The situation in Santa Fe could not be hidden for long. Rumors traveled faster than armies, carried by merchants, muleteers, and frightened families fleeing along the mountain roads. By the time the full truth reached Medellín and the surrounding valleys, denial was no longer possible. Fires had been seen from afar, churches looted, estates seized, and men dragged away in chains or left dead in the streets. Faced with the evidence, the great families of Medellín finally accepted Carlos's authority over the local army.

But their decision came too late.

The fanatic forces had already reached the outskirts of the city and pushed their way inside. Entire neighborhoods were reduced to rubble. Roof tiles shattered beneath cannon fire, wooden doors splintered under musket butts, and the smell of smoke clung to the air day and night. Only Carlos's household troops, along with scattered groups of Spanish soldiers who had refused to flee, managed to contain the worst of the chaos. Even so, the price was unbearable: countless deaths, wounded left untreated in courtyards and chapels, and parts of Medellín reduced to charred ruins.

Carlos stood in the plaza amid the aftermath of a skirmish, his boots stained with mud and blood. Around him were men who had fought at his side—servants, guards, and volunteers armed with pikes, old muskets, and whatever tools they could wield. Their faces were hollow with exhaustion. Some had not slept in days; others stared ahead with the numbness of those who had already seen too much.

Raising his voice, Carlos addressed them.

"People of Medellín," he said, his words carrying across the square, "these men are here to hurt our families, to hunt us like prey, and to steal what little we have left. They do not care about the pain they cause, nor about the lives they destroy. If we do not fight, they will take everything—and they will not stop until nothing remains. We must stand together and drive them out of Medellín."

A few cheers rose immediately, sharp and desperate. But many others remained silent. Carlos could see it in their eyes: doubt, calculation, fear.

They had heard the stories from Santa Fe. They knew that most ordinary families there had not suffered as much as expected, that some wealthy households had even been spared through the protection of the Church. From that perspective, fighting to the death seemed foolish. Why resist now, when survival might be possible by waiting, submitting, or fleeing?

Carlos understood their thoughts all too well.

But he also knew the truth they did not want to face. Even if the Spanish Empire eventually reclaimed the city, the time it would take for the viceroy to mobilize and return would be measured in months. His family—and the families of his closest supporters—would never survive that long under fanatic rule. Mercy would not be extended to them.

Only the goodwill the Gómez family had cultivated over the past year—by funding schools, organizing festivals, distributing free food and alcohol during celebrations—had kept open rebellion at bay. Without that fragile bond, Carlos knew they would already be dead.

The soldiers and military families understood this clearly. Stripped of their weapons and authority, they would become powerless targets. They fought fiercely, driven by necessity. But the average citizen of Medellín hesitated, watching and waiting, hoping the storm might pass without touching them.

That hesitation filled Carlos with a deep, simmering frustration as the fighting dragged on. after seeing this he walked towards the Mansion who represented the palace of medellin he took control once he obtained the military, power even the new major went silent when he hear about it

once inside A servant suddenly ran toward him, breathless and wide-eyed.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "Ogundele brings good news. He has managed to copy the rifle."

Carlos froze. "The Italian rifle?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, sir. It is not as refined, and the craftsmanship is rougher—but it works. It can still kill."

Carlos felt his heart race. One of the greatest reasons so many had refused to fight was fear of the rifles wielded by the enemy. The crack of those weapons echoed like thunder across the streets, cutting down men before they could even close the distance.

"If we can make them," Carlos said quickly, "we can at least secure Medellín. How many can he produce? And at what range are they accurate?"

The servant hesitated, then sighed. "Only a few this month, sir. Two… perhaps three at most. More would be impossible. And their effective precision is limited—about fifty meters. Half that of the Italian models."

Carlos's expression darkened. He exhaled slowly, the brief spark of hope dimming.

"A couple of rifles will not change everything," he said quietly. "If not for the steel formula that Ogundele brought from Africa, we would likely already be dead."

He clenched his fists. "We cannot continue like this. We need a plan. Tell me—how do we defeat them?"

Silence followed. Weeks of fighting had left everyone shaken. They had seen firsthand the discipline and efficiency of European-trained forces. Brothers had fallen. Fathers of young children lay buried in shallow graves. The fear lingered in every glance.

Finally, one servant spoke, cautiously but with determination.

"Sir… I do not know much of strategy. But I have noticed something. They do not use horses. At least, I have not seen them deploy cavalry. I cannot tell if it is because they lack horses—which seems unlikely, given how they took Santa Fe de Antioquia—or because they have not adapted cavalry tactics to New Granada."

Carlos stiffened.

He immediately turned to the reports sent from the front lines, scanning them again with renewed attention. Then he looked at the others.

"Is this true?" he asked.

