Nzambi dragged his feet along the dirt path leading to the army headquarters. The smell of gunpowder still clung to his clothes, and dried sweat formed a salty layer on his skin. Every muscle in his body protested, throbbing with the deep fatigue of days of marching and watch. But paradoxically, his mind soared lightly, effervescent.

  "It's unbelievable that we pulled off three more attacks without losing anyone... not a single one." The thought was a mantra of disbelief. "Injured, yes, some cuts, a stray bullet... but the field medics handled it all in time. They say the President's 'antiseptic serum' prevents infection. Who would have thought..."

  He passed two sentries posted at the camp entrance, who acknowledged him with a brief nod. The ritual was familiar: upon returning from a mission, the first stop was the registration post. A sergeant behind a desk under a canvas tarp noted his name, unit, and the quick verbal report: "Reconnaissance and destabilization mission at the S?o Mateus Plantation completed. Returned with no casualties. Weapons and ammunition accounted for."

  Then, the weapons inspection. He handed over his flintlock musket to the armorer, who with practiced movements would clean and oil each part. The pungent smell of gun oil mixed with the scent of tea always brewing in a corner. Next, the deposit of any special equipment or loot—in his case, just an empty canteen.

  Finally, the stop at the medical tent for a quick check-up. A nurse with surprisingly gentle hands checked his reflexes, looked into his eyes with a small lantern (a strange and marvelous invention), and asked about pains. "Just the usual fatigue," Nzambi replied. The ritual was meticulous, almost monotonous, but it brought a strange, new sensation: that of being part of a larger machine that cared if a piece broke.

  Only then, with the bureaucratic procedures of the "Army of the Republic" completed, was he released to rest. His barracks was a long shed, with rustic wooden bunk beds and thick blankets. The smell was of clean sweat, coffee grounds, and resinous wood. With a groan of relief that came from his bones, Nzambi let himself fall onto his bunk, the straw mattress creaking under his weight. The muffled sound of low conversations, snoring, and the occasional clink of metal in the distance formed a familiar symphony.

  "Finally... silence, or something close to it. I just need to close my eyes..."

  "Nzambi! The general is calling for you. Immediately."

  The voice, firm and leaving no room for question, came from the barracks entrance. It was a corporal, posted there like an unwanted specter.

  Nzambi groaned, burying his face in the rough pillow. "What the hell! Now, right when I laid my head down?"

  However, the habit of discipline, stronger than exhaustion, spoke louder. In less than a minute, he was on his feet, lacing up his field boots tightly, adjusting his olive-green uniform, and running a quick hand over his face. He had learned quickly: in this army, organization and readiness were not suggestions. They were the law. A stark contrast to the chaotic disorder of the bandeirantes or the slovenly greed of the mercenaries he had seen fighting.

  He crossed the night camp by the light of oil lanterns, passing orderly tents, men on silent watch, and the distant sound of a serenade from some corner. The general's "office" was a larger structure of wood and clay, with a kerosene lamp (another marvel) glowing in the window.

  Upon entering, he stopped in front of the desk, maintaining an erect posture, hands behind his back. The general, a man with close-cropped gray hair and a face marked by old scars and hard decisions, was immersed in a pile of papers. He furrowed his brow, rubbing his eyes.

  "I can't believe that, on top of knowing how to fight, a general has to become a clerk..." he murmured to himself, before coughing to clear his throat. Then, his eyes, tired but penetrating, fixed on Nzambi.

  "Sir! Private Nzambi, reporting as requested!" announced Nzambi, maintaining the formal tone that was expected.

  The general studied him for a second, as if checking a mental list. Then, without a word, he bent down and retrieved a simple wooden box from under his desk. He placed it on the papers, opened the lid, and from inside withdrew an object that made Nzambi's heart leap violently against his ribs.

  It was the dagger. The short, sinister blade of a deep purple, almost black, with the dark hilt that seemed to suck the light around it.

  "I've been given orders to return this to you," said the general, his voice neutral, carefully placing the dagger on the desk between them.

  Nzambi felt his mouth go dry. "They're giving it back? After everything, after studying it..." A wave of conflicting emotions hit him. Relief? Dread? Nausea? He swallowed hard.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Permission, sir?" he asked, his voice a bit rougher than normal.

  The general gave a brief nod. With slow, almost reverent movements, Nzambi reached out and took the dagger. The metal was cold, but the wood of the hilt held a strange residual warmth, like that of a living body. He held it, feeling the familiar weight, a weight that carried memories of pain.

  "No happiness comes with this," he thought, his eyes glazed on the opaque gem. "Only scars. Scars on the body, scars on the soul. I suffered horrors because of it. But... I also escaped because of it. It was both the key and the prison."

