While the captain stepped into the guardroom, the soldier outside lost all interest in Oscar and wandered off to chat with his companion across the hallway, leaving Oscar completely unattended.

Oscar didn't waste the opportunity. He slipped into a small storage room adjacent to the guardroom. From there, through the thin wall, he could hear every word of the conversation inside.

"Sir, we need to halt the renovations," the captain said. "The soldiers are already irritated. It's making their work harder."

The lieutenant sounded impatient."We can't stop. This is for the security of the warehouse. And the place needs repairs. You saw how a stone fell on that soldier last week from the right-side wall."

"I understand," the captain replied, "but using that so-called Roman cement is risky. We don't even know how durable it is. Why can't we stick to our usual materials?"

The lieutenant scoffed."What do you mean we don't know how good it is? Didn't you see the tests? We fired cannons at the reinforced section—bricks shattered, but the cement held perfectly."

The captain hesitated."Yes… but that's now. What about in three or five years? If something goes wrong, we'll ruin the entire structure."

The lieutenant's voice sharpened."Don't think I don't know what's really bothering you. Your brother-in-law owns a lime workshop here in Caracas. You just want him to profit, don't you?"

The captain fell silent, caught off guard and a little embarrassed.

"It's not like that, sir," he muttered. "It's just—look. Even one of the gunpowder workers came to call for me." He pointed toward the hallway.

The lieutenant looked… and saw no one.

"Who are you talking about? There's no one outside."

The captain turned and froze. The corridor was empty. His face reddened—from anger, humiliation, or both.

The lieutenant waved a hand dismissively."Don't cause trouble. Even if you bring me a worker from the gunpowder section, I'd assume you forced him to come."

The captain clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly, then exited the room.

Outside, he immediately rounded on the soldier.

"Where is the worker!? Didn't you keep your eyes on him?"

Startled, the soldier straightened."S-sorry, sir! I—I don't know. Maybe he went back to work? You know how strict Christian is with his workers. Maybe he was afraid his supervisor would scold him."

The captain sneered."Nice way to escape responsibility. Follow me. I want to know which supervisor dared to interfere. I'm starting to think this was deliberate… someone from Captain Hernández's side. That man's been trying to embarrass me for years."

The soldier hesitated, glancing nervously at his post."But, sir, my duties—"

The captain frowned."Your duties are to obey me. Follow me. I want an explanation—how dare the captain of the gunpowder section make a fool out of me?" he roared, his voice echoing so loudly that everyone in the office area stopped what they were doing.

The lieutenant, who had been writing a report, tightened his jaw. He stepped outside and saw the captain dragging a terrified soldier by the collar. Calling over another guard, he muttered, "Follow them. If he starts causing trouble, come get me immediately."

The soldier nodded and trailed behind them, though the lieutenant hesitated. He tried sitting back down at his desk, but the angry shouts drifting up the stairs made him rise again. With a frustrated sigh, he walked outside and descended carefully toward the warehouse.

Oscar, listening to the entire unfolding disaster, was speechless.Maybe my mother was right… maybe praying really does help the lost lamb, he thought.The coincidence felt almost divine—enough that, for the first time in years, he wondered if he should start going back to church.

He slipped quietly into the office and began looking for the ledger, careful not to disturb anything. After a moment of tense searching, he found it in a drawer behind the desk. He copied the entries of the month into coded notes, set the book back exactly as it was, and exhaled in relief.

Next, he searched for the documents on the remodeling project. When he found them, his eyes widened. The notes explained that the right side of the warehouse had a structural weakness—something that could be breached with a few cannons. That was why they had imported Roman cement from Antioquia to reinforce it, and why the central government planned similar upgrades throughout the colony's military infrastructure. The document mentioned an ongoing experiment with new cement mixtures, a plan to strengthen every major depot starting with this warehouse.

Oscar muttered to himself, "If they finish this remodeling, the war of independence will be ten times harder… maybe a hundred."He copied the documents in code, tucked everything back into place, and slipped out of the office.

He headed downstairs toward the room where he had changed clothes earlier. Before he reached it, the sounds of a heated brawl between officers echoed through the hall. When he arrived, the guard who had been stationed there was gone—no doubt swept away by curiosity, eager to witness the spectacle.

Oscar quickly changed back into the rough clothes of a peon and walked toward the warehouse entrance. A crowd had formed there, blocked by the commotion. Keeping his head low, he blended into the cluster of people just as they began whispering to each other.

"What do you think happened?"

"No idea. I heard one officer was furious because another captain made him look ridiculous in front of the lieutenant. The second officer claimed he never sent anyone, and then they just… started fighting."

