PREVIOUSLY
[The sound of steady footsteps pulled me back to the present.
"You are late," I said without turning.
"I arrived busy," a youthful voice replied from behind me, carrying a confidence he had lacked only a few years ago. "But never so busy as to keep the Son of Heaven waiting."
I smiled and turned toward Ubatas. His hands were stained with soot, and a spark of proud exhaustion shone in his eyes.
"Then, show me," I told him, gesturing toward the tables. "I wish to see what has become of everything we began with clay, copper, and dreams."]
Year 12 of the SuaChie Calendar, Ninth Month.
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), South-Central Region.
Royal Department of Innovation.
I sat across from Ubatas, and for a moment, the silence between us weighed heavier than the papers he was so carefully stacking upon the table.
The midday light slanted through the tall windows of the Department of Innovation, casting pale ribbons across the stone floor and over his soot-stained hands. The distant murmur of the Central City reached us muffled: the rhythmic strike of hammers, voices drifting to and fro—the steady pulse of a kingdom that no longer resembled the village of my birth.
Ubatas cleared his throat discreetly, attempting to straighten one last rebellious sheet before beginning.
"Whenever you are ready, Young Chuta," he said, without fully raising his eyes.
I nodded, folding my hands in my lap to force them into stillness. I was accustomed to this ritual. Each time I returned from the Dawn City, he would receive me with a meticulous report: figures, percentages, small advancements scattered like glowing embers throughout the realm.
In other times, these meetings had been nearly weekly, and each one brought a discovery that seemed to leap years—sometimes decades—ahead in the course of our history. Now, however, the rhythm had shifted. The luster of novelty had given way to something slower and harder to measure: propagation.
"As you know, over these last months, we have concentrated our efforts on extending existing technologies to the most distant regions," Ubatas began, using that formal tone that only faltered when he grew too excited. "Local workshops have begun to replicate the models we developed here. The results..."
His voice faded into a distant murmur in my mind.
Propagation.
That was the word.
It did not sound as glorious as "discovery," nor as striking as "invention," but I knew it was necessary. To carry knowledge to every corner of the kingdom demanded something different from the euphoria of the first find: patience, discipline, humility. Even so, a part of me missed the urgency of the beginnings, when every week seemed to cast open a new door.
As I watched Ubatas's lips move, pointing to a schematic that I couldn't quite bring into focus, memories dragged me backward—to those early days when everything was clay, disbelief, and fire.
(Year 1 of the SuaChie Calendar, Memories)
I could barely walk with a steady gait, yet I already spoke with enough clarity to issue commands.
There were lesser priests, young volunteers, and artisans with hands hardened by clay, all of them watching me with a mixture of respect, doubt, and curiosity. The concept of ceramic kilns had appeared so vividly in my mind that, for a moment, I forgot it was an unknown world to them.
"Not like that," I would tell them, pointing to a poorly raised mud wall. "If you build it this way, the heat will escape before it completes its labor. We need the fire to breathe, but not to flee."
I remember the damp scent of freshly kneaded clay, clinging to the skin as if wanting to reclaim the shape of our hands—or theirs, to be more precise.
The young priests glanced at one another, exchanging incredulous whispers. They had spent their entire lives near ritual fires, but this was a different kind of flame: one that had to obey proportions, drafts, and drying times.
At first, their gazes were skeptical. Why change what has always worked?
But when the first kiln stood complete, with its enclosed structure and calculated mouth, they began to see something different. It required little explanation: the design spoke for itself, promising higher temperatures, a more uniform firing, and a far more abundant yield. Even the most reluctant fell silent, observing.
It took us only a week to raise those first kilns, and that pace seemed almost insultingly slow to me. I was in a hurry. I knew that behind the ceramics would come copper; behind copper, bronze; and behind that, iron. Time, however, refused to bend to my impatience.
The hardest part was not the building, but the waiting.
Two weeks to dry each structure, guarding them as if they were fragile creatures that might crack with the slightest oversight.
Of the ten kilns we undertook in that first joint effort, three proved useless. They fractured, they warped, they never reached the temperature we required. Failure left a bitter taste in the group's mouth.
I remember several of them squatting before the cold kilns, arms hanging limp, eyes fixed upon the ground. They had spent entire days gathering clay, reinforcing it with fibers, building layer upon layer, and then waiting, motionless, for the sun and wind to do their part. Seeing some of them break was like witnessing the illness of a beloved kin.
I, instead, looked at those that had endured. It was not enough, but it was a beginning.
"This is incredible," I told them then, breaking the silence that had settled between us. I still remember the sensation of dust in my throat, my voice a pitch higher than I would have liked. "Out of ten kilns, we have seven that can work. It is more than enough."
