The morning sun struggled to disperse the damp mist that hung over the Mocambo, but nothing could dampen the fervor bubbling in Carlos's chest. He dressed quickly, their body still heavy with sleep, but his mind already alert and dominated by the image of the Bessemer converter. Upon entering the industrial zone, his lungs filled with the familiar smell of soot, coal, and hot metal—a harsh perfume, but one that to him smelled like progress.

  As he approached the large egg-shaped steel structure, his eyes found Nyran. She was in her usual position, facing the open mouth of the converter, but the scene was now marked by the shadow of a guard. The man, arms crossed and expression impassive, watched her every move. The young warrior's freedom now had a watcher.

  I had to create a prison just for her... Carlos thought, feeling a cold weight on his conscience. The guard's suspicious gaze was a constant reminder of that fragile reality. Although... this isn't the end of the world. Soon, very soon, the population of the Mocambo will explode. More people, more dreams, but also more conflicts, more crimes... I'll have to find a way to judge these things, a ministry of justice, perhaps... and a real police force... He rubbed his temples, feeling the pressure of the future like a physical weight. Just thinking about it makes my head throb. Better to focus on what's working, on what I can see, touch, and smell right now. Like this.

  His reflection was interrupted by the rough creak and groan of a heavily loaded wooden cart. The logistics team began unloading the iron ore newly arrived at the quilombo. Men with tense muscles and sweaty faces moved the raw, rust-colored stones, which carried the dry, earthy smell of the journey.

  They say it came from the Captaincy of Gemas Gerais... a captaincy that never existed in my world, Carlos reflected, watching the pile grow. But what does it matter? Thanks to the Popess, we have a steady flow of ore to feed this steel monster. His hand touched the side of the converter, feeling the residual heat from the last operation. But this source won't last forever. With the news that the Popess is with us, it's almost certain Portugal will cut off the supply... We have to produce all the steel we can, while we can.

  He then addressed the workers, men whose faces no longer bore the bewilderment of weeks past, but the grimy mark of experience and eyes glittering with the understanding of that industrial alchemy's magic.

  "Alright, everyone!" his voice echoed under the open shed's roof, competing with the background noise. "Remember the process! The ore goes to the blast furnace, but the secret is in the blow that burns away the impurities. Nyran, we're ready for you!"

  Unlike the previous process he had witnessed—which used cast iron bars into an "artificial pig iron"—today they would use raw ore. The adjacent blast furnace was already roaring, heated by fire gems, turning the stone into incandescent metal. Now, it was the converter's turn.

  Nyran approached, her firm step ignoring the guard's presence. She went to a metal apparatus fixed near the base of the converter—the blower. The device, custom-ordered from the Popess, was shaped like a reinforced funnel, with the Wind Gem securely embedded inside. Carlos looked at the equipment with satisfaction. That was a necessary request, he thought. Not only does it give much more precise control over the air flow, preventing an uncontrolled gust from ruining the entire batch of steel, but it also ensures that Nyran can't, in a fit of rage, use the loose gem as a weapon against someone in the Mocambo.

  She placed her hands on the blower's metal handles, designed to channel her mana. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and concentrated. The gem inside the apparatus glowed with sudden intensity, and a deep, guttural roar filled the converter. A concentrated, incredibly hot gale that she channeled into the vessel through an iron pipe. The air hissed and howled, a frightening and powerful sound, forcing the internal temperature to levels impossible for any common furnace. Under that magical, tempestuous blow, the molten iron from the blast furnace, now poured into the converter, bubbled violently. The impurities—the sulfur, the silicon—burned away in a pyrotechnic spectacle of orange and white sparks that gushed from the vessel's mouth against the shed's gloom.

  Carlos watched, fascinated. It was a fusion of magic and industry, a miraculous shortcut that made the Bessemer process many times more efficient. The radiant heat made sweat stream down his face, and the metallic, aggressive smell of purified iron permeated the air.

  As soon as Nyran's blow ceased, Carlos's team sprang into action. With movements choreographed by practice, they added the limestone fluxes. Then came the crucial moment. Carlos, from the upper platform, gave the order.

  "Now, the spiegel alloy! The manganese alloy!"

  A worker pulled a lever, and the crucible furnace, positioned above the converter, tilted. A stream of different, shiny metal—the spiegel alloy they had produced from pyrolusite—mixed with the incandescent content, correcting the steel's chemistry and ensuring its quality. The liquid, now purified and adjusted, was then poured into sand molds, creating the first steel bars of that batch. The metal dazzled, shimmering like silvery, incandescent water, until, slowly, it began to darken and solidify, taking the form of hundreds of regular bars.

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  Carlos accompanied the cart carrying the newly manufactured bars, still radiating a shimmering heat that distorted the air above them. The metallic, rhythmic sound of them clinking against each other with the vehicle's sway was music to his ears.

