From the heights of the Boquerón, the silence of the mist was shattered by a low, rhythmic thrumming. It was not merely the sound of footsteps, but the heavy, synchronized tread of hundreds of boots striking wet earth—a slow, deliberate heartbeat echoing against the canyon walls.

Through the humid air rose the clatter of steel: sabers brushing against breastplates, muskets knocking hollowly against leather straps. Yet there was no singing, no triumphant shouting. Between the ranks lingered a suffocating silence. Only the strained breathing of horses and the occasional wet slide of a boot in the mud broke it. It was the sound of a machine made of iron and sin, marching not toward glory, but toward a destiny already feared.

Krugger studied the column through the fog and frowned."I suppose those are the fanatics I've heard so much about."

The guide's face grew pale as he took in their numbers. He nodded slowly."Yes, sir. They took all of Santa Fe in a single day. The Spanish army barely had time to react before most of their troops were crushed. The dragoons and the major escaped—barely—but these men are… powerful in these lands."

Krugger narrowed his eyes, studying the formation. A question stirred in his mind."Then why do they look so… hollow?" he murmured. "Why does an army like that march with such low morale?"

He watched more closely, noting the discipline, the intact ranks, the steady pace. He shook his head."No. They weren't defeated. If they had been, they wouldn't be marching toward Medellín."

"Colonel Krugger, sir," one of his men whispered, "what are your orders? Do we wait until they pass?"

Krugger hesitated, then shook his head firmly."We can't. Those numbers are more than enough to destroy Medellín. If we let them through, the city will fall into fanatic hands—and with it, our entire reason for being here. We'd be forced back to San Andrés, trapped there until my grandson returns." He paused, his jaw tightening. "And my granddaughter lives in that city."

The soldier fell silent for a moment before asking quietly,"Then what do we do, sir? Try to reach Medellín before them?"

Krugger scanned the ridge again. His gaze settled on the terrain—hundreds of rocks, some the size of wagons, others larger still, resting precariously along the slope. Slowly, his expression changed.

"A book," he said at last. "Francisco once gave me a French book—Mes rêveries. It spoke of war in the mountains. Of turning terrain into a weapon."

His eyes gleamed as understanding took hold."Look around you. We may not be able to kill two or three thousand men… but if we make these rocks fall, we can force them to retreat."

The soldiers looked around in disbelief, stunned by the sheer audacity of Krugger's idea. Yet remembering who he was—and what he had survived—they could do nothing but obey.

They spread along the ridge, carefully searching for unstable rocks. On every loose stone, they placed one or two shells. On the larger, firmly wedged boulders, they stacked five. Once the work was done, they withdrew in silence and waited.

"Remember," Krugger said, his voice sharp with anticipation, "once the rocks fall and some of them are wounded, you fall back here and open fire. Shoot until you have no ammunition left."

The soldiers stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

"We'll recreate our own Battle of Burkersdorf," Krugger added, a grim excitement creeping into his tone.

During that battle, the Prussian troops had used the terrain to block enemy movement. But this—this was something else entirely. Krugger was attempting to turn an entire mountainside into a weapon, to crush two thousand men with barely two hundred soldiers and a handful of shells. If it worked, it would be written into the books of war.

Below, within the Jesuit army, the Captain riding at the head of the column suddenly shivered.

His aide noticed immediately."Sir, are you well?"

The Captain exhaled slowly."I don't know. I just felt… a chill. As if something terrible were about to happen."

The aide nodded uneasily."Perhaps it's only paranoia, after what we've been through. I would advise letting the troops rest for at least half a month before attacking Medellín. With morale this low, sending them against the Gómez family is dangerous."

The Captain nodded—but then his gaze drifted toward the rear of the column. There, a smaller formation rode close around Ezequiel. His lips twitched.

"I want to," the Captain said quietly. "But with that god of death behind us, we need to finish this quickly. Otherwise, the Bishop will replace us just as fast."

The aide followed his gaze. Ezequiel was smiling, speaking casually with the sons of Santa Fe's elite. The sight made the soldier frown.

"Sir," he whispered, "don't you find it strange that they sent Ezequiel with nearly a hundred armed men?"

The Captain's expression hardened."What are you implying?" he replied sharply. "Be careful. Sowing discord now would be foolish. You understand how vital it is to reclaim Medellín for the Bishop, don't you?"

He leaned closer, his voice low and cold."If the Spanish Empire is allowed to send its own troops before we eliminate the Gómez family, we will find ourselves standing at death's door surrounded by enemies in all sides."

The soldier hesitated. Then, with solemn resolve, he spoke.

"I'm worried they intend to kill you—to dissolve this army and absorb it into the new force the Bishop is forming. And we both know that boy is willing… and has more than enough reasons to do it."

The Captain frowned deeply. His eyes turned icy, but he nodded slowly.

"Fine. I'll keep my eyes on them," he said at last. "But you will not speak of this to anyone else. That man would kill you without hesitation for betraying the cause."

The army moved into the Iguaná Canyon like ghosts wandering through a gray purgatory.

It was a narrow, suffocating cloud forest. The air was thick with mist that clung to their woolen uniforms, soaking leather and powder alike, making every step heavier than the last.

They marched in silence—but it was not the silence of discipline. It was the silence of shame.

The memories of the innocents left behind in the valley weighed on them like chains. Every snapped twig sounded like a musket shot. Every rustle of the massive ferns felt like a vengeful spirit reaching from the green shadows.

The Captain kept his hand tight on the hilt of his saber, his knuckles white. He looked upward, but the canopy was nothing but tangled branches and fog. He could not see the heights of the Boquerón, yet he felt the mountain looming above them—silent, immense, judging.

The mud beneath their boots was slick, and the hollow rhythm of their march echoed strangely between the stone walls, as if the canyon itself were counting their steps toward an inevitable end.

Then—Boom.

The mountain roared.

A violent series of explosions tore through the heights. The captain's head snapped up, his pupils dilating as the fog above fractured into chaos. Massive rocks broke loose—not tumbling, but falling—shattering as they struck, bursting into lethal fragments that bounced and spun through the column.

The smell hit first: crushed stone, black powder, and blood.

Men screamed as bodies were hurled aside like dolls. One boulder slammed into the ground and burst apart, its shards ripping through flesh and bone. Another crushed a horse whole, the sound wet and final. Panic rippled instantly through the ranks.

"Doctor! Doctor!" someone screamed, as blood pooled into the mud, dark and steaming.

The chaos was absolute. Smaller rocks, shattered by the initial impact, became deadly projectiles—whistling through the air like musket balls. They punched into skulls, cracked helmets, and tore through flesh with sickening force. Men who had survived the first fall collapsed seconds later, struck down by fragments they never saw coming. The canyon filled with the stench of blood and stone dust, and screams echoed as soldiers realized the mountain itself was firing upon them.

The army staggered like a wounded animal. Officers shouted orders, but fear spread faster than commands. Worse still, a falling slab obliterated half of the sons of the elites clustered near Ezequiel. By some cruel habit of fate, the bastard survived—again. His face was deathly pale as he scrambled onto a horse and fled without looking back, riding as if the mountain itself were hunting him.

The captain saw him go but gave it little thought. Most of them were useless second generations, sent by their families to reap at least a shred of merit.

"Report," he barked. "Was that a natural rockfall?"

An officer wiped blood and mud from his face and shook his head."No, sir. I heard thunder—but not from the sky. That sounded like gunpowder. Someone made the mountain fall. Possibly the Gómez family."

The captain stared into the fog-shrouded heights.

"Then why," he asked quietly, "aren't they attacking again?"

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