PREVIOUSLY.
["The Guanza Quyca plan will depend on how well we move our pieces there, Leader," he said, his tone returning to the clinical efficiency of espionage. "This just arrived. It is the intelligence sent by Chewa from Guanzauba City (Santo Antão Island, Cape Verde)."
I took the cylinder, feeling the sheer weight of the information it held. But Zasaba was not finished. From the same sleeve, he withdrew a second parchment, this one wrapped in black cloth and sealed with dark, uncrested wax.
"And this," he added, his eyes darkening once more, "is a secret report direct from Apqua. The situation demands your immediate attention."]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fourth Month (June 1495).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
Chuta's Chambers, Stone Manor.
Two days had passed since that intense day of meetings with Edward and Zasaba. The echoes of European intrigue still resonated in my mind, but the physical world demanded I press on.
I stood in my chambers, meticulously folding several cotton tunics and storing them in a cured leather trunk. I was packing.
At last, I would fulfill the promise I had made to Turey: we would make an 'official' family journey to Tacaino City, the vibrant capital of the Federal Region of the Floating Islands (FRFI). It was a chance to fulfill an obligation at the Regional Academy, and afterward, spend a day in Guava City, where Turey was born.
Best of all, all my wives would travel with me—a brief truce amidst the whirlwind of my schedule.
Yet, my hands moved purely by muscle memory. My mind was thousands of miles away, torn between two unfathomable abysses: the vast ocean that separated us from Europe, and the treacherous skies of the Caribbean.
The first abyss took the shape of paper. The letters Zasaba had delivered to me—Chewa's reports and Apqua's darkly sealed parchment—burned in my memory.
Broadly speaking, the global chessboard was moving exactly as I had foreseen, but the aggression of the pieces left a bitter taste in my throat.
Portugal, sheltered by our alliance, had begun to push its explorations along the southern route of the Guanza Quyca (Africa) with increasing frequency, skirting the immense Guanza Quyca coastline. They did so alone, resupplying in Guanzauba City (Santo Antão Island, Cape Verde) under the guise of our 'alliance,' before continuing their southward expeditions.
But Apqua's secret report unveiled the blood behind the maps.
Alarmed by the emerging might of our Suaza Kingdom, or perhaps simply driven by a lack of control, the Portuguese were diverting massive resources to secure their naval hegemony in the Eastern Dawn.
They were besieging and seizing vital ports from their southern neighbors, launching brutal offensives against the Wattasid Sultanate and the Kingdom of Tlemcen. The north of the Guanza Quyca was burning because Europe needed to secure its flanks against our very existence.
And then there was Castile.
The Spanish Crown, fattened by two years of lucrative, exclusive trade with us, had filled its coffers at a frantic pace. That surplus of gold allowed them to finance their wars in the Mediterranean and deal with the French threat far swifter than history dictated... Or at least, so I believed.
Now, free from the weight of the French conflict upon their shoulders, the eyes of the Catholic Monarchs had turned toward the Atlantic. They watched Portuguese movements with suspicion and were beginning to pull their own strings to 'increase' the profits they extracted from the Great Quyca.
I shut the trunk with a dull thud. I was pleased, yes. My geopolitical projections had been perfectly accurate. But the speed... the speed terrified me. Everything was happening far too fast.
My perfect memory, the gift and curse of my reincarnation, failed me in this one regard: I could not discern whether these events in Europe were unfolding just as they had in my past life, or if the mere existence of the Suaza Kingdom had acted as a colossal butterfly, beating its wings and unleashing a hurricane of greed and premature war upon the Old Continent.
Ironically, the word "hurricane" jolted me straight back into the second abyss tormenting my thoughts... The tropical storms.
I was about to mentally review the naval route to the regional capital when two soft knocks on the door broke my trance.
"Enter," I called out, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand.
Nyia crossed the threshold. She moved with that serene, comforting elegance that always managed to anchor me back to reality. In her hands, she carried a heavy bronze tray, a gesture that stole a tired half-smile from my lips.
First it had been Umza, then Turey, and now Nyia. It was the silent code among my wives; whenever they knew the weight of leadership was suffocating me, they appeared with food to force me to pause.
The tray held a selection of freshly cut fruit and a clay mug emitting the fragrant steam of a soothing herbal infusion.
