The midday sun burned like fire on the back of Carlos's neck, each ray a needle of pain that sank deep into his already exhausted muscles. Sweat streamed in salty rivers down his face, mixing with the red dust from the cane field and forming a thick paste that stung his eyes. His lungs burned with every breath, the heavy, hot air laden with the sweet smell of crushed cane and the acrid odor of his own sweaty body.

  When he finally dared to lift his eyes to the sky, the sun was almost directly overhead, a white fire-disk that made the air shimmer above the endless cane. Noon, he thought, feeling a spark of hope. It must be time for the meal. His stomach growled violently, a sharp pain that felt like it was tearing his guts apart. The hunger had become a constant presence, a painful void that consumed his thoughts.

  It was then that he saw the overseers gathering in the shade of a tree, opening their clay pots. The smell of cooked meat and manioc reached him, carried on the hot breeze, making his mouth water instantly. But no order to stop came. The enslaved people kept cutting and carrying, while the overseers ate leisurely, their hollow laughter echoing across the field.

  What sadistic torture, Carlos thought, feeling cold sweat trickle down his back despite the heat. Not only the constant hunger, but we have to endure the smell of their food... watch them chewing, hear the sound of them swallowing... His fingers clenched the hoe's handle so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  The following hours were an endless agony. The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky first orange, then purple, but the work didn't let up. His muscles trembled uncontrollably, and the wound on his leg throbbed with every movement. When the overseers finally shouted the order to return, Carlos staggered like a drunkard toward the slave quarters, his feet dragging through the soft earth.

  How could humanity conceive of something so brutal? he reflected, tasting the bitter tang of bile in his throat. Two miserable meals a day, worked until you drop exhausted... this is a slow death, drop by drop.

  As he entered the senzala, he was met by the nauseating mix of smells that had become familiar—the heavy aroma of cooked beans mixed with the penetrating stench of the latrine hole in the dark corner. Ignoring the nausea rising in his throat, he grabbed a chipped wooden bowl and served himself from the large iron pot. He noticed Auntie Vera's absence—but his hunger spoke louder.

  He sat on the packed dirt floor, leaning against the cracked mud wall that still held the day's heat. The watery, tasteless beans, with their rare pieces of jerky tough as leather, disappeared in seconds. The coarse, bland cassava flour stuck to his palate. If I only had a little rice to give it some flavor... but in my current situation, even this tasteless food feels like a royal feast.

  He was serving himself a second time — his trembling hands spilling some beans onto the ground — when a shadow fell over him. It was Pedro, the man with the disconcerting blue eyes in his black face, sitting down beside him with careful movements that betrayed his own exhaustion.

  "Seems the master of the mill took a liking to you," Pedro commented, his voice a hoarse whisper barely audible over the sounds of chewing and low conversations in the quarters.

  Carlos let out a short, bitter laugh. "I don't know if that's good news or bad."

  Internally, his mind raced around the magical gems. I need to understand this world better, he thought, feeling the weight of his ignorance like a physical burden. These gems... how do they work? Who can use them? This could be the key to my survival here.

  "Where I'm from," Carlos began, choosing his words carefully, "no one knows about these so-called magical gems. Can you explain how they work?"

  Pedro frowned, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied Carlos's face. "What strange place do you come from?" he asked, and Carlos didn't miss the spark of suspicion in his voice. "Even the most isolated tribes in the Amazon know about gems. Each people has their own name for them, of course. The Tupinambá call them 'itá-pora,' the Africans 'okuta alagbara'... but here we follow the Portuguese name."

  Carlos felt the implicit suspicion in the question. He doesn't believe me, but there's nothing I can do. I can't pretend to know something I don't...

  "I come from a place very, very far away," he said finally. "Further than Portugal, or even Africa. That's why I know nothing about these gems or their powers."

  If Africa even exists here. Well, if Portugal exists, then Africa probably does too.

  Pedro studied his face for a long moment, his fingers drumming lightly on his own empty bowl. "Well," he said finally, as if deciding to accept the answer, "they're found naturally in caves, though they're as rare as dragon's teeth. The Spanish have the best mines in their colonies—they say the gems sprout from the ground like mushrooms after the rain. Here in Brazil..." He made a disdainful gesture. "...we only find the most common ones, though there are rumors about a mine of time gems hidden in the mountains."

  "By themselves, the gems are useless," Pedro continued, lowering his voice even further. "They need to be prepared by magical artisans—engraved with specific symbols, combined with materials that resonate with their energy... The best artisans are in Europe, of course. That's why European magical weapons are the most coveted."

  Wow, he knows a lot. But that's good for me; this is valuable information. Now I know that at least in terms of kingdoms and colonization, this world is like mine. But the magic part is very different. There was no magic in my world. At least, none that I knew of, though ending up here must have happened by some magical means.

