The Spanish troops advanced with extreme caution, securing each stretch of the far bank before allowing the next units to cross. Every formation paused, scanned, and prepared for ambush. Once across, the dragoons moved ahead, spreading out to scout the surrounding terrain, with orders to eliminate any fanatic forces they encountered.

"Captain," one dragoon asked quietly, "do you think they're waiting for us in Santa Fe?"

The captain studied the distant city before answering. "Perhaps. Though I doubt it. We'll confirm the truth ourselves."

The dragoons rode for nearly thirty minutes. When they reached the city gates, it was immediately clear something was wrong. No soldiers stood guard. The streets were empty. Doors and shutters were closed tight, as if the city itself were holding its breath.

The captain frowned. He dismounted and approached a nearby shop, knocking firmly on the door.

No answer.

"Break it," he ordered.

Two soldiers smashed the door open. Screams erupted from inside, followed by the sharp crack of a pistol. Moments later, they dragged a fat shopkeeper into the street, his face ashen, his hands trembling.

One of the dragoons muttered through clenched teeth, "That idiot almost killed me."

His companion struck him in the ribs and hissed, "Quiet."

"Sir," one soldier reported, shoving the prisoner forward, "we found a family hiding inside. This is the owner. He says he'll tell us everything if we spare them." He hesitated, then added, glancing sideways, "He also fired at Dragoon Mateo."

The captain waved a hand, uninterested. His gaze settled coldly on the shopkeeper.

"Talk," he said. "Where is the fanatic army? And why is this city hiding like a grave?"

The man sobbed, a bruise already swelling on his face. "Sir, I—I don't know for sure."

The captain's expression darkened. He drew his pistol and pressed it inches from the man's forehead.

"Wait! I swear I'm not lying!" the shopkeeper cried. "I only heard them leave. They went west. That's all we know!"

The captain narrowed his eyes. "Then why is everyone locked inside? If they're gone, what are you afraid of?"

"Because we were told to be afraid!" the man blurted out. "They said the Spanish Empire was sending troops to massacre the entire city. They told us to stay inside, to not go out no matter what. They said they would defeat you and return later."

He hesitated, then added, "There's chaos now, sir. With no guards, criminals are taking advantage. That's why we're armed."

The captain glanced at the weapons clutched by one of his men, then looked back at him.

"You're certain they said they'd return after defeating us?"

"Yes, sir. I swear it."

The captain turned away, his jaw clenched. The arrogance in the shopkeeper's words echoed the fanatics themselves. For a moment, doubt crept in—were they truly fleeing, or did they possess some hidden means to destroy them?

He remembered Santa Fe.

The ruthlessness. The calculation. Men like that did not run without a reason.

Something was wrong.

If they had a weapon capable of breaking an army, it would not be behind them—it would be to the west.

The captain narrowed his eyes toward the mountains, their ridges dark and silent, and swung back into the saddle.

"To the west," he muttered. "Let's see for ourselves."

He mounted his horse in one swift motion, suspicion hardening his features. Behind him, the soldiers delivered the prisoner a final kick before shoving a musket into his trembling hands—a cruel parody of mercy.

They rode on without looking back.

As they rode higher, the air thinned and the canyon's silence grew oppressive. For forty minutes, the only sound was the steady clatter of hooves against dry river stones.

Then—a shadow moved.

"Scouts," the Captain hissed, drawing his saber. "The bastards are here. Forward! I want to see what they're hiding in those heights!"

They spurred their horses.

The mountain answered with steel.

From the brush, Iron Lancers burst forth like specters. The collision was sudden and brutal. Heavy armor flashed beneath the canopy as a lancer drove his spear clean through the lead dragoon, tearing him from the saddle.

"Don't let them pin you down!" the Captain roared over the screams. "They're heavy and slow! Break away and push through! There's something up there they don't want us to see!"

The dragoons obeyed, grim-faced, leaving fallen comrades behind. But the slope steepened, and the mountain itself seemed to bleed enemies. Every thicket hid a rebel. Every rock concealed a fanatic.

Crack—boom!

