After a full week of relentless harassment, the fanatics finally broke.

Carlos's cavalry had struck their supply lines again and again—never in open battle, never with banners raised, but like shadows that appeared at dawn or vanished into the mist at dusk. Each raid followed the same pattern: a sudden thunder of hooves, the crack of pistols, a brief, brutal clash, and then silence. The supply wagons burned. The mules scattered. The escorts—usually small squads armed with muskets—were left behind, stunned, bleeding, or dead.

The cost was not insignificant. One or two men fell in nearly every attack, sometimes more if the escort resisted stubbornly. But the price was small compared to the effect. Food spoiled. Powder ran low. Morale eroded. Within days, the fanatic army could no longer sustain itself in the countryside.

With no other choice, they withdrew toward Santa Fe de Antioquia, abandoning their forward positions to protect the capital.

For Medellín, it was a reprieve—nothing more.

The fighting had taken many lives, and the city bore the scars of fear. Bells rang not for celebration but for funerals. Black cloth hung from balconies. The smell of burned powder still lingered in the streets, mixed with damp earth and tallow from hastily made candles. Peace had returned to Antioquia—but it was thin, fragile, and temporary.

Carlos stood before the large table in his command room, a map of the region spread beneath his hands. Wax seals, pins, and charcoal marks traced roads, rivers, and contested towns.

"We need more men," he said, his voice steady but strained. "Send messengers to Rionegro, Marinilla, Peñol, and Concepción. Also, bring the people of Hatoviejo toward Medellín. If they come willingly, we can train them. If not, at least they will be closer to protection."

His butler, an older man with graying hair and ink-stained fingers, hesitated before answering.

"Sir," he said carefully, "there is no difficulty in sending the messages. But with the current war, we cannot export liquor or Roman cement to the rest of New Granada. Trade has stopped. We are spending constantly, but no money is coming in."

Carlos did not turn from the map.

"The landlords and farmers support you now," the butler continued, "but they still have land to maintain and people to feed. If this continues—if they see no way to recover their losses—they may leave Medellín. They will take their families, their silver, and their influence with them. What remains will be chaos."

Carlos frowned and finally looked up.

"You are right," he said quietly.

He traced a finger across the map.

"To restore trade, we must control Rionegro, Marinilla, Peñol, and the port of Nare. The western routes are impossible—the fanatics dominate that territory. The northern road is held by the Spanish army. They are fortifying their positions, waiting for reinforcements from Bogotá and Cartagena."

His expression hardened.

"Our relationship with them is… ambiguous. They tolerate us only because the fanatics threaten them as well. But we may use that hesitation."

The butler listened closely.

"The route through Remedios," Carlos continued, "is still under Spanish influence, but weakly so. The garrison there is small. The soldiers are poorly supplied. They believe the fanatics would never dare approach so close to Cartagena."

He paused.

"That is exactly why we can use it."

The butler nodded slowly. "It is our usual trade route, sir. I hesitated to suggest it, fearing you would reject cooperation with Spanish authorities."

Carlos shook his head. "I understand your concern. But what worries me more is that others may discover our weakness and attempt to seize Remedios themselves."

He straightened.

"We need an armory. We must train the citizens of Medellín. It will take months before the fanatics can attack again—especially until they build cavalry strong enough to counter ours. Meanwhile, the Viceroy will likely send troops of his own."

Carlos's eyes narrowed.

"Let them fight each other. While they bleed, we grow stronger."

He tapped a point on the map.

"And we must retake El Boquerón de San Cristóbal. Losing it was a mistake—one caused by short-sighted elites who thought only of their estates. If we had held it, Medellín would be far easier to defend. During the coming peace, we reclaim it."

The butler bowed slightly. "Yes, sir. I will see to everything."

Within hours, Medellín stirred like an awakened hive.

Messengers rode out at dawn. Workshops reopened. Smiths hammered iron into spearheads and horseshoes. Children of elite families drilled in courtyards, their silk coats replaced with plain wool. Many of them followed Carlos personally, each determined to command their own men.

Power, after all, was never surrendered completely.

