The morning sun filtered through the window of Carlos's brick house, casting golden rectangles onto the solid wood table where he and Aqua were seated. The air inside smelled of fresh paint, paper, and the lemongrass tea he insisted on preparing every morning. Aqua, with her always upright posture, held a stack of papers with careful hands, a genuine smile on her wrinkled face.

  "Chief, the numbers for the second month of sales are in," she announced, her voice laden with rare satisfaction. "In total, the sale of clothes and fabrics to the outside brought in four hundred thousand réis! A monumental increase! The new sewing machine made an absurd difference; we managed to produce triple last month's amount."

  Carlos couldn't contain a wide smile. Four hundred thousand! A jump of almost one hundred and fifty percent from the previous month's one hundred and fifty thousand. He could almost feel the weight of progress, tangible like coins in a vault.

  "That's extraordinary, Aqua!" he exclaimed, feeling a warmth of pride in his chest.

  Aqua's smile, however, faded as she turned the page. Her thin, bony fingers traced a column of numbers written in meticulous handwriting.

  "Now, the expenses," she said, and the tone of her voice lowered, becoming more sober. "First, two hundred thousand réis went to Ganga Zala, as agreed. Fifty thousand were used to buy iron from the merchants. Twenty-five thousand were spent on extra drinks and supplies for the victory party and to stock the new shops... speaking of which, I almost forgot," she added, turning another page, "some have already started to yield a modest profit."

  Carlos nodded, his mood readjusting to the reality of the numbers. At least we've gained another source of income, he thought, looking out the window at the mocambo's activity. And I had to open two more restaurants to serve everyone. It's a good thing Tassi, with her earth magic, can raise the basic structures relatively easily... but the finishing, the details... that takes time. His gaze swept over the construction site of the new town hall. Two hundred workers, and yet my house is the only fully completed brick one. The town hall, which will be the heart of all this, seems to consume time and resources at an agonizing rate. At least the streets and sidewalks in the center and the industrial zone are taking shape. I can already imagine how it will look.

  "At the restaurants," Aqua continued, bringing him back to the conversation, "we are charging one réis per meal. Since the vast majority of workers eat there, and since we still don't pay for the food that Tassi makes grow, the gross profit, without deducting the cooks' and servers' salaries, was thirteen thousand, four hundred and seventy réis."

  Carlos let out a low sigh.

  "It's not much, I know," he said, scratching his chin. "But how can we charge more from people who earn only one hundred réis? It's a subsistence wage, Aqua, almost semi-slavery. But it's what we can do for now. If we increase the price of fabrics for the external merchants, they might simply find another supplier."

  Aqua set the papers down on the table with a gentle gesture, but her eyes shone.

  "On that point, I must disagree, chief. I think it's a considerable amount, yes. And with that, I finally understood what you explained to me about the economy turning over. That value is just from the restaurants. If we add the other shops—the ice cream shop, the local clothing store, the tool shop—the value of internal trade comes close to fifty thousand réis! The clothes are selling well here, and the ice cream, along with the new popsicle, are selling like water in the desert!"

  Hearing this made Carlos's face light up again.

  "That's fantastic! We just have to be careful that no one starts reselling the clothes from here to the outside," he pondered, his smile becoming more thoughtful. "A piece that costs two hundred réis here, we sell to Francisco for one or two thousand. And I'm sure he sells them for much more in the Holy City."

  Aqua was thoughtful for a moment, her fingers tapping lightly on the table.

  "It's a valid concern. But, to be honest, the clothes haven't sold that much locally yet. People are hesitant about installments, as you suggest. What's really booming is the ice cream. Twenty réis is expensive for most, yes, but it's not like they have many other spending options... it's the only accessible luxury."

  Carlos was happy with the news, but soon his expression turned to pure confusion.

  "Wait a minute..." he said, picking up the expense sheet. "We spent forty-five thousand nine hundred réis on production salaries. How is the return from internal trade almost fifty thousand? The math isn't adding up."

