The morning sun was still barely warming the packed earth of the Armadillo Mocambo, but a line already snaked in front of Carlos's brick house. The fresh air carried the low murmur of dozens of workers, their simple clothes still imbued with the smell of forge smoke, workshop sawdust, or the damp earth of the fields. It was payday.

  Inside the house, Aqua, now the Minister of Economy with a renewed posture, commanded the operation. Knowing most people in the mocambo, she recognized each face that approached, crossing it off a long parchment list.

  "Jo?o, blacksmith's assistant!" she announced, loud and clear, so Carlos, sitting behind a table with several piles of cloth bags, could hear.

  Carlos, in turn, picked up a bag that jingled with the metallic sound of coins. Each worker approached, and he handed over the payment.

  "Make a mark here, Jo?o," Carlos requested, pointing to a column next to the man's name in a large ledger. For many, that scrawl was the only "signature" they could produce. Then, he guided the worker's hand to a small pot of ink and then to a stamp in the book, marking the receipt with a fingerprint. It was a slow but meticulous process.

  Taking advantage of having everyone's attention, Carlos made an announcement.

  "Attention, everyone! Starting this month, everyone's salary will be doubled!"

  A wave of exclamations and smiles washed over the line. The air, once heavy with patience, filled with relief and euphoria.

  "Two hundred réis for most!" someone shouted, and the buzz grew.

  Carlos raised his hand, asking for silence, his face serious.

  "However, with this new salary comes a new responsibility. Starting today, all food will be sold in the markets and will have a cost. No one will eat for free anymore."

  The shock was visible. The smiles froze, replaced by expressions of worry and confusion. The silence that followed was heavy.

  "Don't worry," Carlos explained, his voice firm but calming. "The raise was calculated to cover these costs. And the money you spend on food will be used to pay the farmers of our own mocambo! The cycle benefits everyone."

  The explanation didn't completely dispel the apprehension, but the trust Carlos had built kept the line moving, albeit with a more subdued atmosphere.

  Meanwhile, in the markets and restaurants that were starting to operate, a different energy reigned. The farmers, once invisible, were now receiving payment for their harvests. The smell of fresh vegetables mixed with that of seasonal fruits. There was a glint of pride and satisfaction in their eyes; for the first time, their work had a value measurable in hard cash.

  Carlos watched the scene from afar, satisfied. Aqua, beside him, still seemed a bit perplexed.

  "Chief, with all due respect... the price we charge for lunch doesn't cover the cost of the food. We're operating at a loss."

  Carlos smiled.

  "That's called a subsidy, Minister. It's an investment. We are investing in the stability of our people. A well-fed man without debts is a productive and loyal man. Today's 'loss' will be tomorrow's profit, in the form of social peace and hard work."

  After the last bag of coins was delivered, Carlos headed to the carpenter's workshop. The place was unrecognizable, expanded, with the constant sound of saws and hammers echoing under the thatched roof. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of sawdust. Vicente, now a supervisor, walked among the workbenches, correcting details here and there, but his face was marked by deep fatigue.

  "More work, Carlos?" he grumbled, without even looking at the chief. "The... Gutenberg press, was it? And I still have to maintain the production of your jennys and looms non-stop. My hands don't even remember what rest is."

  Carlos slapped the carpenter on the shoulder amicably.

  "I know it's a lot, Vicente. But your hands are shaping the future. And the press is a priority. We need books."

  Leaving the carpenter to his productive grumbling, Carlos crossed the street towards Nia's workshop. The place had tripled in size to accommodate the influx of blacksmiths from other mocambos. The air here was hot and heavy, smelling of coal, incandescent metal, and sweat. The rhythmic sound of hammers against anvils was a symphony of productivity.

  In the center of the organized chaos, Nia was finishing a new sewing machine, her agile hands adjusting tiny screws with a precision that left the older blacksmiths gaping. Upon seeing Carlos, her eyes lit up and she jumped towards him, leaving the tool aside.

  "Carlos! Finally!" she exclaimed, wiping her grease-stained hands on a rag. "I've completely mastered this sewing machine! Where's the next challenge? I need something new!"

  Her contagious energy made Carlos laugh.

  "It's so good to have you on the team, Nia. And yes, I have not one, but three new projects for you." He unrolled the scrolls he was carrying. "The metal parts for the Gutenberg press, a steam engine to provide motive power, and... this," he pointed to the most complex diagram, "a Bessemer converter."

  Nia practically snatched the papers from his hands, her eyes scanning the schematics avidly. The press interested her little, but the steam engine made her sigh in admiration.

