The midday sun beat down like a hot nail on the dusty road leading out of White Sand. A lone wagon creaked under the heat, carrying three slaves with bound hands on their way to a small sugar mill. The heavy, dry air carried the smell of scorched earth and sweat. Two men and a woman kept their eyes fixed on the ground, their bodies moving in sync with every jolt of the vehicle, in a silence broken only by the creaking of the wheels and the insistent buzz of flies.

  Upon arriving at the mill, the driver, a young man of indigenous origin, cracked his whip in the air. The sound cut through the quiet like a gunshot.

  "Get down, you filthy blacks! You've arrived at your new home!" His voice was rough and laden with disdain.

  The slaves descended slowly, their wide eyes capturing the distant slave quarters, the master's house with its white walls, and the sweet, fermented scent of sugarcane. Fear and powerlessness were palpable in the air, a bitter taste in everyone's mouth.

  The mill owner, alerted by the noise, appeared on the veranda. His eyes scanned the newcomers with a greedy glint before he hurried down the steps.

  "I can't believe it!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "The governor sent this replacement for the ones I lost in the war? He's a guardian angel! And these ones... much sturdier than the ones I sent."

  He circled the captives, his invasive presence and crude gaze running over every inch of their bodies. The overseer, a silent shadow, accompanied him.

  "Especially this woman..." the master murmured, his eyes fixed on her. "Take her clothes off. I want to inspect the merchandise in detail."

  The overseer obeyed, tearing the slave's blouse off. The cool evening air made her skin prickle, and she stared at him with mute hatred, her breasts exposed to everyone's view. She could do nothing, but her gaze was a blade.

  "Truly, a fine piece," whispered the master with a lecherous smile. "Tonight you will come to the master's house. For now, you and the others can work in the cane field."

  The young wagon driver prepared to leave.

  "I'm glad the master liked the governor's apology," he said with a slight bow of his head.

  The mill owner stretched his lips into a smile.

  "It was more than an adequate apology. And look, the day is already waning. It's dangerous to travel these roads at night; they say the Headless Mule haunts these parts. Why doesn't the young man stay? You can stable your horses with our cattle."

  The young indigenous man smiled, accepting the offer.

  "The master has a generous heart! I accept your hospitality."

  He dismounted and led the animals to the stable, mingling them with the herd. The day bid farewell in shades of orange and purple, giving way to a heavy, starry night.

  Inside the master's house, in the four-poster bed, the slave was forced to lie with the master. Her face was an icy mask, her eyes fixed on the dark ceiling where shadows danced like demons. She endured in silence until, she heard a whistle coming from outside with a supernatural calm, she opened her mouth wide.

  "He, he, he!" the master laughed, panting. "Finally admitting you're enjoying it, aren't you?"

  But it wasn't a moan that came from her mouth. There, on her palate, a piercing with a gem the color of fire glinted. The mill owner saw it and, in a moment of pure panic, understood the danger. It was too late.

  The slave blew. Not a breath of air, but a gush of living flames that hit the man's face in a blinding flash and an instant smell of burnt flesh. He screamed, an agonizing, piercing sound, as he writhed on the bed, his clothes and the bed itself catching fire. The woman didn't stop, blowing until his body was black and still, and the screams died out in a charred whisper.

  Only then did she stop. Amid the flames licking the furniture, she stood up with utter calm, picked up her clothes from the floor, and dressed. As she left the burning master's house, she found the young indigenous man waiting for her, his features illuminated by the dancing fire.

  "You took your time," she said, her voice serene.

  "There were more overseers than we expected," he replied. "I'm sorry I had to let you endure that filthy old man."

  The woman's face remained expressionless, but her eyes sparked for a second.

  "I was prepared. Now, let's free the others and flee to the quilombo, as Caetano asked."

  She headed towards the slave quarters, and the young man followed her.

  "You know... I think you could improve your acting. You're not very convincing in the role of a helpless slave."

  She glanced at him, and the hatred in her eyes was answer enough.