They trusted Carlos with authority—but not with monopoly. Trade routes meant survival. If too much was lost, Cartagena offered safety, and exile was preferable to ruin.

On the other side of the world, Francisco was just as busy. With the help of the Director of Göttingen University, he had managed to establish contact with the British East India Company, the largest arms dealer in the world. Using the money earned from the two small industries he had developed during the last year, he intended to purchase as much ammunition and as many weapons as possible to aid his father and grandfather in New Granada.

"Are you all right, boy?" Christian asked, watching him closely. "You seem unusually nervous."

Francisco shrugged. "It's my first time dealing with a behemoth like this. Until now, I thought the Company merely traded in India. But after reading more, I realized they are not just a company—they are practically a country. They have their own armies, their own taxes, even their own navy. Honestly, I don't understand how the King of England tolerates something powerful enough to threaten his rule. If a company of that scale appeared in Spain, the king would not hesitate to send his entire army against it."

Christian chuckled softly. "Because they are His Majesty's greatest creditors. Not only does he refrain from attacking them—he openly protects them. Anyone who becomes the primary lender of a king comes dangerously close to becoming king himself. At least in monarchies. Though I suspect republics like France are not so different."

Francisco clicked his tongue. "It seems being rich matters more than anything nowadays."

Christian shook his head. "It is not that simple. Money alone is never enough. You must also have people within the government willing to protect your interests. Without Parliament's support, the Crown would have stripped the Company of its wealth long ago and turned it into a royal toy. Power requires more than gold."

Francisco fell silent, lost in thought.

Perhaps seeking the protection of a superpower in exchange for money would not be such a bad idea—at least in the beginning, he reflected. But which one?

Britain? He dismissed the idea almost immediately. Too ambitious. Deal with them, and you risk becoming a colony once again.

Germany? His eyes drifted to a map of the Holy Roman Empire—dozens of small states, endlessly divided and quarrelling. He shook his head. Impossible. Any protection they offer would collapse the moment it is needed.

France? The thought sent a chill through him. News of the Reign of Terror had spread across Europe. The guillotine worked without rest, even after the death of King Louis. Francisco shuddered.

Spain was unthinkable after independence. Portugal, though strong, lacked the reach to truly protect the Americas.

He sighed inwardly. We will wait. Wars reshape the world. Someone powerful always emerges.

Christian watched his half-student sink into deep contemplation and felt a quiet satisfaction. He had hoped Francisco might eventually seek British protection through the union between Britain and Hanover. Helping him contact the East India Company was merely the first step.

"There," Christian said at last. "They are staying in that mansion. It seems one of the Company's directors purchased it for himself and occasionally lends it to the Company during official missions."

The mansion of Director Van Haust was a fortress of silent wealth. As Christian and his young protégé walked through the foyer, the air carried the faint taste of salt and distant spices. Francisco felt a shiver run down his spine; he was very far from the humid mountains of Antioquia. The floorboards were made of mahogany that had crossed the Cape of Good Hope, and the walls were lined with ledgers—books that decided the fate of ports, armies, and kings.

After a moment, they were guided forward by an assistant dressed in silk of deep, unusual colors. The richness of the fabric was unmistakable.

How much money must they have, Francisco thought, if even an assistant can dress like this?

Christian was also surprised. As the Director of Göttingen University, he was not poor—but seeing a young servant wearing garments whose value could fund several scholars for months made him wonder, briefly, whether he had chosen the wrong profession.

Francisco leaned closer and whispered, "Are you certain he is only an assistant? Could he be the director, hiding to observe our reactions?"

Christian smiled. "Unlikely. Merchants care only for profit and advantage. They have no reason to disguise themselves for such games."

They stopped before an enormous door. The assistant bowed slightly. "Please wait. I will ask whether the director will receive you."

As the door closed, Francisco stared at it in awe. It was decorated with gemstones and gold—more lavish than the Viceroy's palace in New Granada.

He muttered, "Am I too late to apply for a position with the East India Company?"

Christian frowned, uneasy. He feared that a student with such discipline and inventive brilliance might be corrupted by the merchant's path, depriving the world of a great mind. He was about to speak when the door opened once more.

"You may enter," the assistant said. "The director will see you now."

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