The cold air of the Northeastern dawn entered Nzambi's lungs like thin blades. Every inhalation hurt, every exhalation came out as a ghostly cloud in the pre-dawn gloom. He was running, or rather, trying to run—his feet felt like lead, dragging on the hard-packed earth of the training yard. The new barracks of the Republic's Army, embedded in the heart of Armadillo Mocambo, was a concrete monster barely acquainted with shade. The high grey walls seemed to watch him with indifference as he completed another endless lap.

  I can't take this anymore, the thought hammered in sync with his heavy steps. A month. A whole month running in circles like a horse tied to a mill. I enlisted to fight, not to become a circus athlete.

  His leg muscles burned, a dull, familiar pain that had settled in like an unwanted tenant over the last weeks. Sweat ran down his back, sticking the rough cotton shirt of his uniform to his skin. The smell of his own effort—salty, acidic—mixed with the ever-present scent of fresh cement and the damp earth of the construction site the mocambo had become.

  But, even panting, a more rational part of his mind tried to quell the revolt.

  I can't complain, he reminded himself, forcing himself to think of Sister Luzia's hands—black like his own—channeling the soft light of the Healing Gem over the arm he had sprained on the first day of training. Never, in all his life, had he seen someone of his color using a holy gem to heal. After all, they were only used by the church.

  He passed by (or desperately trotted past) a row of new buildings. The "grey goo"—the cement, as they had learned to call it—oozed from wooden mixers, being spread by workers in clothes as dirty as theirs, but with a different glint in their eyes. Skeletons of wood and iron were gaining flesh of liquid stone, rising at a pace that bordered on the supernatural.

  Every day is like this, thought Nzambi, dodging a wheelbarrow loaded with sand. Build, tear down, rebuild bigger. This city never stops growing. His eyes landed on a row of almost-finished buildings, with square windows and smooth fa?ades. The 'apartments'... they are beautiful. Much more than my mud hut back there. A spark of ambition, small and timid, ignited in him. Who knows... when I get promoted to Corporal... maybe I can rent a room in one of those. Have a real door, a roof that doesn't let the rain in...

  His running route took him near the eastern edge of the mocambo. There, a colossal structure dominated the landscape. The Cistern. A concrete cylinder already the height of five men stacked and still growing, day after day. The bamboo scaffolding looked like giant spiderwebs against the brightening sky.

  They say this will bring water right into the apartments , he ruminated, incredulous. Like a tamed river, running inside the walls. Something for kings... but without magic. Just... engineering, as they say. The promise was tempting. Only the new apartments will have this water, they said in the square. One more reason for me to stand out. For me to deserve something better.

  Finally, after laps that felt like eternal penance, the Sergeant's shrill whistle echoed in the yard. A collective sigh, more of relief than exhaustion, swept through the line of runners. Staggering, Nzambi followed the flow of men back inside the high walls of the barracks. The iron gate creaked shut behind them, the final sound of a daily ritual.

  Inside the inner yard, the air was more stifling, laden with the smell of dried sweat, polished leather, and the bean soup already boiling in the distant kitchens. Nzambi leaned against the cold concrete wall, feeling the tremor in his legs subside to a soft throb.

  At least I won't faint today, he thought, with a remnant of pride. In the first week, I swore I was going to die. Almost gave up about ten times. He looked at his hands, now calloused, his nails dirty with earth. They were different hands from the ones that had arrived—hands that knew how to hold a shovel, a hoe, a weapon. They still trembled, but from fatigue, no longer from pure fear.

  As the soldiers caught their breath, drinking water from leather canteens and rubbing sore muscles, a man climbed onto the small wooden platform in the center of the yard. It wasn't the usual Sergeant. It was Major Kato, a tall man with scars that told silent stories on his face and a gaze that seemed to pierce the soul.

  Quiet fell over the yard like a heavy blanket. Everyone quickly lined up—a discipline that had been chaotic at first, but now flowed with the frightening naturalness of a collective survival instinct.

