Chapter 17: Bank Robbery

Brazilian Empire — Sertão Toward Salvador, 1666

Tetanus sat in the shade of a rock, canteen still in hand, the fiery liquid dulling the searing pain in his thigh. He tore the dirty bandages with his teeth, wrapping them first around his thigh where the bullet had struck the flesh. Thanks to his armor, the wound wasn’t fatal, but it still hurt like hell.

His shoulder was worse—the bullet was still lodged near his clavicle, and every movement made his teeth grind. He took another swig of cachaça, poured some over the wound, and, using his hunting knife as an improvised probe, bit down on a piece of leather to muffle his scream as he dug out the bullet. The metal came out with a wet sound, covered in blood, and Tetanus tossed it into the dirt, panting, sweat mixing with the dust on his face.

“Not bad, cyclops,” Al-Yasiin muttered from the pouch, his voice muffled but with a tone of reluctant approval. “Survived two bullets and still knows how to stitch his own flesh. Maybe you’ll stay alive long enough to face a god.”

Tetanus ignored the head, bandaging his shoulder with the remaining strips. He stood, staggering, and checked on Trovão, who was grazing calmly a few meters away, left untouched by the cangaceiros during the skirmish. The horse looked as exhausted as he felt but strong enough for the journey.

Tetanus mounted with a grunt of pain, gripping the reins tightly, and glanced at the cangaceiros, who were already preparing to move out. Meia-Noite, his face still hidden by the black cloth and the vulture perched on his shoulder, made a curt gesture, pointing to the trail ahead. “One hour,” he repeated, his voice sharp. Tetanus nodded, spurring Trovão and following the group, red dust rising under the hooves as the sertão swallowed the horizon.

The journey to Salvador was a blur of heat, dust, and tense silence. The cangaceiros rode in formation, keeping Tetanus in the center like a useful prisoner, but they didn’t provoke him further. The pain in his wounds kept him alert, and Al-Yasiin, surprisingly, stayed quiet most of the time, perhaps sensing the moment wasn’t for sarcasm.

The shimmer of the sea finally appeared, a silver line growing closer each day until, after an hour of riding, the walls of Salvador loomed in the distance, the imperial fort rising like a shadow against the gray sky.

Salvador — Bahia

The setting sun painted Salvador’s streets in shades of orange and shadow, the salty sea air mingling with the smells of fish, leather, and smoke. Tetanus dismounted Trovão, his thigh and shoulder still throbbing but functional.

The city was a chaos of movement: merchants shouting, carts creaking, imperial soldiers patrolling the walls with muskets slung over their shoulders. The cangaceiros dispersed at the city’s entrance, blending into the crowd, but Tetanus spotted half a dozen of them in the distance, positioned near a warehouse by the docks, hands on their machetes, eyes alert under their adorned hats.

Before he could approach, a lone cangaceiro stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path. The man was solidly built but not fat, with a hunched posture, and his face looked literally melted, like hardened wax after a fire. The left side was a ruin of dripping stalactites, his eye sunken in a misshapen socket, while the other half held a hard, almost monstrous expression. He raised a hand, signaling Tetanus to stop.

“Easy, outsider,” he said, his voice raspy, as if his throat had been burned too. “Meia-Noite’s coming soon. He’s working out the plan. Gathering more men.”

Tetanus stopped, his yellow eye fixed on the cangaceiro. “Plan for what?”

The man with the melted face gave a crooked half-smile, his teeth glinting. “To take the city, obviously. Wasn’t that the deal? You’ll know when he gets here. Meia-Noite doesn’t like repeating himself.” He pointed to the warehouse, a wooden and stone structure with broken windows and a smell of salt and mold. “Go in there. He’ll find you.”

Tetanus hesitated but nodded, leading Trovão by the reins to the warehouse. The door creaked as he pushed it open, and a gust of wind slammed it shut behind him, stirring dust in the air.

The interior was dark, lit only by slivers of light filtering through the gaps in the planks. Before he could get his bearings, a shadow moved atop a stack of crates. Meia-Noite descended with the same feline grace as before, his black-clad figure, even his hands and feet, exuding a sinister aura.

“You really want to get into this, tough guy?” Meia-Noite asked, his deep voice cutting through the silence. He leaned against the stack, pistol in its holster but his hand always ready to draw in a flash. “This isn’t just a fight at the fort. It’s bigger than that.”

