Chapter 210: The Rebuilding of Medellín

Kruger said, “You are right, Carlos. I do not know the customs of this New Granada. But I know a truth that is universal: only a disciplined army decides the fate of a nation. It does not matter how many peasants weep for the Crown or how many merchants whisper of freedom. The moment your army becomes the strongest on this continent, every mouth will fall silent, and every head will bow to you. Power is not granted, Carlos—it is seized with iron.”

Carlos frowned deeply. He walked toward Kruger, took a roll of tobacco from the table, and lit it. After a long drag, he said, “You know this isn’t what Francisco hopes for New Granada, don’t you?”

Kruger shrugged, his eyes glinting with a cold, predatory light.”I don’t care. I want to give him a nation. And now, seeing the weakness of Spain, I know this is the perfect time.

“I learned much from Frederick. I watched him take Silesia when the rest of Europe thought he was nothing more than a boy-king playing with toy soldiers. He did not wait for treaties or blessings from the Pope. He saw an opportunity, marched his grenadiers through the snow, and took what he wanted. He taught me that audacity is the greatest multiplier of force.

“He was the one who pulled me from the mud of the common ranks and placed an officer’s gorget around my neck—not because of my blood, but because I understood his oblique order. He showed us that a smaller, faster army, moving with the precision of a watch, can shatter an empire ten times its size.

“Spain is a giant with rotting legs, Carlos. Their generals are aristocrats who fear the sun, and their soldiers are hungry ghosts. If Frederick could hold back the combined might of Russia, Austria, and France during the Seven Years’ War with nothing but grit and discipline, then I can certainly take this ’New Granada’ and turn it into a fortress that will make the Spanish Crown tremble.

“And when that day comes—when Francisco returns—he can do whatever he wishes. If he wants freedom, he can claim it on his own terms. If he wants a crown, he can take it with those strange ideas of his. Once this whole territory is under our control, he will not waste his life trying to bind together so-called elites who would betray him at the first moment.

“You must understand something, Carlos: the Crown already considers you an enemy. The reason they do not move against you is not fear—it is because your strength is still insufficient to threaten them, and because your existence creates a balance against the fanatics.”

Carlos’s frown deepened.”What do you mean—a balance? Are they not afraid of the power we have gathered? You know we have nearly a thousand troops now. It may not be enough to threaten the whole colony, but it is enough to preserve the status quo. We are not harmless.”

Kruger looked at him with a faint, knowing smile.”And how many of those men belong to you personally? And how many depend on the goodwill of the elites of Antioquia and Rionegro to remain under arms—especially Rionegro? I hear the elites there are richer than most in Medellín. Am I wrong?”

Carlos fell silent. During his expansion, he had deliberately drawn in servants, slaves, and every fragment of military strength held by the local elites who surrendered to his house. In this way he had gathered an army of nearly a thousand men—far too small to confront Spain directly. His true strategy had always been different: to threaten the Crown with endless guerrilla resistance and force it to the negotiating table, where some form of autonomy might be won but it seems krugger isnt too keen to that tactic

“But you know maintaining troops is not cheap,” Carlos said at last. “And that boy, Francisco, pushed me to spend heavily on education as well. Because of the fanatics—and because of our… ambiguous position—most of our goods must pass through Spanish territory burdened with crushing taxes. The profits are miserable. If not for a little cement and alcohol smuggled by the slave traders, I do not know how we would pay for anything.”

Kruger nodded.”I have heard as much. Your son knows it too. In fact, he asked me to bring you several ideas. But we should discuss them once we reach Medellín. Tell me—do you intend to make Medellín the center of your command? A true capital?”

Carlos nodded, then slowly shook his head. He drew again on the tobacco, letting the smoke linger before answering.

“Honestly, I know very little about governing. My father may be a duke in Spain, but because I was never meant to inherit, they never taught me the arts of rule. In truth, they discouraged it. I have tried to learn on my own… but such knowledge is not easily gained.”

Kruger understood immediately. Francisco had told him that Carlos was, at heart, a merchant rather than a statesman—a man pushed into the colonies who learned trade instead of politics. Under such circumstances, ignorance of governance was not a failing but a consequence.

“Very well,” Kruger said. “Do not trouble yourself. I will teach you what little I learned in Prussia under Frederick the Great. At the same time, Francisco entrusted me with many documents—though, to be honest, I understand barely half of them. You should seek political allies who truly know the machinery of government… and learn from them.”

