"Everything began when I was appointed director," the man said at last. "As you know, many people were displeased by the Gómez family's involvement in education. And the Gómez de Castro family—being the principal representatives of the Church's interests in Antioquia—were among the most openly opposed."

The director sighed heavily.

"At first, they attempted to buy me. Bribes—quiet offers, delivered with smiles. I refused them all. The school paid me well enough to support my family and live a respectable life. Why would I risk everything for a handful of pesos? It was not worth it."

His voice darkened.

"But then… things took a different turn. My son."

He paused, steadying himself.

"He served in the colonial troops of Spain. He was rising quickly through the ranks—he was the pride of our household. Then one day a man came running to my door, saying my son had been injured in an accident at camp. A musket had discharged during training—another recruit, much like him, they said. The bullet struck his leg. By God's mercy, the wound was not fatal."

A bitter smile crossed his face.

"Shortly after, a young man came to see me—Ezequiel, I believe. A son of the Gómez de Castro family. He spoke kindly, almost gently, and said: I heard about your son's accident. Such things are common in the army. He should be careful. Of course, we could help ensure that such accidents do not continue to happen."

The memory made the director's hands clench into fists, trembling with rage and helplessness. The threat had been clear, yet impossible to confront.

Carlos frowned.

"Why did you not seek help from my family?" he asked. "In conflicts of this nature, one turns to one's patron—not to rival factions."

The director nodded slowly.

"I know, sir. Believe me, I thought of it a hundred times. But the problem was this: my family—and my son most of all—knew nothing of the threat. When I tried to warn him, he looked at me as if I had lost my mind. That pain… it was unbearable. And it also showed me something else."

He looked toward Martín.

"Without proof, even if I had come to you, you would not have believed me. Would you?"

Martín's brow furrowed, but he remained silent. He knew the man spoke the truth. Burdened by warehouses, contracts, and logistics, an accusation without evidence would have sounded like paranoia—even to him.

Carlos noticed Martín's silence and understood. The director was not wrong. Even Carlos himself doubted he would have taken such a claim seriously. Sabotage was one thing; assassination was another. Among elite families, such an act crossed an invisible line. Once blood was spilled, feuds rarely stopped, and authority often chose to look away—as long as tax revenues remained unaffected.

The unspoken rules of honor allowed nobles to destroy one another quietly, but only with restraint.

Carlos spoke again, this time cautiously.

"Do you possess any evidence now?"

The director gave a bitter smile. "Yes. After the threat, I knew that sooner or later they would turn against me as well. So I kept the letters that boy—Ezequiel—sent me. I saved them."

He rose abruptly.

The servants reacted at once, pistols drawn and leveled at his chest. The director froze, sweat breaking across his brow.

"Wait—wait! I only meant to retrieve them!"

Carlos studied him closely. Finding no deceit in his expression, he nodded to the servants. They lowered their weapons, though they did not holster them.

The director exhaled in relief and walked to a table. Beneath it was a crude hollow carved into the stone—clearly done by hand. Carlos frowned. He did not like the idea of his employees carving hiding places into school property, but that was a matter for later.

From the hollow, the director withdrew several letters and handed them to the servants. After confirming they contained nothing else, they passed them to Carlos.

Carlos read in silence.

The letters contained instructions regarding the hiring of a new professor from Italy. The man had been expelled from Vatican institutions after nearly killing several children through excessive punishment. Because his actions were not explicitly forbidden by canon law, the Vatican had chosen a convenient solution: sending him far away.

The intent was clear—to place him in the school Francisco had founded, allowing his extreme beliefs and brutal methods to influence it from within. It seemed the professor had not fully understood the limits of his new position and had caused yet another scandal.

"This alone is not enough to destroy them," Carlos said coldly, "but it is sufficient to inflict damage."

He paused, then lifted the letter closer to his face and inhaled.

"It still smells of incense. He wrote this in a church—or at the very least, within a religious house."

The director nodded and produced a small pouch of coins.

"There are also these," he said. "Though they will be far harder to use as evidence."

Carlos waved them aside. "Continue. What else did they ask of you, besides hiring the professor?"

The director hesitated, then spoke.

"He instructed me to shield the man from scrutiny and, above all, to avoid drawing your attention, sir. It seems he underestimated your involvement in the school—or your intelligence beyond those you entrust with daily affairs."

His eyes flicked briefly toward Martín.

Carlos understood immediately. The boy had assumed that Carlos relied entirely on Martín for information, and that a school—being unprofitable—was merely a charitable façade for the Gómez family, much like a church.

"Is that professor still here?" Carlos asked quietly.

The director shook his head."After the altercation with the child's father, he chose to remain in his residence to recover."

Carlos nodded and turned to one of the servants."Go and summon Captain Santiago. He serves the family. Order him to arrest that professor and bring him here—along with the boy's father. Tell him to treat the father with respect; he should understand my intentions well enough."

The servant bowed and departed at once.

Carlos exhaled slowly."Given what you have told me, I will grant you and your family passage to Quito. But understand this clearly: once you depart, you may never return to Antioquia for the rest of your life."

Tears welled in the director's eyes. He nodded repeatedly, voice trembling."Yes, sir. Thank you—thank you. I swear I shall never return, and I will never forget the mercy you have shown my family."

Carlos frowned."Enough tears. Men do not weep. Return to your family. I will send guards to escort you, along with a shipment of aguardiente. You depart in seven days. The journey will be long and harsh—prepare yourselves."

The director bowed deeply."Yes, sir. I will not fail you."

Carlos then stepped outside the school. The guard who had been beaten earlier sat nearby, pale and shaken. Carlos regarded him coldly.

"Do you now know who I am—and whom you truly serve?"

The guard nodded hurriedly."Yes, sir."

"Good. Go to the school's physician and tend to your wounds. And do not forget your place again."

Behind Carlos stood José, observing in silence. He had wished to see how the matter would be resolved. He did not expect what followed.

Carlos spoke in a low, deliberate tone."As a disciple of Mutis, you are versed in education. Tell me—are you willing to assume the post of director of this school?"

José stiffened, surprised, but quickly grasped Carlos's intent."I am willing, sir. But first I must ask—what are your designs for this institution? And what authority would I hold?"

Carlos remained silent for several moments before answering.

"Truthfully, I do not yet know. This school was never my design—it was my son's. I still do not fully comprehend why he believes the education of children to be so vital. Yet he places great hope in them, and in what they may one day offer this land."

His gaze hardened.

"Thus, the importance of this place is great. When my son returns, I expect this school to reflect the vision he entrusted to it."

He turned back to José.

"As for your authority—you shall have full command. You may hire and dismiss at will, request funds when necessary, and govern as you see fit, save only in matters of curriculum already established by Francisco."

A pause.

"I do not wish to see such disorder here again."

José remained silent for a moment before asking, somewhat hesitantly,"Is this because of my teacher?"

Carlos inclined his head."In truth, yes. After what has transpired with this director, I have come to understand that this post requires a man of sufficient standing—one who cannot be easily threatened by rival families. Your association with the Sage Mutis grants you a protection few would dare challenge."

He paused briefly before continuing.

"As for the professors, their conduct shall now be your responsibility. See to it that such excesses never occur again."

José felt a trace of disappointment, yet he understood. He was, after all, still merely an apprentice. And yet, beneath that thought stirred a quiet satisfaction. This was an opportunity—one rare and formidable.

An opportunity to leave his name to history not as another pupil of Mutis, but as José Félix Restrepo, architect of a new system of education.

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