Six hours later, the army reached the lands surrounding San Jerónimo.

The soldiers prayed more fervently as they advanced through the hills, as if the very air of the place weighed heavier on their souls. Yet in San Jerónimo itself, the cacique Don Melchor de Guarcama had no intention of answering those prayers with mercy.

"The traitors of the King are coming again, sir," reported the war captain—a young warrior personally chosen by Melchor. "This time their army is larger. They even bring cavalry and cannons."

Unlike the mestizos of San Lorenzo, who still pretended to be indigenous to preserve their noble titles, the people of San Jerónimo were indigenous in truth. They trained constantly, fought as one, and lived by the old ways. Their cacique was no ceremonial lord, but a hardened warrior—broad, powerful, and experienced in battle.

Melchor smiled.

"That is good," he said. "Prepare the horses. We attack again."

His voice carried no hesitation.

"This is a fine opportunity to earn wealth. And since they have betrayed the Crown, the spoils are ours by right. Kill freely. Take whatever your hearts desire."

One of the warriors hesitated.

"But sir," he said carefully, "their army is larger and stronger than last time. If we attack and provoke retaliation… won't they destroy our town?"

Melchor sneered.

"Those men are weak," he replied. "They like to pretend they are saints. They would never dare harm civilians here."

He laughed quietly.

"I still cannot understand how anyone commanding such a powerful army would accept casualties for the sake of people who openly wish them dead."

The warrior swallowed.

"Still, sir… we should be careful. If they change their intentions—if they truly decide to kill us all—our families will suffer."

For a moment, doubt flickered in Melchor's eyes.

Their ancestors had learned painful lessons after underestimating how far European armies could go. Entire villages had been erased for lesser reasons. But thinking of the Crown's promises, Melchor pushed that fear deep into his heart.

"It does not matter," he said firmly. "We will not fight their army. We will strike their rear."

"With such a large force," Melchor continued, "they must carry great quantities of food and supplies. We take those. We sell what we can, and we burn the rest. There is profit to be made without risking open battle."

Everyone nodded. The young soldier could only lower his head and remain silent. Deep inside, fear gnawed at him—not of the raid itself, but of the retaliation that army could unleash.

"We begin tonight," Melchor ordered. "Take whatever you can carry. Burn the rest. The Crown has ordered them to slow their advance and avoid destruction—they wish to protect the Gómez family in Medellín."

One of the warriors scoffed.

"Why would the Crown protect them? Aren't they traitors like the fanatics? Wouldn't it be better if we crossed the Boquerón and attacked that city? I hear Medellín is full of wealthy families… and their women. We could avenge our ancestors by taking everything."

Greed flickered in Melchor's eyes. The temptation was real—but he knew it was foolish.

If they succeeded, they would weaken Medellín's elite just enough for the fanatics in Santa Fe to seize control. The city might even surrender willingly in exchange for protection.If they failed, Santa Fe would use the chaos as an excuse to wipe them out.

Melchor clenched his jaw.

"Not now," he said firmly. "We wait until the Crown crushes the fanatics in Santa Fe. When that happens, we will ask permission to reclaim Medellín and the lands controlled by the Gómez family. If we serve well against these zealots, the Crown will be pleased to reward us."

Reluctantly, the warriors agreed. Preparations began at once.

The night was cold—unnaturally so for San Jerónimo. It should have been heavy with heat, thick with insects and damp earth, yet the air lay sharp and empty, as if even heaven sensed what was about to unfold and had withdrawn its warmth.

Under that brittle sky, a group of indigenous riders slipped out of the town in silence. Hooves were wrapped, voices swallowed. They rode hard toward the place where the army had made camp, intending to strike quickly, seize what they could, and vanish into the Tropical Dry Forest before dawn. It had worked before. When the fanatics entered the town and found nothing, they had spared the civilians. By nightfall, the warriors would return home to their families.

They did not hear the warning.

The stillness was broken—not by shouts or alarms, but by the deep, rhythmic thunder of hooves pounding against the parched earth.

