Francisco hesitated before speaking again, his fingers tightening around the edge of the crate beside him.

"Is there a problem with the viceroy's army?" he asked carefully. "Why are they taking so long to move? Even if corruption runs deep, they've lost full control of Antioquia. They should be doing everything in their power to reclaim it—if only to avoid punishment from the Spanish court. Or at least to make that punishment lighter."

Stewart turned toward him, one corner of his mouth lifting in a cold, humorless sneer.

"In Antioquia," he said, "the greatest losses weren't caused by Jesuits or fanatics—but by traitors. The viceroy knows it. If he sends his army now, he fears more officers will defect, and that fear is well-founded."

Francisco's brow furrowed.

"At present," Stewart continued, "the viceroy stands accused only of losing Antioquia. With his past service, that might earn him forced retirement, perhaps disgrace—but survival. If he dares to deploy his full colonial army and loses it—especially the dragoons—then his head will roll. Literally."

Francisco understood at once.

So long as Antioquia remained the only open wound, the viceroy could pretend the situation was contained. Most of New Granada's great families were still watching, waiting. They would declare loyalty only when a clear victor emerged. No one wished to gamble their estates, their bloodlines, or their lives too early.

Spain's authority was wounded—but not yet bleeding out.

Francisco exhaled slowly. "Then forget it. At least now I know my family is safe."

Stewart studied him for a moment before nodding. "They are. And frankly, that surprised many people."

Francisco glanced at him.

"Your father," Stewart continued, "may be the Duke of Lerma's son, but everyone knows the truth. A bastard. Forced to rely on himself from a young age. Married off to a German woman for convenience, not prestige." Stewart shrugged. "And yet, he raised an army and drove a European force out of Medellín."

Francisco lifted his head, pride flickering openly across his face.

Stewart chuckled softly and shook his head. For a fleeting moment, the young man before him didn't look like a revolutionary financier or an industrial prodigy—but like a boy hearing praise of his father. If Francisco hadn't just purchased enough weapons to supply a small war, Stewart might have mistaken him for his own son.

The inspections took days.

Francisco remained at the docks, assisting the students as they examined crates, tested firing mechanisms, measured barrel integrity, and checked powder quality. The air around the Thames was thick with coal smoke, salt, and damp wood. Dockworkers shouted over one another in half a dozen languages, while gulls screamed overhead, circling the promise of refuse.

When the work was finished, nearly eighty-five percent of the weapons met or exceeded expectations. In the arms trade, such quality bordered on miraculous.

It was clear the East India Company had taken this deal seriously—likely fearing Director Christian's influence if word of poor workmanship reached Göttingen.

Satisfied, Francisco shook Stewart's hand and departed for Hanover. His thoughts returned once more to steam, iron, and motion.

San Andrés, Caribbean Sea

On the other side of the world, Krugger and his troops were preparing for reinforcements. Two hundred soldiers were being readied to move, while enough supplies were left behind for another hundred men to defend San Andrés in case something went wrong. Crates of powder, barrels of salted meat, and coils of rope filled the camp with the sharp smells of iron and brine as soldiers moved back and forth under the humid heat.

While the men were loading supplies, Thomas O'Neil entered the command tent.

"Mr. Krugger," he said, "the expert on New Granada has arrived. His name is Mateo—a mestizo from New Granada. He escaped here while being hunted by Spanish troops."

Mateo stepped forward hesitantly and looked at Krugger. In Spanish, his voice cautious and tense, he asked,"¿Quién es usted?"

Krugger's mind went blank. He turned slowly toward Thomas, his expression hardening with irritation.

"How the hell do you expect me to use him," Krugger snapped, "if I can't even understand what he's saying?"

Thomas frowned, clearly startled."You don't have anyone who speaks Spanish?" he asked. "How are you planning to operate here without someone who understands the language?"

Krugger crossed his arms, grumbling under his breath. I tried to learn it from that boy, but I'm useless with letters.Of course, his pride would never allow him to say that aloud.

"It doesn't matter," he said instead. "Find a translator. I understand English, French, and German well enough."

Thomas gave him a strange look—one that seemed to say you can learn three languages but not your grandson's—but he wisely chose not to comment. With a sigh, he left to find someone suitable.