  "Attention!" the Major's voice was not a shout, but a saw cutting through the silence. Everyone straightened. "Good news, soldiers. The easy days are over."

  Nzambi felt a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the dawn.

  "Starting today," the Major continued, walking slowly in front of the platform, his eyes scanning each face, "you stop playing soldier. You will be soldiers. The Corps of Regular Forces has its first mission: to assist the Corps of Specialized Forces in the liberation of an engenho northeast of here."

  A murmur ran through the ranks. Nzambi saw the eyes around him—some widening in fear, others narrowing with determination, others still gleaming with the flame of delayed vengeance.

  "Don't fall for any sweet talk," the Major warned, as if reading their thoughts. "You are support. Cover. Rearguard. The Specialized Forces will go in first, clear the path. But don't get used to it." He made a dramatic pause. "When the new weapons arrive from the factories, we will be the spearhead. And they will be the ones covering us. Understood?"

  "YES, MAJOR!" the roar in unison echoed against the walls.

  Nzambi opened his mouth to shout, but the sound that came out was more of a hoarse breath. His heart beat hard against his ribs. To fight. For real. The idea had been abstract until then. A distant ghost. Now, it had a date and time.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  That dagger... the intrusive, dark thought emerged. It would be perfect for a night ambush. Silent. Lethal. He shook his head, as if to shoo away a fly. Enough! I don't even want to remember that thing. I'm tired of cutting myself, of bleeding for it. His hands, by instinct, went to the scars on his left forearm—thin, parallel marks, made by himself in nights of desperation. The scars they gave me are worse. And I ran away. I left everyone behind. I'm a coward.

  Fear, an old acquaintance, began to curl its icy claws in his stomach. His legs, which just minutes ago only trembled from fatigue, now threatened to give way from pure panic.

  At least... he tried to cling to any thread of hope, ...at least we're not the front line. And this weapon... this musket... it shoots from afar. I don't need to get close. I don't need to look anyone in the eye.

  It was a weak consolation, but it was all he had.

  ***

  The forest at night was a living, hostile being. Every branch broken under their boots sounded like a gunshot. Every rustle of leaves seemed like the whisper of an overseer approaching. The smell was of damp earth, rotting leaves, and a collective, sweaty fear that permeated the air. Nzambi was lying prone on the wet grass, the moisture from the soil seeping through his uniform, a cold that went to the bone. The darkness was almost total—only slivers of moonlight filtered through the canopy, creating shadows that twisted like evil creatures.

  Shit, I can't see a thing, he thought, his eyes wide trying to pierce the darkness. Not even my hand in front of my face. The only orientation was the low sound of the breathing of the man beside him and the whispered instructions coming from somewhere ahead. The Vision Adepts, with their gems, must be seeing everything as if it were day. Bitter, useless envy rose in his throat. A useful gem... any would be better than that purple torment I carried.

  A sudden movement ahead. Lieutenant Silva, a thin man with a pale blue gem pulsing in his ear—the Sound Gem—raised an arm, a darker silhouette against the darkness.

  "Halt!" The order came in a whisper that, thanks to the gem, reached each man's ears clearly.

  The silence that followed was so thick Nzambi could hear the blood pounding in his own ears. Then, after an eternity of seconds:

  "Advance!" the whisper came again.

  They crawled forward, a slow, silent human centipede. Nzambi felt roots and stones against his body, the taste of earth in his mouth. His musket—a heavy tube of metal and wood—dragged beside him, always an awkward extension of his arm.

  The low silhouette of the sugar mill began to take shape ahead, another patch of absolute darkness against the slightly less black sky. The smell changed—now there was the sweet, heavy odor of fermenting cane, mixed with the stench of manure and smoke from distant hearths.

  "Get ready," came the Lieutenant's voice, tense as a bowstring. "At my signal... fire."

