The air inside the large barracks hall was dense, charged with an electricity different from that of battle. It was a mixture of the clean sweat from hastily washed uniforms, the smell of burning wood wax from torches, and the excited tension of hundreds of people crammed into one space. A constant buzz filled the room, a sea of low voices and stifled laughter. The euphoria over the victory against Albuquerque was still fresh, a sweet, incredible taste in everyone's mouths, but there was also the solemn weight of what was to come.

  The reason for the gathering was twofold: President Carlos and Chief Commander Specter were to distribute medals and announce promotions. Most there had never seen a medal that wasn't a religious amulet or a noble's ornament. The idea of receiving a decoration from the Republic's own leader for acts of bravery was something new and powerful. Eyes shone with expectation, even among the most seasoned veterans.

  Not everyone who fought at the creek was present. A significant portion of the troops was already positioned at the advanced frontier, on the recaptured plantations, maintaining pressure on Albuquerque's lands while awaiting the next move. The wait, however, was anxious. The advance was conditional on the arrival of more regiments, and those regiments, in turn, were waiting for weapons. The Republic's supply line depended on a single, crucial, and slow flow: the production of repeating rifles in the factory.

  The memory of the battle at the creek was already being mythologized. In barracks corridors and at bar tables, stories were told that a hundred rifles had arrived as a miracle, decimating the bandeirantes. The reality was more prosaic and more fragile. Twenty had arrived. Twenty rifles, transported ahead of the reinforcement column by a team that had run day and night. And even those twenty only functioned because Nia, with her power to shape metal, had spent the week disassembling, cleaning, adjusting, and even persuading the most stubborn parts with her power. Even then, under the rain, stress, and pressure, several had failed. One barrel clogged, another had its bolt jammed, a spring broke. The advantage had been decisive, but as thin as a blade.

  That advantage, however, combined with the desperate, intelligent defense organized by Pedro and the psychological shock of seeing a cavalry charge not with lances but with those rapid-fire weapons, had been enough. It created a breaking point. Many slave hunters, men hardened by violence, retreated that day not out of cowardice, but from an instinct of self-preservation in the face of something new and incomprehensibly lethal.

  The production rate of that marvel and that nightmare was one of the serpents that kept Carlos awake at night. Calculations ran through his head: raw materials, trained men, failures, relentless time. They could not wait. The external siege was tightening. The iron embargo was total. Soon, the Church, pressured by the Holy City of Alba, would officially cut off all trade with the "republic of heretics and rebels." And the rumors, brought by cautious merchants and expensive spies, were unanimous: the Governor of the Captaincy of Pernambuco no longer saw that Quilombo as a local nuisance, but as a political threat. He was gathering regular troops, hiring European mercenaries accustomed to siege warfare. The next army to march against them would be three times the size of the last.

  Conquering Ouro Branco quickly was no longer just a strategic objective; it was a message written with gunpowder and steel. It was saying to the Governor, to the Church, to everyone: "We are not a problem to be solved with a patrol. We are a power. Facing us will have a cost you might not want to pay." Perhaps, just perhaps, that would keep the Church in its fragile neutrality, torn between its duty to the colonial order and the horror of a long, bloody war against an enemy that inexplicably possessed advanced technology.

  Problems and more problems, the thought was a weary refrain in Carlos's mind as he climbed the wooden steps leading to the makeshift stage in the center of the hall.

  The stage was simple: some planks over barrels. On it were already Specter, imposing in his dark green uniform, and a young adept carefully holding a strange object: a sound gem, embedded in a brass holder with engraved circular patterns. The artifact resembled a primitive megaphone.

  Carlos positioned himself at the center, feeling the weight of the sudden silence that fell over the crowd. Hundreds of faces, some marked by fresh scars, others still with the wary expression of those unaccustomed to ceremonies, turned toward him. In the front row, among the guests, he saw Matilda. The woman was no longer in the blue dress. She wore a practical tunic of raw linen, but her slender, agile fingers already held a notepad and a sharp pencil. Her gray eyes, far from dreamy, were two spear points focused on him, ready to capture every word.