The men exchanged glances before nodding.

"That's right," one said. "I have not seen them fight on horseback. No cavalry charges, no mounted scouts."

Carlos's eyes lit up.

"Then this is it," he said firmly. "We send cavalry units to strike their supply lines. Fast, armed groups. We harass them, disrupt their movements, and force them to retreat from the area. If we succeed, and if Krugger arrives in time, we may yet confront the Italian forces directly."

Hope spread through the room, cautious but undeniable.

Still, one man raised a hand. "Sir… what if they do have cavalry, but simply have not used it yet? Those we send could be slaughtered."

Carlos's face hardened. He nodded slowly.

"That is possible," he admitted. "But it is our only option. This mission will be voluntary. Those who wish to go may go. The rest will remain here to defend the city."

The atmosphere grew heavy.

At last, an older man stepped forward.

"Sir," he said, his voice steady, "I lost my parents during one of the earlier rebellions. I spent my youth begging for food and coins. Without you, I would never have married. I would never have had children. Let me repay your kindness. I ask only that if I die, you protect my family."

The atmosphere fell into silence. At last, one of the men stepped forward.

"Sir," he said quietly, "when I was a child, I lost my parents during one of the rebellions. From that day on, I spent my youth begging for coins and scraps of food. Without you, I would never have been able to marry, never have had children. Let me take this chance to repay your kindness. I ask only one thing—if I die, please protect my family."

The servants around him fell silent, stunned. One by one, memories returned to them: the food Carlos had shared when they were hungry, the shelter he had given when they were children, the laughter they once shared with Francisco in the courtyards. Shame crept into their hearts for the fear they had shown.

Another man—older, with a bent back and weathered hands—spoke up.

"You have taught us a lesson today, sir. Let this old fool, who once fought beside you in your youth, be the one to go. Leave these young men behind. They are the future."

Carlos looked at them, truly looked at them, and in that moment he finally understood Francisco completely. Why his son had insisted on paying wages even to slaves. Why he had built schools instead of walls, invested in people instead of weapons. Francisco had seen what Carlos himself had created—and tried to extend that same dignity to the entire city, perhaps even to the whole country one day.

"I will go as well," Carlos said suddenly. "I cannot let you leave alone like this. If we are destined to lose, then it is better to lose while striking back, rather than waiting here, seated and helpless."

The reaction was immediate.

"No, sir!"

"If you go, the entire front will collapse!"

"You still have Isabella and Francisco to protect—you cannot abandon them!"

"That's right," another added urgently. "Your position is different. If things go badly, you can still lead the people away, protect our families by fleeing to another city. But if you fall, we lose everything. You cannot go."

"Sir," one man said firmly, "your life carries more weight than ours. Let us go in your place."

Carlos hesitated. Watching the very people he had helped raise push one another forward, eager to die so he might live, was more painful than any defeat. His chest tightened, and for a moment he could not breathe. To stand aside while they marched toward death felt unbearable—but leaving Isabella behind was unthinkable.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Fine," he said at last, his voice low. "You may go. Priority will be given to the older volunteers. The young must stay behind. They are the hope of our future."

The old man nodded slowly. "That's right. You young ones still have many battles ahead of you. Do not try to steal our final, glorious fight for yourselves."

The younger men nodded in silence, their expressions filled with conflict. They did not want to leave their families behind—but they had also longed to fight, to repay the debt they felt they owed. Carlos's words, however, gave them a fragile sense of relief, as if they had been granted permission to live.

"Prepare the horses," Carlos said. "You leave tonight. I do not know whether the enemy has hidden cavalry or not, but this is our last chance to drive them back and save our city and our families. Inform the military households as well—I will not allow only my men to bear this sacrifice."

Cheers broke out. The older men smiled grimly and stepped outside, some reaching for bottles of aguardiente. If this was to be their final battle, they intended to face it with warmth in their chests and courage in their hearts.

Carlos watched them go, then spoke quietly. "Leave me alone for a while. I need to rest."

The younger men filed out, leaving the mansion quiet once more. Only Carlos and his butler remained.

After a long silence, Carlos spoke.

"It seems that weakness is the greatest crime in this world," he said bitterly. "If we had more troops… if I had sent letters to Krugger years ago… perhaps we could have crushed these fanatics before they ever reached our homes. Instead, because of our weakness, more people will die—on top of those already lost."

He paused, his voice heavy.

"When I took those children in—when Francisco was still young—my intention was simple. I wanted to leave him capable servants, people he could trust. Never did I imagine I would one day be forced to send them toward their deaths."

The butler said nothing. He could find no words that would ease such a burden.

The silence of the mansion closed in around Carlos, heavy and unyielding, wrapping him in grief as night fell upon Medellín.

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