The afternoon was already beginning to wane in Carlos's office. The light streaming through the irregular glass window was golden and dusty, illuminating the crowded shelves and the papers on the heavy wooden desk.

  A soft knock at the door broke the silence. Before Carlos could respond, the door cracked open and the neatly combed head of Márcia, his secretary, appeared in the gap.

  "President? Mr. Nzambi is here. He says he'd like to speak with you."

  Carlos looked up from a report on paper production. A sudden chill of expectation, mixed with a pang of apprehension, ran down his spine.

  Finally. Perhaps today I can fit another piece of this insane puzzle.

  "Perfect, Márcia. Please, send him in."

  "Yes, sir."

  The door closed, and for a few seconds, the only sound was the scratch of Carlos's pen on paper. He set it down beside the inkwell, feeling the residual dampness of the ink on his fingers. Shortly after, the door opened again, more slowly this time.

  Nzambi entered. He was clean, wearing simple clothes of raw cotton – pants and a shirt made by the Republic – but he seemed tiny and fragile in that space. His eyes, normally observant, were downcast, fixed on the floor. He carried a long, narrow object, wrapped in a thick linen cloth. His hands, wrapped around the cloth, trembled visibly, making the fabric whisper against itself.

  "Good afternoon, president," Nzambi's voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper. He raised the wrapped object slightly. "I've come… come to talk about the dagger. As Miss Whisper asked."

  Carlos studied him for a moment, seeing the tension in his shoulders, the clenched jaw. It wasn't fear of punishment; it was the dread of someone about to stir up a painful past.

  "Nzambi, thank you for coming. And please, no need to be afraid," said Carlos, his voice deliberately calm and flat. He gestured with his hand towards the simple wooden chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat. Let's talk."

  Nzambi took a hesitant step towards the chair. It was then that the shadow cast by the window on the opposite wall – an elongated, dark blotch – seemed to breathe. It detached from the wall, gained volume and form in a fluid, silent motion that defied the eyes. And where there had been only darkness, now stood Shadow, gently blocking the path between Nzambi and the chair.

  Nzambi jumped back, a small, choked cry escaping his lips. The wrapped dagger was pulled against his chest like a shield.

  Shadow didn't even seem to notice the reaction. His face was a mask of serene professionalism.

  "Apologies for the scare, Nzambi," said Shadow, his voice neutral, almost monotone, but not threatening. "It's a security protocol. From Whisper's reports, that dagger is an artifact of considerable power at close range." He turned slightly towards Carlos, giving a brief nod. "It's for your safety as well, president."

  Carlos nodded once, confirming. He saw the logic, even if it heightened the tension of the moment.

  "Hand the dagger to Shadow, please, Nzambi," Carlos instructed. "It's just a precaution. It will be returned to you after our conversation. You have my word."

  The promise, spoken firmly, seemed to soothe one strand of Nzambi's nervousness. He looked at the cloth, then at Shadow, who remained motionless, a statue of patience and vigilance. Slowly, with fingers still trembling, Nzambi unwrapped the cloth.

  The dagger that emerged was not ornate, but its simplicity was sinister. The blade was short and of a purple so deep it verged on black, and it seemed to pulse with a dull internal light, like a pitch-black heart that seemed to absorb light. The hilt was of dark wood. An almost imperceptible aura, a distortion in the air like heat over a bonfire, surrounded the blade.

  Shadow extended a hand, using a piece of dark leather to take it, avoiding direct contact with the blade or the gem. His movements were precise, reverent, and cautious, like someone handling a venomous snake's egg. As soon as the dagger was transferred, a slight change occurred in Nzambi's posture. Some of the stiffness left his shoulders, as if a physical weight had been removed.

  "You may sit now," said Shadow, taking a step back and holding the dagger with both hands, the tip pointed downward and away from everyone.

  Nzambi finally approached the chair and sat down, his now-empty hands wringing in his lap. He seemed even smaller sitting down, facing the large desk.

