will no longer be a mere auxiliary to the Covenant. It will become an elite espionage organization, operating independently for the sake of humanity—an elite brotherhood dedicated to active intervention for our values and goals.”

Eleanor, sensing a shift in the air, glanced toward Oitotan and Hewitt with a flicker of unease. Neither of the men seemed to notice anything amiss, but Eleanor felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. Nemo’s eyes were burning with a peculiar intensity. She got the distinct impression that something… something utterly unexpected was about to unfold.

***

In a darkened room in Florence, an old man lay dying. He was blind, his breath coming in shallow, ragged rasps. With a trembling hand, he carefully slipped a ring from his finger and held it out to his disciple.

“Do you… swear to follow the tenets of the Order and everything we stand for?” the old man whispered.

“I swear it. I shall follow them to the end,” the disciple replied, his voice steady.

The old man offered a faint, tired smile. “Do you swear to never reveal our secrets to an outsider?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to uphold this oath… even at the cost of your life… until the day you die?”

Sensing that this was their final conversation, the disciple could not find his voice. He simply nodded, and the old man, though blind, understood the weight of the silence.

“The ring… put it on.”

The disciple slid the grapevine-embossed ring onto his finger, feeling the cool metal against his skin. The old man reached out, his weathered hand tracing the contours of the disciple’s face.

“For… human…ity… For the sake of humanity.”

Those were his final words. The physician standing by the bed pulled the sheet over the man’s face. “The Grandmaster of the Florence branch has passed. Let us all bow our heads in silent prayer for our brother.”

After a moment of silence, the physician spoke again. “With the Grandmaster’s passing, a successor will be elected from among the Masters by vote, according to our traditions. And…” He turned his gaze toward the disciple. “Since we have a new initiate, his training shall begin immediately.”

“You there.”

“Follow me.”

The disciple followed the physician through the manor’s courtyard to a hidden door concealed beneath a thicket of bushes. It led down into a subterranean passage. As a blast of stale, warm air hit him, the disciple felt a surge of tension. In all his years in the manor, he had never even heard whispers of such a place.

“You wouldn’t have known,” the physician said, his voice echoing in the gloom. “You weren’t a member of the Order then. But from this day forward, you will know it well. Come.”

They navigated a series of torch-lit tunnels before arriving at a vast, vaulted cavern. The physician explained it had once been the manor’s wine cellar.

“I will waive the blood-oath ritual for now,” he said. “Your vow to the Grandmaster makes you a brother in all but name. But now, you must choose your path. Will you be an Information Officer, or an Action Officer?”

The physician pressed a specific section of the cellar wall, and a concealed door swung open to reveal another corridor. “The Information Officers are exactly what the name implies. They live within society, handling the Order’s affairs. They gather intelligence, organize it, and manage our communications. They are the majority of our brotherhood.”

He paused, his expression grave. “Do not mistake their numbers for commonality. Without them, our organization would wither and die.”

They reached a fork in the path. One door was labeled ‘Information,’ the other ‘Action.’ The physician pointed toward the first door. “If you go through there, you will find our archives. There, you will learn the history of our Order and the secrets of our enemies.”

“I see,” the disciple replied. “And the other path?”

“There are times when the Order must take risks,” the physician said, his voice lowering. “Times when we must break, block, kill, or steal. For the sake of the Greater Good.”

The disciple understood immediately. He knew what the Action Officers were.

“Which will it be?”

“Action.”

The physician didn’t ask twice. He pushed open the door labeled ‘Action.’ The disciple stepped through and found himself in a bizarre, subterranean arena. Training equipment was scattered across the space, where a handful of men were sparring or honing their physiques. At the far end of the chamber stood a towering, stone pillar.

From its peak, a man was jumping.

The disciple stared in mute shock as the figure plummeted toward the ground.

“Don’t worry, Mario,” the physician said calmly. “It isn’t your turn just yet.”

“Not yet.”

“I… I have a question,” the disciple managed to stammer. “Why on earth are they jumping from such a height?”

“To be recognized as a true Action Officer.”

“But… why is such an act necessary to prove one’s rank?”

“To demonstrate absolute trust in the commands of the leadership… and to prove their courage and fortitude…” The physician paused, a hint of confusion crossing his own face. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure myself. Many are injured in the process. I’ve often wondered why we continue the tradition.”

It was a question they would likely never answer. They were Italians, and this was Italy. During the long years of war, the Order had flourished in the Italian territories, regardless of whether the cities belonged to the Empire or not. It was a land already steeped in conspiracy and secret societies, where the lack of a centralized state made surveillance difficult.

Most importantly, Italy was a vital hub for Spanish interests. From here, they could monitor key figures, use Action Officers to steal classified documents, and execute sabotage to track Spain’s every move.

Some time later, as an initiate named Ezio prepared to undergo the ritual of the ‘Leap’ from the tower to mark his ascension to a full Action Officer, a mountain of intelligence was being funneled back to the Continental Covenant. Through these reports, Kim Lee-sang and the Order’s leadership could finally grasp the true state of the Spanish Empire.

“Lord Nemo,” Gershom asked during a private briefing.

“Yes, Gershom?”

“Why are you making the Action Officer candidates undergo the ‘Leap of Faith’? While there have been no fatalities yet, the risk of injury is significant. It seems… impractical.”

“We provide more than enough safety equipment, don’t we?” Lee-sang replied with a mysterious smile.

“Still… what is the practical purpose?”

“The Leap… it will help the Action Officers cast aside their fear and find their courage.” Lee-sang paused, his smile widening. “One day, you might understand.”

In truth, Lee-sang himself didn’t know the exact reason. He was merely operating based on his memory of a ‘Wiki’ entry about a certain ‘Immortal Order’ game series.

Only the gods at Ubisoft truly knew the answer.