Chapter 214: Los Motilones-Bari

Once they reached the estate, Kruger began silently judging its defenses. He was surprised to find they were not as poor as he had expected. After speaking with Carlos, he had imagined the servants would be idle—some even asleep or negligent in their duties—but instead they were alert and active.

His eyes lit up slightly. Perhaps Carlos’s treatment of his men could become the foundation of a capable army. Still, as a Prussian, he saw far too many flaws in their organization. Rather than pointing them out himself, he signaled one of his soldiers.

“Tell me,” he said, “what weaknesses do you see in the patrols of this estate?”

A scarred veteran named Steinhof stepped forward. He did not even look directly at the servants; he had already memorized their patterns during the ride up the driveway. Standing rigidly at attention, eyes fixed on the horizon, he spoke with the cold, rhythmic precision of a training manual.

“General, they have good spirit—but their predictability is suicidal.”

Kruger nodded, watching a patrol of three servants walking along the veranda, their muskets held too tightly against their chests.

“Elaborate, Steinhof. Teach our host’s servants the problem with their so-called security.”

“First,” Steinhof said, pointing a gloved finger toward the edge of the coffee groves, “the rhythm of the patrols is predictable. They pass the main gate every seven minutes, exactly. A child with a pocket watch could time his entry to the second. They are not watching for shadows—they are watching the clock, waiting for their shift to end.”

Kruger let out a dry, mirthless chuckle.”And the placement?”

“Abysmal, sir,” Steinhof continued. “They stand in the pools of light cast by the lanterns. They think the light protects them, but it only turns them into silhouettes. A rifleman in the treeline would not even need to aim—only fire at the glowing targets. Furthermore, they cluster in groups of three and talk to keep their spirits up. If someone with hostile intent attacked the estate, this would be suicide. They are likely accustomed to fighting enemies who scream before charging, which is why they do not fear the light.”

Kruger felt a trace of smug satisfaction. As a father, he had always searched for faults in the man who had taken his daughter. Even now—after her death, and despite knowing Carlos had devoted himself to her memory—his pride would not allow him to see his son-in-law kindly. He hoped these criticisms would reach Carlos’s ears through the servants.

But when he looked at the servant beside him, he found the man staring back with an odd expression.

Kruger frowned, irritation rising.”What is that look, boy? Did I say something wrong?”

The servant gave a small chuckle before answering respectfully.

“With all due respect, sir, my master told me you come from Prussia, so perhaps wars there are different. But here in the New World, war can be far crueler—and we are quite experienced in silent warfare. Your men have been watching the patrols on the porch…”

He paused slightly.

“…but they have missed the eyes in the canopy.”

The servant let out a short, sharp whistle—a sound that mimicked the call of a night bird.

Suddenly, the “empty” treeline seemed to breathe.

At first, it was nothing more than a suggestion—an almost imperceptible ripple passing through the leaves. Then, high above, hidden among the thick branches, the vegetation shifted again. Not enough to reveal faces, not enough to expose bodies—only enough to confirm a presence.

Kruger’s jaw tightened.

He scanned the canopy, searching for outlines, for movement, for anything his training could classify as a target. There was nothing. No glint of metal. No silhouette. Even his soldiers, veterans hardened by years of campaign, remained frozen, unable to say where the watchers were concealed.

For the first time, a prickle of unease crept up Kruger’s spine.

Only then did he draw a slow, deliberate breath and speak, forcing calm into his voice.

“May I ask… what kind of servants those are? Their skill in hiding is… impressive.”

The servant allowed himself a faint smile as the movement in the vegetation faded, leaving the forest eerily still, as if the sound had been imagined.

“Those are not merely servants, General,” he said quietly. “They are Los Motilones—a legend even the Spanish fear. There are rumors that the Crown has tried many times to bring ’civilization’ to their tribes. Yet whenever soldiers enter their territory, they vanish without a trace. People say the jungle itself swallows them, and so no one dares to return.”