Yet, upon noticing the choice of tray—dull bronze rather than festive silver—and the tense line at the corner of her lips, I knew she hadn't come merely to feed me. She shared my worry... She knew what had happened in the southeast.
A monstrous tropical storm had swept through the southeastern zone of the FRFI (the Lesser Antilles), mercilessly battering the small islands. As with every whim of nature, the toll was devastating: the dead, dozens of wounded, and villages utterly razed.
When I received news of the catastrophe, I braced myself for the inevitable: protests, demands for resources, and political despair. But the report from the islands had left me dumbfounded.
The tribal leaders and inhabitants of those islands—who coincidentally were the most conservative factions, the most reluctant to accept Suaza reforms—did not blame the weather, nor did they demand obeisance from us... They blamed their own stubbornness.
They attributed the storm's devastation to divine punishment.
They believed the gods had scourged them for rejecting our education, for refusing to implement our standardized healthcare system, and, above all, for dismissing our masonry construction and agricultural techniques, favoring instead their flimsy traditional huts that the wind had easily turned to splinters.
It was a reaction I had never anticipated. A painful reminder of how superstition governed this world. Fortunately, it was not all bleak. The report also confirmed that the empire's emergency response machinery had worked.
Aid had already made landfall, thanks to the newly established Northern Region (NR), Karinamá. Kamui and his son, having arrived on the continent mere days before the disaster, had noticed the subtle, violent shifts in air pressure and wind. With enviable military efficiency, they readied supply ships before the storm even made landfall, becoming the first to bring relief to the neighboring region.
The moment the report reached my hands, I personally dispatched a relief fleet from Dawn City, joining the efforts Foza had already organized from the regional capital itself.
We had responded well, but the damage was done.
Nyia delicately set the tray on a side table. The faint chime of bronze broke the silence of the room. She turned to me, her dark eyes scanning the heavy bags beneath mine.
"Are you all right, Chuta?" she asked, her soft voice wrapping around me like a cloak.
I blinked, somewhat disoriented at being torn from my disaster calculations. I let out a long, heavy sigh, my shoulders slumping. Hiding things from Nyia was as useless as trying to block out the sun with a single hand.
"I am fine..." I half-lied, stepping closer to take her hand. Her skin was warm against mine. "Just a bit troubled. Too many things happening at once."
Nyia gave my fingers a gentle squeeze and tilted her head.
"It is the people of the southeastern islands, isn't it? ...The scourge of the wind and the sea."
I nodded slowly, unable to hold her gaze. My eyes locked onto the steam rising from the herbal mug.
"It is, yes. There were deaths we might have prevented had I been more insistent upon the construction reforms," I confessed, feeling a bitter knot tighten in my throat. "But that is not the only thing keeping me awake, Nyia."
I looked up to meet her eyes.
"It is you all. You, Turey, and Umza. I promised you a safe home, a beautiful journey to Tacaino City. I invited you to settle on the islands, to enjoy that paradise. And in doing so... I realize I am placing you right in the path of that very same danger."
I pulled away from her grasp, feeling a sudden need to move, to pace the room, besieged by my own foolishness.
"I boast of my knowledge; I design fleets, trade routes, I guide vast territories... and yet, I made a novice's mistake," I continued, my voice tinged with frustration. "When I planned the new cities in the island region, I thought of economics, of aesthetics, of defense against enemy ships. But I never... never did I design the kingdom's urban infrastructure to withstand the fury of hurricanes. Those monsters can uproot entire cities, and I... I did not prepare them for that."
Nyia watched me pace in circles for a few moments, allowing my frustration to spill over completely before stepping in. With that unshakable serenity that defined her, she stepped forward and took me by the shoulders, forcing my neurotic march to a halt.
"Look at me, Chuta," she asked, her voice sounding like a tranquil stream amidst my mental storm. I looked up to meet her warm, understanding eyes. "Even if you had done your absolute best... and the gods know you did, that you planned those cities with more care than any leader ever has... these storms will continue to batter the islands. They are the furious breath of the sea, the presence of the gods. They have existed long before the Suaza Kingdom ever set foot on these lands, and they will exist long after."
She stroked my cheek with her thumb, erasing the tight line of my jaw.