  Nzambi swallowed drily. His fingers, cold and trembling, executed the ritual trained to exhaustion. Gunpowder down the barrel. Lead balls. Paper cartridge. The bayonet with its iron tip. Each movement was mechanical, each second a century. He knew that soon there would be weapons that wouldn't need this slow, dangerous ballet. But for now, this was his dance.

  He lay prone again, the cold stock of the weapon against his shoulder, the barrel pointed at the silhouette of the mill. The wait was the worst part. The darkness, the silence, the imagination running wild...

  Then, the world exploded.

  Not in the way he expected. A vivid orange flash tore through the night on the opposite side of the mill. A fireball the size of a cart flew in a perfect, silent arc and slammed into the white fa?ade of the manor house with a muffled WHUMP and an explosion of shattered wood and flying roof tiles. The momentary light revealed the scene: the imposing house, the warehouses, the low slave quarters.

  Nzambi was stunned. But... what kind of attack is this? Drawing attention like that? It was supposed to be a surprise!

  From the burning manor house, figures stumbled out. Furious shouts, indistinct due to the distance, tore through the night. The mill owner, in his nightshirt, brandishing what looked like a sword, led a band of overseers armed with machetes, knives, and some magic. They ran toward the origin of the fire attack, which now continued: more fireballs, smaller ones, were launched, but erratically, almost theatrically, always falling near enough to irritate, but far enough to not cause many casualties.

  The Fire Adept—an agile silhouette—appeared briefly illuminated by his own magic, then turned and ran into the shadows of the forest, away from Nzambi's position. The men from the mill, blinded by rage and confusion, chased after him like a swarm of furious hornets.

  He's... leading them right to us, Nzambi realized, his blood freezing in his veins. Straight toward us!

  The overseers, panting and shouting, entered the forest clearing, no more than twenty paces from the line where Nzambi and his comrades were hidden. He could see their sweaty faces, their wild eyes, the glint of machetes in the light of the distant flames. The smell of their sweat, alcohol, and smoke reached him.

  "FIRE!" Lieutenant Silva's shout was a roar that annihilated any doubt.

  Nzambi didn't think. His finger, trained by weeks of repetition, pulled the trigger.

  The world reduced to a deafening thunder that erupted from the mouth of his barrel, a violent kick to his shoulder, and a blinding flash that, for a split second, illuminated the nightmare scene before him. The entire line spat fire and smoke. The sound was terrifying—a collective blast that shook the ground.

  In the clearing, the effect was devastating. Men fell like dolls with their strings cut. Screams of pain and surprise replaced those of rage. The mill owner was hit in the chest and thrown back like a rag. Several overseers fell, but some, quicker or luckier, threw themselves to the ground or behind trees.

  Nzambi, with his ears ringing, could see through the acrid gunpowder smoke that fogged the clearing. An overseer, his arm bleeding, got up with a snarl, his eyes meeting Nzambi's. He was a big man, with a machete that reflected the flames.

  Shit! The thought was a flash of pure panic. Instinct screamed for him to turn and run. Desert. Save himself. But the memory of the consequences—the shame, the cell, perhaps execution—held him to the ground more firmly than any root.

  Fortunately, before the overseer could take two steps, the air in front of him filled with colored lightning. Fiery arrows that hissed, jets of ice that cracked, thorny vines that sprouted from the ground to entangle his ankles. The combined attack of the Specialized Forces Corps was precise and devastating. The overseer screamed, fighting the flames and thorns.

  It was the cue Nzambi needed. His fingers, now moved by a mix of terror and automation, began the slow, agonizing process of reloading. Gunpowder. Ball. Cartridge. Ramrod. Every second under the furious gaze of the burning man was an eternity.

  "FIRE!" the order came again.

  Another volley of shots erupted from the line. This time, more coordinated. The overseer and the other survivors were swept away. The silence that followed the roar of the weapons was more frightening than the noise itself. Broken only by the moans of the wounded and the distant crackle of the fire in the manor house.

  This was the Republic's first victory.