  "A machine... to move another machine?" she whispered, touching the drawing with reverence. "And this converter... it's gigantic! How can something generate enough force to rotate this? I need to start now!"

  "The steam engine," Carlos explained, pointing to the components in the diagram, "uses the pressure of boiling water vapor to create movement. This force will be used to rotate the converter, which is basically a giant furnace where we will turn common iron into steel. Steel, Nia! Imagine: more resistant weapons, cannons like the one you yourself envisioned, machines that don't break with use..."

  Nia's eyes shone with an almost fanatical flame.

  "Leave it to me!" she said, already grabbing a piece of metal and evaluating it with a critical eye. "I'll make the best steam engine this world has ever seen!"

  Knowing he would be more of a hindrance than a help from then on, Carlos left and headed to the experimental fields. The scenery was very different: rows of wilted, brown cotton plants, a silent testament to failure. The smell was of dry earth and dead vegetation.

  Tassi was in the middle of the disaster, dictating observations in a monotone to a young assistant who noted everything down with a somber expression. Carlos approached carefully.

  "It seems the results weren't as expected," he commented softly.

  Tassi turned, surprised. Her face, normally impassive, was marked by frustration.

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  "No," she admitted with a heavy sigh. "The grass gem alone, even with the fertilizers we used, isn't enough. The plants grow fast and strong for a short time, but after they are weak, brittle... useless. That must be why this gem is seen more as a weapon than an agricultural tool."

  Carlos scratched his chin, thoughtful.

  "What if we tried a different fertilizer?" he suggested. "In my world, we used something called guano. Bat droppings, basically. It was an excellent fertilizer. It must be abundant in the saltpeter cave."

  Tassi visibly shuddered, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

  "That place..." she murmured, reluctant. "Alright. I'll... try."

  Seeing her discouragement, Carlos changed tactics.

  "For now, set that aside. I have a new task for you. Can you make wheat grow here? Using both gems, of course."

  This time, Tassi's response was immediate and full of offended pride.

  "Of course I can! Do you think this climate is a problem for me? With the growth staff, I can make any plant flourish, regardless of the season or soil! The old mill owner I was enslaved to made me cultivate all sorts of extravagances for his garden."

  The answer filled Carlos with almost childlike enthusiasm.

  "Excellent! That's wonderful! Because your workload is going to increase, Minister. I need you to cultivate araucaria pines, so we can make our own paper. Rubber trees, so we can have rubber. And the wheat..." he made a dramatic pause, seeing Tassi's eyes widen. "With wheat, we'll make flour. And with flour, we'll have fresh bread, pasta, pastries... pizza."

  The sound that came from Tassi's mouth was something between a sigh and a groan of hunger. She composed herself quickly, straightening her shoulders. Despite the impending workload, there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She loved being challenged, loved being indispensable.

  "I will do my best, chief."

  What luck to have such a dedicated Minister of Agriculture, Carlos thought, satisfied.

  His lunch was quick and solitary. He had barely finished when a guard appeared at his door, his face serious.

  "Chief Carlos. You are summoned to the Mountain Range Mocambo. An emergency meeting."

  "What happened?" asked Carlos, his heart speeding up. "Is it another attack?"

  "I wasn't informed, sir. Only that it's urgent."

  The walk to the Mountain Range was made in silence, Carlos's apprehension growing with each step. Upon entering the meeting room, the charged atmosphere confirmed his fears. All the chiefs were present, including Ganga Zala, who sported a new, heavy gold necklace that glittered in the candlelight—a detail not lost on Carlos. In the center of the solid wood table rested a single letter.

  As soon as Carlos sat down, Zala spoke, his voice echoing in the quiet room.

  "I've summoned everyone because Specter received a letter from Papess Paula. She wishes to build a church here, inside the Armadillo Mocambo. And she will come personally to negotiate the terms."

  The declaration landed like a bomb. A murmur of shock and disbelief swept the room. A church? Inside a quilombo? It was an unprecedented opening, a huge risk for the Papess and a potential blessing for the quilombo people, who would have direct access to miraculous healing. It was too good to be true.

  Specter, having had more time to digest the news, was the first to take a stance.

  "It's a risky move," he began, his eyes scanning the faces around the table. "She clearly wants an observation point within our defenses, a pair of eyes and ears loyal to the Church. However... the benefits are undeniable. After battles, we could save countless lives. The logistics of our healing would be transformed."

  Carlos saw his opening and entered the discussion.

  "I agree with the benefits," he said, choosing his words carefully. "And I am willing to host the church in my mocambo, after all I imagine healing the quilombo's army will cost thousands of réis. In return, I want the quilombo to provide me with adepts trained in the use of ice and iron gems."