"You have been blessed by the gods with a wisdom that escapes our comprehension," she went on, offering a sweet but firm smile. "But you are only a man. You yourself have made it a point to remind our allies, the common folk, and us of that fact. You are not a god, my husband. You cannot rule the wind, nor can you command the sea to stand still."
Her words struck me with the force of a simple revelation.
The tension I had harbored at the base of my neck, the suffocating weight of my architectural messiah complex, vanished almost instantly. I let out a long, trembling sigh.
Hearing my own reasoning—the very logic I used to curb the religious fanaticism directed at me—coming from Nyia's lips acted as a miraculous balm. She was right. I could not foresee everything. I would learn from this mistake and rebuild, but I could not flagellate myself for failing to be omnipotent.
"Thank you, Nyia. I do not know what I would do without your clarity," I murmured, taking her face in my hands to give her a deep kiss, heavy with renewed gratitude. I pulled back with a radical shift in demeanor, my mind pivoting back to efficiency. "Finish packing the trunks. Notify Turey and Umza. We sail immediately; it is vital we reach the regional capital before nightfall."
Six hours later.
The swaying of the Caribbean Sea was replaced by the unyielding firmness of the stone pier. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, painting the sky above Tacaino City with brushstrokes of fire and purple.
The capital of the Federal Region of the Floating Islands (FRFI) was a seething cauldron of life. The clamor of the port welcomed me like a tropical embrace: the scent of saltpeter, fresh fish, and sweet fruits, and the murmur of dozens of dialects mingling in the warm air.
Just as in Dawn City, the streets of Tacaino overflowed with diversity. I saw local island faces, entire families of migrants from the mainland, merchants in their colorful tunics, and even former slaves who now walked with their backs straight and their heads held high.
At the foot of the pier, a substantial welcoming committee awaited us.
At its head stood Foza, the Regional Governor, wearing his insignias of command with pride, and beside him was his wife, Anacaona, whose beauty and majestic bearing continued to command a natural respect among the locals.
Behind them, flanking the entrance to the main thoroughfare, the Regional Army General and the Vice Admiral of the FRFI fleet stood sharply at attention.
Following the formal greetings and customary bows, the procession guided us through the cobblestone streets toward Foza's Regional Palace. The evening breeze began to cool the air as we walked.
"How was the crossing, Leader Chuta?" asked Foza, walking beside me with an energetic stride.
"The sea was calm, Foza. An uneventful journey," I replied, though my tone failed to mask the shadow looming over my thoughts. "However, I confess I am deeply troubled."
Foza nodded gravely, dropping his protocolary smile.
"It is the hurricane in the southeast, is it not?"
"It is. I read your report before setting sail."
"I dispatched medical supplies and food from our storehouses within hours of receiving the news, Your Highness," Foza explained, clasping his hands behind his back. "In a couple of days, when the winds die down entirely and the scout ships return, we will have absolute clarity regarding the material devastation and the count of the wounded... In the meantime, we have prayed to the gods and the spirits of the sea, begging them to appease their fury and watch over our people."
"You did well to mobilize aid so swiftly, Foza. I commend your diligence," I told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But listen closely: do not forget that the first to arrive were Kamui and the people of the Northern Region, Karinamá. The gods dictate that we must be grateful. Ensure you send an official message of gratitude for their support; that will strengthen the bonds between our regions."
Foza nodded, making a mental note of the command.
I stopped dead in the middle of the stone thoroughfare. The entire procession halted around me. I turned to the high-ranking military officers walking a few steps behind—the General and the Vice Admiral—who instinctively stood taller under my gaze.
"Gentlemen," I announced, with a voice that brooked no argument. "I want you to begin drawing up logistical plans immediately. Scout the lands, calculate the costs, and prepare the roads. We are moving the regional capital to Yuboa City (Les Cayes, Haiti)."
The impact of my words was palpable. The General blinked in disbelief, and the Vice Admiral opened his mouth, though no sound came out. Foza stared at me, eyes wide.
Tacaino City was beautiful, yes, but it was far too exposed to the open sea. My error in planning would not be repeated; Yuboa City would offer us the necessary geography to shield the central administration from the onslaught of hurricanes.
I left them to process the monumental order and resumed my march toward the palace.
Half an hour later.
After leaving my wives comfortably settled in the palace's guest chambers, I made my way to the Regional Academy of the FRFI.
