The cognac in Ricardo Guerrero’s glass caught the lamplight, swirling like a pool of molten gold. The scent of aged oak and authority filled the room.

  Mateo placed his own untouched glass of grape juice on the table, his father’s words echoing in the wood-paneled study.

  War. The word came as no surprise. From the memories of his first life, the European continent in this century had always been a powder keg awaiting a spark. Tangled alliance politics, colonial rivalries, rampant nationalism—it was a perfect recipe for catastrophe.

  “Richter came to my office last night,” Ricardo stated, his voice as flat as if he were reporting the weather. “Officially, as the ambassador. Unofficially, as a messenger…” He took a measured sip of his cognac. “One month ago. The Austri Empire declared war on the Kingdom of Serdia. Over the assassination of their crown prince in a border province. Three days later, the Kingdom of Ittal, Serdia’s ally, reciprocated. A day after that, the Prussi Empire, Austri’s ally, joined the fray.”

  A mechanical sequence of events. Like falling dominos. Mateo could visualize it in his mind: the map of Europa—Europania in this world—a web of interlocking alliances, military mobilizations on an unprecedented scale. This was no ordinary border skirmish. This would be industrialized slaughter.

  “Brittonia? Francos?” Mateo asked.

  “Not yet mobilized. But their positions are clear. Brittonia has a mutual defense pact with Ittal. Francos has loathed Prussi ever since the Border War two decades ago. They are merely waiting for a pretext.” Ricardo studied his son. “This is not a minor conflict, Mateo. This is a firestorm. And the winds will carry its embers to our shores.”

  Mateo stood and walked to the large world map adorning the wall. His index finger traced the coastline of the Republic of Venez, a nation squeezed between a vast ocean and a turbulent continent.

  In his mind, another map superimposed itself—from his old world—with a eerily similar configuration. Trenches, mustard gas, machine guns, a lost generation. The names were different, but the symphony of death was the same.

  “Our economy will be shaken,” Mateo said, more to himself. “Prussi and Brittonia are our largest trading partners. The war will disrupt supply chains. Our exports of coffee, cocoa, and tobacco will stall. Imports of machinery, steel, and medicine will be choked off. Inflation. Shortages.” He turned. “The stock exchange in Brittonia has already crashed?”

  “Sixty percent in a single day. And that is just the beginning.”

  Mateo returned to his chair but remained standing. His mind accelerated, processing data, projecting scenarios. Threats.

  But also… opportunities. From the memories of his first life, war had always been a colossal engine that devoured resources and spat out fortunes for those nimble—or ruthless—enough to capitalize.

  “Father,” he said, his voice low yet intense. “This is a catastrophe. But it is also a singular opportunity.”

  Ricardo raised an eyebrow. “An opportunity for what? To join the war? We lack the capacity.”

  “Not to join. To supply.” Mateo leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with cold calculation. “The Austri and Prussi Empires will need steel for cannons, copper for shells, cotton for uniforms, nitrates for gunpowder. Brittonia, Ittal, and the others will need the same. And we have it all beneath our soil. The eastern mountains are rich in minerals. The northern plantations yield the finest cotton.”

  “Selling to both sides?” Ricardo sounded skeptical. “That’s perilous. It will anger all parties.”

  “We do not sell directly. We use intermediaries. Companies from Swess, Phanama, Khuba—neutral nations. Their money purchases, their ships transport, we provide the goods. Plausible deniability.” Mateo sat now, leaning in. “And that is only the first layer.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Our military.”

  Ricardo fell silent. The cognac in his glass stopped swirling.

  “The military reforms you’ve pushed these past three years have been effective,” Mateo continued. “Discipline is better. Training is standardized. But they are still green. They have never faced modern artillery, gas attacks, trench warfare. They lack real experience.”

  “And you propose we send them as cannon fodder to a foreign slaughter?” Ricardo’s voice began to edge higher.