  It's a good thing we have money now, he thought, his path momentarily taking him near the new pens. The smell of fresh manure and hay was strong, but alive. Strong horses snorted, cows mooed placidly, the satisfied grunt of pigs and the incessant clucking of chickens filled the air. They're not just tools, they're life. In restaurants and markets, meat will become cheaper, more accessible. And the horses... will pull plows of steel, no longer wood. Agriculture will take a leap. His chest filled with a warm pride, but his mind, insatiable, flew to the next challenge. Now all we need is Tassi. If she discovers how to use the Grass Gem to multiply food... hunger could become a bitter memory not only here, but throughout the world. His face became serious. This... this information is very useful, maybe I shouldn't give it away for free, I could use this in the peace talks...

  While these thoughts danced in his head, his feet carried him to a new shed, built of concrete and steel, in the heart of the industrial zone. Upon entering, the environment was different: the predominant sound was no longer the roar of fire, but the metallic rhythm of hammers beating with precision, the high-pitched screech of metal being twisted, and the constant buzz of machines. The smell of burned castor oil, heavy and acrid, used to lubricate the gears, replaced the odor of ore.

  There, amidst the organized chaos, was Nia. Her fingers, stained with oil, traced lines on a complex diagram, but her face lit up upon seeing Carlos, wiping her hands instinctively on a rag.

  "Good morning, Carlos!" she greeted, her voice vibrant with enthusiasm cutting through the background noise. "Finally! Everything is ready, all the machine tools are calibrated and tested. This shed now houses the heart of the future: a factory capable of producing... other steam engines!"

  Carlos couldn't contain a wide smile, his contagious energy meeting hers.

  "Excellent, Nia! And I brought your gift," he joked, pointing with his chin at the steel bars beginning to be unloaded at the entrance. "The highest quality steel we've ever produced. Made with the new ore. It's all yours."

  "Perfect!" Nia's eyes shone with a light as intense as the gems Nyran used. She ran her hand over the smooth, cold surface of one of the bars, an open, mischievous smile spreading across her face. "The quality is sensational. Giving a woman first-rate steel... it's almost a proposal, you know? Are you sure you don't want to be my fifth husband?"

  Carlos, more than accustomed to her advances, merely gave a dry cough, shaking his head with an expression somewhere between amused and resigned.

  "Let's... yeah, let's just get these machines running," he redirected, his focus quickly returning to work.

  Together, Carlos and Nia guided the team of specialized workers—men and women who had learned the trade in Nia's workshop and understood the language of metal. The process of machining the steam engine parts was complex, but familiar.

  Carlos explained the theoretical principles, pointing to the technical drawings posted on the wall: "Remember, the tolerance here, inside the cylinder, has to be minimal!" he emphasized, joining his thumb and forefinger to show a tiny gap. "If there's too much play, the steam escapes and we lose all pressure. Imagine a punctured balloon; no matter how much air you blow, it won't go anywhere."

  Carlos's comparison flew over most of their heads. Colorful rubber balloons were even sold in some shops in the Mocambo, but they were treated as curiosities with no function, objects that children looked upon with brief interest before moving on. Still, the respect everyone held for the Chief was so great that no one questioned it; they merely nodded, trusting that the odd image must make sense in some way. On the other side of the shed, Nia had barely heard the explanation. Her gaze traced the lines of the machines with a gleam of maternal pride, completely absorbed in the practical beauty of her own creations.

  But she immediately complemented it with practice, her gloves glowing softly. She approached a steam-powered milling machine where a complex gear was being cut.

  "That's exactly it!" she said, having everyone gather around to see. "Look here, at cutting the gear teeth. Each one has to be identical to the others." Her left hand, with the Iron and Fire Gem, passed over the metal, which seemed to adjust slightly under her touch. "Otherwise, the fit is imperfect and the machine jams. It takes patience and a good ear."

  The first steam engines to come off the production line were robust, functional, but visibly crude. They lacked that final polish, the signature of perfection that only Nia's hands and experience could provide.

  "It's good, but it can be better," she murmured, more to herself than to the others. Placing her hands on the main cylinder, the gems in her gloves glowed softly. Under her touch, small imperfections seemed to smooth out, the metal acquiring a more uniform finish, as if it had been worked on for weeks instead of minutes.

  She looked at the team, who watched with a mixture of admiration and shame for their initial work.

  "Don't worry," she said with a genuinely encouraging smile. "I also started by making parts that looked like they'd been chewed by an armadillo. I learned the hard way, by making mistakes. You'll get the hang of it much faster, I promise. Soon, you'll be making machines better than these." She patted the metal casing of the first unit. "This one is just the first of many."

  Under Nia's command, the team connected the machine to an auxiliary boiler. After a few minutes of heating, a cloud of white steam gushed from a valve, followed by a low, promising whistle. Then, with an initial tremble, the main gear began to turn. Slowly at first, then gaining speed and stability, its powerful, steady noise—chuff-chuff-chuff—filled the shed. It was the heartbeat of a new era, a sound that spoke of strength, autonomy, and a future forged by the very hands of those people. Carlos and Nia exchanged a look, and without a word, they knew everything had changed.