  It was Carlos who broke the heavy silence, choosing his words carefully to build common ground.

  "Nzambi, you must have heard the… rumors. The talk that I'm not from this world." He paused, observing the man's face. "They are true. Neither I, nor many of the books on that shelf behind me, belong to this place."

  Carlos turned and pointed to a specific shelf, where some leather-bound volumes with titles in strange languages rested. Nzambi followed his gaze, his eyes widening slightly.

  "All these items have one thing in common," Carlos continued, turning back. "They exude a certain… presence. An aura of purple, almost black. The same aura your dagger exudes. That's why I believe, I know, there's a connection between them." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Except there's one crucial difference. The artifacts from my world were brought here. The effect of your dagger, from what's been described, seems to be the opposite: it doesn't bring things; it sends them away. Sends them far away, perhaps… to my world."

  Nzambi sat motionless for a long moment, processing. The fear in his eyes gave way to deep surprise, and then to a somber recognition. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally spoke, his voice a little stronger.

  "You… you are right. The gem in this dagger is related to those 'devil's artifacts.' I come from Gemas Gerais. And there, in the depths of the mines and in the whispers of those who served their owner, this gem has a name." He swallowed dryly. "It's the Gem of Sacrifice."

  Carlos sat up straighter. Gem of Sacrifice. The name itself was a confirmation and a sentence. So he picked up a notebook and a pen, dipped it in ink, and began to jot down what Nzambi said.

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  "Go on," he urged, taking up the pen again and dipping it in the inkwell.

  "Of course, that name isn't public knowledge," Nzambi continued, his eyes losing themselves in a distant memory. "In fact, the secret was closely guarded by the Priest of Fire, and passed down by him to the owner of the mines, Guilherme. Only a very closed circle knew."

  Carlos's pen stopped in mid-air, a drop of ink falling onto the paper and creating a dark blue stain. He looked up, his attention fully captured.

  "Priest?" The question came out sharper than he intended. "The Church is involved in this? Does the Popess know?"

  Nzambi shook his head vigorously.

  "No, not in that way. This priest… he's different. He's also from the New World, but from the North. His name is Tlenamaca." Nzambi pronounced the name carefully, the strange syllables sounding exotic in the office air. "Don't ask me how he ended up here, or how those two met. I only know that Guilherme's interest in the 'devil's artifacts' came from him. And the priest… he knows how to summon them."

  Carlos felt a chill run down his spine, followed by a spark of twisted hope.

  "How?" The word escaped him like a sigh. "How are they summoned? Is it just a matter of using the Gem of Sacrifice and channeling mana?"

  Nzambi shrank in his chair. His hands, now clasped in his lap, tightened so hard that his knuckles turned white. He looked at the floor for a long moment before raising his eyes, and in them Carlos saw an ocean of pain and guilt.

  "No," the answer was a whisper laden with horror. "It's not that simple. The bearer of the gem… he has to feed it." Nzambi paused, struggling to find the words. "You need to use… lives. Human lives. The more lives, the more power. The more mana they have – the sacrifices –, the more stable and powerful the summoning."

  The pen slipped from Carlos's fingers and rolled across the desk, leaving an irregular ink streak. He stared at it, stunned, before looking back at Nzambi.

  "But you… you activate its power without killing anyone. Whisper described you using the dagger to make things disappear."

  A flash of something bitter passed over Nzambi's face.

  "That's because I am the perfect sacrifice, president. I am an adept of the Gem of Sacrifice. My own life, my own blood… they have an intrinsic value to the gem, plus I have a lot of mana in my body." He raised his wrist, where thin, linear scars were visible. "In Gemas Gerais, I was the 'living catalyst.' My blood was used to complete minor rituals, to activate the dagger's sending power. That's why when I arrived here, in the cart… I was wrapped in bandages." His voice broke a little. "They drained me like a fruit. But summoning? Bringing something here? That… that I can't do. Not without… without other lives."

  Carlos swallowed dryly. The room seemed to have grown colder. The smell of wax and ink now seemed nauseating.

