On his first day living in the quilombo, Carlos spent the entire day working in the fields, digging the earth under a sun that scorched the back of his neck and planting seedlings. Since he knew nothing about it, he stopped constantly to ask the other former slaves from the plantation. He needed to understand the exact depth for the seed holes, the correct distance between them, and a host of other details. He even had a book about cultivation he'd gotten from the plantation, but it was better to ask his companions—not only did it bring him closer to them, it also avoided dirtying the precious pages with the soil clinging to his fingers.

  Many of those men and women carried the knowledge of a lifetime, having cultivated their own land before captivity, and even planting hidden from the master in certain nooks. Unfortunately, these clandestine plots never lasted long; there was always someone who, out of fear or to curry favor, would run to tell the plantation owner everything.

  Carlos noticed everyone was infinitely more receptive than back in the slave quarters. Of course, he had killed the master and secured their freedom.

  Even though it was hard work, which left his hands calloused and dirty with soil under the relentless sun, it was far better than working at the plantation with the whip whistling at his back. But that didn't mean life here was ideal—not because of the physical fatigue, but because of the harshness of existence. This world was devoid of the most basic comforts. The toilet, for instance, was a flimsy wooden shack. Inside, waste fell into a pit dug in the ground, which was used until it overflowed, then abandoned so another could be dug. The current pit was almost full; you could hear the low, persistent buzz of flies and smell the sweet, fetid odor of decomposition. Worse was when the hole was on the verge of overflowing, and you could see the white mass of larvae writhing at the bottom, a horrifying spectacle for the eyes and stomach. And to top it off, there wasn't a single miserable piece of toilet paper.

  At least, when it came to baths, the situation was better. Asking the guards, he discovered they bathed in a cold stream that ran down from the mountain, whose sound was an invitation to cleanliness.

  I hate having to gather a bunch of leaves to clean myself, he thought, disgusted. And there isn't even a single bar of soap. At least we have rice and beans; I was tired of eating just plain beans. I wish I could plant tomatoes and cabbage, but no one here knows what those are… no salad. And wheat? Don't even think about it, the climate doesn't allow it. No bread, no cake. How do you make breakfast without bread? And, more importantly, without coffee!

  After taking his frustration out on the hoe, he went to sit in the shade of a tree. He had brought all the books he'd taken from the plantation and began to examine them. It was already dusk; the orange, weak sun still insisted in the sky, but most of the people had stopped working. The air was beginning to cool, carrying the damp, comforting smell of wet earth.

  "The books I have are good," he reflected, running his fingers over the worn, rough covers. "I have several, but the most important ones are: 'Plants of Brazil and the World and How to Cultivate Them,' 'Guns and History,' '1001 Inventions that Changed the World,' 'Guide to the Natural and Mineral Riches of Brazil,' and 'Industrial Revolution: The Machines that Changed the World.' When I tried to explain the machines and inventions to the plantation owner, he didn't believe they really existed. I didn't even bother trying to convince him; I just said it must be a book of inventions by some imaginative madman."

  "The other books are interesting too, they're just not useful for me right now—they talk about physics, electricity, rubber, ethanol… No doubt they'll be useful in the future."

  After looking over the volumes once more, he noticed a common thread among them.

  "These books are strange. Not the books themselves, but the selection. If I walked into a bookstore or library, I wouldn't easily find them together. Yet, all the devil books are technical. None are about history, fiction, or adventure; they all talk about how to make something, what it's for, and its history. No Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, or Dom Casmurro. I'm not complaining, because this is exactly the kind of book I need now. I just find it odd. Are all the books that come to this world like this? The items too… besides the weapons, everything here has a practical purpose: the lighter, the pocketknife, the wristwatch, the ruler… The exception is me, and the anime figure. Why did I end up here? Is it because I have some use? Unfortunately, I have no way of finding out now... I'll focus on learning and using this knowledge."

  "I'll start with firearms. Ensuring the quilombo's defense is essential. Besides, I spoke with the guards and found out there are several blacksmiths here; in my world's past, they were the ones who made the first firearms. If the weapons prove useful, they'll listen to me more. With that, I'll have more resources and people at my disposal, and I can gradually improve life here. Unfortunately, a gun is useless without gunpowder, and I'm afraid we might not have the materials. According to 'Guns and History,' I need saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal. The last one isn't a problem, but sulfur is only found near volcanic areas, which Brazil doesn't have. I don't know if the quilombo could obtain it through trade. There are other ways, but they are much more laborious. The same goes for saltpeter."

  "Anyway, there's no use worrying about it now. I can only wait and see if they accept my offer to make weapons. Before that, I need to be accepted by the quilombo. I hope it doesn't take long; they said people with special skills are accepted faster, which is my case."

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  While Carlos was immersed in his thoughts, he didn't notice Pedro standing in front of him, trying to get his attention.

  "Hey, Carlos! Are you listening to me?"

  Carlos snapped out of it, and then Pedro snapped his fingers in front of his face, making him jump.

