At Master Jorge's plantation, the days dragged on in a monotonous cycle of suffering. The heavy, sweet air from the sugarcane juice mingled with the smell of sweat and damp earth. The dry crack of whips echoed with a painfully familiar frequency, punctuated by the muffled cries of the enslaved. Meanwhile, in the Big House, the sickly-sweet, cloying smell of cacha?a seemed to perpetuate the atmosphere of violence.

  Carlos maintained his routine: the exhausting work in the cane field under the relentless sun, and the afternoons in his master's stuffy study, explaining the mysterious "devil's artifacts." But behind the facade of submission, his mind seethed. Each passing day increased his anxiety for the merchant Francisco's return. The promise of weapons was a thread of hope that kept him sane, a real chance at freedom. And he wasn't the only one awaiting that day with bated breath.

  Jorge was also counting the days. Despite his skepticism about Carlos's intentions, a morbid curiosity consumed him. How would those artifacts be used? He imagined them as exotic weapons, but felt invincible with his Defense and Divine Defense gems gleaming on his necklace. Nothing, he thought, could penetrate his magical barriers. Pedro, ever the sycophant, had whispered about the furtive conversations between Carlos and Tassi, feeding both his suspicion and his confidence.

  It doesn't matter what that treacherous black man is planning, Jorge grumbled to himself, watching Carlos in the cane field. He's already given me all the knowledge he had. Does he think I haven't noticed him feeding me half-truths during the explanations? And on top of that, he's slow at his work. If he tries anything, I'll crush him like an insect. I have nothing to lose.

  Tassi, in turn, watched everything with a calculating gaze, a small flame of hope burning in her chest. Pedro, torn between forced loyalty and love for his son, didn't know what to expect, feeling the weight of the approaching conflict like a storm on the horizon.

  Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. The air felt different, charged with an electric tension. Carlos worked in the cane field, but his mind was far away; his sweaty, aching body was just an empty shell. Conflicting feelings—courage, fear, hope, and despair—warred within him.

  I hope everything works out, he thought, his trembling hands gripping the hoe's handle. If Francisco didn't bring the weapons, I'll have to stay in this hell only God knows for how much longer. Not just me... Aunt Vera, Tassi, little Juquinha... I have to succeed. But, my God, I've never killed anyone. I've never even been in a real fight. The last time was a silly argument in middle school...

  Late in the afternoon, as Carlos was mechanically explaining the functionalities of a lighter to Jorge, Jairo burst into the room with the news. The merchant had arrived. A chill ran down Carlos's spine, and he had to restrain every fiber of his being from breaking into a run.

  "It's better if we bring that summoning artifact as well," Carlos said, pointing to the gun on Jorge's shelf, his voice surprisingly steady.

  "Hmph! Of course," Jorge grunted, his eyes narrowing. "But Pedro will hold it. And listen well, boy? If you try anything against me, you will never see the sun rise again!"

  "Of course, Master. I would never do anything against you," Carlos lowered his head, hiding the hatred boiling in his eyes.

  Thinks I was born yesterday, you black bastard, Jorge thought disdainfully. Just show me why you're so interested in this artifact. If it's a weapon, I want to see how it works. Nothing gets through my magical shields.

  As the three men descended towards the merchant, Tassi executed her own plan. She had left her body weak and sweaty, pretending to have exhausted her magic in the cane field.

  Good thing I always use only a fraction of my power here, she thought, feeling cold sweat trickle down her temples. They never suspected my real reserve is much larger. Today, I used double. To them, I'm spent. And the fatigue I feel is real enough to convince them. Thank God I sweat easily... I never imagined that would be an advantage.

  As they approached the lake where Francisco waited, Carlos mentally rehearsed every step of his plan.

  I'll take it slow. I inspect the bullets, the guns. I load as many magazines as I can. I aim for Jairo first and unload everything. Then, Jorge. The other overseers... I'll deal with them if they react. Tassi said his defense isn't impenetrable. Even if the bullets don't pierce it, they might drain the gems' magic. If it doesn't work... he kills me. I've already taught him almost everything about his collection, but I hid crucial information. Dying would be better than living like this, but it's not what I'm planning.

  A shame I've never even held a real gun... there's a first time for everything. Just stay calm and control the recoil.