Tetanus crossed his arms, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. “Get to the point, Meia-Noite. What do you want?”

The cangaceiro chuckled softly. “The governor of Bahia, Marshal Deodoro Fonseca, is a tyrant. He enslaves, kills, and robs the people in the Empire’s name. I want him gone, but it’s not just about money.” He paused, the black cloth seeming to absorb the light. “There’s a document in Salvador’s central bank, signed by imperial big shots. It proves Fonseca’s been skimming gold for himself. With that paper, he’s done. I’m a wanted man here, so I need someone like you to do the dirty work more efficiently.”

Tetanus raised an eyebrow. “And where do I come in?”

Meia-Noite pointed a gloved finger at him. “You want your friend, the big guy at the fort. I’ve seen him—he’s in the city, standing guard. I want the document. My plan’s simple: my men and I hit the bank while you cause chaos at the fort, distracting the guards. You grab your giant friend—don’t ask me how, but know that if he attacks my men, we fight back. In the middle of it all, I get the document. Everyone walks away happy.” He tilted his head. “Or would you rather face the Empire alone, with two bullet holes and a talking head in your pouch?”

Tetanus clenched his teeth, weighing the words. Al-Yasiin muttered something inaudible from the pouch, but Tetanus didn’t need the head to know the plan was risky. Still, Meia-Noite offered a chance—maybe the only one—to reach Gume without facing an entire army, especially since the army would be distracted by two simultaneous attacks.

“Alright, I guess,” he replied, voice dry. “One more thing. Will the kingdoms brand me an outlaw for this?”

Meia-Noite stared back, his featureless face unreadable. “Well, let’s just say not many kingdoms like the Marshal, and stealing a slave—even one with battle value like your friend—isn’t that big a deal. In the end, you just won’t be able to set foot in Salvador again. Better have a plan to get out.”

The cangaceiro laughed again, the sound echoing in the warehouse. “Get ready. Tonight at midnight, Salvador’s gonna burn.” He turned, vanishing into the shadows.

Outskirts of Salvador

The cangaceiros’ camp was hidden in a narrow valley, a few kilometers from Salvador’s walls. Low fires lit faces marked by sun and violence, as men sharpened machetes, counted bullets, and laughed at crude jokes. Tetanus sat on a rock, watching them while wiping a dirty cloth along his sword’s blade.

“All of you armed to the teeth like that?” he asked, gesturing to the rusty muskets and flintlock pistols some carried.

A younger cangaceiro, wearing glasses, yawned before answering. “Firearms are rare. We steal ‘em when we can.” He raised a short-barreled blunderbuss, its metal stamped with the Empire’s crest. “This one came from a captain who didn’t need it anymore.”

An older man with a cloudy eye added, “And when we can’t find ‘em, we make our own.” He opened a leather sack, revealing crude pistols cobbled together with twisted iron barrels and roughly carved wooden grips. “Not pretty, but they kill just the same.”

Tetanus nodded. They were dangerous weapons—for both the shooter and the target.

Meia-Noite emerged from the shadows, as always, without a sound. The vulture that followed him like an eagle perched on a nearby branch, watching with its red eyes.

“It’s time,” he said, his voice cutting through the moment’s “peace.”

The cangaceiros stood, their faces hardened with a reckless courage, as if eager for war.

The city was quieter than Tetanus expected. Curfew had begun, and only a few drunks and soldiers patrolled the narrow streets. He moved through the shadows, avoiding guard posts, until he spotted Meia-Noite leaning against a wall near the market.

The cangaceiro leader seemed part of the darkness, his black cloth still despite the fetid breeze. Tetanus approached, keeping his voice low: “So, how do we start this party?”

Meia-Noite didn’t answer with words. In a fluid motion, he drew his pistol, aimed skyward—at the church tower’s bell nearly nine hundred meters away—and pulled the trigger.

The bell took a sharp hit, its metallic clang cutting through the night’s silence, echoing like thunder, signaling the start of the war.

“Right now, the boys are already moving in,” Meia-Noite said, holstering his pistol and vanishing into the dark.

Tetanus didn’t wait. He ran toward the fort, hearing the first alarm cries behind him. The sertão’s hell had reached Salvador.

From every alley, corner, and shadow, the cangaceiros emerged. Not just the twenty or thirty he’d seen at the camp—there were two hundred, a frenzied horde of men, women, and things that barely seemed human. Mounted on horses, wielding machetes, hatchets, and firearms, they flooded Salvador like a river of leather and gunpowder.