  He raised his eyes and met the general's inquisitive gaze.

  "Any further orders, sir?"

  "Yes," replied the general, crossing his arms. "Despite you being assigned to the regular infantry forces, and the rules being clear about carrying non-regulation weapons... you are authorized, by superior order, to carry this dagger. I have already informed your direct superiors. It is your responsibility."

  Nzambi's mind raced. "Superior order? The Chief? Why? Did they figure out how it works? Could it be... could they be planning to use me? Turn me back into a blood slave, a living tool?" Icy panic froze his stomach. "Calm down. Breathe. He only said I can keep it. Nothing about 'using.' Maybe... maybe they still haven't discovered the secret. Or maybe, even if they have, they don't want to do what the old owners did. This army is different... isn't it?" He fought the instinct to confess everything. "Better stay quiet. Be grateful they haven't figured it out. And after all, we can carry knives on missions. Iron is expensive. Maybe it's just that... an economy measure."

  The general watched the expression shifting on Nzambi's face—the initial shock, the long pause, the internal struggle visible in his eyes.

  "Are you alright, soldier?" he asked, his tone a little less formal.

  Nzambi blinked, coming back to himself. He straightened his shoulders.

  "Yes, sir! Apologies. It's just that... this item has great sentimental value. Unexpected. It left me a bit... stunned."

  He wasn't entirely lying. The value was that of an intimate nightmare.

  The general seemed to accept the explanation with a slight nod.

  "Very well. That is all. You may return to your rest."

  "Sir!" Nzambi gave a precise military salute, closed his hand tighter around the dagger, and left, feeling the general's gaze on his back until the door closed.

  Inside the office, as soon as Nzambi's footsteps faded, the general sighed, looking at the pile of papers with frustration.

  "I don't understand," he murmured to the empty room. "The Chief clings to rules, procedures, paperwork like a vine on a wall... and then, out of nowhere, orders a basic safety rule broken because of a cursed knife."

  "Perhaps the greater rule is understanding the exceptions," a soft voice, almost a whisper, emerged from the shadow in the corner of the room, where a thick curtain swayed slightly.

  From there, Whisper materialized. She moved without a sound, her presence more felt than seen.

  "From what Shadow told me," she continued, approaching the desk, "Carlos has been more worried than a hen in a fox den. He thinks this world might be... different. More different than he imagined. He wants to understand how he and other things came to this world. And that dagger might be a piece of that puzzle. He wants to study them, but without scaring the piece."

  The general huffed.

  "If the concern is so great, he should conduct a formal interrogation. Extract the truth. But no... the Chief is soft. Children can't work, factories have a thousand rules, you can't execute a traitor without a three-tiered trial... even Nyran, that traitor, still breathes, and Zala isn't even here to defend her anymore."

  Whisper leaned against the edge of the desk, her dark eyes reflecting the lamp's flame.

  "They say he comes from a world without slavery. Where people, at least on paper, are treated well. And he wants our world to be like that ideal world should be." She paused, an almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "When my brother explained that 'on paper' part to me, I didn't get it. But seeing the mountain of paper this Mocambo produces... I think I'm starting to get the idea."

  She looked at the general, and her expression turned serious.

  "You know, even though I sometimes think he's too soft... I think I'd like to live in a gentler world. Before, we fought just to survive another day. Now... it seems like we're fighting to build something. Something better. It's strange."

  The general looked at her, and for the first time that night, his austere face softened with a flicker of something that seemed like admiration.

  "Gentleness doesn't fill bellies or win wars," he said, but his voice lacked its previous harshness. "But... I agree about building. And about information. We'll get it. We just need patience. And to break some unwritten rules. I'll handle the paperwork. You..."

  "I'll keep watch," completed Whisper, her gaze turning to the door through which Nzambi had left. "I'll observe the kid. He'll be on guard duty at that plantation we captured near the river, S?o Mateus. It's a quiet post, good for him to think... and for me to observe, sooner or later he must use that dagger, then we'll discover how it works, and if he doesn't use it outside of combat.... The plantation owners will retaliate, it's only a matter of time. We just need to stay alert to everything. And to everyone."

  The general raised an eyebrow, a rare gesture of near-humor.

  "So you'll be the watcher's watcher?"

  Whisper smiled, genuinely this time, a quick, sharp glint in her eyes.

  "Someone has to look after our secrets, General. Even the secrets they themselves don't fully know."

  And, as she had appeared, she slid back into the shadows, leaving the general alone with his papers and the new, complex layer of intrigue that settled over the slumbering camp.