Chapter 185: The Broken Covenant

The soldiers left the area with their morale shattered. Men who had sworn before God to protect the weak had been forced to slaughter them instead, not out of necessity, but for politics. The contradiction gnawed at them, hollowing their spirits. The thought that they might be ordered to do the same again in Medellín weighed even heavier, like a stone pressing against their chests.

A day later, the surviving indigenous warriors returned, naively believing that this time would be no different from the last.

“Sir,” one of them said, stepping forward, “we should gather supplies and follow the army. That way, we can still recover at least part of what we lost. I saw it clearly—their cavalry is too heavy. They cannot pursue us for long. We can harass them, exhaust their horses, and then strike. Their armor and lances are made entirely of iron; once they slow down, they are vulnerable.”

Melchor nodded thoughtfully. This time, they had been taken completely by surprise—that was why the defeat had been so absolute. The cavalry they had faced before was usually light: mounted archers, scattered scouts, never a wall of iron like this. The most terrifying part was not even the charge, but the realization that their muskets had done nothing. Bullets had bounced uselessly from armor as if those men were immune to lead.

For now, his priority was the town. He had to speak to the people, to soothe their grief, before leading the survivors out again. After all, nearly half of their warriors were dead.

“We should do that,” Melchor said quietly, his voice heavy with regret. “There will be widows now. Children without fathers. Families who deserve compensation, or at least words. We were careless. It should have been obvious they would correct their weaknesses before attacking again.”

“Hey—what is that smoke?” a warrior suddenly asked.

Everyone turned. From the distance, a vast column of dark smoke rose into the sky, thick and restless.

“Wait,” another whispered, his face draining of color. “Isn’t that… our town?”

Panic erupted.

The indigenous warriors broke into a run, abandoning all order. They moved with desperate speed, leaping over roots and rocks, bodies cutting through the terrain with the agility of men born to it. The closer they came, the paler their faces grew. Some sprinted straight toward where their homes had once stood. Others collapsed to their knees, sobbing openly.

Melchor stood frozen.

There were no screams. No cries for help. Only fire and blood.

He walked slowly through the ruins, past blackened walls and fallen beams, until he reached the only structure still standing—the church. He stepped inside. The air smelled of smoke and melted wax. A few candles still burned, their flames trembling.

He approached the crucifix and fell to his knees.

Tears streamed down his face as he whispered, “Why didn’t you protect them, God? Why did you allow those cursed fanatics to butcher my people—my family? Answer me. Is this punishment for following the king you placed above us? Or for the blood I have spilled in his name?”

Silence filled the church. No answer came. Only the faint flicker of candlelight reflected off the wooden cross.

“Very well,” he whispered, his voice breaking into something raw and savage. “If you are unwilling to protect my people, then perhaps the gods of my ancestors will.”

His eyes burned as he spat the words at the crucifix.”I curse you for letting my people die at the hands of those who follow you. From this day forward, we will cleanse these lands of Christians. We will purify them of those who enslaved our ancestors.”

With a roar of unfiltered fury, Melchor swept his arm across the altar.

The heavy tallow candles crashed into the dry velvet of the altar cloths. At first, only a thin blue flame licked the fabric—but it spread with hungry speed. Fire climbed the ancient cedar beams, roaring as if the church itself were breathing its last.

Smoke flooded the nave. The gilded saints began to weep.

Gold leaf—once a symbol of divine glory—blistered and peeled away, melting and dripping onto the stone floor like molten tears. The heat warped the air, and the shadows cast by the flames made the wooden Christ upon the cross appear to writhe in agony.

Melchor stood before it, the heat searing his skin, yet he did not flinch.

“This is no longer a temple,” he murmured through the acrid smoke. “It is a furnace of lies.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Your god died on a tree,” he said. “But my gods are the mountain and the fire. And they have just awakened.”

He turned his back as the roof groaned and cracked above him. Behind him, the great bells of San Jerónimo tore loose from their rotted towers, crashing through the floor with a thunderous finality—a sound like the death rattle of a faith.

That night, among the survivors, a decision was made.

A group of indigenous men—no longer willing to see their people butchered in the name of the cross—formed a faction of their own. They would no longer fight for crowns or bishops. They would become a terror to the colonies themselves, a shadow that would haunt not only the empire, but perhaps even the future republic yet to be born.

But that was a story for another time.

Meanwhile, far to the east, Krugger and his men were reaching the heights of Boquerón.

“Sir,” one of the soldiers reported, consulting the guides, “according to them, we are close. From Boquerón, Medellín is only four hours away, more or less.”

The man’s voice carried barely contained excitement—the promise of leaving the mountains behind was enough to lift even exhausted spirits.

“That’s good,” Krugger replied. “We lost at least ten men on this march. Make sure these experiences are passed on to the men in San Andrés. They’ll need to be better prepared when they come to the mainland.”

He raised his voice. “All right. Take time to eat. If we keep this pace, you may sleep in Medellín tonight.”

Cheers broke out among the ranks. Men dropped where they stood, some sitting atop supply crates, others collapsing against packs and rifles. A few wandered off toward the tree line to relieve themselves.

Krugger walked toward the edge of the heights, gazing down at the land below.

A guide, noticing his interest, rose and joined him.”Sir,” he said quietly, pointing downward, “that trail there is the Iguana Canyon. It’s the common route for those traveling from Santa Fe to Medellín.”

Krugger nodded slowly, committing the terrain to memory.

Krugger frowned, studying the terrain with a strategist’s eye. This place felt dangerously perfect for an ambush. He couldn’t help but voice the thought.

“I wouldn’t risk marching an armed force through that canyon,” he said quietly. “From here, it would be easy to destroy any army foolish enough to pass below.”

The guide shrugged. “I’m not well-versed in military matters, sir. But perhaps that is precisely why no one expects an attack here. Reaching this place is not easy. Most armies believe no one would willingly suffer through the mountain range to get this far. The fog alone is enough to make men lose their way—like those two soldiers.”

At the mention of the lost men, the guide’s voice lowered.

“This place is called the Ghost Forest. Between the mist, the cold, and the terrain, it discourages any attempt at movement. Without a capable guide, an entire army could vanish here.”

Krugger fell silent.

Seen from that angle, the route was less of a threat and more of a natural barrier. No commander in his right mind would gamble thousands of men on such ground. After a moment, he asked,

“We don’t need to pass through the canyon itself, do we?”

The guide shook his head. “No, sir. From here, we follow the ridge path. We stay on the spine of the mountain, skirting the canyon from above, until the forest opens and the valley floor comes into view. We do not march through the river. We march above it—over the sky.”

Krugger exhaled slowly, relief softening his expression.

“That will do,” he said. “We’ll rest briefly, then move. I wonder if that son-in-law is still alive.”

The guide did not answer immediately.

He had heard enough rumors about Medellín to understand the situation: three forces locked in conflict, each distrustful of the others. Of them all, this group—the one he now guided—was going to the weakest. The risk of annihilation was real.

And yet…

Looking at the soldiers resting behind them, the guide knew that if these men reached Medellín alive, everything would change. Two hundred men were not enough to conquer New Granada—but they were more than enough to train an army loyal to the Gómez family. Their strength could double, perhaps more.

After months in the mountains, many of them had already adapted to the continent. The fevers that killed newcomers no longer touched them. Unless they actively sought death—through venomous beasts or reckless marches—they would survive.

He opened his mouth, intending to offer words of reassurance.

Suddenly, Krugger moved.

In one sharp motion, he shoved the guide backward and dropped low, his hand signaling urgently. His voice cut through the thin mountain air in a fierce whisper.

“Down. Soldiers—down. Now.”

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