After returning to the inn, Francisco found Catalina already asleep, clearly exhausted. With a distressed sigh, he sat beside her and kept her company until she woke up, still groggy.

"Francisco? What time is it?"Then, suddenly startled, she bolted upright and grabbed her clothes in a rush, heading toward the bathtub."I need to hurry—the doctor is waiting for me! Why didn't you wake me up? You know that after the morning drills some soldiers always end up injured!"

Francisco chuckled helplessly."Did you forget that the entire group left for New Granada today? You can rest for a while. Until new mercenaries and soldiers are hired, there's no one you have to look after."

Already with one leg in the tub, she froze, then slapped her forehead."That's right… I can rest for a couple of weeks."She walked back to the bed and threw herself onto it, covering up with the clear intention of continuing her sleep—without the slightest concern for the clothes she had half-discarded.

Francisco smiled."You don't want to know why I came here?"

Catalina, half buried under the blanket, muttered lazily,"I don't care… I want to sleep. You always exploit me, an innocent maiden…"

Francisco shook his head, amused."This time it's actually important—about our support for the rebellion. I'm planning to open factories here, ones that could reach both Eastern and Western Europe."

Catalina sighed dramatically."So not only do I not get a day of rest, but now I also have to work? You know, the French have a word for people like you." She pouted.

"Oh? They do?" Francisco raised an eyebrow.

Catalina nodded like a wronged child."They call them capitalistes. I saw it in a book."

Francisco laughed, but then frowned, his eyes drifting in thought. The word felt familiar somehow, like something he'd heard before, though he couldn't place where. Catalina noticed and asked,

"What's wrong? Shocked because there's finally a word that describes you so well?"

Francisco shook his head."No, nothing like that. I just thought I'd heard that word before, but… anyway, we should prepare. I'm going to speak with the law faculty at Göttingen to arrange the patent process. It seems it's important if I want to make money with my inventions in Europe—or at least in the UK."

Catalina asked curiously,"What is a patent?"

Francisco shrugged."I'm not exactly sure, but it seems that in the UK it's a way to prove you invented something before everyone else, and it gives you the right to commercialize it for some years… I don't really know how many. That's what I'm going to ask the members of the faculty."

Catalina nodded."That sounds good. If inventors have the rights to their inventions, doesn't that mean that every time someone invents something, they're going to become rich?"

Francisco frowned, equally puzzled."In theory, that should be the case. I'm not entirely sure… but if that's true, then maybe the companies that want to invest in my factory here in Hanover are full of geniuses or technicians."

is eyes lit up with excitement at the idea of finally finding people to talk to about inventions. He leaned down, gave Catalina a quick farewell kiss, and hurried toward the faculty.

Once inside, he found students from many different countries studying in the halls. To his surprise, he even spotted an Iberian among them. Hoping to approach someone with a more familiar background, he walked toward the Iberian student and asked politely,

"Excuse me, are you from Spain?"

The student looked startled. He had been reading a large book with the title Corpus Juris Civilis. Since it was Latin, Francisco assumed it was something about Rome.

"Who are you?" the student asked nervously.

Francisco smiled and gave a small bow."I'm Francisco, from New Granada. I'm starting this fifteenth."

The young man frowned a little, but returned a deep bow and said,"I didn't know people from the colonies could study here."

His expression turned thoughtful, but seeing Francisco's displeased reaction, he panicked and waved his hands quickly.

"Don't misunderstand! I'm not judging you for being from there. You see, I'm a Gypsy."

Francisco tilted his head, puzzled."What is a Gypsy? It may be a little embarrassing, but I've never heard the concept or the ethnicity."

The young man, seeing Francisco genuinely confused, gave a self-deprecating smile.

"Even though I said 'Gypsy', we call ourselves Romani. We're a people proud of our own culture, living like nomads and enjoying life our own way."Then, more sadly, he added,"But in Spain and the rest of Europe, people hate us for some reason. Ten years ago, the King of Spain even passed a law forbidding our way of life. We can't even gather among ourselves anymore."

He sighed."Frustrated, and with the money my parents gave me, I decided to study far from Spain, hoping I wouldn't face discrimination under the light of the Enlightenment. But as you can see—"

He gestured toward the other students, who looked at him with disgust or deliberately kept their distance.

"—not much has changed. Still, thanks to Director Christian's protection, I can at least study in peace without fear of being expelled. So… I would recommend you not speak with me too much. They may start treating you differently if you spend time near me."

He said it helplessly, in Spanish.

Francisco looked around, and indeed, the other students seemed to be deliberately excluding him. Curious, he turned to one of them and asked in German,

"Sorry, may I ask why you discriminate against the Gypsies? I'm not accusing you of anything; I'm just curious."

The young man looked at Francisco with curiosity, but then glanced at the Romani student beside him with visible disgust.

"I would recommend not standing too close to him," he said coldly. "Gypsies are known for being thieves and vagabonds. They live their lives without contributing anything to society—only stealing and hurting people. If you're not careful, he might steal your money."

With that, he returned to his book and ignored them.

Francisco saw the Romani student's hand trembling, his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. He was furious—anyone could see that—but he didn't dare respond. A single argument could get him punished, and they both knew it.

Francisco sighed, then raised his voice so that the entire room could hear him.

"I have a patent job available," he announced. "The pay will be in pesos, and it can be done immediately. If anyone is interested, let me know—including you." He gestured toward the Romani student deliberately. "Even if you can't handle the case alone, if you help me with the paperwork, I'll pay you well. I'll be waiting for your petition in the library."

The room erupted into murmurs. Patent work meant money—real money. And for law students, earning anything before entering official posts was rare. Outside a few countries with sophisticated legal systems, most of Europe still viewed lawyers as parasites who complicated simple matters just to extract more fees. Because of this reputation—and the high cost of legal training—lawyers were seen as greedy, ambitious, and burdensome.

Until they earned their Göttingen titles, life was harsh for most of them unless they came from wealthy families. Many desperately wanted to make their own income.

The Romani student's eyes widened with excitement. His family had some savings, yes, but it was hard-earned money. If he could support his own studies, it would take a great burden off his parents. And he wasn't the only one—several students immediately started whispering plans, digging through books on British law, and even preparing to consult professors. Others had heard rumors of Francisco, the wealthy colonial student from New Granada, and took the offer very seriously.

Francisco, unaware of the growing academic storm he had just created, stepped outside and headed toward the instrument makers' workshop, intending to ask for their help constructing the upgraded still.

Inside the workshop, a group of men were gathered around a strange machine. Francisco had seen something similar in Britain, but this one was different—larger, rougher, clearly far from a functioning piece.

Professor Lichtenberg tapped a metal joint thoughtfully. "I believe we could adapt this connection to the new pump. But, Herr Klaus… every time I look at these Watt engine blueprints, I feel a shiver down my spine."

Klaus snorted, pointing at the large cylinder sketched on the parchment. "It's not the design that frightens you, boy. It's the size. A proper mine engine needs a cylinder nearly two meters tall. We work here with the delicacy of chronometers and optical instruments—this is an entirely different beast."

Friedrich nodded reluctantly. "The efficiency is undeniable, though. If only we had the same casting and boring capabilities as Birmingham…"

Klaus rolled his eyes. "Keep dreaming, kid. That technology is a state secret. They won't hand it to you even if you beg. If we want access to engines like theirs, we'll have to develop the tools ourselves."

Friedrich let out a frustrated sigh—then suddenly froze, staring at the doorway.

"Professor," he whispered, tugging Klaus's sleeve, "there's a kid at the door!"

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