  The adept of the sound gem activated the device with a subtle touch. A faint buzz filled the air.

  Carlos took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice wasn't crudely amplified. It came out clear, sharp, and perfectly audible even at the back of the hall, as if he were speaking just inches from each ear.

  "Good morning to all soldiers of the Republic!" he began, and saw several heads raise a little higher, surprised by the sound.

  He paused, letting the greeting echo in the technological silence.

  "We are here today for a simple reason, but one that carries the weight of everything we have built. We are here to look back, to the creek, to the darkness of that dawn, and to acknowledge something that cannot be measured only in ground gained or enemies defeated. We are here to acknowledge courage."

  He walked to the edge of the stage, his eyes sweeping the audience.

  "Courage is not the absence of fear. I saw fear in the eyes of every one of you who were there. I felt it in my own chest. Courage is what you do despite the fear. It is Corporal Pedro raising an ice wall with his last strength to protect a fallen comrade. It is Adept Isabela keeping the rain away from our muskets until the very last instant, until she fell. It is Tainá feeling the ground tremble with the enemy's approach and yet planting her staff and saying: 'They shall not pass.'"

  Voices whispered in agreement. Faces turned to locate the cited heroes in the crowd.

  "But the courage of a few does not sustain a nation. The courage that brought us here, that took us out of the slave quarters, the plantations, out of invisibility, is a collective courage. It is the courage to believe a different future is possible. And that future—" he raised his hand, pointing symbolically toward the hall walls, toward the city beyond "—is built with the hands of every worker in our factories, with the sweat of every farmer in our fields, and with the sacred blood of every soldier who defends this ground."

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  He took another pause, longer. The air seemed charged.

  "The Battle of the Creek was not just a military victory. It was proof that this future, however difficult, is worth it. It was proof that when we organize, when we unite our ingenuity with our bravery, we are capable of facing and defeating one of the cruelest powers in this colony. But let us not fool ourselves."

  His tone changed, growing graver, more real.

  "Albuquerque retreated, but he was not defeated. New and larger armies are already being formed against us. The world outside sees us with hatred and fear. They do not understand what we have built here, and they will try to destroy it."

  He saw some faces close off, others frown with renewed determination. Matilda was writing furiously.

  "That is why today, we do not celebrate only the past. We reaffirm our commitment to the future. The medals we will award are not ornaments. They are a symbol. A symbol that the Republic sees, honors, and will never forget the sacrifice of its sons and daughters. And the promotions are more than a new title. They are a vote of confidence. The confidence that you, who have already proven your worth in the fire, are ready to lead others, to teach, to build the backbone of the army that will protect our freedom."

  Carlos stepped back to the center of the stage, giving a nod to Specter.

  "Now, I want everyone to hear the names of those who distinguished themselves. Remember these names. They are the face of our resistance."

  Specter stepped forward, holding a parchment list. His voice, naturally powerful, blended with the gem's effect, filling the space with unquestionable authority.

  "We will now call the heroes of the Creek. When your name is called, come up to the stage."

  The first name echoed:

  "Pedro, Corporal of the SFC(Specialized Forces Corps)."

  A murmur of approval ran through the crowd as Pedro, wearing his cleanest uniform, climbed the steps with firm strides, but his face was serious, still bearing the memory of those who would not ascend.

  Carlos took a medal from a tray held by an aide. It was a simple bronze disc, polished, hanging on a green cloth ribbon. In the center, crudely but clearly engraved, was the Republic's symbol: a gear representing industry with two muskets crossed in an 'X' in front of it, representing power and freedom.