He rose from his chair and called to his men.

“Prepare everything. We march for Medellín. I confess I am eager to meet my granddaughter.”

The soldiers nodded and began to move at once.

Carlos inclined his head.”I will wait outside the village. And try to leave it intact—these people are already furious.”

Kruger shook his head.

“Impossible. I recommend you purchase the place from them. We will establish a training base here. The blockade at Boquerón Pass will not last forever. My plan is to build a stronghold in this valley—so that if the fanatics clear the rubble and attack, we can defend from here. And if one day we grow strong enough to advance west, this will become the front from which the invasion begins.”

“Are you truly planning to take all of New Granada? You know that will not be easy. And I am still worried about Isabella’s safety. Since the attempt on my life, I have forbidden her to leave the estate.”

Kruger, who had been packing documents into a wooden case, suddenly tightened his grip with such force that the lid nearly splintered.

“What did you say?” he roared. “Someone tried to kill you?”

The panic in his voice startled Carlos.

“Yes… though it was not meant exactly for me. We should speak of it later, at the mansion in Medellín.”

Kruger nodded, but something in his eyes had already shifted—something darker, more resolved.He had come prepared to sow chaos in this new continent, to carve his name into its history with iron and fire.

After stepping outside, Carlos glanced around.When he was certain no one was watching, he finally staggered, nearly collapsing to the ground.

Kruger’s punch had been far stronger than he had allowed himself to show. Pride alone—his refusal to appear weak before his father-in-law—had kept him standing inside the house. Now, with only his servants beside him, the consequences arrived all at once.

The servants hurried to support him, catching his weight before he could fall.

“Wait,” Carlos murmured, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Not a sound. I don’t want his soldiers telling him about this.”

He drew a slow, careful breath until the spinning in his head eased.At last he managed to straighten and walk again—though the world still swayed faintly at the edges of his vision.

After mounting their horses, they rode swiftly toward Medellín.A few hours later, they reached the city gates—and the change was immediate.

The air no longer carried only the familiar smells of woodsmoke and horse sweat. It was thick instead with the acrid bite of burning limestone and the heavy, sweet fermentation drifting from the new industrial distilleries.

Medellín had become a city of scars and scaffolding.

Great voids still marked the streets where the fanatics’ torches had devoured entire blocks a year earlier. Now those wounds were filling with the gray, rising skeletons of new buildings. These were not the humble adobe homes of the past. They climbed quickly upward in hard Roman cement, their smooth, cold walls resembling fortresses more than dwellings.

As they advanced toward the center, silence gave way to a restless symphony of languages.

In the markets, tall, pale Irish immigrants with sun-burned faces argued over grain prices with quick-tongued mestizo traders. The newcomers, wrapped in heavy wool unsuited to the valley heat, twisted their mouths awkwardly around Spanish words.

“¡Estafadores!” a red-haired man shouted, his voice ringing against a freshly cemented wall when a merchant tried to cheat him on a sack of corn.

A fight nearly erupted—until a passing patrol of Carlos’s militia cast a single warning glance. Armed and dressed in practical, uniform simplicity, they carried the quiet authority of a private army. The tension dissolved at once.

To the west, the mountains were no longer purely green. Dark mouths of newly opened mine shafts scarred the slopes. With the immigrants’ knowledge of deep-vein extraction, gold flowed faster than ever before.

Near the riverbanks, the chimneys of cement kilns and liquor factories poured black smoke into the pale Andean sky—a visible declaration of Carlos’s defiance against the Crown’s monopolies.

The city felt wealthy.But it was a nervous wealth.

There were fewer families in the streets, yet more laborers. More coin in motion, yet less laughter.The ghost of the Tragic Victory still lingered between the unfinished walls.

Kruger studied everything in silence.

He knew of Roman cement in theory—Francisco had described the discovery in detail, and he had heard engineers in Europe praise its strength—yet he had never seen it used on such a scale.He also knew that Francisco had opened a factory in Hannover, though he himself had been too occupied with training soldiers to pay it much attention.Now, seeing the surface up close, he was quietly surprised by how smooth it was.

At last he dismounted, stepping toward one of the new gray structures. He touched the hardened surface with a gloved hand, curiosity softening his otherwise iron expression.

“So this,” he said slowly, “is the famous Roman cement.”

He paused, then gave a faint, almost reluctant nod.

“It is strong… though too gray and ugly, if you ask me.”

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