Deep within the Matriz Church of Santa Fe, Bishop Esteban knelt alone, his fingers pressed together as his lips moved in silent prayer. Incense still lingered in the air, clinging to the stone like an old memory. Outside, beyond the heavy doors, the sounds of labor echoed—hammers striking stone, voices shouting orders—as workers struggled to transform the aging church into a true cathedral, worthy of the new faith he envisioned.

At last, Esteban exhaled and rose, lowering himself into a carved wooden chair near the altar. He waited.

News from Medellín should have arrived by now.

Despite the thousands of Italian volunteers he had gathered—men driven by zeal, exile, or ambition, drawn in by the expulsion of the Jesuits from Spain—unease gnawed at him. Antioquia remained out of reach. The Gómez family stood there like an immovable wall, frustrating every design he had carefully laid.

His plan had always been clear: take Antioquia, strike into Chocó, then expand outward until all of New Granada bowed before a true theocracy. The mountains would be his walls, higher and stronger than any fortress. Even if the world turned against him, it would break before breaking through them.

He had seen it.

His visions of the future had taught him one thing above all—South America was stubborn, unyielding. Even in wars that shattered continents, this land endured like stone.

"Unless…" he murmured, staring at the crucifix.

"Unless they possess knowledge they should not."

Roman cement. Distilled alcohol. Techniques lost to time and rediscovered by accident—or design.

"Why," he whispered bitterly, "did I not pay more attention to the sciences in those visions?"

He shook his head sharply.

"No. Impossible. God would not grant foresight to a heretical family like the Gómez."They might have been clever, yes—but they had declared independence too early. The Spanish Empire had crushed them before they could build anything lasting. That was the truth. It had to be.

The great doors of the church suddenly burst open.

Ezequiel stumbled inside, his face drained of color. He crossed the nave at a near run before collapsing to his knees before the bishop.

"Sir," he gasped, voice breaking, "something terrible has happened."

Esteban rose instantly. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by glacial authority.

"Speak," he said coldly. "What happened?"

Ezequiel shrank under the stare, a chill crawling up his spine."It—it was the Jesuits, sir. Their fault. I was only sent as an observer."

Disgust flickered across Esteban's face—cowardice and arrogance, always intertwined in the boy. And yet… Ezequiel was loyal. Fanatically so. Too useful to discard.

The bishop inhaled slowly and softened his expression.

"My son," he said gently, "all designs are woven by God. Tell me what happened, and perhaps I may still guide you."

Ezequiel broke down, sobbing as he spoke. He told him everything—the ambush, the thunder that was not thunder, the mountain tearing itself apart, the Jesuit army crushed beneath stone and dust. Even the captain was dead.

When he finished, silence filled the church.

Esteban stood frozen.

"That is impossible," he whispered."Boquerón… closed? By a mountain's fall?"

His hands trembled.

Such an event should have appeared in the books. In the visions. In the future he had seen.

But it hadn't.

And for the first time in many years, Bishop Esteban felt something dangerously close to fear.

Ezequiel swallowed hard and spoke again, his voice trembling.

"It's true, sir. I nearly died myself. A rock fell just beside me… some of my friends didn't survive."

His face was ashen as the memory resurfaced—the thunder that wasn't thunder, the ground tearing itself apart, the screams. For the first time, doubt crept into his thoughts. Those sons of elite families had been sent to earn merit, not to be buried beneath a mountain. Their deaths would not be easily forgiven.

Esteban slowly lowered himself into his chair. For a moment, even his complexion paled. Then—suddenly—he laughed.

A sharp, unrestrained sound that echoed beneath the vaults of the church.

"Excellent," he said, eyes shining. "Perhaps my appearance has altered history after all."

Ezequiel stiffened.

"If the future has changed," Esteban continued, smiling to himself, "then it means I am finally shaping it. Maybe those sinners I saw in my visions will never come to exist."

Ezequiel took an involuntary step back. The bishop was speaking to no one now, half-lost in his own thoughts. Fear crept into Ezequiel's chest—not of the enemy, but of the man before him. Esteban's visions were the foundation of their movement. If the faithful ever suspected that their prophet had lost his certainty… they would tear him apart for betraying their faith.

Esteban's expression suddenly hardened.