  "Whoa, man! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" He looked around and saw that night had completely fallen. "It's dark already? What time is it?"

  "Ha ha ha, sorry for scaring you. I don't know what time it is, I just know the food is ready. That's why I came to get you."

  "Thank you." He got up and started gathering the books. Pedro bent down to help him.

  "You know, I wanted to apologize," said Pedro, his voice laden with sincere remorse. "I never thought you would manage to escape, not you or anyone else. That's why I helped the plantation owner. I'm sorry for that, but I'll make it up to you. Whenever you need help, just say the word. In fact, I talked to the other people from the plantation, and we're going to help you build your house."

  Carlos finished gathering the books.

  "Don't worry about it, Pedro. Tassi told me you did it because of your son. I don't hold a grudge. But I won't refuse the help, no; I have no idea how to build a house."

  Looking at some families in the distance building their houses, he thought: If it were bricks and cement, I'd know, I worked as a bricklayer's assistant back in college. But the houses here seem to be made of mud. I have no idea how to build a house like that. It probably isn't too complicated, but it's better to get help from those who know.

  "You really are a very different person," said Pedro, shaking his head with a shy smile before turning and leaving.

  Carlos watched his retreating back, thinking: It's not that I'm different, it's just that, well, you helped me escape so I can forgive you. But if I were in Tassi's or the others' shoes… I don't know if I would have forgiven you.

  The next day, Carlos was more productive in the field, but he was still far from ideal. Tassi wasn't much better either; she was good at combat and magic, not at planting. In fact, she used the staff with earth and grass gems every day on the crops. Luckily, they only confiscated magical weapons and firearms, but left tools alone. Thanks to her powers, you could clearly see the plants growing rapidly, a vibrant, healthy green taking over the land, a spectacle of life that gladdened the heart.

  Since people didn't need to tend to the plants as much, thanks to Tassi's magic, they began building their houses. Several came to help build Carlos's. The dwellings were made of taipa, a mixture of straw, mud, and manure, applied over a wooden frame. In a week, his house was ready. But he wasn't exactly happy.

  I'm grateful for the people's help, but a dirt house is the absolute pits, he reflected, observing the rustic structure. How can I feel good in a place that looks like a giant anthill? It's so ugly. In the future, I'll have a brick house, whatever it takes!

  ***

  In Mocambo da Serra, the political and military center of the Jabuticaba Quilombo, Espectro was in his room, sitting on a crude wooden chair, listening to a report from one of his guards. Behind him, various magical weapons were leaning against the wall, their gems dull in the weak, flickering light of the oil lamp that cast dancing shadows. In front of him, on the solid wood table, were Carlos's weapons.

  "Chief, from what we saw, the group that came from Jorge's plantation was telling the truth. Our scouts went there and there weren't any slaves or overseers alive. Just some slave catchers scouring the place, trying to hunt any fugitives. One of our scouts, who is mixed-race, managed to get close and speak with a fisherman from the plantation. He said Jorge was killed with some kind of unusual weapon."

  Espectro was still analyzing the strange metal weapons, cold to the touch.

  "I'll pass this matter on to Ganga Zala. He will decide what to do with the plantation. And regarding the newcomers, did you notice anything strange?"

  The guard shook his head.

  "No, sir. Everyone was motivated, planting and building their houses. Apparently, the plantation owner didn't let them cultivate anything, as many had difficulty starting. Those who knew how were helping the others. And they've already managed to harvest their own food, thanks to the woman with an 'F' on her forehead. She uses a staff to make the soil more fertile and make the plants grow. Her name is Tassi."

  Espectro leaned his head back on his fist, his elbows propped on the table, as he recalled the faces of the new members.

  "As I recall, only she and one other man know how to use magic gems, right? Although, at the moment, we don't have any weapons that use an ice gem to give to him. Anyway, both would be welcome in the army; we always need good warriors. But I'm more curious about these weapons here. They don't look like anything I know. I can't even use them."

  The guard, looking at the weapons with contained curiosity, began to explain.

  "Chief, from what people said, this weapon is much more powerful than a bow. They say Carlos killed a user of two gems: defense and divine defense."

  Espectro shook his head, a hoarse skepticism in his voice.

  "You know how they always exaggerate the stories. Despite that, any help will be welcome. We have to take advantage of this brief period of peace, while the Portuguese recover from the war against the Dutch, before they resume their attacks on the quilombo. If we can get another type of weapon, it would be excellent. After all, magical weapons are always hard to come by."

  He looked once more at the weapons, their metallic surfaces reflecting the weak light, before starting to store them in a wooden box.

  "Tomorrow we'll talk to Carlos to see how these weapons are used. Then we'll see if these stories are just exaggeration or if they're real."

  After his guard left, Espectro was left alone, thoughtful. The silence in the room was broken only by the crackling of the oil lamp.

  Aqua said that man is capable of creating more weapons like these. Unfortunately, I'm not very interested in non-magical weapons, especially long-range ones. I doubt they're better than a bow. But it doesn't hurt to see the power of these so-called weapons.