Carlos's office was plunged into a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of pages being turned. A pile of old books, bought from merchants for their weight in gold, took up part of the desk. The smell was of moldy paper and ancient ink.

  Carlos ran his fingers over the pages of the book "History of the Kings of Brittany." He closed the book with a soft thud, dust rising in a beam of light.

  This world's history... is a broken mirror of my own, he thought, rubbing his tired eyes. The names are the same. Portugal, Brazil, the Dutch... even the major events seem to align. But the map is wrong. How can two timelines be so similar and the stage so different? Where did this... imperfect copy come from?

  He pushed the books aside with a frustrated sigh. Cosmic questions would have to wait. Earthly, concrete, and urgent problems demanded his attention.

  No use philosophizing. The reality is that the minerals have stopped arriving. The embargo has begun. The mental accounting, bitter and familiar, surfaced in his mind. We've lost our biggest source of income. And we have a giant mouth to feed: five thousand soldiers who need bread, gunpowder, and pay. Five thousand workers in the factories, with wages that cannot be delayed. The republic's farmers, who sell us food, expect their money at the end of the month...

  He stood up, walking to the window. The view was of the Republic's rooftops.

  Thank goodness I anticipated this, he thought, forcing strategic optimism. The textile industry is at maximum, producing uniforms, blankets, rags. The steam engines are already at the mill and the paper factory, the tool foundry... but that last one will wither without raw materials. Without iron, we become a spider without a web: we have the structure, but no way to repair or expand it. At least enough iron was stored to make more weapons and steam engines, I mean enough for our military campaign...

  Returning to the desk, he opened one of the maps drawn by Silvestre. The lines had improved greatly with Quixotina's help, showing the rivers, clearings, and the location of every plantation they had liberated, marked with a small red flag.

  He's a natural talent, Carlos reflected, a light pride softening his worry. He's mapped our current territory. But the future... is between the lines. His eyes scanned the blank areas, the vast expanses of virgin forest beyond the Republic's control. If this world is geographically different... perhaps, perhaps, that hides an advantage. In my world, iron was scarce here. But here... who knows if there isn't a damned deposit, a vein of ore the Portuguese never found, right in our backyard?

  The idea sparked a glimmer of hope. It was a shot in the dark, but it was better than standing still.

  "Marina!" he called, his voice echoing in the silent hallway.

  A few moments later, the young woman appeared in the doorway. Her curly hair was a defiant crown around an intelligent, attentive face.

  "President?"

  "Please, call the Minister of Education here. It's urgent."

  Quixotina arrived in less than ten minutes, her practical linen dress whispering against the wooden floor. Her scarlet eyes scanned Carlos quickly, catching the tension in his shoulders.

  "Carlos? What's wrong? Has the situation worsened?"

  "In a way. And in another, it might be an opportunity." He picked up three stones of different colors and textures from a tray and carefully placed them on the desk between them. "You've explored the Jaguar Forest a lot, haven't you? More than any of us. Have you ever come across any stone that looked like these?"

  Quixotina approached, leaning over the desk. Her slender fingers passed over the surface of the rocks. The first was heavy, dark gray with a reddish metallic sheen where the light hit. The second was smoother, almost black and magnetically attractive. The third was brownish-yellow, earthy.

  "They're... interesting," she said, with the honesty of someone who doesn't know. "I've seen stones of similar colors, of course. The forest is full of them. But I've never stopped to study them."

  Carlos pointed to each one, his voice taking on a didactic tone that came naturally when the subject was technology.

  "This is hematite. The most common for extracting iron. This, magnetite, is even richer. And this is goethite, another source. If you find any of these in quantity, Quixotina, it's like finding a vein of gold for us. Better than gold, actually. It's steel. It's tools. It's cannon."

  She shook her head, a mix of frustration and curiosity on her face.

  "Unfortunately, I can't say for sure. Stones were never my forte. Trees, trails, rivers... yes. But what's beneath them..." she made a gesture of helplessness.

  Carlos sighed but didn't seem surprised.

  "That's fine. It's what I expected. But you can help me in a way no one else can." He fixed his eyes on her, serious. "Quixotina, would you be willing to go adventuring again? This time, not to fight, but to search."

  Her eyes instantly brightened, as if someone had lit a lantern inside her. The ministerial stiffness vanished, replaced by the excitement of the knight-explorer.

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  "Back to the forest? With a purpose? Carlos, you don't even need to ask! I'd love to!"

  "Excellent," he said, a slight smile touching his lips. He unrolled Silvestre's map. "I want you to go with Silvestre. His aerial view and your ground knowledge are the perfect combination. Your objective: to prospect. Search for these minerals, or any sign of them—riverbeds with dark, heavy sand, rocky outcrops with these colorations. And while you're at it, perfect this map. Fill in the blanks. Mark everything that's different: waterfalls, caves, flooded areas... and any other strange minerals you find." He raised a finger in warning. "But your work in Education is still the priority. This is an extra mission, in your free time or on weekends. It can't interfere with the school."

  "You can count on me! I'll organize everything!" she said, almost bouncing. "Can I take the stones to study them better? I want to memorize the weight, the texture..."

  "Of course. They are your reference samples."

  Quixotina picked up the stones carefully, as if they were precious eggs. She stood there for a moment, turning the magnetite in her hand, lost in thought. Something seemed to worry her.

  "Carlos..." she began hesitantly. "Can I take Silvana too? Silvestre's sister?"

  Carlos frowned.

  "The wolf-girl? Why? I think it's risky to take a child on an expedition like that. Silvestre at least can fly to get away or get an overview..."