Fortunately, they didn't have to search long. A young woman named Camila was brought to them—she spoke both English and Spanish fluently. Krugger hired her immediately.

They crossed the sea in small boats, slipping through the coastal waters to avoid Spanish naval patrols. The cramped vessels rocked constantly, soaked with salt spray, but their size made them difficult to track. After four tense days, they reached Vigía del Fuerte, near the Atrato River, on the edge of Chocó, just beside Antioquia.

The port was uneasy.

Spanish soldiers stood watch, their hands never far from their weapons, eyes sharp and suspicious. Nearby, another group lingered—more cautious, more secretive—watching the Spaniards as closely as they watched the newcomers. When two hundred German soldiers disembarked, armed and disciplined, the tension thickened immediately.

The Spanish troops frowned but did not intervene. Instead, messengers were quietly sent to alert the regional command. The other group, however, showed open hostility.

One man stepped forward, his face twisted with anger, and shouted at Krugger in rapid Spanish:

"¿Qué buscan aquí estas casacas de extranjería? Este suelo es del Rey de las Españas y de la Santa Iglesia. No necesitamos su auxilio infiel ni sus armas compradas con oro británico. ¿Vienen a traernos la peste de la libertad o el veneno de Lutero?"

Krugger frowned deeply."What is this idiot saying?" he growled. "Call Camila. I don't understand a word of this weak fool."

The German soldiers burst into laughter at the sight of the small man hurling furious insults they couldn't understand.

Camila hurried to Krugger's side and whispered a translation into his ear.

Krugger didn't hesitate.

His fist struck the man squarely in the face, sending him crashing to the ground. The man behind him reacted instantly, pulling a pistol from his coat. Krugger stepped forward, placing himself between the gunman and Camila as his own men raised their weapons.

They were too slow.

Spanish soldiers moved first.

A volley of shots rang out, deafening in the confined port. The gunman was torn apart by bullets, his body collapsing riddled with holes. The sudden violence silenced the crowd.

Krugger stared, surprised.

One of the Spanish officers approached him and spoke calmly—in English.

"The Kingdom of Britain offers its support."

Without another word, the soldiers gathered the bodies and dragged them away, disappearing into the streets.

Krugger remained silent for a moment, then muttered,"It seems British influence here is far greater than I anticipated."

His eyes narrowed."And once this country becomes independent… it will need to be cleaned."

He turned back to Camila and offered her his hand, helping her to her feet. She was shaken, her breathing unsteady—the gunfire had clearly terrified her.

Afterward, they traveled to an inn controlled by one of Britain's allied families. From there, carriages were arranged to take them inland.

The man who greeted them was European."My name is Pedro Smith," he said, his accent a careful mix of English and Spanish.

He provided Krugger with supplies sufficient to reach Medellín. Once business was concluded, Pedro led him outside.

He hesitated before speaking again.

"Sir Krugger," Pedro asked cautiously, "may I ask—are you truly apolitical? do you represent the interests of the Gómez family only in New Granada?"

Krugger studied him for a moment, then nodded."That's correct. When I retired from Prussia, I became the protector of my grandson and his family. I cannot say the same for these troops."

Pedro seemed relieved, though still uneasy."Then I have information that may be useful," he said. "The fanatics who attacked Medellín were not supported only by the Vatican. France and Britain are backing them as well."

Krugger slammed his fist into the wall, the wood denting under the force. He cursed under his breath.

"I knew it. You can never trust those traitors. They always stab you in the back

Pedro sighed."That's right. They do want independence—but not a single nation. They expect this land to fracture into several countries. Smaller states are easier to control."

Krugger nodded slowly, understanding settling in."So they plan to back the weaker side. Right now, the Gómez family is vulnerable, while the fanatics have European troops behind them. That's why they're willing to support us."

Pedro nodded, his expression grave."Exactly. And honestly—even with British blood in my veins—I find it hard to stomach. My family feels the same. We may serve British interests, but we also know the truth: if this land breaks apart, Britain won't be the only one exploiting it. Other powers will follow. That's why they sent me to speak with you."

He paused, then added quietly,"They want New Granada to remain a single country."

Krugger rubbed his temple, already feeling the weight of the coming storm. The situation was turning into a headache far greater than he had expected.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.