  "You know a lot," Carlos observed, impressed not only by the knowledge but by the articulate way Pedro shared it.

  "I work in the Big House," Pedro shrugged, but Carlos noticed the subtle pride in his posture. "Every month a merchant comes from the capital, and I hear the conversations while I fan the master. They're always complaining about taxes and how Spain has made Portugal an enemy of the whole world, just like they complain about Blacks and Indians."

  "But I don't know that much about gems. The one who really understands gems is Tassi."

  The name hung in the air between them, and Carlos felt a stab of guilt so sharp it almost made him flinch. She was tortured for trying to help me, he remembered, feeling his face burn with shame. As he processed the other information, he noted the similarities with the world he knew. Iberian Union, Spanish colonies... so some things are parallel to my world.

  "Thank you for the information," Carlos said genuinely.

  "You're welcome. But let me give you some advice: invent a good story for the master. He's smarter than he looks, even if he is obsessed with these 'devil's artifacts'." Pedro paused significantly. "The merchant is visiting again tomorrow. He always brings news... and artifacts."

  As Pedro retreated to his corner, Carlos reflected on his options. I don't need to fool him completely... I just need a weapon and an opportunity. Although I've never killed anyone before, I don't know if I have the courage. Actually, I have to...

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He then remembered the words of Luiz Gama he'd read in a history class: "The slave who kills the master, under any circumstance, does so in self-defense." The phrase echoed in his mind like a mantra.

  Luiz Gama was a lawyer from Imperial Brazil who managed to legally free 217 slaves who had been unjustly enslaved. That feat was the largest collective liberation of slaves in the Americas.

  Not only his words, but his achievement was incredible. Although I don't think any slave was ever justly enslaved. Maybe in a legal sense, but not in a moral one. What matters is that his words are correct. What I will do will be self-defense, and by doing it, I'll help everyone here, especially Tassi, who saved me.

  As he got up to go to his corner, a sharp pain in his leg made him suck air through his teeth. Dammit, I forgot to ask Pedro for more ointment.

  His "bed" was a pile of dry straw near the latrine hole—the worst spot in the senzala, reserved for newcomers. Exhaustion overcame him quickly, but hours later he woke with an urgent need he couldn't ignore.

  The darkness was absolute, so thick he could almost feel it physically. Following the nauseating stench he knew well, his bare feet found the slippery edge of the trench latrine at the last moment, narrowly avoiding a disastrous fall. It was then he realized, with a shock of horror, the absence of toilet paper.

  What a disgusting situation, he thought, feeling the heat of shame burn his face. With trembling hands, he tore a handful of straw from his own "bed" to clean himself, feeling every rough fiber scratch his skin. The rest of the night was spent awake, his body tense with disgust and humiliation, until the first lights of dawn began to filter through the gaps in the thatched roof.

  With light he examined his leg in the weak, grey light: the wound was visibly inflamed, with red, swollen edges, oozing yellowish pus that smelled of rot. In this era, without antibiotics... an infection like this could be a death sentence.

  When the gate creaked open for the slaves who worked in the Big House, Carlos rose quickly, ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from his leg. He reached Pedro just as he appeared at the entrance.

  "I need more of that ointment," he said, pulling up his pants to show the wound. "It's getting worse by the hour."

  Pedro shook his head, his face showing genuine concern. "I've run out. Your only chance is to go to the chapel, on the other side of the lake. Father Ant?nio keeps a stock of remedies. But go quickly! The chapel is on the other side of the lake, near the fisherman's house." His blue eyes shot a significant glance toward the overseers. "And be careful. You should know they won't wait for you."

  Carlos stumbled out, each step a stab in his leg. I'll miss breakfast, but I need to show cooperation... just until I can get my hands on a weapon, he repeated to himself like a mantra.

  Across the yard, Jairo watched with narrow, calculating eyes. He saw Carlos hurrying off toward the lake. Quickly, he signaled to one of the junior overseers and whispered instructions before approaching Pedro.

  "I hope you're not putting dangerous ideas in the new one's head," Jairo said, his voice a low, threatening hiss.

  Pedro kept his expression calmly neutral. "I merely told him where the chapel is," he replied, meeting the overseer's gaze without flinching. "It's better for everyone if he recovers, don't you agree? A slave the master has taken an interest in... it would be a shame if he died because of an injury made by a certain overserr..."

  "You'd better be telling the truth," Jairo snarled, his sour breath hitting Pedro's face. "Remember what happens to those who disobey... and to those they love."

  ***

  The simple white chapel stood out against the intense green of the vegetation, its modestly executed Baroque architecture in stone and lime bringing back distant memories from Carlos's childhood—visits to a similar chapel in his grandparents' town. The smell of damp earth and foliage gave way to the scent of beeswax and dry incense as he crossed the solid wooden door.