Some carried torches, hurling them into houses, warehouses, or onto rooftops. Others charged at soldiers, shouting insults while firing muskets into the air. The chaos was perfect.

Tetanus didn’t look back, moving quickly, knowing he had little time before the fort’s full guard was mobilized. Meanwhile, the cangaceiros tore through the streets, spreading terror and setting fire to everything in their path.

The smell of gunpowder and blood soaked the air as Tetanus advanced through the burning street, leaping over bloodied bodies and shattered barricades. The sounds of combat echoed across Salvador, mingled with musket shots and the clash of blades. He turned a narrow corner and suddenly faced a chaotic scene: a line of cangaceiros crouched behind burning barrels and carts, aiming rifles at a formation of imperial soldiers advancing in tight ranks.

And at the front of the army, standing out like a colossus, instantly recognizable to Tetanus, was Gume.

The man had grown even larger since Tetanus last saw him—two meters and forty centimeters of muscle and steel, his black skin visible through the heavy armor he wore. His double-bladed axe, a weapon so massive a normal man could barely lift it, rested lightly in his hands. His eyes, once full of laughter, were now cold as stone—until they landed on Tetanus, lingering for long seconds on his distinctive features: the purple hair, the single yellow eye.

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“TETANUS?!” Gume’s voice boomed like thunder, making even the soldiers around him hesitate.

“What the hell are you doing here, brother? I thought you were dead!”

There was no time for Tetanus to smile at the reunion; no room for sentiment in this situation. “Came to get you out of this shit, big guy. Marshal Deodoro’s got you caged in Salvador’s army! But tonight, the city’s falling—let’s get the hell out!”

Gume glanced at the soldiers around him, then at the cangaceiros behind Tetanus, now aiming their weapons at the guards. He took a deep breath, as if casting off years of servitude in a single exhale.

“Alright…”

In a fluid motion, Gume swung his giant axe backward, cleaving through three nearby soldiers like straw dolls. The impact was so brutal the bodies flew, crashing into their comrades and breaking the formation.

“FIRE!” Tetanus shouted, drawing his sword and charging the enemy line.

The cangaceiros, seeing the advantage, unleashed a volley from their rifles before drawing machetes and rushing into close combat. The street became a meat grinder—men screaming, blades flashing, blood streaming from severed necks.

Tetanus fought alongside Gume, the two moving like a storm. Gume carved a path with his axe, smashing shields and skulls with brutal swings, while Tetanus exploited the gaps for quick, precise killing blows with his sword.

“Where we headed, brother?” Gume roared, hurling a soldier against a wall with the axe’s haft.

“Central bank!” Tetanus replied, driving his blade into an enemy’s throat. “There’s a nutcase called Meia-Noite there—he’s robbing the governor. We disappear in the chaos!”

Gume laughed—a deep, wild sound Tetanus hadn’t heard in years. “Damn, brother, you only pick weird friends, huh? Meia-Noite’s the most wanted outlaw in the northeast! But if he’s with you, I’m in!”

They pressed forward, leaving a trail of bodies behind. The cangaceiros followed, shooting and shouting, torching everything in their path. Salvador was no longer a city—it was a graveyard of unburied bodies.

Salvador — Central Bank

While Salvador’s streets burned in chaos outside, Tetanus and Gume ran side by side, their boots crunching over shattered glass and charred wood, as Meia-Noite’s cangaceiros kept the imperial army occupied.

Gume, with his double-bladed axe (oh, the irony) slung across his back, moved like a living wall, his size intimidating even the cangaceiros following them. Al-Yasiin, in Tetanus’s pouch, swayed with each step, unusually quiet—or perhaps bored.

They reached the central bank, a sturdy stone building with reinforced iron doors, now ajar, the hinges bent as if forced open.

Tetanus pushed the gate, which creaked loudly. Gume followed, using his weight to bar the entrance with a fallen wooden beam he found. The sounds of the cangaceiros looting the city dulled, but the echo of a clash inside the bank cut through the air—metal against metal, followed by a deep, inhuman roar.

Inside, the scene was pandemonium. Meia-Noite, with his feline agility, dodged blows from an iron golem, a creature summoned by magic and employed as the bank’s guardian.

