Chapter 150: School Conspiracy

He rode hard toward the exit, two servants following close behind. Carlos mounted his horse at once, while the servants took their own and spurred forward after him. In less than half an hour they reached Medellín, yet Carlos seemed possessed—heedless of streets, people, or calls—riding straight toward the warehouse still under construction.

Upon arriving, he dismounted abruptly and stormed toward a man who was issuing orders to the workers. The man barely had time to turn before Carlos struck him with a heavy blow to the face. As the man staggered, the two servants seized his arms, and Carlos pressed the edge of his sword against the man’s throat. Sweat poured down his face.

“Sir… sir, please—wait,” the man begged, his voice trembling. “Tell me what has happened. Do not do something you may later regret.”

Carlos sneered coldly.”Tell me,” he said, his voice low and venomous, “what did you report to me as the matter at the school?”

Martin swallowed hard, confusion written across his face.”Sir, I swear—it was said that a teacher struck a student, and that the boy’s father, enraged, attacked the teacher in return.”

Carlos’ grip tightened. He raised the sword slightly, preparing to strike.

Seeing death before him, Martin panicked.”Sir, I swear that is what the school’s director told me! I did not investigate further—I have spent all my time overseeing the warehouse and had no leisure to look deeper into the affair. When I heard of the disturbance, I went directly to the director, and he assured me it was nothing more than a frightened father reacting to a slap upon his son’s face. I believed him and departed, trusting that the school would settle the matter internally.”

Carlos frowned, the sword still raised. Its cold glint made Martin tremble; sweat streamed down his face, and he very nearly lost control of himself. At last, Carlos lowered the blade and spoke in a voice devoid of warmth.

“Follow me. The rest of you—return to your duties. Leave a competent man in charge of the construction and accompany us.”

Though still burning with anger, Carlos had regained some measure of control. What enraged him more than the injury to the child was the audacity of the man he had entrusted with authority—someone who had dared to lie to his face. If the director of the school was indeed the deceiver, then Martin’s fault lay more in negligence than malice. Still, the fact remained: a teacher had beaten a student into unconsciousness, and that alone was intolerable.

Martin hastily placed one of his assistants in charge and mounted his horse. Fear and rage churned within him as he followed in silence, cursing under his breath the director who had nearly cost him his life. He swore inwardly that if the man had lied, he would see him ruined.

They soon reached the school.

It was a large structure built of Roman cement and stone, its scale betraying the vast ambition behind Francisco’s plans. Many classrooms stood empty, a silent testament to how much was yet to be filled. Open sections of the walls, barred with wood, allowed air and sunlight to pass freely through the building. The administrative offices lay to the left.

Carlos strode forward without hesitation, Martin and the servants close behind. At the entrance, a man stepped forward and raised his voice.

“Who are you? Have you permission to enter, or have you come to cause disorder? This school belongs to the Gómez family—best you leave at once and avoid trouble.”

The moment the words left the man’s mouth, Carlos’s fury, which had begun to cool, flared anew.

“Beat him,” Carlos ordered coldly. “Beat him until he remembers the face of the owner.”

The servants exchanged a brief glance, then drew their swords—keeping them sheathed—and struck the man repeatedly. He cried out in panic.

“Wait! Guards! Guards! I am being attacked—help!”

The cries drew several guards from within the school, but the moment they recognized Carlos, they averted their eyes and quietly withdrew. Understanding at last whom he had offended, the man fell silent, his courage utterly broken.

Carlos stepped over him and entered the building.

He crossed the corridor at speed and, without knocking, kicked open the door to the director’s office. The sudden crash startled the teachers gathered inside. Among them stood Mutis apprentice, his eyes widening slightly at Carlos’s decisiveness and barely restrained fury.

“Can you tell me,” Carlos said coldly, “why you lied about the situation, you bastard?”

The director—a short, heavyset man with a pointed goatee that made him resemble a bloated goat, a look common among men from Santa Marta—straightened himself and frowned.