  "It's just that..." Quixotina shrugged, her expression one of rare vulnerability. "She's very lonely. At school, the other children are afraid. She's shy, hides, doesn't approach anyone. Silvestre told me that when he's working on reconnaissance flights, she stays in a corner of the orphanage, just watching, not interacting with anyone... It's as if she's trapped between two worlds and belongs to neither."

  Poor kid, thought Carlos, his heart tightening. He knew the pain of displacement all too well.

  "Alright," he conceded after a moment. "You can take her. But with strict conditions. You take one of the pistols we got from the Church. And her safety is your absolute responsibility. It's not a child's adventure, it's work."

  Quixotina's face lit up with a grateful smile.

  "Thank you, Carlos! It'll be good for her, I know. We... we'll be the 'Republic's Exploration Group'! I need to think of a better name... maybe 'The Prospectors'? 'The Pioneers'?"

  Laughing at her sudden burst of enthusiasm, Carlos watched her leave excitedly, the stones held securely against her chest. In the hallway, she nearly bumped into Nia, who was arriving at the door.

  The Minister of Industry was the very image of exhaustion. Her eyes, normally so lively and curious, were sunken with dark circles. Her fingers were stained with grease, and a stray hair from her stubborn bun fell over her soot-smeared face. She arrived and leaned against the doorframe, as if she didn't have the strength to take another step.

  "It's done," she announced, her voice hoarse and flat, laden with a bone-deep weariness.

  Carlos jumped to his feet, the earlier worry replaced by renewed hope.

  "You're saying that... the repeating arms and ammunition factories are ready? Operational?"

  "Ready, tested, and already spitting out the first products," Nia confirmed with a sigh that seemed to take her last energy. "Come with me. You better see it with your own eyes and explain the operation to the workers and production staff. I know it's my job, but..." she rubbed her face, "...I'm spent. I was up all night adjusting the last conveyor. It was one problem after another: a belt slipped, a boiler lost pressure, a mold clogged... And it wasn't just operating, I had to redesign half the steam engines to adapt to the specific production line for the rifle parts. My brain feels like mush."

  "You're incredible, Nia," Carlos said, genuinely impressed. "Let's go. Show me this marvel. You can go sleep at your place afterward."

  He followed her out, the weight of the iron problem momentarily lifted by the concrete triumph awaiting them on the other side of the city.

  The "Republic's Armaments Factory" occupied a large masonry shed. The sound coming from inside was no longer the sporadic hammering of blacksmiths, but a continuous, rhythmic roar, a nascent industrial symphony. The air was hot, heavy, and smelled of hot oil, steam, hot metal, and burnt wood.

  Nia led Carlos straight to the heart of the noise. Two enormous steam engines, their flywheels spinning with hypnotic force, transmitted motion through a tangle of leather belts and shafts to various workstations.

  "Look there," Nia said, having to almost shout over the noise. She pointed to a series of workbenches where the workers, with expressions ranging from frightened to concentrated, handled parts. "The barrel line. The main shaft powers the precision lathes. The iron bar is fixed, and the steam-powered cutting tool does the uniform work. A barrel that would take an artisan a day to make comes out here every twenty minutes, and they're all identical."

  Carlos watched, fascinated. It was a rudimentary but undeniably efficient version of the manufacturing he knew.

  "The tolerance? Is the thickness uniform?" he asked, his technical eye assessing.

  "The tightest we could manage," Nia replied with professional pride even in her exhaustion. "We test every tenth batch. If there's variation, we adjust the fixture or the tool. This is where the steam engines work their magic: constant force, perfect repetitive motion."

  They moved to the next section, where a steam-powered press rose and fell with a powerful, regular thud.

  "The breech and the bolt," she explained. "We forge the blanks in a separate, still manual forge, but the finishing, the fittings, the pin holes... it's all done here. The press cuts and shapes, the steam-powered drills make the holes. Precision is the key to the bolt not jamming."

  Carlos nodded, understanding perfectly. They're learning the language of standardization. It's a concept as new as the rifle itself.

  The last part of the line was quieter but no less important: the wood stock. Steam-powered circular saws cut the hardwood planks to the exact shape, and then steam-powered sanders (basically rotating drums with sandpaper) gave the finish.

  "The wood part is the easiest to adapt," Nia commented. "But even here, it's faster and more uniform than doing it by hand."

  She led Carlos to a table at the back, where dozens of Republic Model 1 rifles were lined up, gleaming with fresh oil, next to boxes of metal cartridges.

  "The final assembly line is still manual," she admitted. "The workers put together the barrel, the breech, the bolt, the spring, the trigger, and the stock. But because all the parts are interchangeable, it's just a matter of fitting them together. No need to adjust anything with a file. This one—" she picked up a rifle and handed it to Carlos, "—you can disassemble and reassemble with parts from any other rifle in that pile. That's the principle."

  Carlos examined the weapon. It was heavy, solid, well-made. A product of his knowledge and the sweat and genius of Nia and her team.

  "It's magnificent, Nia. You've performed a miracle." He looked at her, seeing she could barely stand. "Now, your mission is to rest. I'll train the production operators myself. You've transmitted the knowledge. Now, let the machine—human and metal—run."

  Nia just nodded, without the strength to argue. The roar of the steam engines, which to Carlos sounded like the music of progress, was now a lullaby leading her, finally, to a welcome collapse. The future of the Republic, at least the future of its firepower, was now secured, rolling on belts and spinning on shafts, in that smoke-filled shed of hope.