  "And is it possible," he forced the question out, "to summon something specific? Something one desires?"

  Nzambi nodded slowly, a mournful movement.

  "You can summon whatever the bearer of the gem desires. But the cost… the cost is proportional. You need to pay with lives equivalent to what you ask for."

  "How many?" Carlos's question was direct, impersonal, the question of a strategist calculating resources, but his stomach churned. "How many lives for… a book, for example? A book from my world?"

  Nzambi's expression became profoundly sad. He looked at Carlos not with fear now, but with a devastating resignation.

  I knew it, Nzambi's thought echoed in his own silence. He'll want to use the power. Everyone does, in the end. Lives will be lost because of this curse… He looked into Carlos's eyes, trying to read more than just a thirst for knowledge. He remembered Tainá's trust, Pedro's loyalty, Specter's silent protection, and even Whisper's professional respect. But they trust him. Maybe… maybe I should try too.

  "A book," Nzambi began, his voice hollow, "is small in size, but complex in essence. Full of ideas, symbols, structured knowledge. To bring just one… dozens." He saw Carlos's face tighten and continued, relentless. "For small, simple objects, like certain tools, maybe a few lives. For something large and complex, like some of the machines Guilherme brought… hundreds." He closed his eyes for a moment. "The priest Tlenamaca… he told stories. In his land, they used thousands. Thousands of lives for the summoning of the 'devil's artifacts.' Or, as he called them, the 'gifts of the sun god, Tonatiuh.'"

  What the hell. Carlos's thought was a punch of disillusionment. I thought it was a loophole. A way to bring knowledge, to speed everything up… even to convince the Popess. His mind then raced in a new direction. But this confirms the origin. Aztec. The mass sacrifices… it makes a macabre sense. But Francisco? He has artifacts too. Could the method be the same? A new horror settled in. Guilherme… he has mines, he has slaves. My God.

  "Guilherme," Carlos's voice came out hoarse. "He uses slaves' lives for these… summonings?"

  Nzambi nodded, his face a mask of revulsion.

  "Yes."

  Carlos sank back into his chair, rubbing his face with his hands. The skin was cold and damp.

  "Monstrous," he murmured, more to himself. "No book, no machine, is worth a human life." He looked at Nzambi again, his expression now laden with practical and urgent concern. "But this brings me an even bigger problem. Do you know if he's bringing specific technologies from my world? Weapons? Military knowledge?"

  If our enemy has international support, wealth, gems, and controlled access to our only advantage – the knowledge of another world – then we're not just at a disadvantage. We're doomed to fail before we even start.

  "About those technologies… I don't know the details," Nzambi admitted, frowning in concentration. "I saw things from afar, when they took me for the rituals. First, he focused on machines for mining. Strange machines, but somehow similar to the steam-powered ones you have here, more efficient, pumping systems… things to extract more wealth from the earth. Then… then the focus changed. He became obsessed with getting more gold. Much more. Said he needed 'capital' for something bigger." He paused. "Ah, he also owns a gold mine, in the lands west of Gemas Gerais."

  Carlos frowned, intrigued.

  Gold? Have they already discovered the main mines in Brazil? We're centuries ahead… but of course, the geography here is different. The riches could be in different places.

  "I imagine," said Carlos, picking up the thread of the conversation, "that you fled from him, and that you stole the dagger in the process, correct?"

  A glint of fierce satisfaction passed through Nzambi's eyes, briefly.

  "Yes. One day, they were… too ambitious. They thought they had killed me, that they had extracted everything. They left my body like a rag in a dark corner." His fingers touched the scars on his wrist. "But I was alive. Weaker than a newborn, but alive. And full of a hatred I didn't know I had. When the guard came to drag me to the pit… I surprised him. I took the dagger he was carrying for the next ritual." He looked at the package in Shadow's hands. "It's a pity that, in the moment, fear and the will to live were stronger. I only thought of fleeing. I didn't think of going back and cutting Guilherme's or the priest's throat. Just… flee."