  "Alright, alright, I'll shut up. Anyway, I'll return to Caetano now. Good luck with your mission."

  Before she could answer, the young man transformed into a bat and dissolved into the darkness, silent as a shadow. The woman proceeded alone to the slave quarters. Upon opening the door, the two slaves who had arrived with her were the first to exit, their eyes showing no surprise.

  One by one, the others woke to the commotion. Whispers turned into muffled exclamations, then into silent tears of relief and joy. The news of freedom spread like wildfire. Without hesitation, they decided their fate: they would go to the Jabuticaba Quilombo. There was no discussion, after all, everyone knew about the quilombo's recent victory against the invaders.

  ***

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  In the Holy City of Santa Maria, the new laboratory of Her Holiness Paula exuded the aged smell of parchment and candle wax. Laboratory was a word she had learned from Carlos. Among stacks of books and manuscripts, one anachronistic object dominated a table: a polished brass microscope.

  "Finally! This little beauty is ready," Paula whispered, stroking the instrument. "The magical artisan took ages, but it was worth it. With this, it's possible to see tiny creatures..."

  With eager fingers, she placed a drop of water between two glass slides, adjusted the lenses, and leaned over the eyepiece. A sigh of pure ecstasy escaped her lips.

  "Incredible! It's fantastic! A whole world... inside a drop!"

  Tiny beings writhed and swam, green algae danced in an aquatic universe. Immediately, she plunged into frantic note-taking, her sketches filling page after page. She baptized the creatures with names she invented on the spot.

  "Another magnificent discovery by Saint Paula!" she declared to the silent shelves. "With this, I can publish a treatise on the invisible world! But first, duty... I will send the diagrams and these drawings to the Church, with instructions to combat these creatures that cause diseases."

  Her eyes shone with ambition.

  "And then... I will make a proposal they can't refuse. I will request permission to import raw ores. Carlos will have his materials, and I... I will have the cure for all diseases caused by bacteria!"

  She spent days finalizing her documentation, sending it to the Church along with the bold request.

  On a rainy night, with the storm beating against the stained-glass windows, Paula took the next step. The laboratory was an organized chaos, illuminated by the flicker of dozens of candles casting restless shadows on the walls.

  "I wonder what the cells of my blood look like?" she asked the wind and rain.

  Without hesitation, she took a fine dagger and made a quick cut on her palm. The blood, bright red with its characteristic metallic smell, dripped onto a slide. Under the microscope lens, a new world revealed itself: red blood cells like ruby discs, ghostly white blood cells, and among them, small bacteria swimming.

  So this is what I was sensing with my magic... she murmured, fascinated. Now I can see!

  She watched a white blood cell chasing a bacterium, failing to capture it.

  It's outside my body... but perhaps I can... control it? I failed the other times, but now... now I see.

  The dark blue gem in the crucifix on her neck glimmered with a soft light. Immediately, the white blood cell on the slide multiplied into hundreds, surrounding and consuming the bacterium in seconds.

  "It worked!" she exclaimed, a restrained laugh escaping. "And the mana cost... was insignificant!"

  Her curiosity became a fever. She made the blood multiply until it overflowed from the slide, staining the table. She tested it with her hair, with her saliva. Finally, in an act of pure determination, she cut off the tip of her little finger and placed it under the lens.

  Outside, the rain had turned into a downpour, and thunder roared like ancient beasts. In the microscope, the cells of her skin looked like small bricks.

  Carlos wrote about the starfish... that it can regenerate a whole body from an arm. With this microscope and my magic... I should be able to!

  Concentrating, she channeled her power. The flesh, blood, and skin on the glass began to stir and grow, shattering the slide. She quickly moved the microscope away, watching the biological mass expand over the table, forming a grotesque, deformed hand.

  "This process..." she whispered, her eyes wide open. "It's draining so little of my mana! Knowledge, just knowledge, is enough to reduce the cost!"

