The Big Picture in My Head (Low Countries 3)
In my mind's eye, the grand design took shape. I jotted it down on parchment, organizing my thoughts. It was all in Korean, not Castilian, of course. No one here could possibly read it, which made it possible. Even my habit of muttering to myself was in Korean. That was how I'd survived the cutthroat intrigues of court life. I'd been caught a few times, but claiming I was reciting the Lord's Prayer usually got me off the hook. Dialect prayers were a thing even in this era, and since the phrase came straight from Isaiah in the Old Testament, it worked like a charm. Perfect security.
That let me commit my thoughts to paper without restraint. First up: milking the Age of Discovery for all it was worth. Europe's golden age of prosperity—or at least, that's what they called it. Sure, the continent boomed afterward too, but the real reason they hyped this seasick era of sailing was simple. It was a get-rich-quick world. You didn't need much skill; land one big score, and you could live off it forever.
Naturally, my target was India. My goal was to boot out the Portuguese from Old Goa—what they called Velha Goa—and corner the India trade. To make that happen, I needed cash. My plan was to exploit Europe's chaos and snag the fisherman's profit.
Second item: three golden opportunities. With this fantasy skin patch twisting even my birth year and randomizing the New World, I couldn't be sure these historical events would play out the same. But there were plenty I could turn to my advantage. The Low Countries revolt. The Council of Trent. The Battle of Lepanto. Play those three messes right, and I'd solidify my position—no way my brother could touch me.
"And finally..."
Third: the Philippines. The New World was a crapshoot I couldn't predict, but the Philippines—part of Asia—were my wheelhouse. A solid trade hub. Indonesia below, China including Taiwan to the north, Korea and Japan just a bit farther. Perfect for relay trade. Malacca had the prime spot, sure... but it was a pirate-infested hellhole right now. The Philippines were the safer bet.
I wouldn't rule it directly. I'd run it like the East India Company. Buy up orc slaves from those Muscat Muslim scum and plow them into clearing the land. Traditional Arabian slavers from Oman, kidnapping natives from Africa's Horn and below, selling them off. By the 18th century, it'd peak so hard that twenty slaves barely equaled one warhorse. Shows you how vile those peninsula rats were.
My brother actually hated slavery. Philip II had even decreed no enslaving colonial natives. But the colonies suffered chronic labor shortages. So a bizarre chain formed: Jewish or Omani slavers sold to Portuguese merchants, who settled them in the outposts.
If they were real people, modern sensibilities would've had me railing against abolition like an idiot. But sadly, no humans from Africa existed here. Just orcs. And with this being a game world on top of that, I had zero qualms using them.
The Philippines: teeming jungles and swarming pests. Clearing it demanded insane manpower, and without the Industrial Revolution, manpower meant people. To survive, I had to grind orcs into it.
"Phew... that about covers it."
With my thoughts sorted, I mentally recapped my to-do list.
"Use the Low Countries revolt to shore up my base. Then scrape together cash and seize the three opportunities to gain leverage. Finally, snatch the Philippines from my brother and retire in style."
A flawless retirement plan. If the New World hadn't been randomized, I'd have pulled a fast one on Brazil before Portugal claimed it. But clueless as I was, sailing there with soul-draining prep on merchant ships would've been suicide. Better play it safe.
"Wonder what fantasy skin they slapped on Asia. Can't remember."
Maybe the electroshock messed me up; it was fuzzy. Joseon was year 13 of King Myeongjong, with future King Seonjo waiting in the wings.
"Eh, it's a game anyway. No need to sweat Korea."
Survival first. Then snag the Philippines and suck honey from Asian relay trade. Tea, porcelain, you name it. Portuguese merchants were already hauling Chinese goods, emptying noble pockets. Time to dip my ladle.
The next morning, I left Hibralfaro Castle to inspect my territory's state, starting with the armory inside the fortress. Stuck to my side like glue was the garrison commander. He bristled at me encroaching on his turf, piping up every time I moved.
"That area's not ready yet."
Obvious lie. As a figurehead puppet, I had to pretend to buy it and follow his lead.
All I could do was ask the basics...
"How many arquebuses do we have?"
"Roughly 300."
"And matchlock muskets?"
"About 50."
A spartan firearm lineup. The fading arquebus outnumbered the modern matchlocks, and even that was only because we were next door to Muslim Morocco. Inland, we might not have any guns at all.
"Any cannons?"
Not knowing the Castilian word, I asked in rough French for the numbers. Post-Constantinople fall, siege engines like trebuchets or movie-style siege towers went obsolete. Walls fell, but star forts rose, ironically stalling cannons with their poor accuracy.
Siege cannons needed 23 horses to budge; even light culverins took nine. I'd learned that in Vienna lectures, never seen it myself, but early modern artillery was a chicken-and-egg nightmare.
"Three cannons, five culverins, and two bombards captured from the heathens."
Stone-throwers, bombards were near-trebuchets used by infidels—not shells, but boulders. Obvious why these relics sat here.
"The heathens won't dare move. I can trust Commander Jermi Walli's thorough preparations."
"Haha. Just leave it to me."
Jermi Walli thumped his chest, laughing heartily. Keeping useless stone-throwers was to remind the Moroccan sultan of old glories. Cross the strait, and you'd end like Granada's emirates—a threat amplified by their big, bold, badass look.
Pure lip service, of course. Moroccan scum across the strait couldn't see them anyway. Just flattery to win him over.
"Then let me show you inside."
We hadn't finished the armory, but wary of poaching, he led me back into the castle.
"Lead on."
Powerless to resist, I followed meekly.
Inside, the Seville Bishop awaited like he'd been lying in wait. Classic Roman features: handsome face, curly locks. His vanity screamed—hair slicked with enough perfume to curdle milk—but I kept a straight face.
"Welcome, Count Don Juan. An honor to meet you."
"The honor's mine, esteemed Bishop of Seville."
More lip service. He'd summoned me yesterday, yet crawled out half a day late, face flushed from booze. I tsked inwardly.
"Haha. Your pious arrival, Count Don Juan, is God's grace. How could I not rejoice at His will?"
Translation: cough up the donations. Stay here? Squeeze blood from stone if you had to.
Catholicism post-Crusades was rotten to the core, on the verge of bursting. Corruption so deep, indulgences were their main gig. Defy them, get excommunicated—so kings left church power untouched. Neglect bred rot. Even Charles V, at power's peak, drew steel for Trent Council in Habsburg lands, demanding reform. Local bishops? Hereditary warlords now. Cross them, and you're screwed. So I nodded with a smile.
"I'll visit the cathedral later and offer my devotion to God directly."
The bishop beamed, clapping like a kid.
"Just like his Catholic guardian, Carlos I. Haha."
More donation nagging, plus tax exemptions for his Motril Temple turf. Church lands got no taxes—thanks to that cursed clause, we couldn't mine Motril's decent quarries in Malaga.
Forced smile while he yapped; my guts churned. But I nodded.
"No worries, Bishop."
"Haha. Music to my ears."
Sprinkling Latin to flex over fake priests who couldn't read it. Pointless showboating from this smug uncle type.
Finally wrapping with Commander Jermi Walli and the bishop, I dragged back to my office. Mountains of paperwork. I sighed.
"Isabel, is this today's stack?"
"Yes."
Her firm tone left no wiggle room. As steward, she ruled. Sigh.
I settled to grind through it. Then one parchment caught my eye.