  Francisco was sitting on a rock by the lake, his donkey tethered to the nearby cart. The air carried the smell of stagnant water and wet leaves. Aunt Vera and Dona Alice were already rummaging through the cart's items. To everyone's surprise, Alice, normally sullen and apathetic, was smiling openly as she held a packet of cocoa powder, whispering animatedly with Aunt Vera about the "Nega Maluca" cake.

  "Good afternoon, Master Jorge!" Francisco greeted, standing up quickly. "As promised, I brought everything you asked for. However, my supplier insisted he would only release the items if he saw your slave's summoning method in person."

  "Excellent news! You never disappoint," replied Jorge with a broad smile. "And that won't be a problem. The more people know how to summon these artifacts, the more I can collect. Now, let's see if my slave won't disappoint me as well. Go on, Carlos. Choose what you need for your 'summoning.'"

  Carlos's heart was beating so hard he feared everyone could hear it. He walked to the cart and, upon seeing its contents, almost lost his breath. There weren't just one or two guns, but several, and not a handful of bullets, but entire sacks, full of gleaming ammunition.

  My God... I was expecting ten bullets at most and maybe one gun, if I was lucky. But this... this is an arsenal. Who is Francisco's supplier? He must have come directly from the United States. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that he got them.

  "I need... I just need the items to analyze them," Carlos said, trying to disguise the euphoria in his voice. "But they seem very promising."

  Without wasting time, he took the guns and the sacks of ammunition and placed them on the ground. With Jorge's gun, there were four in total: three semi-automatic pistols and a revolver. Carlos wasn't an expert, but he knew the basics: each gun had a specific caliber. Fortunately, the numbers were engraved on the barrels.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "I'll begin the process. It's a bit slow, I ask for your patience," he warned, kneeling.

  "Hurry up!" Jorge snarled, impatient.

  Carlos ignored the rudeness and focused on the task, feeling cold sweat on his hands. He began separating the bullets, organizing them by caliber. Meanwhile, he maintained a constant stream of nonsensical explanations, pretending to describe a complex ritual.

  "Basically, each larger artifact needs its corresponding mini-artifacts. I'm synchronizing them."

  The ammunition separation took nearly an hour. Next came the most tense part: loading the magazines. His fingers, damp with nervousness, trembled slightly as he pressed each bullet, one by one, under the watchful and suspicious gaze of Jorge, Jairo, and Pedro. In the meantime, Aunt Vera and Alice, oblivious to the tension, had retreated to the Big House. Tassi watched everything, hidden in the shadows of the trees.

  I'll use this pistol first. It has a fifteen-round capacity, Carlos planned, glancing discreetly at the guns on the ground. I don't have pockets in these rags... I'll have to leave the others here. Better not try to be a hero and use two at once. I'm an amateur.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the heavy late-afternoon air.

  "The process is finalized. I will now demonstrate how it works."

  Jorge watched Carlos rise slowly, the pistol firmly gripped. A smirk of disdain crossed his face.

  So, it is a weapon. But what a ridiculous weapon, with no magical gleam. Does he think it can rival the power of gems? Tassi must have told him about my defense... what a fool. I'm curious to see what this thing does. It probably shoots little arrows, or something equally pathetic. I'll raise my defenses and watch the show. And after... well, this slave will have served his purpose.

  "Jairo, get behind me!" he ordered.

  As soon as the overseer obeyed, Jorge activated the gems on his necklace. Instantly, two translucent barriers materialized in the air in front of him—one milky white and the other dark gray—protecting him from head to toe.

  "You thought I was stupid?!" he shouted, triumphant. "If you had told the truth, I might have let you live!"

  His speech was cut short by a deafening roar.

  BANG!

  Something invisible and immensely violent struck the white barrier with brutal force. Jorge felt the impact echo through the magic, a tremor that ran through his bones. The shock was so great he could barely process what had happened before...

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  A volley of successive shots hammered his defenses. Carlos, fighting the pistol's surprisingly strong recoil, kept his finger on the trigger, aiming steadily. With each shot, a new point of bright light flared on the magical barrier.

  The pistol emitted a dry click.

  Fifteen! The magazine's empty! Damn it! His defense is still up! I'm going to die!

  Without hesitation, he threw the empty gun to the ground and grabbed the second pistol. BANG! BANG! BANG! This time, a different sound—a sharp, crystalline crack—cut through the air. The white barrier shattered into a thousand fragments of light that instantly dissipated.