  The mass continued to grow, shaping itself into an arm. Euphoria took hold of her, an uncontrollable wave. Faced with that limb reconstructing itself in an unnatural way, a laugh escaped her throat—first a simple "ha," then another, until it transformed into a manic, shrill cackle that echoed through the bloodied room.

  "HA HA HA! I AM AMAZING! THOSE DECREPIT OLD GEEZERS IN THE HOLY CITY KNOW NOTHING!"

  The arm stopped growing when her mana was depleted, but the hysterical laughter continued.

  It was at that exact moment that Cardinal Silva, returning from a nighttime trip to the bathroom, heard the disturbing sound coming from the new Popess's laboratory. His bare feet made small sounds on the cold marble of the dark corridor. With each step, the laughter grew louder, more distorted—a mix of triumph and madness that sent a chill down his spine. Driven by a mix of concern and dread, he pushed the heavy oak door.

  The scene that revealed itself was one of grotesquery beyond his worst imagination. A severed, pale arm rested on the table, blood dripping down the wood and forming ruby puddles on the floor. Pieces of light hair were scattered among broken glass. The air was heavy with the sweet, metallic smell of blood and candle smoke, whose flickering light cast shadows dancing over a central figure: Saint Paula herself, rendered unrecognizable by the light, her white robes now stained red, her face lit from below, laughing at the ceiling like a lost soul.

  Hearing the door open, she turned her head with a sharp movement. Her dark blue eyes, wide open with a supernatural gleam in the gloom, fixed directly on the cardinal's. An absolute, primitive, paralyzing terror flooded the man. His lungs burned, and a short, sharp scream tore from his throat before his legs gave way and darkness took him, fainting on the threshold.

  Seeing the cardinal collapse, Paula's instinct spoke louder. She ran to help him, but her feet slipped in the still-fresh pool of blood. She slipped, falling face-first onto the sticky floor, covering herself completely in red.

  Damn it, of all times! she thought, her face against the cold marble. But... how is the cardinal?

  Meanwhile, in the nuns' dormitory, the muffled scream had echoed through the silent corridors. Sister Diana woke with a start, her heart pounding against her ribs.

  "Maria!" she whispered, shaking her roommate. "Did you hear that? Someone screamed! They need help!"

  Maria, fast asleep, just turned over and pulled the blanket.

  "Diana, it was thunder... or a nightmare. It was nothing. Go back to sleep."

  The plumper nun wasn't convinced.

  "I heard a scream, I'm telling you!"

  But the only response was a soft snore. Determined, Diana took a candlestick with a lit candle, its flame flickering, and went out to investigate.

  She walked through the empty corridors of the church quarters, every shadow seeming to move with her. The thunder outside illuminated the stained-glass windows in ghostly flashes, creating fleeting monsters on the walls. Her hands trembled, making hot wax drip onto her fingers. Suddenly, she felt something cold and damp under her bare feet—it wasn't rainwater. A lightning bolt illuminated the corridor, revealing a dark, sticky stain: blood.

  A scream caught in the nun's throat turned into silent panic. She dropped the candlestick, which rolled across the floor, its weak flame following a trail of blood that led... to someone's feet.

  Another flash of lightning illuminated the corridor. There stood a figure—a woman with bright blue eyes and bloodied robes, dragging the inert body of Cardinal Silva. The shock was so violent that Diana's scream died before it was born, suffocated by the roar of thunder. Darkness consumed her, and she fainted, falling heavily to the floor.

  The next morning, both the cardinal and Sister Diana swore they had seen a bloodied woman with bright blue eyes. Strangely, however, both had woken up in their own beds, and the supposed arm and all the blood had disappeared from the laboratory. Many in the Church dismissed their stories as vivid nightmares, although others confirmed hearing screams on that stormy night.

  Because of this, a legend formed in the church of a bloodied woman who wanders the corridors on rainy nights.

  Little did they know that Saint Paula herself had stayed up all night, scrubbing and washing every inch of the place, trying to erase the traces of her grotesque experiment.