The golem, just over two meters tall, was a mass of welded metal plates animated by a supernatural force, its eyes glowing a sickly blue. It swung an arm like a hammer, smashing the stone floor with each blow, while Meia-Noite evaded, his black cloth fluttering like a living shadow.

“Watch out, big guy!” Meia-Noite shouted upon seeing Gume and Tetanus. “This thing doesn’t die easy!”

Gume didn’t hesitate. With a roar, he unslung his axe and charged, moving so fast the air seemed to groan. The golem turned, raising an arm to block, but Gume swung in a brutal arc, the blade’s edge slicing through the iron plates like rotten wood. The golem staggered, sparks flying, and Gume finished it with a second blow, decapitating the creature. The metal head rolled across the floor, its blue eyes fading as the body collapsed with a crash.

Meia-Noite wiped sweat from his brow, as if the cloth could sweat, and pointed to the back of the hall. “Nice work, giant. But the real prize is there.” He gestured to the banker, a fat, trembling man hiding behind a polished wooden counter, guarding an iron door adorned with mystical symbols pulsing faintly.

Tetanus and Gume approached as Meia-Noite vaulted the counter in a swift move, grabbing the banker by his sweat-soaked collar. “Give me the code, sixteen tons!” Meia-Noite growled, pressing the pistol to the man’s temple. “And don’t try lying. You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen, and I’m not patient.”

The banker swallowed hard, eyes wide, face pale as bone. “I… I don’t…” he stammered, but the pressure of the hot barrel made him crack. “It’s… 9-3-7-1! That’s it, I swear by the saints!”

Meia-Noite released him, shoving him against the counter, and gestured to Tetanus. “Go on, tough guy. Open that door. The document’s inside, and your friend’s free once I have what I want.”

Tetanus approached the door, fingers hovering over the bronze panel where carved numbers glowed under the mystical light. He began turning the dials, aligning the numbers—9, 3, 7…—when Al-Yasiin, from the pouch, decided to intervene.

“Two! Four! Seven! Ten! Twelve! Fifteen! Seventeen! Twenty! Eighteen! Thirteen! Fourteen!” the head shouted, voice dripping with sadistic glee, as if reveling in the confusion.

“Shut up, you bastard!” Tetanus growled, pausing to recall the sequence. “9-3-7… what’s the last one?”

“One, you idiot!” Meia-Noite snapped, while Gume laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the hall. “You’ve got a lot to explain when we’re out of here!”

“Seventeen! Twelve!” Al-Yasiin kept spouting random numbers. Tetanus clenched his teeth, patience wearing thin, and finally aligned the last number, 1. The door emitted a deep click, followed by a groan, opening slowly to reveal a descending staircase shrouded in darkness.

Meia-Noite brushed past Tetanus, already heading down the steps. The mystical door began to close behind them.

There was no turning back now; the only way out was to find another path ahead. Tetanus exchanged a look with Gume, who gripped his axe with a mix of relief and readiness for whatever came next.

“This mystical door doesn’t sit right with me. Never been back there,” Gume muttered, voice low. “And this Meia-Noite… you trust him, brother?”

“No,” Tetanus replied, adjusting the pouch where Al-Yasiin still chuckled softly. “But he’s what we’ve got now. Let’s get that document he wants and get out.”

Central Bank — Underground Vault

The staircase was narrow, the damp stone walls exuding a smell of mold and salt. Gume had to squeeze to fit, and the mystical light from the door above didn’t reach the lower steps.

Tetanus, Gume, and Meia-Noite descended under the faint glow of a torch Meia-Noite had grabbed from the street before the bank raid. Their footsteps echoed, mingling with distant dripping water and the muffled screams of the chaos still consuming Salvador outside.

“Stay sharp, cyclops. Places like this always have traps. Or do you think the Empire leaves gold and secrets unguarded for adventurous maggots like you?” Al-Yasiin taunted.

“Shut up,” Tetanus shot back. Meia-Noite led the way, his black cloth unmoving, pistol in his free hand, moving with the caution of someone who’d raided places like this before.

The staircase ended in a wide corridor flanked by locked iron doors and niches where broken statues of imperial saints watched with empty eyes. Before they could explore, a group of imperial guards—five, armed with muskets and sabers—burst from a side door, shouting orders.

“Intruders! Protect the vault!” the leader, a hooded man in steel plate armor, bellowed.