  Jorge barely had time to register his shock. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! The following shots pierced the weaker gray barrier and found their fleshy target. Most of the projectiles hit his chest, tearing muffled screams from him. The last, tragically accurate, hit his temple. His eyes, still wide with disbelief, glazed over. His body collapsed heavily to the ground, a trickle of dark blood seeping over the stone.

  Jairo, who had thrown himself to the ground at the first shot, watched his master's fall in horror. A blind rage, not for Jorge's death, but for the loss of his livelihood, took hold of him.

  "You black bastard! You'll pay for this!"

  He got up and ran towards Carlos, brandishing his whip. He cracked it in the air with a CRACK! that sounded like thunder, releasing a blast of magical wind that hit Carlos like a punch, throwing him backward.

  Stunned, his ears ringing, Carlos saw Jairo advancing for another attack. With no time to get up, he pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger. BANG! The shot, more out of luck than skill, hit the overseer's shin.

  "AAAGH! You worm!" Jairo screamed, falling to his knees.

  Carlos tried to empty the magazine, but the gun just clicked, empty. Jairo, even wounded, dragged himself forward and cracked his whip once more. The whip, embedded with wind and decay magic, cut through the air and struck Carlos's arm with a wet snap.

  "AHHH!"

  An excruciating, sharp, and hot pain exploded in his arm. He felt the flesh tear open and dropped the pistol, screaming. A fetid smell, of rotting flesh, began to emanate from the wound. Seeing the opening, other overseers began to approach, emboldened now that Carlos was vulnerable.

  Shit! I'm losing!

  He rolled backward, barely avoiding another lash. All the guns were now within Jairo's reach. Hope began to drain away.

  It was then that a rock, thrown with force and precision from among the trees, hit the side of Jairo's head with a dull thud. The overseer staggered, stunned.

  Without questioning the miracle, Carlos, propelled by adrenaline that now suppressed the pain, dragged himself forward and grabbed the revolver. Jairo was already recovering, his eyes bloodshot with hatred fixed on Carlos, the whip rising for a final blow.

  That's when Pedro, who had been watching everything in silence, chose his side. With a quick movement, he kicked Jairo's wounded leg.

  "AAAGH!" The overseer's scream of pain was piercing.

  It was the opening Carlos needed. He stepped closer, raised the revolver, and without a shred of remorse, pulled the trigger. BANG! BANG! BANG! The shots found their mark, silencing the plantation's cruelest overseer forever.

  The other overseers, who now surrounded Carlos, hesitated. They had seen the power of those "fire-spitting death sticks." Some recoiled, fear overcoming loyalty. Others, braver or more foolish, advanced.

  Carlos, with the revolver now empty, ran towards the last gun. It was then that Tassi emerged from her hiding place, picked up one of the pistols from the ground, and tossed it to him.

  "Carlos!"

  He caught the gun in mid-air. The simple act of holding it was enough. The courage of the remaining overseers shattered. They turned their backs and fled in despair.

  But Carlos couldn't take the risk. He didn't know if they would return with reinforcements or if any had hidden magical powers. With the coldness of necessity, he aimed and fired at those fleeing. Most of the shots missed, but those that hit were enough to bring them down. When the last gun ran out of ammunition, a heavy silence fell over the area, broken only by the moans of the wounded.

  It was then that Tassi acted again, and this time she wasn't alone. Like a disturbed anthill, the other enslaved people emerged from their hovels, their long-dead eyes now ignited by a long-lost flame. They didn't need guns. They used rocks, sticks, tools, and their own fists. The vengeance, repressed for years, was swift and brutal.

  The fight was over.

  The adrenaline that had sustained Carlos began to ebb, and the pain in his arm returned with overwhelming intensity, throbbing and hot. The stench of decay was nauseating. But there was one last thing to do.

  Staggering, he approached Jorge's inert body. With his good hand, he rifled through the master's pockets, finding a heavy sack of coins. The metallic clinking was the symphony of his freedom.

  He then walked over to Francisco, who was cowering behind a cart wheel, his face pale with terror.

  "It was a pleasure doing business with you," Carlos said, placing the sack of coins into the merchant's trembling hands. His voice was hoarse but firm. "I'm going to the Jabuticaba Quilombo. If you ever show up there, know that I would be most pleased to buy... any 'devil's artifact' you have for sale."