The predominant smell now was that of fine, dry dust kicked up by the advance, mixed with the heavy, sickly-sweet odor of fear emanating from the closed-up houses of Ouro Branco. Whisper was motionless, her cheek pressed against the polished wooden stock of her rifle, her skin feeling every grain of the surface. Her eyes, already burning from prolonged concentration, swept the battlefield through the magnifying lens, a world reduced to shapes, shadows, and suspicious movements.

  The sound was a cacophony distant and near: the tromp of the Republic infantry's boots advancing in formation, the short shouts of sergeants, the muffled crying of a child from some shuttered window in the city, and, occasionally, the solitary bang of a musket from a side street.

  Her mission was clear: be the long-range eyes, the silent sentinel. She scanned rooftops, slightly open windows, alleys. The infantry was advancing, vulnerable in open ground. Any adept with a long-range offensive power could wreak havoc.

  That's when she saw him. At the top of the bell tower of the main church, a male figure leaned over the parapet. The late afternoon light glinted off an unsheathed blade he held—and it wasn't just steel. At the base of the sword, embedded in the guard, a gem of a vivid, pulsing orange glittered. The Fire Gem.

  Target identified. Fire Adept, area attack potential, the thought was quick, automatic. He seemed to be muttering something, perhaps praying to Ogum, Orixá of iron, technology, and war, while watching a platoon approaching the main square.

  Whisper didn't lose a millisecond. She exhaled halfway, holding her breath. Her index finger, already curled around the trigger with a constant, familiar pressure, completed the movement. The crack of the shot was a dry, authoritative sound, almost muffled by the ear protection. The recoil, a firm, welcome push against her shoulder.

  Through the lens, she saw the man's head jerk back in a sudden, unnatural movement. The sword fell from his fingers, spinning in the air, the gem tracing a fleeting red arc before disappearing behind the parapet. The body gave way and vanished from view.

  She didn't even have time to reposition the weapon. A quick movement in the lower left corner of her field of vision made her shift the barrel slightly. From a balcony of a townhouse, a man in a light tunic—a Wind Adept—leaped, propelled by a gust under his feet. His plan was clear and desperate: to land in the middle of the compact infantry formation and cause chaos.

  But he never reached the ground. Before his feet touched the hard earth of the street, a hail of projectiles came from different points. It wasn't just concentrated fire from one unit, but shots from rooftops, from windows of already-seized buildings, from behind improvised barricades. The coordination was tacit, instantaneous. The adept was jolted in mid-air, his body spinning before crashing heavily onto the stones, motionless.

  Whisper allowed herself a small sigh, lowering the weapon for a moment to wipe the sweat from her eyes. She wasn't the only one. Other elite snipers, other Vision Adepts scattered across the heights, formed a network of alert and elimination. Information was whispered into small field radios or transmitted via hand signals. "Ice Adept, Rua das Flores, second floor."

  This silent synergy was relentless. The organized resistance in Ouro Branco, already shaken by the fall of the fort, disintegrated rapidly. What remained were pockets of desperate resistance, easily contained, and many, many who simply surrendered or hid.

  It didn't take long—a few tense hours, but without major battles—for Ouro Branco to be considered captured. The Republic's army, with remarkable discipline, occupied strategic points: the town hall, the municipal guard barracks (empty), the grain depots, the city exits. There were still adepts hidden among the populace, of course. The occasional glow of a gem concealed under civilian clothes, the overly intense gaze of someone on a corner. But they were few, and even fewer were willing to face, alone, the well-oiled war machine that now occupied their streets. The price was certain annihilation, and many chose to blend into the terrified crowd, saving their powers for another day.

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  And, in the minds of almost everyone—from the common soldier soaked in sweat to the relieved corporal—a question began to echo, first as an incredulous whisper, then as a disconcerting certainty: "Was it really that easy?"

  ***

  Among these people, in his command post now established in the former mayor's office, Specter was thinking exactly the same thing. He watched through the broken window the orderly movement of his troops in the square, the setting sun painting the green uniforms with orange hues.

  Was it really that easy? The thought reverberated, not with euphoria, but with a cold, critical analysis. His hands, resting on the windowsill, felt the cold of the stone.

  He knew the power of the new weapons, the combined tactic of long-range artillery, elite suppression, and coordinated advance. He had theorized, calculated, planned. But seeing the theory materialize with such eerily efficient precision... was something else.

  I expected fierce resistance, prolonged street fighting, significant casualties, he reflected, watching a group of prisoners being led away without a fight. Instead, it was... simple. A military engineering problem solved with the right tools. The fort, the hardest point, fell to our artillery. The city, without its main defenses, surrendered psychologically before our infantry even crossed its gates.

  His gaze, however, wasn't fixed on the scene of victory before him. He looked to the east, in the direction of the mental map he carried in his head. The original plan, meticulous and cautious, was to consolidate Ouro Branco, fortify it, use it as a base to pressure the Holy City, the region's religious and political heart. From there, they could secure more agreements, more resources, perhaps more iron from the mines controlled by the Church. But it was a plan that consumed time. A lot of time.

  A new line of reasoning, agile and bold, began to form, fueled by the ease of today's victory.

  Perhaps we underestimated our own momentum, he thought, turning from the window and walking to the large table where maps were spread. His finger traced the distance between Ouro Branco and the coast. Capturing the Holy City might be simple, but it would take months to yield results, to secure more iron for the military industry. Meanwhile, our most critical stockpile would dwindle.

  His finger stopped at a point on the coast: White Sand. The region's main port, and, of course, where the governor's main forces were.

  Maria, from intelligence, was categorical in her last report, he remembered, almost hearing the spy's urgent voice. White Sand is overflowing. The port warehouses are full of high-quality iron ore, ore that was ours but was confiscated. Ships loaded to the brim with the same ore are anchored in the bay, waiting for favorable winds or for buyers, some were returning, but that means losing time and money.

  The calculation was clear and urgent. He sat down, picking up a pen.

  We are fighting against time in two ways, his mind ran the numbers. First: with each passing day, the Governor-General gathers his scattered forces. Recruits, trains, counter-attacks. Second, and more immediate: with each passing day, our ammunition—the bullets, the cartridges, the grenades, the cannon charges—is depleted. The factory in the Republic works at full capacity, but raw materials are the bottleneck.

  He looked at the map of White Sand, a juicy and strategic target.

  If, instead of focusing on the Holy City... we push straight for White Sand with this same speed and force... the idea took shape, tempting and dangerous. We capture the port. We seize not only the ore on the ships—which we could use immediately—but we also control the region's main point of entry and exit. We would strangle the governor's trade. We would fuel our own war machine.

  It was a risk. It would stretch their supply lines. It would divide their attention. But the reward... the reward could be the turning point that would secure not just a victory, but the sustainability of the war.

  He lifted his head, calling for his liaison officer.

  "Send a priority communication to command at the Mocambo. And summon the battalion commanders for a meeting. Now. We have a new route to consider."

  The ease of the victory at Ouro Branco wasn't just a triumph; it was a message. A message that perhaps speed and audacity were their greatest allies.