They did not seem convinced. They saw the effort spilled into those that failed. I saw the door swinging open.
The following month was more implacable.
We built five new kilns, concentrating everything we had learned, though this time I was aiming for a specific clay-brick furnace. To them, the process seemed similar, but there were distinct differences that would help us reach new limits. The clay bricks and the shape of this new furnace would lead us to new heights.
We repeated the ritual: gathering materials, mixing clay—this time forming bricks—the painstaking raising of walls, and patient drying. When the moment came to light them, only one responded as it should. One out of five.
When I saw them standing there, surrounding that solitary, viable kiln, I understood that what they saw was a defeat.
"SuaChie Chuta, can we truly obtain so much bronze?" one of the elders asked, his voice heavy with weariness. His hands, which used to smelt tumbaga gold for half a day to obtain barely a viscous copper full of slag, trembled slightly as he held his tool.
"That is a great deal of production," another murmured, as if abundance were, in itself, a cause for suspicion.
I did not answer immediately. I preferred to show them.
I guided two of the men who had spent their lives hunched over the ancient hearths. I showed them how to feed the fire, how to control the air intake, how to observe the color of the flames. The scent of coal and heating metal filled the space—a dense mixture that clung to clothes and hair. The roar of the kiln rose gradually until it became a deep, steady breath.
When we finally opened the small inspection port, the interior was a living lake, glowing with a brilliance none of them had ever seen: molten bronze, without the dull patina of failure, without the black threads of slag that so tormented them. A clean color, almost solemn.
I watched their eyes widen. Surprise pierced through them like a gust of fresh air.
"Look at it well," I said then, letting my voice grow deeper, slower. "This is what we have achieved with a single working kiln. One. Imagine what we might do when they all respond like this one."
Their faces changed. Grief gave way to a different kind of disbelief—one that began to catch the spark of enthusiasm. The laments for the failed kilns faded away, replaced by a sort of clumsy reverence before that incandescent mass which promised new tools, stronger weapons, and structures that had previously seemed impossible.
To them, that day was a surprise. To me, it was the happiest moment of those early years. Not because of the metal itself, but because their gaze had crossed a threshold: they no longer wondered if it was worth trying, but rather what else we could achieve.
...
"...Increase in production."
Ubatas's voice reached me suddenly, as if someone had thrown open a door in the midst of my memories. I blinked, returning to the present, and found his eyes fixed on me with a blend of respect and caution. He had paused, aware of my silence.
"Young Chuta," he said softly, "if you wish, I can begin again."
I realized then that I had been staring intently at an indefinite point on the table, my fingers interlaced too tightly. I felt a slight flush rise to my cheeks—an awkwardness I thought I had left behind years ago.
I managed a thin smile, inclining my head.
"Begin again, please," I replied, in a tone that tried to be light, though it still dragged the weight of the images I had just relived.
Ubatas let out a small exhalation that was almost a suppressed laugh, straightened the first folio once more, and resumed the report. Outside, the Central City continued its course. Inside, amidst papers and memories, the fire of those kilns continued to burn in silence.
The Following Day.
Military Research Office, Explorer Division Headquarters.
Walking through the main corridor of the Explorer Division headquarters produced a strange sensation in me. The scent of worked metal and linseed oil was the same as ever, but now it felt a bit more alien, as if it belonged to a version of myself, I no longer entirely recognized.
The high windows allowed a white light to pass, falling in strips upon the stone floor, drawing rectangles of clarity between doors marked with the numbers and symbols of the Department of Innovation. Those signs were remnants of a time when all of this was merely one more branch of general research.
It was I who decided to separate it.
I did so when the ideas gestating there began to seem as dangerous as they were necessary.
The military research office ceased to depend directly on the Department of Innovation, becoming an isolated compartment: more stone, more access filters, fewer curious eyes. It was not for a lack of trust in my people, but because I trusted too much in how far they could go if I did not establish clear boundaries.
Only yesterday I was with Ubatas in the Central City, surrounded by reports and memories. The transition between that paper-filled office and this cold stone structure reminded me that the Suaza Kingdom stands upon very different pillars: diplomacy and commerce on one side; gunpowder and metal on the other.
The echo of my footsteps faded as I moved deeper into the building; the air grew cooler, almost subterranean, laden with that mineral scent I only find in places where the kingdom learns to produce thunder.
Suddenly, a rhythmic clinking of struck metal reached me from further ahead. The sound marked a precise meter: strike, pause, double strike, long pause. I stopped for a moment and tilted my head. That cadence awakened a memory that required no effort to return: Laboratory 15, Laboratory 21, and that first cannon that nearly exploded in our faces.