  Aqua let out a low chuckle, a rare and pleasant sound. She picked up a specific sheet of notes.

  "I said almost fifty thousand, boss. The exact amount is forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and eighty-four réis." She paused, with a slight smile on her lips. "And you're forgetting the other salaries. You paid a higher amount to me, to your guards—including Quixotina—and to Tassi. By the way, speaking of her, she was the first to buy one of those new dresses. As for Quixotina... well, she spent almost her entire first salary on ice cream. I think she discovered a passion."

  "Ah, now it makes sense!" Carlos laughed, relieved. "It seems our people aren't big on saving, are they?"

  "On the contrary, it's great! It means the money is circulating. And it will circulate even more, because this month we'll have many more people to pay."

  Carlos picked up another sheet from the pile, this one with a list of names and functions.

  "That's true. We had a significant increase. With the arrival of the blacksmiths from the other mocambos and the expansion of gunpowder production, we jumped to six hundred and eighty-seven workers. Adding the basic salaries, plus the special employees and the guards, our payroll this month will be seventy-nine thousand one hundred réis."

  He looked at the jumble of papers and numbers, and a dull frustration echoed in his mind. Aqua is trying very hard, but the organization is still chaotic. I need to teach her how to systematize this. She needs a team, urgently.

  "You know what, Aqua?" he said, his voice taking on a more formal and respectful tone. "I think it's time to officialize your position. From today, you are my Minister of Economy. You are already doing essential work, and you need more help. Hire more people. There must be someone, even if just one or two, who can read and write in this mocambo." He picked up a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and pulled out a blank sheet. "And, while we're at it, let me show you a way to organize this information to make it clearer."

  He began drawing lines, creating columns and rows.

  "Look here. We can make a table, like this:

  | Gross Profit |

  |-----------------------------------------|-------------------|

  | Product Exports | 400,000 réis |

  | Internal Quilombo Commerce | 49,784 réis |

  | Total Gross Profit | 449,784 réis |

  | Expenses |

  |------------------------|-------------------|

  | Ganga Zala Tax | 200,000 réis |

  | Product Imports | 75,000 réis |

  | Salaries | 79,100 réis |

  | Total Expenses | 354,100 réis |

  | Net Profit (Gross Profit minus Expenses) | 95,684 réis |

  "And within each of these main items," he explained, pointing with the quill, "you can make a smaller table. For example, under 'Product Imports,' list what we bought: iron, cacha?a, paper, and the amount spent on each."

  Aqua watched, fascinated. Her eyes, normally tired, were alive, following each movement of the quill with the attention of a diligent student. The idea of bringing order to chaos seemed to revitalize her.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "I understand, chief... So now I am a Minister," she said, trying out the new title. "I think so, I will need some helpers to be able to close all this every month."

  Carlos studied the numbers in the table he had created. Ninety-five thousand six hundred and eighty-four réis. A solid profit.

  "No problem, Minister. That's exactly why you need a team. And seeing that we have a surplus, I want to accelerate our projects. I need two hundred more masons. We have to build houses and factories more urgently. And we will also expand the textile factory..." He paused, a bit of worry returning to his face. "I hope the profits continue like this. At least we only pay the salaries at the end of the month, when the money from sales comes in again."

  Aqua let out a sigh, a sound of practical wisdom.

  "Don't count your chickens before they hatch, chief."

  She's right, Carlos thought, but haste is our enemy and our ally. We need to grow fast, before the next attack.

  "Remember one thing, Aqua," he said, determined. "Almost all the salary we paid came back to us in the form of commerce. And speaking of which, one hundred réis is too little. Let's double the salaries this month. We have the money for it."

  Aqua opened her mouth to protest, but Carlos raised his hand gently.

