After concluding their agreement with the Gutiérrez de Piñeres family of Mompox, Krugger entered the city under cover of night. By dawn, his forces had already engaged the Spanish garrison.

The fighting proved harsher than expected. These were not common troops but disciplined soldiers of the Crown. Yet, without the protection of the walls and forced into equal ground, the German formation held its advantage. Step by step, with cold precision, they pressed inward until resistance collapsed within the town hall itself.

Carlos entered with his men shortly after.

At the far end of the chamber stood the man who claimed command of the city.

Krugger frowned.

“You are not Juan de Torralva.”

The officer let out a short, contemptuous chuckle—one that carried the weight of rank and habit.

“Torralva? That fool?” he replied. “No, he would never be entrusted with the defense of a place such as this.”

He straightened, adjusting the metal at his throat.

“The Viceroy, Pedro Mendinueta y Múzquiz, has already seen enough. The army in this kingdom is a disorderly mass—disloyal, undisciplined, and unworthy of command. He would not trust them to hold a kitchen, much less a city.”

His gaze shifted toward the Piñeres, hardening.

“I was sent from Santa Fe to ensure that traitors such as you would not take this jewel before His Excellency formally assumes his office. I am his eyes—and his iron.”

A brief pause followed. The man’s lips curled, not in anger, but in something colder.

“But I confess… I did not expect the families of this city to prove as ungrateful as those who march openly against the Crown.” His tone sharpened. “Let my fate serve as a lesson to the Viceroy—so that he may not repeat the errors of mercy.”

His hand moved suddenly.

Steel and powder flashed in the same instant.

“I am ready to die,” he said, almost calmly now. “So I shall take you with me, heretic.”

The pistol discharged.

A burst of sparks—then the sharp hiss of lead cutting through the air.

The ball struck Krugger in the arm.

For a fraction of a second, the room stood suspended in confusion. Eyes shifted to the shadows, expecting further shots. But the hesitation lasted no longer than a breath.

The response was immediate.

Three shots rang out in unison.

The force drove the commander back against the stone wall. His body convulsed as the rounds tore through him—lungs, heart, and bone—his white-and-gold uniform collapsing into a ruin of red. He slid downward, slowly, until his knees met the floor.

The smile remained.

Even as life left his eyes, it did not fade.

He died believing he had secured something.

Krugger did not cry out.

He did not fall.

For a moment, he simply stood—rigid—his jaw tightening as the shock began to settle into his body. The color drained from his face, turning it ashen. He lowered his gaze to his arm.

The wound was deep. The ball had torn through the muscle of his bicep, leaving behind a jagged, blackened tear, still faintly smoking.

“General!” one of the soldiers called, stepping forward.

Krugger staggered once.

“Stay back,” he growled.

His voice was low, but steady enough to halt them. With his uninjured hand, he seized the wounded arm, gripping the soaked fabric of his coat as blood spread through it. His breath came slower now—controlled, deliberate.

His eyes shifted to the body on the floor.

“This bullet…” he said quietly, pausing as if measuring the weight of the words, “I shall return it to the Viceroy—with interest.”

Another breath.

“Call for an apothecary.”

The room remained silent.

“See to the city,” he continued. “Those families who must be dealt with—deal with them. Those who remained neutral are to be left untouched.”

His gaze hardened again, though the pain lingered beneath it.

“Bring the cannons. Position them along the walls. Use the populace, if necessary—expand the defenses.”

A slight pause followed, longer this time.

“The next engagement will not be so forgiving. Cartagena will come with its full strength.” He looked toward the entrance, as if already seeing beyond it. “We must ensure that those who come… do not return.”

Silence settled once more.

Only then did the strain show—faint, but unmistakable.

It was not the wound itself that weighed upon him.

He had taken bullets before, in younger years, in open battle where death came honestly and without surprise. Pain was not unfamiliar to him.

But this—this had come from distraction.

From within reach.

And that, more than the injury, unsettled him.

For the first time in years, Krugger had been made vulnerable.

And the realization lingered longer than the pain.

