The air in the Jaguar's Forest was heavy and humid, carrying the smell of wet earth, rotting leaves, and the acrid sweat of two thousand men. The sunlight barely penetrated the dense canopy, creating a world of green, trembling shadows. The attacking column was a motley mix: bush captains with worn armor and gleaming magical weapons, freemen with scythes and old swords, motivated by the promise of easy plunder, and slaves dragged along by force, their faces marked by fear and resignation. The sound was a constant dragging of feet, the clinking of metal, and the nervous whispering that presaged violence.

  Among them, a young white man in tattered clothes, named Tomás, grinned from ear to ear, his dirty fingers stroking the brass spyglass hanging from his neck.

  This will be the easiest money of my life, he thought, euphoric. I don't even need to get my hands dirty. All because I have the gift to use this beauty. With it, I see the mana of all living things... I see everything.

  He raised the spyglass to his eye. The world gained a new dimension, an ethereal glow enveloping every leaf, every insect, every man. In the depths of his magnified vision, he spotted four figures on a distant hill: two black men, a white woman wearing armor that shimmered with energy, a necklace on her chest emitting a reddish aura, and another black woman with short hair. Behind them, the indistinct shapes of houses.

  "Sir Captain!" his voice sounded shrill in the oppressive silence. "The traitor led us right! I see the quilombo! But... there are four people on a hill, watching us. One of them, a woman, is wearing a necklace with a strength gem."

  The Captain-major of Pernambuco was an imposing man, with a grizzled beard that fell over armor that, even in the gloom, shone brightly. A long sword hung from his belt.

  "Halt!" his voice echoed, a roar that cut through the forest.

  The order was repeated along the column, and the large group stopped in unison. It was then that one of the blacks in the group, the guide, approached, his eyes pleading.

  "I... I gave you the location, I did my part. I'll be free now, right?" his trembling voice carried a thread of hope.

  The Captain turned to him, his face a stone mask.

  "But of course you will," he said, his voice dangerously soft.

  The slave's relieved smile hadn't even finished forming when the Captain's sword hissed through the air. A metallic flash, a wet, cutting sound, and the head rolled on the earthen floor, the expression of hope frozen forever. The body fell heavily.

  "You are free to die!" the Captain spat on the corpse's back, wiping the blade on his pants.

  Tomás gagged, his stomach churning. Damn! The strike was so fast... I couldn't even see it!

  "You, boy!" the Captain grunted, pointing at him. "Keep your eyes on the enemy!"

  Tomás, pale, nodded quickly and brought the spyglass back to his eyes, his hands trembling.

  "Sir!" he shouted, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice. "Up ahead, at the edge of the forest, there are about twenty men. They're holding... pieces of iron with wood. I don't see any gems on them. They don't look like spears."

  "Hmph," the Captain sneered. "A pathetic attempt at intimidation. Focus on those with gems!"

  "Yes, sir!" Tomás adjusted the focus. "Those on the hill... yes! A man is activating fire gems in... in something round, made of iron! They look like oranges! He's handing them to the white woman, the one with the strength gem... She's... she's throwing them at us!"

  The Captain laughed, a harsh, confident sound.

  "Ha ha ha! They think they can set the forest on fire and burn us? Fools! Adepts of water and ice! Prepare to—"

  His order was swallowed by a sharp whistle that cut through the air. One of the "oranges" fell in the middle of the group and exploded before it even hit the ground. The blast was deafening, followed by screams. Two men were torn apart, and five others fell, screaming, with shards of iron embedded in their flesh.

  "What the hell was that?!" the Captain roared, his confidence shaken.

  Two more whistles, two more explosions. The carnage repeated. The smell of burnt gunpowder and fresh blood filled the air. Panic began to spread, men retreating, stumbling over each other.

  "Advance!" the Captain ordered, his voice contained fury. "Kill the source! It's the white woman! Do whatever you want with her, but silence her!"

  The promise of violence and the direct order overcame the initial fear. Men with sadistic expressions ran forward, only to be mowed down by new explosions that tore off limbs and spread terror.

  "Do not retreat! Evade!" the Captain shouted, advancing with the main group, protected by his most experienced men. Tomás ran with them, stopping at intervals to use the spyglass.

  They ran for a few minutes, sporadically interrupted by explosions, when Tomás noticed something.

  "Captain!" he shouted, panting. "More men have climbed the hill! They're putting the 'oranges' in cloths and spinning them before throwing! There are so many! A deluge!"

  The Captain stopped, raising his heavy shield.

  "Defenders! To the front! Barriers!"

  Men with large shields and necklaces of black and white gems ran to the vanguard. A bluish and amber glow appeared as multiple magical barriers interposed themselves between the group and the hill. For a brief moment, it seemed they would be safe.

  Then, the world came crashing down.

  The grenades began to rain down. The explosions weren't just bangs; they were concussive forces that shattered the magical barriers like glass, throwing men and shields into the air like toys. Shards of metal and wood swept through the formation, meeting flesh and bone with a horrible, wet sound. The defenders fell one by one, their cries muffled by the continuous roar of the improvised artillery.

  Discipline broke. Men in the rear turned and fled, terrified. Those in the front, fearing the same fate if they retreated, ran forward in a desperate frenzy, straight into the open field at the forest's edge.

  Tomás, driven mad by the chaos, shouted to the Captain:

  "A man! He used the assassin's gem, turned invisible, but I see him! He's coming on our right, too fast! He's carrying a fire gem!"

  "Specter!" the Captain snarled, his hatred finding a target. "He's mine! Point him out!"

  "He... he's already here!" Tomás's voice was a squeal.

  The Captain moved like lightning. His figure seemed to multiply, with six, seven ghostly copies appearing and running in the indicated direction, cutting through the forest. One of the copies was vaporized by a grenade. The others attacked shadows, cutting down bushes.

  "He's gone!" the Captain shouted, frustrated.

  "No!" Tomás countered, his eyes glued to the spyglass. "He went into the middle of our men! He's not attacking anyone... just dropping a fire gem into a hole in the ground! He's doing something strange—"

  The warning came too late. One of the Captain's copies heard a branch snap near a large tree. It charged, splitting the trunk in half with a brutal blow, which fell on a man who screamed.

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  "He fled!" the Captain roared again.

  Then, hell truly broke loose.

  The gem Specter left wasn't just one. It was the detonator. A colossal explosion, much larger than any grenade, erupted from the hole in the ground, followed instantly by a series of other synchronized explosions that had been buried along the path. The earth shook. Ancient trees were torn out by the roots and thrown like spears. A rain of wooden splinters, stones, and metal swept through the forest, reaping dozens of lives in the blink of an eye. The flames from the fire gems, now unopposed by the water adepts (dead or stunned), found perfect fuel in the spilled gunpowder and dry vegetation, turning the forest into an oven.

  The vanguard that had reached the edge of the forest looked back and saw a nightmare. A wall of fire and smoke, dismembered bodies, and the agonizing screams of those being burned alive. It was hell on Earth. Relieved to be out of there, they found themselves in an open field.

  That's when they heard a sequence of dry clicks, like stones hitting each other.

  "Fffzzz-Click... BANG! BANG! BANG!"

  A cloud of white smoke gushed from the first line of twenty men from the quilombo, lined up in three rows. They held their flintlock muskets firmly, the barrels resting on forked stands. The first row fired, and immediately knelt to reload. The second row, standing, discharged their volley before the attackers could react. Men fell, bloody holes appearing in their chests and faces. The survivors, in panic, ran towards the static lines, thinking of close combat.

  "Fffzzz-Click... BANG! BANG! BANG!"

  The third row fired. And, with a rehearsed cadence, the first row was already standing again, muskets reloaded. The cycle of death continued. Bursts of lead cut through the air every fifteen seconds, an impenetrable barrier of metal. No attacker got within twenty paces of the formation.

  Inside the burning forest, the Captain, dazed and with his ear bleeding, stood up among the charred bodies of his clones.

  "Damned! You sons of bitches! I'll kill every one of you!" he screamed, his voice hoarse with fury and smoke.

  As he concentrated to create new clones, he didn't notice the blades of grass at his feet twisting and growing rapidly, coiling around his legs and arms with steel-like strength. It was Tassi, with her bracelets of earth and grass.

  "Shit! Someon—"

  A grenade, thrown with deadly precision by Quixotina from the hill, fell and rolled to a stop before his eyes. For a thousandth of a second, his hatred was replaced by pure, primitive terror. The subsequent explosion silenced him forever. All that remained were his feet, still trapped by the enchanted grass.

  Tomás, who was recovering behind a charred tree, saw the Captain's end through the spyglass. He also saw the quilombo's musketeers methodically advancing along the forest edge, executing the wounded with silent bayonets or short, precise shots. The sight was the last straw.

  He turned and ran. There was no thought, only instinct. He ran through the flames, stumbled over charred bodies, the spyglass falling from his hands without him noticing. The heat burned his skin, the smoke scratched his lungs, but he didn't stop. He overtook other fugitives, his only thought a desperate prayer.

  They're monsters! They have to be monsters!

  ***

  On the other side of the carnage, atop the hill, Specter pulled his mask down, revealing a shocked face. The smell of battle – gunpowder, burnt blood, and charred wood – rose up to them.

  "Twenty musketeers..." he whispered, incredulous. "And ten of us, with gems. We annihilated an army of two thousand men. This... this is a miracle. It was supposed to be a bloodbath on our side."

  Carlos climbed the hill and stopped beside him, his face smudged with soot, but his eyes alive.

  "Don't forget the gunpowder," he reminded dryly. "Literally all the gunpowder we had. We're clean."

  "But the idea was yours!" Specter retorted, turning to face him.

  "Just because it was my idea, means I can't complain about the cost?" Carlos shrugged, a tired smile touching his lips. "Besides, with a defeat like this, they won't attack us again anytime soon. We'll have time. And with time, we manufacture more gunpowder and more weapons."

