How to Survive in the Roanoke Colony

It was quite a lengthy operation. It dragged on because the patient stubbornly insisted there was nothing wrong with him.

The man with the cross immediately cleared away the instruments spread across the table. Though they were stained with blood and fat, he swept them into his bag without cleaning them.

The surroundings were slightly dark, and being underground, the air was heavy and stagnant. But it couldn't be helped.

If not for such a place, patients would escape.

He looked down at the 'patient.'

A man trembling, with fingernails and teeth partially pulled out.

The man with the cross had damaged his body but healed his soul.

This patient's diagnosis was treason against the king and disobedience to his master. However, he had somewhat washed away his sins by leaking information about the cult he belonged to.

Of course, it wouldn't change the fact that he would be hanged.

"...You did well."

The man with the cross quietly rose and muttered to himself to the patient who had not yet regained consciousness. The gilded crucifix hanging from his necklace swayed back and forth.

As he stepped into the corridor, he heard shouts and banging on bars from all around. The man briefly stuffed cotton into his ears to block the piercing noise as he moved.

After walking for a while, the man with the cross finally found himself in silence. He removed the cotton from his ears, opened and closed several doors, climbed stairs, and suddenly he was outside.

"...How was it?"

An aide waiting outside asked the man with the cross. The man with the cross threw off his blood-soaked cloak and replied.

"Indeed... they all mentioned the name 'Nemo.'"

The man with the cross carefully handed over a note and said.

"I've roughly summarized the information obtained from the prisoners. They all refused to talk easily, so I used rather rough methods, but when returning them to their masters, how should I..."

"You don't need to worry about that. Most of them will die for treason, and only a few will return to their masters."

The aide replied, taking the note that the man with the cross had handed him.

"It's unfortunate... Still, try to keep their limbs intact from now on if possible. So that more of them can return to their masters."

"Pardon?"

"Well... isn't it pitiful?"

"But they all refuse to talk easily. As I mentioned..."

"Yes, yes. You said they were part of some strange cult. Such fellows never open their mouths easily. Well, it can't be helped then. Do as you see fit. They're going to be hanged anyway."

The two men parted ways after casually shaking off their compassion. The aide, who had received the note, shuddered at the smell of blood on his clothes, quickly brushed himself off, and headed to the governor's residence.

After crossing several gates, corridors, and stairs again, the aide finally reached the office door. After knocking a few times, he heard a cough from inside and entered.

And there, the aide faced Governor Pedro de Ibarra. He was exhaling with a sigh while tackling a mountain of paperwork.

"...What is it?"

When the governor asked, the aide handed over the note and replied.

"Documents from the prison warden. Let's have a look."

Spanish Florida, centered around St. Augustine, was growing larger. This was because investment in Florida had consistently been maintained through various viceroys.

Already tens of thousands of Spaniards were living on this vast peninsula. As the native population gradually decreased due to epidemics, various pioneering farmers settled in the empty lands.

And the base of this vast colony was right here, St. Augustine.

Thanks to exceptional support policies over the past decade, just as tens of thousands of Spaniards had filled in, a large city with thousands of Spanish inhabitants had been built here.

And saying that thousands and tens of thousands of Spaniards were living meant the same as saying that tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of Africans were living to support their lives.

Governor Pedro commanded these hundreds of thousands of people.

And the note held in Governor Pedro's hand contained information about those among that population... who held somewhat treasonous thoughts.

Pedro unfolded it and frowned.

"...'NEMO.' Yes. It matches. Isn't Nemo the title of the Indian emperor that we hear about from England, France, and elsewhere?"

"It seems that Virginia, or perhaps England behind it, is in contact with the slaves."

"Damn. Those bastards again."

In a way, it was a strange contradiction.

In the original history, just a few decades from now, a militia composed of free Black people would defend this place from England.

There were no slaves in St. Augustine, which had no plantations as a military base, and thus runaway slaves from English colonies like Virginia were often liberated here.

However, no one was able to appreciate the historical irony created by the arrival of a grape farmer here. Pedro merely rolled his eyes with an irritated gaze.

"They worship this Nemo as an angel, or think of him as a magician or spirit and revere him... Damn, are the English using such vicious tactics to shake the minds of the slaves?"

The English. Yes. It could only be their tactics.

Although the reality of the Indian 'empire' located in Virginia was gradually being revealed, they couldn't extend their influence all the way down here without England's help.

They probably inserted Virginia into the narrative so they could deny it was their doing if this matter became public.

Pedro gritted his teeth at such cunning. That wasn't the only problem.

"This is a matter where Viceroy must take some action. This is..."

"No."

Pedro cut off the aide's words. He pointed upward with his finger and said.

"There are orders to cover up everything related to Virginia for now."

"But we can't just leave it alone, can we?"

"I suppose not."

Saying this, Pedro twirled a pen in his hand, then took out a sheet of paper and began writing something.

These aren't just a naturally occurring cult or group. There was clear external intervention, and simultaneously, they had an 'organization.' One that presumptuously used priestly titles as position names.

And at the same time, they were helping slaves escape to Virginia, so they must have contact points with the outside.

If it were the movement of a formless cult, nothing could be done, but if there was a clear entity...

That entity could be struck down, its breath cut off.