  "I saw the farmers' faces after my speech. There was envy, Aqua. Bitterness. The last thing we need is internal conflict. By doubling the salaries and, at the same time, creating a market where all food will be charged—including from the restaurants, the army, the parties—we solve two problems. The farmers will be paid for their production, which will give them an income without us having to give them a fixed salary. And the money they earn, they will spend here, turning the economy. They will no longer feel unjustly treated."

  Aqua listened in silence, processing the logic. She still seemed skeptical, but less resistant.

  "And why such a large increase?" she questioned. "Double it all at once?"

  Carlos grabbed another sheet and started scribbling numbers.

  "It's simple. An employee earns one hundred réis. If they spend thirty at the restaurant, that's already thirty percent of their salary. If we start charging for all the food they consume, that could easily consume more than half of what they earn. Imagine the outrage! An outsider arrives, becomes chief, and suddenly food, which was a given, becomes a daily worry. If they lose their job, they go hungry. It's a recipe for disaster. I want no one here to have to choose between eating and dressing. We will buy the food from the farmers at the same price we sell it. We won't make a profit from selling food—maybe even a small loss, counting the market employees' salaries. It's an investment in stability."

  Aqua let out a deep sigh but finally agreed with a nod.

  "Alright. When you put it that way... it makes sense."

  "And since we're at it," Carlos continued, his enthusiasm growing, "let's give a bonus. Any employee who can read and write and uses that skill at work will get two hundred réis extra. Those who do basic math, like the cashiers, will get one hundred extra. And your future assistants, who will do both, will get a total of four hundred réis!"

  Aqua pondered. The idea was bold but strategic. It would encourage education and attract talent from other mocambos. However, a practical concern assailed her.

  "And those who can't work? The elderly, the children? We don't have many old people here, but..."

  The question took Carlos by surprise for a second, but the answer came quickly.

  "Children will eat for free at the restaurants. No discussion. And the elderly, or anyone with a disability that prevents them from working, will receive a pension. A retirement, an aid to live. No one, I repeat, no one will go hungry under my management, Aqua."

  He scribbled the new numbers. The payroll, even with doubled salaries and bonuses, would still keep them in the black.

  Seeing she had no more objections, Carlos proceeded, his vision expanding.

  "That leads me to the next project. We will inaugurate a school. An elementary school to teach the basics: reading, writing, notions of hygiene and biology. And we will have night classes for adults. Many will want it, after all, knowing how to read is worth money now! With this, I will create the Ministry of Education, and Quixotina will be the minister. But we will soon need more teachers; she can't do it alone."

  "Furthermore," he said, his voice becoming animated, "I want to try to produce steel here."

  "Steel?" Aqua repeated, surprised.

  "Yes! If we succeed, our machines will be of much higher quality. We could manufacture cannons for our defense! And, who knows, even export steel. It would be an extremely valuable commodity!"

  Aqua began to gather her papers, shaking her head with an expression of humorous resignation.

  "I foresee... much more spending. And much, much more work for the new Ministry of Economy."

  Carlos laughed, a genuine and hopeful sound.

  "I can't disagree! But I'll add: I foresee much, much more profit too!"

  Aqua left carrying her stack of papers, now with a new mission and a new title. Carlos was left alone in the quiet room, the smell of ink and old paper filling his nostrils. Without wasting time, he pulled towards him the lower quality papers, rough and beige, that had been imported. He took a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write, his ideas flowing faster than his hand could note.

  A school means books. We need a press, something like Gutenberg's. We have most of the materials here... wood, iron... but I'll need to import antimony metal, linseed oil, and varnish for the ink. Francisco can get that. Meanwhile, I can put Nia and Vicente to work on the press project. One should be enough to start.

  And paper... we need to make our own paper. Ideally with pine or eucalyptus cellulose, but we don't have that here... The araucaria pines, from the south, are the closest option. It would be perfect to manufacture our own paper, instead of relying on expensive imports.