  "You have a point," Specter admitted, looking back at the curtain of black smoke. "I just didn't expect... this. The idea of preparing a trap with buried barrels of gunpowder and using the grenades to herd them like cattle to the slaughterhouse... it was simple. So simple I swore it wouldn't work."

  "It only worked because of your gems, your spies, and the terrain you know like the back of your hand. In my world, with the technology I knew, this would be impossible. War is dirty, Specter."

  Specter shook his head slowly, a new respect – and a chill down his spine – as he looked at the shorter man beside him.

  "You know, their captain... was formidable. The illusion gem... his copies were perfect. He almost found me in the middle of the chaos. A direct fight against him would have cost many lives. Many. And in this battle, we eliminated him as if he were a recruit. With no casualties on our side. All because of these... technologies of yours."

  "Thank you," Carlos said, his voice serious. "But this is just the beginning."

  Specter looked at Carlos and, for once, felt fear. A cold, rational fear. The man didn't have the strength of a warrior, but he carried knowledge that could decimate armies.

  It's a good thing he's on our side...

  "Now, I'll see what spoils we can recover," said Specter, turning to descend. He paused near Carlos and lowered his voice. "The Knight... she's shaken. You, who are closer to her, talk to her. I'm not good with... feelings."

  Carlos nodded, and when Specter left, he scanned the hilltop with his eyes. Where is she?

  Then he saw her. Quixotina was sitting on the ground, leaning against a rock, almost invisible in the gloom. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, and her face buried against her knees. The silver armor was stained with soot.

  Carlos approached and sat down silently beside her on the cold ground. He waited a minute before speaking, his voice soft.

  "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did you use too much mana?"

  Her voice came out muffled and hoarse from the barrier of her arms.

  "I'm fine... Physically. It's just... This victory... was cowardly. None of us looked them in the eye. We just heard the screams and saw the silhouettes falling."

  "They came here to enslave or kill us, Quixotina. We had no choice. Besides—"

  She lifted her head abruptly, her eyes red and swollen.

  "I know!" she cut in, her voice laden with anguish. "I know that! Just... forget it."

  Carlos was silent for a moment, watching the smoke on the horizon.

  "This isn't something a knight should do, is it?" he said, not as an accusation, but as a statement.

  She flinched as if struck and buried her face again.

  "That's right," her voice was a bitter whisper. "I'm so predictable and foolish, aren't I? Knights don't exist. I'm just acting out a childish fantasy. Something for a broken woman to cling to."

  "I don't see a problem with that," Carlos replied calmly.

  She let out a deep, tired sigh.

  "You don't see it because you're different. But the others... they see me as a weirdo. A madwoman."

  Carlos felt a pang of guilt, remembering his own initial thoughts about her.

  "What matters isn't what others think. What matters is what makes you feel complete. What makes you happy."

  The phrase sounded empty and clichéd, and she reacted with sudden fury, clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white.

  "Talking is easy!" she exploded, raising her face, tears tracing clean lines through the dirt. "It's hard to live like this when you have no one to talk to about it! Not here, not with my family, not even my husband... maybe I should just accept it. Abandon this madness. Grab a hoe, weed a plot, and learn to talk about the weather and village gossip, like a normal woman!"

  Carlos looked at the sky, where the clouds were beginning to color with the orange of dusk.

  "You could do that, it's true," he agreed, his voice thoughtful. "Or you could keep being who you are. You know, in my world, we don't have nobles or knights like in the books, with armor and swords, anymore. But we still use those words. "When someone is honorable and good, we say they have a 'knight's honor' or a 'chivalrous heart'. When a man is respectful and gentle, we say he has 'chivalry'."He turned to her. "I think, in the stories you love, the true knights are like that. And you are like that, Quixotina. Everyone in the quilombo might find you... unique... but everyone also says you are a good person. Strong. Courageous. That's not fantasy. It's who you are."

  Hearing this, she turned her face completely towards him. This time, her eyes, still teary, did not look away. There was a flicker of recognition, a thread of reborn hope in her gaze.

  They were silent for a long moment, the sound of battle giving way to the crackling of the burning forest.

  "You know," Carlos continued, quieter, "in my world, almost all battles are fought like this. From afar. Cowardly, as you say. And I intend to bring more of these methods here. But..." he stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants. "...I'll talk to Specter. You don't have to participate in this anymore. You can protect the quilombo in other ways."

  He took a few steps to leave when a hand, still clad in steel gauntlets, gripped his arm tightly. He turned. Quixotina was standing, erect. With her other hand, she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her glove, leaving a slight clean streak in the soot.

  "No," she said, her voice firm, regaining an echo of her knightly determination. "I will keep fighting. A knight must protect the weak, no matter the cost to her own honor. And also..." she lowered her voice, a painful admission. "...I think I'm already a cowardly knight. The first person I killed was sleeping. And after that, I killed dozens from behind, without them ever seeing me."

  Carlos studied her face for a moment and then smiled, a genuine, warm smile. He extended his hand. She took it, and he helped her up a small incline on the hill.

  "Then let's go, Knight," he said.

  And together, they descended the hill towards the quilombo, the sound of screams finally silenced, replaced by the crackle of the wounded forest.