  “No. I propose we lease them.” Mateo chose his words with care. “We offer Prussi—through Richter—a troop contingent. Say… 150,000 enlisted men, 10,000 officers. As part of their allied forces, a show of solidarity. But with one condition: all equipment, weaponry, and logistics are to be provided by Prussi.”

  Ricardo looked at him as if he were an alien creature. “You want to send our nation’s youth to die in a foreign war?”

  “To learn,” Mateo insisted. “For three months. That’s the term we set. Officially, it’s a symbolic support force. After three months, we recall them. Cite a reason… domestic political crisis, lingering threats from Mendez loyalists, anything. And, of course,” he added, “all the Prussi equipment they use—rifles, uniforms, gear—comes back with them. As ‘compensation’ for our sacrifice.”

  The room was silent for a full ten seconds.

  Then, Ricardo Guerrero laughed. Not a light chuckle, but a deep, resonant burst of sound, filled with bitter admiration. “Good God. You… you are formidable, son. The heir I hoped for.”

  “That’s not a compliment, is it?” Mateo said, though a faint smile touched his lips.

  “No. It’s an acknowledgment.” Ricardo drained his glass. “You’re offering our troops as… leased soldiers. Prussi gets fresh manpower—even if they consider it expendable, it’s still useful. We get troops battle-hardened in modern warfare, plus a complete set of advanced military hardware for free. And after three months, we terminate the contract, bring home whatever soldiers survive along with their weapons.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you are certain Prussi will accept?”

  “Richter will advocate for it,” Mateo said. “For Prussi, it’s a fine diplomatic gift—an ally from across the ocean showing support. It boosts the legitimacy of their war. 150,000 troops might be a drop in the bucket for a war of this scale, but the symbolism is immense. And they will likely assume we are too naive to withdraw them later.”

  “And if the war turns into a meat grinder? If we cannot extract them?”

  Mateo gazed at the map again, at Europania, which he now imagined beginning to burn. “This war, Father… in my estimation, it is not one that can be won swiftly. From my studies, a conflict of this scale will deadlock. Trench against trench. A slaughter without progress. Prussi may be strong, but they face a coalition. They will not achieve absolute victory. They will be too mired, too entrenched. Our 150,000 will be a mere trickle in an ocean. When we pull them out, they will be too preoccupied to protest vigorously.”

  Ricardo watched him, his expression grave now. “You speak with a frightening certainty. As if you’ve seen it before.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Because I have, Mateo thought. But what he said was, “Historical patterns repeat, Father. Technology changes, but human nature remains constant. This will be a war of attrition. And we must not be the ones worn down.”

  “Dirty. A profoundly dirty suggestion.” Ricardo refilled his glass. “Profiting from the deaths of others to strengthen ourselves. Sacrificing some of our own young men—because there will be deaths in those three months—to save more in the future.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that doesn’t trouble you?”

  Mateo’s eyes didn’t waver. “It troubles me deeply. But it troubles me more to imagine our inexperienced troops one day facing a foreign invasion because we were too moral to equip them with real-world experience. Or to picture our economy collapsing because we failed to leverage the resources we possess while other nations burn theirs.”

  Ricardo nodded slowly, then a wide, rare grin suddenly split his face—one that showed his teeth. “Very well, my son—El Arquitecto. Draft the plans. Prepare the formal proposal for Prussi. But through back channels first. I want to see Richter’s expression.”

  “You agree?”

  “Agree?” Ricardo stood, walking to the window overlooking the gardens where the party’s faint waltz music still drifted. “Mateo, being President often means choosing between the bad and the worse. Idealism must be wrapped in realism, or you become a martyr, not a leader. This is dirty. Uncomfortable. But if it secures the Republic’s future… yes, I agree.”

  It was what Mateo both admired—and sometimes worried about—in his father. The ability to suppress moral instinct for colder calculus of power. He was an idealist hardened into a realist, while Mateo was a realist searching for an idealism that could survive.