  The idea excited him, but a doubt struck him. Araucarias don't grow in this climate. But... with Tassi's magic... who knows? What if we could make them grow? And while we're at it, how about wheat? I'm tired of eating cornmeal cake for breakfast. With wheat, we'd have bread, pasta, pastries... A wide smile spread across his face. That... is a brilliant idea! I have to talk to her today! But first, I have to finish the press schematics.

  He bent over the books, copying complex diagrams for the artisans. When he finished, he moved on to his next big challenge: steel production. He was frantically taking notes.

  The Bessemer Process... I need pig iron and spiegeleisen.

  First, pig iron: iron ore, coke, and limestone in a blast furnace... Luckily, I don't need to worry about producing coke to reach high enough temperatures. The fire gem solves that. I can replace coke with powdered coal just to add carbon to the iron.

  Then, spiegeleisen: an alloy of iron, manganese, and carbon. I need manganese ore...

  — What a difficult little name, — he murmured to himself. — Must be German. The important thing is I need this alloy.

  The pig iron goes into a Bessemer converter...

  — Thank God I have the diagrams, — he whispered, studying a complex drawing. — Too bad the thing is huge and made of steel... the most expensive part. The interior is lined with refractory clay.

  To make the steel, it's (relatively) simple: I pour the pig iron into the converter, inject air (the wind gem might work!), add the spiegeleisen to remove impurities and control the carbon... and that's it! Quality steel.

  The vision of robust cannons and new weaving machines made of steel danced in his mind.

  — Too bad the furnace is huge and heavy, — he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. — And to make it rotate... I'm going to need a steam engine. I'll have to study that too. It's going to be a long night.

  Carlos plunged into the books, writing and drawing until the daylight gave way to dusk and then to darkness. He lit candles, wax melting and dripping on the candlesticks, his only companion in the vigil. He only stopped when exhaustion overcame him, and he fell asleep right there, on the table, surrounded by the plans of a future he was trying to forge with his own hands.

  As soon as Carlos's breathing became deep and regular, a figure emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room. It had been there for hours, invisible and motionless, a silent specter observing every movement, noting every murmur. The figure lingered for a moment more before sliding through the closed door like smoke—invisible, but not immaterial.

  A few hours later, the same figure materialized in Specter's room in the Mountain Range Mocambo. Specter, sitting on his bed, didn't even need to turn.

  "And then?" his voice was a low whisper in the darkness. "What did he do today?"

  The voice that answered was deep and hoarse, coming from the void.

  "The usual. Walked around the mocambo, inspected everything, then spent the whole afternoon with the old woman Aqua, talking about numbers and finances." A pause. "I think she suspected. Cast a few glances in my direction, even though I was invisible. That woman has a sixth sense for danger."

  "And after that?" Specter insisted.

  "After that, he buried himself in those damned books. Kept talking to himself, scribbling... complicated things. But the summary is always the same: he wants to make more money for the mocambo and manufacture better weapons to defend us. No betrayal. No suspicious conversations."

  Specter let out a sigh, a sound laden with a weight he had been carrying for weeks.

  "I feel... bad, having you there, spying on his every move. Every day that passes, it becomes clearer that he is genuine. A leader worth trusting."

  From the darkness came a low, skeptical laugh. The figure became visible for an instant: a tall, muscular man, his body a map of old scars.

  "You don't say," the voice was now clearly sarcastic. "The famous Specter, whose name alone is enough to terrify bush captains, is feeling remorse for being cautious? The world really is turned upside down."

  Specter let out a short, humorless laugh.

  "I'm famous because of you all, who fight in the shadows with me. Not on my own account."

  The tall man disappeared into the shadows again, his voice arriving like an echo.

  "You talk as if it weren't you who broke my sister's and my chains in that mill. But that's a conversation for another time. I'm going to sleep. I'm exhausted from standing still all day."

  And, without another sound, the presence was gone, leaving Specter alone with his thoughts and his heavy conscience.