And indeed, once Viceroy José de Ezpeleta learned of the collapse of the Boquerón pass and the loss of nearly two thousand fanatic troops, he could no longer remain idle.

Spain was already bleeding in Europe, locked in a brutal struggle against Revolutionary France. Reinforcements from the Peninsula were impossible. Yet ignoring such an opportunity would cost Ezpeleta far more than a failed campaign—it could cost him his position, his honor, and perhaps his life.

So he acted.

By December of 1793, after six months of relentless mobilization across all of New Granada, the Viceroy assembled an army of nearly five thousand men—twice the number the fanatics were believed to have left after Boquerón. At the head of this force marched General Anastasio Zejudo, a close ally of Ezpeleta and a key figure in the reorganization of the colony's defenses.

Their advance was swift at first.

"General," a soldier reported, riding up to Zejudo's side, "we are approaching La Quiebra. From the heights, Santa Fe de Antioquia will be within sight. Once we descend, taking the city should be far easier."

Zejudo frowned slightly.

"That's precisely what worries me," he replied. "Any new reports from the scouts?"

The soldier shook his head."No, sir. Most of the enemy forces encountered so far appear to be civilians—conscripted militias. Many seem unwilling to fight against the Crown at all."

"That's another inconsistency," Zejudo muttered. "Even weakened, they should still have at least two thousand trained men. Not enough to defeat us—but enough to slow us down. So why leave towns defended by reluctant civilians?"

The question lingered unanswered.

"Summon the captain of the dragoons," Zejudo ordered. "Once we reach the valley, cavalry mobility will matter more than numbers. I need to speak with him."

He paused, then added, "When we reach the summit, we rest. The men are exhausted."

A moment later, he murmured under his breath,"Unless they're hoping to strike us while we're tired."

His expression hardened.

"Double the patrols. Position the cannons facing the lowlands. Send scouts to our rear as well—if they're hiding anywhere, it's here. I don't believe they'd attempt something so reckless… but I won't be caught unprepared."

"Yes, General," the soldier replied, saluting before hurrying off.

Not long after, the captain of the dragoons approached, leading his horse by the reins. He stopped before Zejudo and bowed with clear respect—far more than he ever showed the Governor of Antioquia.

"You wished to see me, General?"

Zejudo turned to him, eyes still fixed on the mist-covered heights ahead.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Tell me—if you were the enemy… where would you strike?"

"Help me make sense of this," Zejudo said quietly. "Something doesn't add up. Our intelligence spoke of two thousand seasoned troops, yet we've seen none of them—only scattered resistance from civilians who surrender far too easily."

The dragoon captain frowned."I've been thinking the same, General. There's another inconsistency. Where did that faction acclimate? Even our own men require at least six months on the coast before they can be properly integrated into Spanish units. Yet those fanatics fielded four thousand troops."

He paused, then continued, more cautiously."Statistically, to maintain four thousand after acclimatization, disease, and desertion, they would have needed at least six thousand at the start."

Zejudo nodded grimly."I reached the same conclusion. Even if we count every Jesuit His Majesty expelled, that barely reaches three thousand. The rest must have come from Italy—and that's without counting those who died during the voyage. Worse still, many of them were already old."

The captain hesitated before voicing the thought."Do you think someone betrayed us? Supplied them with men from New Granada for training?"

"Possibly," Zejudo replied. "And that is my greatest concern. If they were able to provide manpower once, they could do it again. Our intelligence may be incomplete—or deliberately false."

"Then we should assume the worst," the captain said. "We must prioritize minimizing losses. Taking Santa Fe de Antioquia should be secondary to preserving the army."

Zejudo's expression hardened."I agree—but you know how Madrid will react if we fail. Results matter more than circumstances. If this campaign collapses, I could be recalled to the Peninsula. Prestige weighs heavier than reason."

He exhaled slowly."And the situation in Europe is deteriorating. I've received troubling news from Toulon. A certain captain—Napoleon—has forced the alliance there into a desperate position. Defending the port against the French is becoming… difficult."

"Napoleon?" the captain asked, intrigued. "The Lion of Naples? Is he Italian?"

"Not exactly," Zejudo replied. "Corsican. His rise has been rapid—his methods unconventional, but frighteningly effective. There are even whispers in Spain of abandoning Toulon altogether."

The captain let out a low hiss."So bad, then."