The orders were carried out without delay.

A group of apothecaries—trained under the strict discipline of Grandma María—were brought to attend Krugger. Their work was methodical and unadorned by panic. The wound was cleaned, the torn flesh examined, and, with steady hands, the lead ball was extracted from his arm. Krugger did not cry out; only the tightening of his jaw betrayed the strain. Once the bleeding was controlled and the bandages secured, he dismissed them with a short nod, as though the matter were of little consequence.

Outside, however, the city of Mompox fell into a far more uncertain state.

Krugger’s soldiers moved through the streets in organized detachments, going from house to house. Any known loyalist to the Crown was dealt with swiftly. The Gutiérrez de Piñeres family provided names—many of them accurate, some perhaps less so. Neutral families existed, certainly, yet the distinction was no longer treated with patience.

After the attack on their commander, there was no time for careful inquiry.

The officers understood the risk. A desperate loyalist, driven by fear or devotion, might attempt to strike at Krugger while he lay wounded. That possibility alone was enough to justify severity. As the Spanish themselves were fond of saying, it was better for an innocent man to perish than for a guilty one to go free.

Krugger had long agreed with such reasoning.

Along the river, movement did not cease. Hundreds of German and mestizo troops crossed in steady succession, bringing with them powder, shot, and provisions. Military engineers were among the first to arrive. Without hesitation, they began reinforcing the defenses—measuring, directing, and reshaping the walls with practiced efficiency.

Within a day, a disciplined operation had taken hold of the city.

The citizens, for their part, withdrew into silence.

Doors remained shut. Windows were watched but rarely opened. The events of the previous night had already claimed lives—some through defiance, others through mere misfortune. A stray shot cared little for allegiance, and several households had learned that truth too late.

No one wished to test whether the next bullet would be deliberate.

In that fearful stillness, the work of Krugger’s forces became easier.

Yet not all received the news with resignation.

In Cartagena, where the distance to Mompox was short enough for urgency to travel quickly, the report arrived before the day had fully settled.

Baltasar sat beside the Viceroy, José de Ezpeleta. His posture was composed, but his expression betrayed a colder truth—anger, restrained only by discipline.

Ezpeleta, though the highest authority present, remained silent. His reputation in Spain had already suffered, and he knew it. A misstep now would serve no purpose. He sought only to endure the remainder of his tenure with what dignity he could preserve.

Baltasar, however, was not a man inclined toward quiet endings.

The news from Mompox struck him with particular force. The fallen commander had not been merely another officer of the Crown—he had been Baltasar’s own protégé, chosen carefully to represent his interests until the arrival of Pedro Mendinueta y Múzquiz.

“Incompetence,” Baltasar said at last.

The word cut through the room with the sharpness of a lash.

He stood over the table, one hand resting near the maps, though his eyes did not follow their lines.

“I entrusted one of my finest men with the defense of Mompox,” he continued, his voice low but controlled. “A man who understood both discipline and loyalty. And now he lies dead—cut down in a city that was to remain secure.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward Ezpeleta. For a moment, it seemed he might direct his anger there—but he stopped himself. Whatever Ezpeleta’s failings, he remained Viceroy. To rebuke him openly would serve neither order nor ambition.

Instead, Baltasar turned to the assembled officials.

“You,” he said quietly.

The softness of his tone carried more weight than any shout.

“You, lords of New Granada—with your fine coats and your assurances of loyalty.” His eyes moved across them, one by one. “You spoke of Mompox as a city at peace. You swore that its families were content—that no hand among them would rise against the Crown, much less in favor of a foreign mercenary.”

He straightened, his expression hardening into open contempt.

“And yet, while you occupied yourselves with comforts—debating trade, sipping chocolate, and flattering one another—the gates were opened from within.”

A brief silence followed.

“My commander is dead,” Baltasar said, more quietly now. “Dead because he believed in the word of men like you. He believed that the elites of this land still possessed honor… or at the very least, a spine.”

No one answered.

And in that silence, the weight of his words settled more heavily than any immediate reprisal.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep