Chapter 227: Krugger And His King’s Manual

“Your plan sounds logical,” Krüger said, though hesitation lingered in his voice. “But carrying it out means we must openly declare ourselves against Spain. I don’t know whether your father is willing — or able — to do that right now.”

He rubbed his temple, thinking aloud.

“If we make enemies of Spain now, we lose our ability to trade. And without money, raising an army becomes extremely difficult. Pesos without products are worthless. Even if we have rich gold mines in the region — even if we seize them — if we cannot trade that gold, it is as good as having none.”

Isabella blinked, absorbing his words.

“But first you need enough troops and that takes time,” she replied calmly. “And from what my father tells me, we have enough food on this continent to feed ourselves. If we take Maracaibo, they have excellent cattle and salted meat. Apart from a few luxury items and certain tools — which we can already produce here — do we really need anything from Europe? Am I wrong?”

Krüger fell silent.

He considered it carefully, far more carefully than he expected to. The smell of ink and warm wax drifted between them as the oil lamp flickered. She was young, yet her reasoning was sharp. Aside from specialized machinery and certain manufactured goods, the Americas lacked little. Food was abundant. Timber, iron, land — all plentiful. Slavery might be the one exception, but Carlos, Francisco, and he himself opposed it more than anyone.

It did not make sense to fear dependency if they were willing to endure a period of hardship.

Slowly, he smiled.

“You are right,” he admitted. “I will speak with your father. If everything goes well, we may follow your plan. Now tell me — what would you like as payment?”

Isabella lifted her head, astonished. “Is it that easy? I thought the question would be harder.” She thought for a moment. “If I must choose… I want Grandfather to teach me swordsmanship.”

Krüger sighed, though not unkindly. “You are too young for that. Your body has not developed the strength required. When you turn sixteen, I will teach you myself. Until then, ask for something else.”

She frowned, her small brows drawing together.

“Then take me shopping in Antioquia. Since my father’s accident, I haven’t been allowed to go. He used to trust my brother to accompany me, but now he is in Europe, and it’s become almost impossible for me to visit the villa. The servants say the place has changed too much.”

Krüger smiled helplessly. Anna had been the same — every visit meant hours in the markets, bargaining for fabrics and silver trinkets.

“Very well,” he said. “Tomorrow morning you will accompany me when I present the plan to your father. Afterward, we will walk around Medellín so you can see the changes yourself.”

Isabella’s eyes lit up. She jumped from her chair and stood straight.

“You promise?”

He nodded, feeling a strange warmth settle in his chest. Perhaps this was the first time he had truly acted like a grandfather to her.

“Let me finish the plan,” he said. “Then we return to the estate. I must discuss certain matters with Ogundele tonight. We’ll stay there, and tomorrow we do exactly as I promised.”

She nodded eagerly and bounced in place before finally settling down.

Krüger bent over the parchment again, adding details she had overlooked — recruitment among local colonists, possible alliances with Indigenous communities, supply routes through the mountains. His quill scratched steadily across the parchment, sharp and methodical as a clockmaker shaping brass gears.

The tent fell silent except for the distant murmur of guards changing posts and the faint clang of metal from the camp outside. The air smelled of leather, ink, and damp canvas.

Isabella wandered idly, searching for something to occupy herself. Her gaze drifted across maps pinned to the canvas walls, across a polished pair of pistols resting beside a folded military coat.

Then she noticed it.

On a smaller desk, set apart from the military papers and maps, rested a single book. It lay upon a narrow wooden stand, partially draped in cloth of dark Prussian blue, as though deliberately set aside from the disorder of war.

Even before touching it, Isabella sensed it was not an ordinary volume.

The binding was of stiff, oil-rubbed pigskin, aged into a deep burnt umber by years of campaign use. Its corners were reinforced with worn brass plates, dulled and scratched from travel. A thick leather strap crossed over the cover, fastened by a silver buckle that held the book tightly closed — as if restraining whatever knowledge lay within.

It was not decorated for beauty.

It was built for endurance.

Embossed deeply into the cover was the Crowned Eagle of Prussia, clutching a lightning bolt in one talon and a sword in the other. Even in the low candlelight, the gold leaf set into the eagle’s eyes caught the flicker of flame, giving it a cold, predatory gaze that seemed almost alive.

Isabella leaned closer and read the title aloud in a whisper:

Instruction des Königs von Preußen für seine Generale.

She blinked in surprise.

Krugger had often spoken of Frederick the Great — always with a tone of restrained admiration — but to Isabella, royalty belonged to distant palaces and velvet halls. The Spanish royal family, in her mind, existed far removed from battlefields and mud. She had never imagined that a king himself could write a manual of war.

Curiosity overcame her.

She tried to lift the strap, but it would not budge. Only then did she notice the small brass lock fastened beneath the buckle.