Zejudo didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

The general nodded grimly."That bad. There have been… discreet talks between the Crown and the French Republic. But you know His Majesty—after the death of his cousin, all he thinks about is revenge."

He straightened."Enough of this for now. These matters belong in letters, not on the road. Prepare for the unforeseen. And above all—do not waste the dragoons. You know how vital they are to the Crown."

The captain raised his hand in acknowledgment."I will do my utmost, General. But you must also be careful. If you fall, the entire campaign collapses. And then… even our families may be dragged into the consequences."

That night, the army endured sporadic attacks. They were not meant to destroy—only to test. Shadows struck and vanished, probing defenses, measuring reactions. By dawn, the harassment ceased.

The following days, the column descended toward the river.

"General," a soldier said with cautious optimism, "the river is lower than before. We can cross it more easily. It seems God is with us."

Zejudo smiled—but did not lower his guard."Do we know the cause?"

"Possibly the fall of Boquerón," the soldier replied. "Some claim there was a tremor upstream. Perhaps a fissure opened, diverting part of the flow."

The general's smile widened."Then perhaps God truly walks at our side."

He crossed himself and lifted his gaze to the sky."Men, advance. The objective is to cross before nightfall. Send scouts ahead and along both banks. If those traitors attack, they will do so while we are exposed."

"Yes, sir!"

The army moved. With the river running low, morale lifted, and boots splashed forward with renewed resolve. Even so, five thousand men could not cross at once. As each unit reached the far bank, they secured defensive positions, raised crude barricades, and began assembling a provisional camp.

A sense of relief spread through the ranks.

They did not see the hill that overlooked the crossing.

Nor the man who stood upon it.

From above, General Giuseppe Lechi observed the scene, a slow smile carving itself across his face.

"It seems," he murmured, "they have noticed nothing." he looked towards the mountain were a manmade construction made of wood rested and chuckled softly

A subordinate beside him hesitated.knowing what they were going to do his face was a little pale, he had hear of this kind of tactics from books as well but one thing is reading an another one is using it so he couldnt help but ask cautiously "Sir… are we truly going to use the river against them?"

Lechi's eyes gleamed."Indeed. A lesson drawn from the Eighty Years' War. The Dutch employed it to halt the campaigns of Louis XIV—with devastating effect. I always wished to use it myself, but Italy never offered the ground."

Then his gaze shifted to the men who hesitated at the thought of such devastating tactics. He sneered inwardly. One thing he despised about the Jesuits was their prideful, misplaced kindness. War was no place for fools. Perhaps that was precisely why the force that attacked Medellín had failed.

"Go," he said coldly. "Call the men I have been training in Santa Fe. You may return afterward and prepare for the assault—once the river has washed away most of our enemies."

He dismissed them as useless. The Jesuits clearly wished to protest, but faced with Giuseppe's open rejection, they could only comply.

When the men trained by Giuseppe arrived, his mood shifted. With visible satisfaction, he explained the tactic in detail—its purpose, its execution, and its consequences.

"Understand this," he said. "Such a tactic can only be used once. The Spanish general has failed to see the danger because the knowledge taught in Spain is narrow and restrained. Do not expect the same ignorance in the future."

His expression hardened.

"Others will learn from this. The Gómez family already has a capable military mind—someone who thinks beyond convention. If one day you are forced to fight them, you must be cautious with every step you take."

The men looked at Giuseppe with open admiration. They had been trained personally by him, shaped by his hand, and bound by the promises he had made—positions of authority, land, and power once they forged a nation of their own. Their loyalty was not to the bishop, nor to any theocratic dream, but to Giuseppe himself.

In truth, many of them were more fanatical in their devotion to him than Esteban could ever inspire. Some already understood what the future held: once they were absorbed into Esteban's army, the bishop would never allow most of them to remain under Giuseppe's command. That knowledge bred quiet resentment toward the man of the cloth.

Giuseppe noticed it immediately—and it pleased him.

Their admiration fed his confidence. He knew that once these men entered the ranks of Esteban's forces, they would not be obedient servants but a latent danger. Veterans trained in his methods, loyal to him alone. When the time came—when the alliance fractured and the so-called theocracy revealed its weakness—those men would become the blade aimed at the bishop's throat.

Esteban believed he was borrowing strength.

Giuseppe knew he was planting a weapon.

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