(Year 4 of the SuaChie Calendar, Another Memory)
Before Year 5 of the SuaChie Calendar, when I was still more occupied with uniting peoples than building fortresses, I had gathered two research groups with a seemingly simple order: create gunpowder weapons.
Laboratory 15 would handle the invisible heart of the matter; Laboratory 21 would gather the other ingredients. Back then, unlike now, I visited those corridors almost daily.
Chuta remembered the first day he entered Laboratory 15.
The smell hit him immediately: dampness, fermenting waste, ash, straw—something sour that clung to the nostrils. The windows were open, but the wind did nothing more than move the scent from one corner to another. Even so, the researchers straightened when they saw him cross the threshold.
"Do not expect this to smell any better when it works," Chuta said, with a shadow of a smile. "Thunder has its own stench as well."
Some let out a nervous laugh. Upon the central table lay several vessels of ceramic and glass. In one, whitish crystals; in another, a mound of earth mixed with straw, ash, and dry remains.
Chuta took a handful of crystals between his fingers and let them fall back.
"This 'salt' you brought from the southern kingdoms," he explained, "and these crystals you have grown with waste and patience... they are the same thing for our purposes."
One of the researchers, his hands stained with dark earth, frowned.
"The same, Son of Heaven?" he dared to ask. "This one is eaten, but that... no one would wish to taste it."
"I am not asking you to eat it," Chuta replied, pointing to both vessels. "I am asking you to learn how to extract from each what they hold in common."
He did not speak of potassium nitrate. There was no sense in introducing a word with no roots in their tongue. Instead, he showed them the filtering devices: wooden boxes, layers of charcoal, sand and gravel, tightly stretched cloths. He explained how to dissolve, how to let it settle, how to heat without boiling. He pointed to the containers they were to label, the dates they were to record, the color changes to watch.
"Patience," he concluded. "We are not rushing a pot of soup; we are convincing the earth to surrender a single part of itself."
For days, Laboratory 15 was filled with numbered containers, milky liquids that grew clearer, crystals forming at the bottom of vessels. Chuta remembered the moment one of the assistants called to him, waving his arms with more enthusiasm than necessary.
"Son of Heaven, look at this..." the man said, trying to contain himself as he brought a vessel closer.
At the bottom, like a layer of solid frost, were white, sharp crystals. Chuta took a fragment and observed it against the light.
"This is what we were seeking," he announced, turning to the group. "From now on, whenever you see this, think of fire."
In Laboratory 21, the atmosphere was different. The air smelled of burnt wood, resin, and stale smoke. The tables were covered with pieces of charcoal of various shapes and colors, accompanied by tablets with clumsy notations. Chuta took one of the densest fragments, weighing it in his hand.
"From which tree is this?" he asked.
"From those that grow near the rivers, sire," a young woman replied, pointing to a list. "It burns fast, makes much flame, but it crumbles."
Chuta set the piece down and took another, more compact.
"And this one?"
"Mountain wood," another intervened. "It is harder to light, but when it catches, it lasts."
Chuta nodded.
"We will make charcoal from both, and from all the others you have on that list." He tapped his knuckles on the table. "I am not looking for the one that burns most beautifully at a festival; I am looking for the one that works best within a small, enclosed space. Treat every sample as if it were a candidate to uphold the weight of an oath."
With the sulfur, there was no need for many words. It was easy to recognize, easy to gather, and impossible to ignore because of the smell.
"Do not underestimate this just because it is simple to find," he warned them. "A small oversight with a simple material can kill just as surely as a large error with a rare one."
By that time, Field Laboratory 18 was already working on the cannon. They had only one objective: a tube strong enough to contain the impulse of that mixture they were still learning to tame.
For several nights, Chuta toyed with the idea of testing the gunpowder directly in that cannon. The image was tempting: a single thunderclap, a test ball shattering a pile of rocks, proving they were not chasing ghosts.
But on one of those nights, while burning a paper to review some calculations in his Central Mansion, he watched the flame run through the fiber with a controlled speed and remembered something similar from another time. The paper fuse—the small-scale test.
"We do not need to fill a bronze tube to know if the mixture works," he murmured then, almost to himself. "First, we shall set the idea ablaze. Then, the metal."
So, he prepared a series of tests in the courtyard: small portions of the mixture spread over strips of paper, ignited from a distance. He observed the speed at which the flame advanced, the stability, the residue. He ordered them to repeat, to adjust proportions, to compare charcoals. Only when the reaction was predictable did he allow that force to enter the interior of the first cannon.