“And who might you be, sir?” he replied with forced indignation. “Do you realize you are committing a crime by storming into this building? This school belongs to the Gómez family, one of the richest houses in Antioquia. Are you perhaps a friend or relative of that useless mestizo?”

Carlos’s face darkened, his expression tightening to the point it seemed ready to explode. Behind him, Martin silently cursed the fool for invoking the very family he served without even recognizing its head. He cleared his throat sharply.

“He is Señor Carlos Gómez,” Martin said. “Patriarch of the Gómez family.”

The director scoffed and turned his disdain toward Martin.

“And who are you to—”He stopped mid-sentence. “Wait… Señor Martín, did you just say… Gómez?”

The blood drained from his face. His arrogance collapsed in an instant. He bowed his head hastily.

“S-sir, my apologies. I did not know you were the master.”

Carlos sneered.

“And would it change anything if I were not?” he replied. “Judging by your conduct—and by how freely you wield my family’s name—I wondered for a moment whether I had misplaced some particularly foolish cousin. Now answer my god damn question.”

He stepped closer, his voice rising like a drawn blade.

“Why did you lie about the situation, you lying bastard?”

The outburst made several nearby priests instinctively cross themselves at the blasphemy, though none dared speak. They knew well enough what had happened—and they were no less angered by the director’s actions.

“S-sir, that is because—” the man stammered, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, unable to form an answer.

Martin snapped.

Before Carlos could intervene, Martin seized the director by the collar and struck him hard. Then again. And again.

“You miserable dog!” Martin roared. “I nearly lost my head because of your lies, and now you stand here in silence? I’ll kill you!”

He punched and kicked without restraint. The director’s cries grew shrill, almost animal, the sound chilling even to Carlos.

“Enough!” Carlos barked. “At this rate you’ll kill him.”

But Martin, half-consumed by fury, did not hear. Carlos was forced to signal the servants, who rushed forward and pulled Martin back by the arms. Even restrained, he struggled, still trying to reach the man.

When order was finally restored, Carlos stepped forward, grabbed the bloodied director by the collar, and hauled him upright.

“Now listen carefully,” Carlos said quietly, his voice far more terrifying than his shouting had been.”Tell me why you lied to me—or I will ensure that my friend Martín here enjoys a long, private weekend with you in the mountains.”

He leaned in closer.

“You understand what I mean.”

The fat director’s eyes filled with tears as his courage finally broke.

“I—I will tell you,” he said hastily. “I swear I will. Just… please keep him away from me.”

Carlos nodded once, his expression unreadable.

“Then speak.”

The director swallowed hard. He knew he stood at the edge of a precipice.

“Sir… before I tell you everything,” he said trembling, “I beg you—secure my family first.”

Carlos frowned.

“Secure your family?” he asked sharply. “Who are you afraid of?”

The man hesitated, his lips quivering, before finally whispering,

“The Castro family, sir. They are behind this—together with certain men of the Church. If I speak, they will not wait even a day before taking revenge. I fear my wife and children will be dead by tomorrow. Please… help me secure them, and I will tell you everything.”

Carlos took out a cigar, his movements slow and deliberate. Much now made sense. Whenever the Castro family was involved, matters were never simple.

He was about to light it when suddenly—

Snap.

A young professor stepped forward and broke the cigar cleanly in two, his face serious but controlled.

“Sir,” the man said calmly, “I understand your position. But this school is a sacred place for students. I would ask that you refrain from smoking here.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow and studied him carefully.

“And you must be José Félix de Restrepo y Vélez,” Carlos said at last, “disciple of the sage Mutis.”

José nodded without hesitation.

“That is correct, sir.”

Carlos inclined his head slightly, then turned back to the director.

“Give my servants the address of your family,” Carlos said coldly. “If what you tell me is sufficient, I will ensure they are sent to Panamá—along with you.”

The director closed his eyes in despair.

Panamá.

If New Granada was harsh, Panamá was hell within hell—fever, rot, insects, death lurking in every breath. The mortality there was infamous. Yet he understood immediately: this was not a choice, but mercy.

Tears streamed down his face as he nodded.

“Yes… yes, sir,” he whispered. “I understand.”

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