  Inside, the cool dimness soothed his sun-pained eyes. Benches of dark wood, worn with use, lined up facing a simple altar where a rough wooden cross dominated the space. No one was visible, only the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the silence.

  I'm too early, Carlos thought, feeling a squeeze of despair. The priest must still be...

  Before he could complete the thought, a priest emerged from a side door—not the old, white-bearded man Carlos expected, but a young man of perhaps twenty-one, with curly brown hair and eyes of a surprisingly kind blue that examined Carlos without a trace of judgment.

  "Good morning, my son!" His voice was warm like honey, filling the silent chapel. "Have you come to confess your sins in God's house? We can begin immediately. I know your time is short."

  It's ironic, Carlos thought, a bitter taste of disillusionment filling his mouth. Here, even mixed-race people think they're superior to Blacks, as if a lighter skin tone could erase the chains that bind us all. His eyes scanned the young priest's face, catching the genuine kindness in his blue eyes—a stark contrast to the disdain he saw daily in the eyes of other whites, and even those of mixed race.

  In the eyes of the Portuguese who rule this land, we are all inferior—Blacks, mixed race, even the whites born here are seen as less, as if one's place of birth alone determines a person's worth. A hierarchy of humiliation, layer upon layer of prejudice, each more absurd than the last.

  "Actually, Father," Carlos said, pulling up his pants to show the infected wound, "I need help. I was told you have medicines."

  "My name is Ant?nio," the priest said gently, his eyes already examining the wound with clinical attention. "'Come, we have a more suitable place for this."

  Carlos followed him through the side door, down a dark corridor that smelled of dried herbs and dampness, into a small room lit by a single candle. Simple wooden shelves covered the walls, crammed with clay jars of different sizes, each carefully labeled with handwritten tags. The priest selected a specific jar, removing the wooden lid to reveal a bluish substance that emitted a faint mentholated scent.

  "Sit here," Ant?nio indicated, pointing to the only chair in the room.

  Carlos obeyed, pulling up his pants again to expose the wound. The candlelight revealed the full extent of the infection—the surrounding skin was red and swollen, with thin red lines beginning to extend from the edges.

  "It was Jairo who got you, wasn't it?" the priest commented as he examined the wound with surprisingly gentle fingers.

  "How did you... how did you know, Father?"

  "His whip holds two gems," Ant?nio explained, scooping up some of the blue ointment with his fingers, "one of them being the Gem of Decay. A useless thing, only good for making others suffer." He began applying the ointment, and Carlos suppressed a sigh as he felt an immediate sensation of relief that seemed to penetrate deep into the inflamed tissue. "But don't worry, with this remedy we can easily treat its effects."

  Carlos watched, fascinated, as the ointment seemed to be absorbed by the skin, the swelling already visibly decreasing. This is... incredible. Nothing in my world compares to this.

  The priest noticed his fixed gaze. "Are you curious?" he asked, a gentle smile appearing on his lips. "Don't worry, I'm not putting anything strange on you."

  "It's just that..." Carlos hesitated, choosing his words, "...I've never seen anything like it."

  "It's a simple remedy, actually," Ant?nio explained, continuing the application. "Water under the effect of a Healing Gem, mixed with specific herbs. I crush the herbs well, add the treated water..." He picked up a simple wooden spoon from one of the shelves, showing the small, pale blue gem embedded in its handle. "This spoon is a magical tool—when I stir the mixture with it, the water turns into this salve, which enhances the effects of the herbs."

  It's fascinating, Carlos thought, his mind racing with the possibilities. Gems in everyday tools... imagine the potential if combined with modern technology. Weapons, vehicles, medicine... He felt a chill down his spine as he realized the implications. And I can't use any of them.

  As he lost himself in his thoughts, the priest finished the treatment, tying a clean cloth around his leg.

  "All done," Ant?nio announced, washing his hands in a basin of water. "But be careful—it will be much better by tomorrow, but next time come sooner. Healing Gems aren't omnipotent, especially against the Gem of Decay."

  Carlos rose from the chair, testing the weight on his leg. For the first time in days, the pain was bearable.

  "Thank you very much, Father," he said, and the gratitude in his voice was genuine.

  "Go in peace, my son. And remember"—the priest's blue eyes met Carlos's with surprising intensity—"the chapel is always open for those who need help."

  Carlos thanked him with a nod and left quickly, his mind already calculating how long it would take him to get back to the cane field. The pain in his leg had diminished to a dull throb, but a new determination burned in his chest. The sun was already climbing in the sky, heralding a long day of work ahead—but for the first time since he'd arrived in this place, Carlos felt that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. And he was willing to do anything to reach it.