  “One more thing,” Mateo said. “The Bridge Project. If the war drags on, famine will grip Europania. Prices for wheat, corn, and meat will skyrocket. We must begin stockpiling food reserves now. And expanding our farmlands. Not for export, but for our own safety net.”

  Ricardo turned. “You believe it will come to that?”

  “In my study of war, famine always follows. Pestilence always follows. And there are always those who grow obscenely wealthy from the suffering. Better we be the prepared, not the sufferers.”

  “Do it. Use your authority. As always, ask few questions.”

  It was trust. And delegation. Mateo nodded.

  “Tomorrow,” Ricardo said, returning to his desk. “We begin in earnest. But tonight…” he raised his glass toward the door, toward the sound of the party, “…tonight we are gracious hosts, celebrating a family birthday. The outside world can wait a few more hours.”

  Even as everything clicked into place, a growing unease settled in Mateo’s gut regarding his own mindset.

  ***

  23:45. The party was winding down.

  Mateo returned to the thinning crowd, his face once again a perfect mask of amiability. But behind it, his mind was constructing timelines, priority lists, logistical maps.

  He spotted Richter, the Prussi Ambassador, conversing with a group of industrialists. The man appeared ordinary, but Mateo knew a sharp intellect and unwavering loyalty to his Kaiser lurked beneath.

  “Mateo!” Richter hailed him with forced familiarity. “A magnificent celebration. The music reminds me of home.”

  “I hope they are pleasant memories, Your Excellency,” Mateo replied, shaking his hand. “Any news from the homeland?”

  Something flickered in Richter’s eyes—alertness. “Oh, the usual matters. Politics is always in motion, is it not?”

  “Indeed. Sometimes it moves too swiftly.” Mateo lowered his voice. “Perhaps tomorrow, if you have a moment, we could share some coffee. There are… opportunities that might interest both our nations. In these unstable times.”

  Richter studied his face, then gave a slow nod. “Of course. Ten a.m. at the embassy?”

  “Perfect.”

  The first transaction had been planted.

  ***

  The next day, 10:00. The Prussi Embassy.

  The room was designed to intimidate—high ceilings, paintings of historic Prussi battles, flags bearing the black eagle. The coffee served was strong and bitter.

  “We have been following the developments in Europania with concern,” Mateo began, seated on a hard leather chair.

  “And with interest, I am sure,” Richter countered with a thin smile. “War always redraws maps. Creates new opportunities.”

  “And new challenges.” Mateo set his cup down. “The Republic of Venez values its friendship with the Prussi Empire. Our cooperation on the railway project is a testament to that. In times like these, friends should support one another.”

  Richter narrowed his eyes. “What manner of support do you mean?”

  Mateo produced a single-page document—unofficial, just bullet points. “The Republic of Venez, as a gesture of solidarity with our ally Prussi, is willing to contribute a troop contingent to the Allied war effort. 150,000 infantry. 10,000 officers. All volunteers, high morale, trained to modern standards.”

  Richter nearly choked on his coffee. He stared at Mateo as if he were mad. “You… are offering troops?”

  “As part of the allied forces. Under Prussi command, of course. A symbol of our friendship.” Mateo paused for effect. “However, our nation has only recently stabilized after a long period of turmoil. Our resources are limited. We cannot afford to equip such a large force with the modern gear required on the Europanian battlefield.”

  Richter began to understand. His smile slowly returned, but now it was sharper, more calculating. “So… Prussi would provide the armaments? The equipment? The logistics?”

  “Precisely. As the senior partner in the alliance, such assistance would demonstrate the Empire’s generosity. And, of course, increase the effectiveness of our contingent.” Mateo held Richter’s gaze. “It is a good offer, is it not? Prussi gains fresh reinforcements—and a propaganda victory regarding international support. We gain… experience for our military. And stronger bonds of friendship.”

  Richter was silent, his fingers tapping the desk—Prussia believes the war will be short, so this offer will likely be accepted—Mateo could almost hear the gears turning. A seasoned diplomat, scenting something. But the advantages were too tempting to ignore.