The structure of stone and cured wood stood proudly under the torchlight. Its design replicated that of the Simte Academy in Central City. In theory, advanced and practical knowledge across various disciplines was to be taught here.
However, the reality of the FRFI was different. It had been little more than three years since the formal establishment of the region.
In the beginning, the educational level of the locals was practically nonexistent in formal terms. Foza and I had made the drastic decision to focus all resources entirely on basic education: reading, culture, and languages.
We needed the people to understand one another, to assimilate the empire's identity. We had even set aside the simplest of mathematical processes.
The result was evident walking through the halls: today, the academy functioned more as a hub of operations for researchers and talented migrants from the mainland regions. The locals were still forging their fundamental foundations, and few had reached this level of specialization.
I was guided to one of the main classrooms, illuminated by dozens of oil lamps. I had been invited to teach a special mathematics class.
Since my arrival in this world, I had encountered cultures where mathematics rarely surpassed inventory counting and simple bartering.
With patience, I had structured a curriculum: first basic operations, then simple calculus and equations, advancing into geometry, and finally, the advanced branches.
Tonight, the thirty students present—men and women, mostly mainland migrants alongside a few prodigious locals—already mastered the basics. The classroom instructor, a sharp-featured man, introduced me with a deep bow and yielded the dais.
I took a piece of lime chalk and turned to the blackboard.
"Good evening to you all," I greeted. The room fell into a reverential silence. "Today, we will take a step beyond exact calculations. Today, we will discuss statistics, and specifically, representative measures."
I wrote the word "Representativeness" upon the board.
Turning back around, I noticed a sea of furrowed brows. Even the head instructor blinked in confusion. Several hands shot toward the ceiling in unison.
I raised my own hand, offering a placating smile.
"Lower your hands. I know it is a strange concept. Do not search your minds for a definition just yet; you will understand the term by the end of the lesson," I assured them, pacing between the wooden desks. "Let us use a practical example. Look back at the formula for averages you learned last season... I want someone to calculate the average age of everyone present in this room at this exact moment."
A murmur of mental calculations and the scratching of quills on parchment filled the room. After a couple of minutes, a young mainland student, who could not have been older than eighteen, stood up timidly with my permission.
"Leader Chuta... applying the formula and adding the ages of everyone present, divided by the number of people... the resulting age is twenty-five."
"Exactly! Excellent work," I commended him, leaning against the edge of the main table. "Now, look around you. The vast majority of the students in these chairs are no older than twenty. So... why is the number we obtained so high? Why does the math tell us this room is twenty-five years old, when my eyes see only youth?"
The classroom descended into thoughtful silence. The students glanced around, analyzing the faces of their peers, connecting mathematical logic with visual reality.
Suddenly, another student, a woman with a shrewd expression, raised her hand.
"Your Highness," she began, upon receiving my nod, "the math does not lie, but the data carries... weight. The age of the instructor," she pointed to the man beside me, "and that of the veteran guards accompanying you at the door... those are very high numbers. Those few older men have dragged the final result upward, pulling it away from what the majority of us truly are."
I could not help but smile—a wide, genuinely pleased smile. The weariness of the journey melted away. They were understanding. They were not merely repeating formulas; they were beginning to grasp the very soul of the numbers.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I wanted to mention that the chapter is a bit 'random,' so to speak, but this is because after reading some of the previous chapters, it seemed like Chuta spent all day in meetings and didn't do anything else. Which is true to some extent, but not to that extreme.
On the other hand, I want to mention, as always, that everything mentioned is always a point where something in the kingdom itself improves.
The idea is to present Chuta as someone who lived in seclusion, where he was generally only informed of good things, and the bad things weren't considered important. We are getting closer to the role of a true leader, someone who has to deal with problems and not just plan from a king's perspective.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
First, I should say that I realized the location of the FRFI capital was poorly managed, not only by Chuta. As the author, I didn't actually verify the island's environment.
I only saw that it was close to Hispaniola and that it could serve as a point of connection between Taíno and Caribbean cultures.
However, after recent research, I discovered that it's an island that experiences frequent and quite devastating storms. Therefore, it was necessary to change the capital.
Finally, don't judge what's taught in classrooms. Chuta wasn't a teacher, and neither am I, hahaha.
There are maps.
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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.]