He paused before continuing.

“They do not show themselves because they do not see us as equals—only as servants of Carlos. Only for my master are they willing to reveal their faces. I was fortunate enough to see them once. Their faces are painted with rare pigments, and they move with the silence of a leopard. They do not walk the perimeter… they are the perimeter. While your men counted the steps of our porch guards, those hunters already had your throats in their sights the moment you crossed into this land.”

The servant then pointed toward the ground, at a patch of ferns that appeared perfectly undisturbed.

“You spoke of geometry and fields of fire. Look instead at the escudos de caña—the reed shields leaning against the walls. You believe they are for protection. They are not. They are for misdirection. Inside their woven layers are pockets of dried chili and gunpowder. If an enemy charges, we do not simply hide behind them—we cast them into the torches, creating a cloud of burning spice and smoke that blinds intruders while we move freely through it.”

The butler stepped forward, his eyes glinting faintly.

“We do not build with stone because stone is predictable. Unless one could raise a fortress like the great walls of Cartagena, stone would only become a trap. Here, stone is more dangerous than protection. The jungle, however… the jungle lies.”

His voice lowered.

“We prepare falsos suelos—false floors covered in thorns, and pits filled with wasps’ nests triggered by hidden wires. We do not need battle lines, General. We need the enemy to feel that every leaf brushing his shoulder is a knife… and every sound he hears is his last.”

Kruger remained silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting back to the trees.

He understood then that if he had tried to seize this house by strict Prussian doctrine, his men would have been killed from above before ever reaching the front door.

“It is… unorthodox,” Kruger finally muttered, though his mind was already racing, trying to imagine how such ghosts could ever be integrated into his rigid formations.

A question pressed itself into his thoughts before he could stop it.

How was he able to obtain the loyalty of such men?If they were truly as proud as the servant claimed—fierce enough to ignore the Spanish Crown and destroy any who entered their lands—then subduing them should have been impossible.Unable to keep the question to himself, Kruger turned and quietly voiced his doubt to the servant.

The servant merely shrugged.

“We are not certain, sir. What we do know is that, although they are considered subordinates of Don Carlos, he treats them with the utmost respect. He even sends treasures to their homeland—though no one but Carlos knows where that place truly is. There are rumors he once saved someone important from their tribe, and in gratitude they gave him warriors to repay the debt… but no one knows the truth.”

Kruger fell silent.He lowered his head, partly in thought, partly to hide the sting of embarrassment. He was beginning to understand that he must first learn this land before daring to judge it again.

At the same time, his mind searched for countermeasures against these unseen hunters.Orthodox tactics would be useless. Unless one burned the entire jungle to ash, how could an army ever fight ghosts?

When they finally entered the estate, the servants began speaking rapidly in Spanish—too quickly for Kruger to follow. Yet he noticed the surprise in one servant’s eyes. The man nodded to another and quietly withdrew, leaving Kruger to be escorted inside.

The house was luxurious… and vulnerable.Still, he had to admit—it was also deeply comfortable.

As he walked toward the rear courtyard, a sharp sound caught his attention.

A small girl was training with a musket.

Kruger frowned immediately.He recognized her at once—his granddaughter—and a dull headache formed behind his eyes.

The child practiced with fierce concentration. The servants tried again and again to steady the weapon for her, to soften the recoil, yet she stubbornly insisted on holding it alone. She was young—far too young—but in her gaze burned something he had seen only in his most elite soldiers:

determination.

And those soldiers, he knew well, were always the most impossible to dissuade.

Now he understood Carlos’s headache.

The girl heard a voice from the entrance and lifted one small eyebrow.She turned—and saw him watching.

For the first time, Kruger saw not a soldier, but a child.She smiled.

Carelessly, she tossed the musket to a servant and ran toward him.

When she came close enough, Kruger felt his breath catch.Her face was so painfully similar to his daughter’s that, despite all his discipline, the stern mask he wore began to crack—

and his eyes reddened.

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