Through the veil of smoke rising from burning grain wagons, a wall of iron emerged.

These were not panicked peasants clutching rosaries, nor disorganized levies easily cut down in the dark. These were the Highland Lancers—a heavy cavalry unit of the fanatics, drilled in the brutal disciplines of the Old World, men who rode as a single body of steel and flesh.

The war captain looked up just in time to see a lance punch through the chest of his youngest scout, lifting him from the saddle as if he weighed nothing at all.

The indigenous warriors were deadly in ambush, swift and silent among brush and shadow. But here, in the open clearing, they were exposed. They had been shaped by the forest—by narrow paths, sudden strikes, and quick retreats—not by the crushing momentum of half a ton of horse and armored rider bearing down at full charge.

The slaughter was precise.

The lancers advanced in a tight wedge, sabers flashing as they cut through the night, their blades catching the orange glow of the burning wagons. Each swing painted red across the white cotton tunics of the men of San Jerónimo. Horses trampled the fallen without slowing, hooves cracking bone, breath steaming in the cold air.

Within minutes, the ground—once dry and pale with dust—became a slick mire of blood and ash.

What had been a raid turned into a slaughter.

Horrified, the cacique screamed, his voice breaking through the chaos.

"Fall back! Disperse into the forest—fall back!"

The order rang like a death knell. Discipline collapsed instantly. Warriors scattered in panic, fleeing in every direction. By the time the survivors reached the treeline, barely half of the force remained.

Melchor himself escaped only by chance.

A deep wound tore through his arm—one that would never truly heal. As a warrior, he had led from the front. He had been the first target, the first nearly impaled. Only the desperate sacrifice of his men had pulled him free from death. Pale and shaking, he vanished into the forest, spared only because the fanatics' cavalry was too heavy to pursue.

Yet even in retreat, the indigenous warriors had tasted something far worse than defeat.

They had felt the terror of the Old World.

"Sir, the indigenous force has retreated into the forest," a soldier reported to the Jesuit captain. "What are your orders?"

The captain stared toward the indigenous town, his chest heavy with dread.

Before, they had known the attackers lived there. Before, they had followed the rules of a "Fair war." They entered only to search for warriors, and when none were found, they withdrew—resuming their march or guarding the supply train. Blood had been avoided.

But he knew he could not do the same again.

Ezequiel stood nearby, his eyes sharp and merciless, fixed on the army. The captain understood that if San Jerónimo was spared once more, the resistance would only grow stronger. The road to Medellín would become a slaughterhouse for his men, and Santa Fe would accuse him—again—of weakness.

At last, he stepped forward.

Closing his eyes, he spoke the words he had been dreading.

"Destroy the town. We cannot repeat the mistakes of last time. The bishop awaits our report in Santa Fe—we cannot fail him again."

The other captains stared silently at the settlement. They knew what this order meant. Once this line was crossed, there would be no absolution waiting for them—only sin carried to the grave.

Five long minutes passed.

Then the captain slammed his hand against the table.

"Carry out the orders. Now."

The sharp sound broke the spell. The officers lowered their heads and obeyed.

The town lay in darkness.

Inside the houses, the indigenous families were awake—wives, children, elders—listening, praying, holding their breath. No lamps were lit. They pretended to sleep, hoping silence could help them pretend more they werent part of the warriors who attacked, but tonight things were worse than before

A door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Soldiers poured inside.

"Wait—who are you? I'm not a warrior! I'm not a warrior!" a woman screamed, her voice cracking as she saw the cold resolve on the soldier's face.

"We do not care," he replied flatly. "You sheltered pagans. May God forgive you, and may your soul reach Heaven."

He crossed himself and drove his blade into her chest.

The night shattered.

San Jerónimo drowned in fire and screams. Cries of women, children, and the old echoed through the streets as homes were set ablaze. The flames climbed the thatched roofs, lighting the valley in orange and red, while the screams never ceased.

By dawn, the town fell silent.

But unlike before—when silence meant pretense—this quiet meant something far worse.

No one was left alive.

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