A musket's report split the air. A dragoon collapsed, lifeless, tumbling down the incline. The fighting became a jagged, desperate dance—brief clashes, sudden retreats, sudden deaths. The enemy wasn't trying to defeat them.

They were delaying them.

A cold knot tightened in the Captain's gut.

This wasn't a defense.

It was a distraction.

They were hiding something beyond the mountains.

A cold unease settled in his chest as he wondered what kind of weapon could demand such a sacrifice of time and men. Whatever it was, he knew—deep down—that it would decide the army's fate.

Victory or annihilation.

"Let's go," he said, spurring his horse forward.

At last, with only a handful of men remaining and their horses lathered white with sweat, they were forced to dismount. Crawling on their bellies through sharp scrub, lungs burning with the stench of pine and gunpowder, they pressed on.

They reached the edge of a jagged fissure.

The Captain parted the leaves—and froze.

Wedged between the granite walls of the canyon stood a monstrous barrier of timber and packed earth. A titan's dam. It groaned under the weight of a lake that should not exist, its surface trembling with restrained violence.

The captain finally understood what the secret weapon was.

And the realization made his stomach turn.

This was no mere stratagem of war. It was the deliberate twisting of God's own power into a tool for slaughter. Water, earth, and thunder—forces meant to humble men—had been turned against soldiers who could not even fight back.

He could not comprehend how a human mind could descend to such wickedness, how anyone could look upon creation itself and think not of awe, but of how to weaponize it.

"God have mercy," he whispered. "They mean to use the river to destroy our army. This information must reach the General."

He turned to his men.

Barely a hundred remained.

His face paled—but his spine did not bend.

"Men," he said steadily, "I know what I ask of you. But this knowledge will decide whether our army lives or dies. Each of you will carry a letter describing what we have seen and what the fanatics intend. I do not know how many of you will reach the camp alive, but i hope at least one of you make it"

He drew himself up, voice iron-hard.

"So ride. Ride and bleed if you must. For God, For Country, and for the King."

The men nodded solemnly.

"For God, for Country, and for the King!"

They mounted at once. Spurs struck flanks, and the horses surged forward at full speed. Their faces were set, resolved—not to survive, but to deliver the truth.

They were brave.

And a little naïve.

High above, General Giuseppe Lechi watched them ride.

After hearing the Captain's rallying cry echo through the canyon, Lechi shook his head slowly.

"Such magnificent troops," he murmured. "Wasted in service of a corrupt and decaying empire. Give me half of those men, and I could march across the Americas unopposed."

One of his officers stepped forward. "Sir, shouldn't we kill them? If they reach the camp before the detonation, the Spanish army may escape annihilation."

Lechi's gaze lifted toward the sky, calm and calculating.

"You're right—we should try to stop them," he said. "But honestly… it's almost time to deliver our gift to the Spanish Empire."

He turned sharply.

"Order the fanatics and our detachments to march behind the dragoons. Tell them the dam will break in half an hour. By the time those riders reach the main force, a large portion of the army should already be drowned. The rest will be split in two."

His voice hardened.

"Ensure that the half trapped on this side is destroyed. Even if the other half survives, none of them will dare advance again."

A younger officer hesitated. "Sir… how can we be sure the river takes the elite troops? What if it only sweeps away the conscripts?"

Lechi smiled faintly.

"A good question. And the answer is—it doesn't matter."

He gestured toward the valley.

"Our goal is division. The dragoons reaching us tells me the engineers have already crossed. The infantry will be in transit now. When the dam breaks, even if elite units survive, the artillery—always last—will be useless."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"The survivors on the far bank will flee. If they don't, we wait until the river settles and pursue them at our leisure. My mission is not annihilation. It is paralysis."

The officer nodded slowly. "So we defeat half by separating them—forcing the Jesuits to face an equal number instead of being overwhelmed."

"Precisely."

Lechi studied him with interest. He hadn't expected such understanding from a criollo of New Granada. This land, it seemed, hid sharper minds than Spain cared to admit.

"Go," Lechi said at last. "Prepare the gunpowder. And place our men among the Jesuits—this will be their first taste of real blood."

He paused, then added, "You too, Andrés. I expect much from you."

Andrés straightened, pride blazing in his eyes.

"Yes, General."

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