"¡Ish! The conspiracies in this place are vicious."

"Who knows," someone muttered, "but I've heard those two hate each other to the bone."

The crowd frowned and murmured. Moments later, a squad of soldiers marched past the workers, dragging the two officers who had been fighting. Both men had bruises and split lips. The lieutenant marched ahead of them, red-faced with fury.

"Look at this!" he roared, scolding them as if they were unruly children. "Even the workers outside know the mess you've caused. Do you think I don't have any dignity left? ¡Malditos!"

He kicked each officer sharply before snapping to his men, "Take them to the detention room. And call the cuartel—both of them are out of this post tomorrow. I won't keep useless trash here."

The soldiers nodded, still stunned by what they'd witnessed.

Then the lieutenant turned to the workers. His eyes narrowed."And make sure these men don't talk once they leave. If Caracas hears of this tomorrow, the governor will have all our heads."

"Understood," the workers murmured.

A soldier stepped forward, his voice low and cold. "Make sure you remember nothing. Otherwise, you may end up in prison for betraying the Empire. ¿Entendido?"

Most of the workers nodded absentmindedly; daily laborers came and went—nobody knew who anyone was, and the soldier realized it. With a sigh, he pulled a few pesos from his pouch and handed them out.

"Remember—nothing happened today."

The coins worked better than the threats. Eyes brightened, heads bobbed quickly, and soon everyone returned to unloading the carriages, eager to finish and leave.

Oscar, however, was not so lucky.

Just as things began to calm, he overheard an order that made his blood freeze.

"They're counting heads before we exit. Make sure no peón stayed behind."

Oscar's stomach dropped. Moving quickly, he slid under a carriage, pressing himself against the axle. The count began—one round, then a second. Only when the officers were satisfied that everyone had boarded did the caravan start moving.

The road out of Caracas was uneven, and clinging to the axle nearly tore Oscar's arms from his body. But the soldiers, far more relaxed on the return trip, failed to notice the extra shadow beneath one of the wagons. When they finally slowed, he slipped away, lungs burning.

Once free, Oscar crossed the outskirts of Caracas and followed the Guaire River, the current whispering beside him as it flowed toward the tributary of the Maracay River. With every step, his heart hammered harder.

He knew he was walking toward his possible death.

The environment seemed to agree: as he entered the meeting point, the world fell oddly quiet. Not even the usual birdsong interrupted the heavy air.

Oscar sat and waited.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

Just as doubt crept in, three figures emerged from the brush—the agent and his two men, weapons raised, scanning the area as if expecting ambush. Their caution made clear how little they trusted him.

They underestimated him far too much. Oscar's hatred for the Spanish outweighed fear, self-preservation, or any thought of betrayal.

The agent struck a match, lit a cigar, and took a slow drag.A bitter smile crossed his face.

"It seems it was a success," he exhaled, smoke drifting into the still air.

Oscar nodded. He reached into his clothes, took out the papers, and handed them over.

"You already have the translation key," he said quietly. "You can decode them whenever you want."

The two other agents circled the clearing, weapons ready, scanning the surroundings with the silent tension of men who feared betrayal as much as they expected it.

The agent in charge hesitated, then drew his pistol."Any last words?" he asked, voice low but steady.

Oscar nodded.

"Tell them this: if they plan to attack the warehouse, they must act quickly. The viceroy is preparing to remodel the entire military infrastructure with Roman cement. According to their own tests, this material is strong enough to reinforce the Spanish defenses tenfold. If they don't strike during the Spanish–French war, we may never win independence."

The agent blinked, startled. He quickly unfolded the papers and found the title confirming Oscar's warning. His expression hardened into something solemn.

"Understood," he said. "I'll deliver the message."

Oscar took a breath, then added, "And if you can… let the three women work for the Gómez family. They're no threat to you. It might help mend things between you and the Gómez household after my death."

The agent exhaled a plume of smoke and gave a small shrug."I'll tell the patrón. But you know it's not my decision."

"I know," Oscar replied with a faint, resigned smile.

He closed his eyes and walked toward the edge of the river, the wind carrying the damp smell of flowing water. The agent understood what he intended, but did nothing to stop him. He raised the pistol, leveled it, and—

Boom.

The shot echoed through the banks, sending a flock of birds flapping skyward. Oscar's body staggered and toppled into the river, vanishing beneath the surface.

The two companions approached.

"Should we search for the body?" one asked.

The agent took one last drag of his cigar, then flicked it into the water.

"Unnecessary," he said. "If he survives or dies… that's God's decision. Our task is finished. Let's leave before someone comes."

They nodded and disappeared into the brush.

Only the sound of the river remained.

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