"Send what remains of the Jesuit forces to our frontier with the Spanish Empire," he ordered. "Prepare our own troops to advance into Chocó. With Boquerón sealed and the Gómez family unable to threaten us, there is nothing left to restrain our expansion."

Ezequiel exhaled in relief and bowed deeply.

"Yes, sir. I will see to it immediately."He hesitated, then added quietly, "But… the families who lost their sons. They blame me. I fear they may seek revenge. Could you… speak to them?"

Esteban closed his eyes briefly.

Inside his mind, irritation surfaced.

This child is weak. Too weak.

He sighed and murmured inwardly, God, send me someone more capable—someone worthy of the future I have seen.

Opening his eyes, he looked toward the crucifix, as if addressing Christ Himself.

"I will speak to them," he said aloud. "But you—do not meddle further. War is not a game."

He rose, his tone turning sharp.

"If you have so much idle time, begin organizing labor through the mita system. Reinforce the frontier walls with the cement we discussed. Spain will not let this opportunity pass, even weakened as they are."

He gestured to an attendant nearby.

"You—summon the General. Inform him that an urgent matter has arisen, and see that he is received with the grandest service."

The attendant bowed and hurried away.

Ezequiel lingered for a moment, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Whoever the bishop had summoned so discreetly—someone treated with such courtesy—was clearly important. Perhaps even dangerous.

Esteban turned his cold gaze on him.

Ezequiel flinched, bowed once more, and withdrew.

As he left the church, a quiet fear settled deep in his chest.

For the first time, he wondered if he was no longer indispensable—and if someone better was already taking his place.

Ten minutes later, a man entered who looked like a statue carved from cold marble.

His high-collared coat was buttoned to the chin, immaculate despite travel. His hair was pulled back with professional precision, not a single strand out of place. He carried himself like a blade—rigid, disciplined, and sharp. The moment his eyes met Esteban's, his disdain was unmistakable.

To General Giuseppe Lechi, the bishop before him was nothing special.

Esteban dreamed of becoming a Pope in all but name, ruler of a new theocracy carved from blood and faith. And if Lechi stood here at all, it was only because Esteban had promised him something tangible: the right to govern the colony of El Río de la Plata once Spain was defeated. Without that promise, Lechi would never have lowered himself to this alliance.

To him, Esteban was no different from the kings and princes of Europe—men who mistook ambition for destiny and vanity for divine will.

"What do you want, Bishop?" Lechi asked coldly. "I'm busy recruiting soldiers for my own cause."

Esteban stiffened, irritation flashing across his face—but he restrained himself. This man was too valuable to alienate.

Napoleon himself had recognized Lechi's talent. A man like this did not serve—he negotiated. At best, he allied.

"I apologize, General," Esteban said carefully. "But it seems you are about to fight your first battle against the Spanish Empire."

Lechi's eyes sharpened.

"You took Medellín?" he asked. "If that's the case, cutting Spain's supply lines becomes much easier. I already have several plans—perhaps even isolating Cartagena entirely."

Esteban hesitated, then shook his head.

"No. The situation is… worse than that."

He explained everything: the ambush at Boquerón, the falling mountain, the explosions, the annihilation of half his Jesuit army, and the complete sealing of the pass.

As the story unfolded, Lechi's expression darkened—not with fear, but with disgust.

"Half your forces," he muttered. "Destroyed by a handful of mestizos and a mountain."

For a man like Lechi, it was an insult. He did not believe in the bishop's theocracy, but he respected the discipline, training, and raw strength of those troops. Losing them this way was humiliating.

Yet beneath the irritation, curiosity stirred.

Whoever commanded the Gómez forces had used the terrain with intelligence. The tactic was not new—but executing it under those conditions required nerve and foresight.

Interesting, Lechi thought. Very interesting.

"At least Boquerón is sealed," he said at last. "That gives us freedom to expand without fear of a multi-front war."

He met Esteban's gaze directly.

"I will handle Spain's counterattack," Lechi continued. "But I want half of the troops who fight in that war—and I will choose them personally."

Esteban's jaw tightened.

Veterans were priceless. Men who survived a war against Spain would be hardened, loyal, and deadly. If Lechi took half of them, his future conquest of La Plata would be effortless.

"You may choose," Esteban said slowly, "but only half of that half. The rest will be selected by me."

Silence stretched between them.

Lechi's lips curled into a thin smile.

"So," he said, "we bargain like equals at last."

The alliance held—for now.

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