  "For exceptional bravery, leadership under fire, and the determined defense of the Republic's position at the Creek," declared Carlos, pinning the medal on Pedro's chest, "you are awarded the Medal of Freedom. And for demonstrating the qualities of a commander, you are promoted to Sergeant of the Specialized Forces Corps. From today, your responsibility will not be for just five men, but for a platoon of twenty-five. The Republic counts on you, Sergeant Pedro."

  They exchanged a firm look, a nod. Pedro descended from the stage, the cold metal of the medal a new and significant weight over his heart.

  "Tainá, Earth Adept of the SFC."

  "Isabela, Water Adept of the SFC."

  They climbed up, one after the other. Tainá still seemed out of place with the formality, but her eyes shone when the medal was pinned to her uniform. And both were promoted a sergeant.

  Specter watched each presentation, his thoughts working on a strategic level. In the reports, he reflected, observing the diversity of the honorees, it was clear: the bandeirantes, even with powerful adepts like that wind-user, acted like lone wolves. Each with their gem, their trick. They had numbers, but no coordination. It was their undoing. His eyes rested on Carlos, who was preparing the next medal. I finally understand why he insisted so much: 'Form teams by affinity. Standardize the weapons, even if simple.' A staff that barely channels mana, in the hands of twenty-five earth adepts trained to act together, is more useful than a single prodigy like Tassi in an open battle. It's a predictable, reliable, scalable force. We don't depend on finding magical rarities. We build our strength with what we have.

  "Nzambi, Private of the RFC."

  Nzambi climbed up, his steps a bit hesitant. When the medal was pinned on his chest and his promotion to Corporal announced, a flush of pride and surprise rose up his neck. He could hardly believe it.

  Specter watched him descend. Before knowing Carlos, I always led by forming small tactical teams, he pondered. One water, one ice, one earth, complementing each other. It's viable, of course. Pedro and Isabela themselves showed that. But what if, instead of four-man teams, we have specialized platoons that learn to cooperate? An earth platoon for fortification, a water platoon for support and mist, an ice platoon for containment... The flexibility would be enormous...

  After the last medal of that batch was awarded, Carlos returned to the center of the stage. The atmosphere, once one of contained celebration, became solemn and heavy. The sound gem adept seemed to adjust something, and Carlos's voice came out a tone softer, but no less clear.

  "Honoring the living is our duty. Honoring the dead is our sacred obligation."

  He closed his eyes for a brief second, as if gathering strength.

  "In the last battle, many did not return to receive their medals. They earned them with the ultimate price. Heroes like Jo?o, the blacksmith, who left his anvil to take up a musket. Like Fernando, the young watchman who gave the alarm. Like Carla, the cook who brought provisions to the front and took up a weapon when needed."

  With each name, a sob was stifled somewhere in the crowd. Families, friends, held each other tight.

  "Know this, everyone," Carlos continued, his voice laden with a genuine emotion that cut through any formality, "they will not be forgotten. Each will receive a dignified burial, according to their faith. Be it in the church, in the terreiro, or in the silent prayers of their families. The Republic they helped defend guarantees them that."

  He raised a hand, as if to forestall a possible objection that didn't even exist.

  "And to their loved ones, to those who lost a father, a mother, a child, a sister… the Republic will not abandon you. We establish, starting today, a combat death pension. A monthly contribution, in money, to help the family move forward. It is the least we can do. It is a promise: whoever gives their life for the Republic will have their family's life sheltered by it."

  A profound silence, charged with a new kind of shock—the shock of an institutional care none of them had ever experienced—took hold of the hall. For many there, freed slaves, the poor, the disinherited, the idea that the "State" could care for, and not just exploit or demand from them, was more revolutionary than any rifle.

  Carlos said nothing more. He simply bowed his head in a gesture of collective respect. The ceremony, in essence, was over. What remained in the air was more than the smell of wax and sweat. It was the heavy, hopeful sensation of a renewed pact, forged in loss, honored in the simple metal of a medal, and sustained by the fragile, yet determined, promise of a future that would still need to be won with much more steel, sweat, and blood.