  “Duration?” Richter finally asked.

  “Three months. Sufficient time to make a meaningful contribution, yet not overly burdensome on our logistics. After that, the forces will be recalled for… domestic political reasons. But for those three months, they are entirely at your disposal. We will send General Antonio Pérez to lead them as the Commander of the Allied Support Force.”

  Yours to spend, Mateo thought bitterly.

  “And the equipment we provide?” Richter probed. “What becomes of it after the withdrawal?”

  Mateo shrugged, feigning naivety. “It would, of course, be returned. But perhaps… it will take time. Transportation, bureaucracy. The important thing is our sincere intent.”

  Richter laughed—a short, dry sound. “I am not naive, Mateo Guerrero. You are playing a very risky game.”

  “We are all playing games, Your Excellency. The question is, are we bold enough to win them?”

  Silence again. Then Richter nodded. “I will convey this offer to Berlim. With a positive recommendation. But…” his gaze turned piercing, “if there is duplicity behind this—if you plan to withdraw prematurely, or use this for espionage—the consequences will be severe. Prussi does not take kindly to being made fools of.”

  “We respect Prussi. And we honor our agreements.” Mateo stood, bringing the audience to a close. “Await word from Berlin. We are prepared to move quickly.”

  ***

  15:00. Headquarters of the National Security Corps.

  Major Cruz—now Commander Cruz—received Mateo in his new office. The man had transformed over three years: more confident, yet still harboring a healthy wariness of the young man before him.

  “Commander,” Mateo greeted. “I have a special mission. Highly sensitive.”

  “Just give the order, master Mateo.”

  Mateo explained. Not all the details. Just the core: a contingent of volunteers would be sent to the Europanian continent for “exchange training” and to “show solidarity” with Prussi. They would be selected from the best units. Ambitious junior officers. Unmarried soldiers.

  “And the true objective?” Cruz dared to ask.

  “To learn. To witness modern warfare. To return with knowledge that cannot be taught in barracks.” Mateo met his eyes. “And to bring back every piece of Prussian equipment they can carry. Every rifle, every helmet, every boot.”

  Cruz understood. His eyes gleamed—not with idealism, but with opportunity. “When?”

  “As soon as approval comes from Prussi. Perhaps a week. Choose the best. But also those who… could be considered acceptable losses.”

  The words hung in the air. Cruz nodded grimly. “Some will not return.”

  “Yes. And we will honor them as heroes. But better a few fall on foreign soil than our entire military be shattered on our own because it was unprepared.”

  An iron-clad logic. Cruel, but logical.

  ***

  Evening. Palace of the Sun.

  Mateo stood once more on his bedroom balcony, overlooking the city. Caraccass slept peacefully, unaware that 160,000 of its finest sons would soon be dispatched to a foreign slaughter, as pawns in the chess game he was orchestrating.

  Was this what he wanted? When he first helped overthrow Mendez, he envisioned building a safe house for his family. Now he was sending men to war to reinforce its walls.

  His hands gripped the balcony railing. In his memory, he saw again the face of his young lieutenant from his first life, in the rubble of a shattered city. The same face as the soldiers he would now send—young, earnest, unaware they were mere cogs in a grander machine.

  He took a deep breath. The scent of the tropical night—flowers, sea air. No scent of cordite. Not yet.

  This was a choice made with open eyes. A dirty choice. An uncomfortable one. But necessary. As his father said, idealism must be wrapped in realism.

  He turned and walked back inside. On his desk lay the draft of the formal proposal for Prussi, reports on agricultural expansion for The Bridge Project, and a missive for Felix regarding deploying Sombra operatives near the frontlines to gather intelligence.

  There was no time for doubt. Only action. And the hope—that at the end of all this dirt, there would be something better, something safer, for the people he sought to protect.

  He sat down and picked up his pen. The work never ceased.

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