To open it, a key was required.

She turned and walked toward her grandfather.

“Grandfather,” she asked quietly, “may I borrow the key to the book?”

Krugger frowned at the interruption, his quill pausing mid-sentence. Without fully turning, he reached beneath his collar and withdrew a small silver key suspended on a thin cord. He placed it in her palm.

“Very well,” he said. “But do not damage it.”

Isabella nodded and returned to the stand.

The key felt heavier than she expected, its metal cool against her skin. She inserted it into the lock. With a precise metallic click, the clasp released.

The scent of old parchment, cedar oil, and faint traces of dried gunpowder rose from the opened pages — a smell of campaigns long past.

She carried the heavy volume to a small leather sofa near the corner of the tent, positioning herself beneath the reach of the oil lamp. The flame trembled slightly, casting restless shadows over the Gothic lettering that filled the page.

The first pages contained no heroic declarations. No grand speeches.

They were clinical. Precise. Merciless.

Her finger traced a meticulous diagram of an infantry battalion arranged in perfect linear formation — every soldier represented by an identical ink mark, aligned with mathematical exactness.

“Article I: On the Discipline of the Troops,” she murmured, translating the German silently in her mind.

The book did not speak of bravery. It spoke of mechanics.

It described the soldier not as a man, but as a component. A moving part in a greater machine. At one point, it stated that the soldier’s greatest weapon was his heart — though the meaning seemed ambiguous to her. Was it courage? Loyalty? Or obedience?

That, she did not yet understand.

What she did understand were the instructions.

Three paces per second.

The precise angle of a bayonet during a charge.

The interval between volleys.

Then she reached a passage that made her pause.

The Oblique Order.

An army shifting like a dark current, concentrating its strength upon a single vulnerable point in the enemy’s line — striking before the opponent fully realized where the true assault lay.

It was not chaos.

It was geometry applied to violence.

Isabella’s eyes widened slightly.

This was not war as stories told it.

This was war as calculation.

There was a hand-drawn sketch in the margin — likely Kruger’s own — depicting the mountains of Rionegro superimposed upon a classic Prussian battlefield formation.

“A general who seeks to save his men’s lives by avoiding battle will lose them all to disease and desertion,” the text declared. “Speed is the soul of the Prussian army. To march is to conquer.”

Isabella lifted her eyes from the page. The flickering shadows along the canvas walls suddenly resembled silent ranks of soldiers standing at attention.

Kruger had not exaggerated. To be an excellent general required not only courage, but intellect — relentless, disciplined intellect. And this king, whoever he had been beyond the crown, had understood war with terrifying clarity.

Half an hour slipped by in the heavy silence of the tent.

Isabella’s head gradually tilted forward until her cheek rested against the vellum pages of the King’s manual. The oil lamp burned lower.

At last, Kruger set down his quill and rubbed his tired eyes. When he glanced toward the smaller desk and saw it empty, a cold spike of alarm pierced his chest.

“Someone—” he began, his hand flying instinctively to the hilt of his saber.

Then memory returned. The girl. The key. The sofa.

He exhaled sharply and crossed the tent, his boots nearly silent against the woven rug.

His heart sank.

There, glistening faintly in the lamplight, was a small damp stain at the corner of a page — a page that had survived rain, mud, and the frozen trenches of Prague.

To him, the book was more than paper. It had been a companion in retreat, a relic of discipline when everything else dissolved into chaos. Once, he had chosen it over his own rifle.

His hand trembled.

For a fleeting instant, old Prussian fury stirred within him — the reflex of a man trained to guard what was sacred. But it was smothered beneath the heavier weight of his own carelessness. He had given her the key.

With deliberate precision, as though lifting a fragile instrument, he slid the book gently from her lap.

The movement made Isabella stir.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first — then widening as they fell upon the stained page.

The color drained from her face.

She did not wail. She did not scream. Instead, her breath caught sharply, and her lower lip began to tremble.

“Grandfather…” she whispered hoarsely. “The book… I… I have ruined it.”

A single hot tear slid down her cheek and fell upon her hand. She looked impossibly small, swallowed by the oversized military coat draped around her shoulders for warmth.

Something tightened painfully in Kruger’s chest.

It was no longer about the book.

It was Anna.

He saw again the same silent terror he had once seen in his daughter’s eyes when she shattered a porcelain vase — fear not of punishment, but of disappointing him.

The last remnant of anger dissolved.

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a rough linen handkerchief.

“Enough, kleines Mädchen,” he muttered, his voice thick as he awkwardly pulled her into a stiff embrace. “It is only paper and ink. Tears will do far more damage than a bit of sleep.”

He cleared his throat, struggling for composure.

“It… perhaps it adds character to its history.”

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