  Specter arched an eyebrow, an almost imperceptible smile touching his lips.

  "Fair. Although I know very well that you will probably use the ice not for weapons, but to... expand your line of ice creams and popsicles."

  Several chiefs stifled laughs. Carlos felt his face grow warm but maintained his composure.

  "Ice creams that turn into money, Specter. Money that, in turn, pays the taxes that support this quilombo and that, in the end, will cover the costs this church will bring. Everything is connected."

  It was then that Mohammed, a normally silent chief, spoke, his deep voice laden with suspicion.

  "I think you're being naive. I know many see her as a saint, but she still serves the same Church that preaches love from its pulpits yet turns a blind eye to plantation owners who commit atrocities against our people. This Papess may seem different, but what about when she dies? What if she's replaced by another fanatic like the last Pope? We are inviting the fox into the henhouse."

  Several chiefs, including Fernando and Malik, agreed with murmurs of assent. However, the voice that followed came from an unexpected corner. Maria, the only female chief, always quiet and observant, spoke with an intensity that silenced the room. Her eyes, full of an ancient pain, fixed on Mohammed.

  "My son," she said, and each word was a stab, "lost an arm defending this quilombo in a battle years ago. He languishes, useless, while you, in your infinite wisdom, want to deny him the only chance he has to get his life back? The only hand that can sew him back together?"

  Mohammed recoiled as if struck. His face, once hard, softened with guilt and embarrassment.

  "Maria, I... that wasn't my intention. I would never wish that for your son." He passed a hand over his face, tired. "But you have to understand my concern..."

  The two plunged into a heated but respectful argument. Carlos watched, impressed. Everyone here is so... intense, he thought. I thought they were just extras, but each one has their own wounds, their own battles. His attention was diverted to one of the other four chiefs, always silent.

  While everyone watched the argument, this man, a tall black man with a piercing gaze, didn't take his eyes off Ganga Zala's gold necklace. His face was a mask, but Carlos could feel the disapproval emanating from him. I'm not the only one noticing the 'king's' new jewel, apparently, Carlos thought. I need allies here. Perhaps Specter, but his ultimate loyalty is to Zala...

  When the argument between Maria and Mohammed reached an impasse, Carlos intervened.

  "What if," he proposed, his clear voice cutting through the air, "we separate the church from the healing?"

  All eyes turned to him. Mohammed looked intrigued.

  "And how do you propose to do that? Kings and Emperors in Europe tried to tame the Church's power for centuries, without success."

  None of them? What about the Protestant Reformation? Carlos thought, but kept the comment to himself. Instead, he picked up the letter from the center of the table.

  "My proposal is simple," he explained. "I will suggest to the Papess that the healings not be performed inside the church, but in a separate building: a hospital. We have already exchanged extensive letters about the principles of cleaning, antisepsis, and sterilization. She herself implemented these methods in the Holy House. A hospital would follow the same principles, but with one crucial difference: it would be secular. Open to all, regardless of faith. And it would be ours. Those who would operate it, manage it, work in it, would be people from the quilombo. The church would just be... the church. A place of prayer and the source of the healing artifacts."

  Mohammed considered the idea, his skepticism still visible.

  "My problem isn't with the healing, Carlos. It's with the presence of the Church itself. They will have a spy living among us."

  "The fewer church members the better," Specter interjected, "and if they are confined to the church. I can easily assign someone to... monitor their activities. Besides, refusing the Papess would be a grave insult. We need external allies. We've lived in isolation for decades. All our current trade, all the flow of fabrics and iron, depends on her goodwill and the network of the Holy Cities."

  It was then that Ganga Zala, who had remained silent until then, slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses tremble.

  "Enough!" his voice was a roar. "We've heard enough. I accept Carlos's proposal. He will negotiate with the Papess on behalf of the quilombo. But the agreement must follow this line of the so-called hospital. And Specter will accompany him to ensure everything proceeds without surprises." His eyes fixed on Carlos. "Don't disappoint me."

  Maria sighed, a deep sound of relief. She turned to Carlos, and her gaze, once laden with pain, now overflowed with fragile hope.

  "I will get this agreement, Dona Maria," Carlos promised, feeling the weight of her expectation.

  "Know this," she replied, her voice low but firm, "the people of the Lagoon Mocambo will be by your side... if you succeed."

  Carlos understood the message perfectly. Her support, and probably that of others, was not a gift. It was a future payment, contingent on his success. He had just gained his first real diplomatic mission, and the stakes couldn't be higher.