That cannon was anything but elegant. Chuta remembered it as a thick tube of unadorned bronze, with walls so exaggerated they seemed almost a mockery of the Suaza craftsmen's finesse.
"It is ugly," one of the founders had commented, with a mix of pride and shame.
"I am not asking it to win a beauty contest in the Central City," Chuta had responded. "Only that it does not kill the one who uses it."
The day of the first test, the cannon was placed upon a reinforced wooden frame, aimed at a pile of rocks at the far end of the field. The researchers huddled too close for his liking.
"Back," Chuta ordered, raising his hand. "Further. If all goes well, you will hear the thunder just the same. If it goes ill, I do not want the Kingdom to lose all its best minds in a single afternoon."
There was a murmur, but they obeyed. An apprentice stepped forward with the lit fuse, trying to keep his hands from trembling too much.
"Steady," Chuta told him, without sweetness, but without harshness. "If this fails, the fault will be mine, not yours."
The boy nodded and brought the fuse close. The sputtering filled the silence. For a second that seemed to stretch, nothing happened. Then, the cannon roared.
It was not the clean thunder everyone expected. The sound came out muffled, and almost at the same time, a crack ran through the metal. The test ball barely emerged, falling heavily a short distance away and rolling without dignity.
From the side of the tube, a tongue of fire erupted, scorching the wooden support. A researcher gave a brief cry and threw himself to the ground; others touched their chests, their faces, searching for blood where there was none.
"No one approach!" Chuta bellowed, before curiosity could overcome fear.
He was the first to advance. The metal still radiated heat; the air smelled of hot bronze and burnt wood. He observed the crack, following its trajectory with his eyes. It began at a point where the mold had an imperfection, he himself had decided to tolerate so as not to delay the casting.
"You rushed a step," he reproached himself then, jaw clenched. "And gunpowder does not forgive shortcuts."
"This cannon shall not be loaded again," he declared, without raising his voice. "We will dismantle it, cut it open, and learn why it chose to break here and not elsewhere."
A murmur of frustration ran through the team. One of the more impulsive researchers could not contain himself.
"Son of Heaven, with a bit more thickness perhaps..."
"It is not merely a question of thickness," Chuta interrupted. "It is a question of understanding what we are asking of the metal. If we do not understand that, we will only be building thicker tubes to break later on."
...
In the hallway of the present, my hand brushed against the cold wall. It took me a couple of breaths to return from the testing grounds to the silent corridor of the military research office. The clinking of metal ceased suddenly, as if the hammer of memory and the real one had decided to rest at the same time.
In front of me, the director's office door waited. I squared my shoulders; I had learned, through blows and cracks, that every advancement in this building came with a price. Now, with wars breaking out and Europeans watching from across the Sunrise Ocean, the cost of every decision would be even higher.
I reached for the doorknob, letting the echo of the furnaces and the first failed cannon settle in the back of my mind, where I kept all the lessons I couldn't afford to forget.
.
----
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
First, I apologize for my absence. I'll just say that things got a little complicated, and I won't add anything more, or it'll start to sound untrue.
Second, and more importantly, thank you all so much, especially Vongola11 for the constant support even when I wasn't posting.
Back to the chapter.
This chapter picks up right where the last one left off, and continues the theme of flashbacks to previous technological developments (just a few).
This is to show that I did consider the complexity of what I was detailing narratively regarding the technology of the Suaza Kingdom (at least in an optimistic and idealized way).
I imagined myself knowing the structure of a basic kiln in which clay vessels or clay bricks could be produced (for the clay brick kiln).
If we start on a certain day, with only stone tools, stone, clay, and a few other materials, it would only take a week to develop a kiln, and most of that time would be spent drying. (I'm even estimating much longer).
For the other kiln (the one needed for bronze), it would take a month, with the same estimate. And with this kiln, it would be possible to develop basic bronze tools, or at least copper ones.
I don't want to elaborate further on each technological step of the kingdom, but they follow a similar system: several development points, standardization of processes, and streamlined workflows. This avoids wasted time, utilizes idle or volunteer labor, and accelerates the achievement of results.
COMMENTS
I changed the way I narrated the events in this and the next chapter. This is because I had lost the thread, and to see if I am capable of narrating memories correctly.
For me, it's okay, not good, but okay.
On the other hand, I will try to maintain the previous pace. I already have two more chapters, and I hope to keep writing so I don't stop publishing. After all, the anniversary of this novel is coming up soon, haha.
By the way, I realized that two of the first 30 chapters are equivalent to one of the new ones. Old chapters: 1600 words on average. New chapters: 3200 words on average.
Incredible, right?
Also, I'll try to answer all the pending comments.
And as always, sorry for writing so much. HAHAHA
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]