Meia-Noite reacted first, firing his pistol before anyone else. The shot hit the leader in the chest, dropping him instantly, but the others charged. Gume roared, swinging his axe in an arc, striking two soldiers, blood spraying the walls.

Tetanus dove into the fight, his silver sword parrying a saber before plunging into another guard’s neck. The last tried to thrust with a spear, but Meia-Noite reached him first, driving a dagger through his chin with deadly precision.

The corridor fell silent, save for the sound of bodies hitting the floor and blood dripping onto the stone.

“Quick and dirty. Just how I like it,” Meia-Noite said, wiping the dagger on his own face, leaving a diabolical blood-smeared grin. “Let’s go. The document’s further in.”

They began searching the rooms along the corridor, kicking down doors and rummaging through crates and cabinets. Most held useless papers—receipts, tax records, shipping lists—but in a small, dusty room, Tetanus found the first of four yellowed papers, each bearing a cryptic inscription in red ink.

He gathered them, passing them to Gume and Meia-Noite, who joined to read under the torchlight.

“They’re clues,” Tetanus said, frowning. “For a code.”

The papers bore the following messages, written in elegant but enigmatic script:

1. Red never follows yellow.

2. Blue always comes before green.

3. Green is not the first.

4. Yellow is not the last.

Meia-Noite snorted, his black cloth trembling with impatience. “A color-coded lock. Typical Empire. They love these games.” He pointed to the end of the corridor, where a massive bronze door, etched with four colored circles—red, yellow, blue, green—pulsed with the same mystical light as the entrance. “That’s gotta be the treasury. The document’s there.”

“So, what’s the order?” Gume asked, scratching his head inside his helmet with his free hand, axe resting on his shoulder. “These clues are a mess.”

Tetanus reread the papers, his brain working despite the exhaustion and pain in his wounds. “Let’s break it down. Green’s not first, so rule out green at the start. Yellow’s not last, so yellow doesn’t close. Red never follows yellow, so red can’t come right after yellow. And blue comes before green, so blue has to be earlier in the sequence…”

“Sounds like blue’s a good start,” Meia-Noite suggested, tapping his fingers on his pistol. “Blue, then green, to follow the second clue.”

Tetanus nodded but hesitated. “But red and yellow still need to fit. Red can’t come after yellow, and yellow can’t be last… So the order has to be blue, green, red, yellow.”

“Or blue, red, green, yellow,” Gume added, frowning. “Both sequences seem valid.”

“We’ve got one shot, big guy,” Meia-Noite said, pointing at the door. “These mystical doors usually punish mistakes. Fire, poison gas, or worse. Pick one.”

Al-Yasiin, of course, couldn’t resist. “Red, yellow, blue, green! Or maybe green, red, yellow, blue!” the head shouted from the pouch, laughing. “Want me to guess more, you maggots?”

“Shut up!” Tetanus and Meia-Noite snapped in unison, while Gume stifled a laugh. Tetanus took a deep breath, approaching the bronze door. He turned the colored circles, aligning them in the sequence that seemed most logical: blue, green, red, yellow. Each circle clicked into place, the mystical light pulsing stronger.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. Then the door shuddered, emitting a low sound like muffled thunder, and began to open, revealing a vast chamber lit by torches that ignited on their own. Piles of gold, jewels, and locked chests gleamed in the back, but what caught their attention was a central table, where a single document sealed with the Empire’s crest rested.

Meia-Noite moved forward, snatching the paper with a quick motion, oblivious to everything around him. “This is it,” he murmured, checking the seal. “The proof that takes down the Marshal.” He looked at Tetanus and Gume. “You did your part. Now find a way out. This place won’t stay quiet for long.”

Gume glanced around. “And how do we get out? That door locked behind us.”

“There’s always another way,” Meia-Noite said, already moving to a side wall where a crack suggested a hidden passage. “But stay sharp. The Empire doesn’t leave its treasures unguarded…”

The air in the treasury chamber grew heavy, as if the bank itself were holding its breath. Meia-Noite was already examining the side wall, his gloved hands pressing the stones for a hidden mechanism.

“We need to move. Now,” he said, voice tense.

Gume rummaged through the dead guards’ pockets, grabbing a handful of gold coins and stuffing them into his belt. “Not leaving here empty-handed, brother.”

Tetanus looked at Al-Yasiin, who dangled in the pouch with a wicked grin.

“Can you do something useful, or are you just gonna keep mocking us?”

The decapitated god’s head rolled its eyes. “Of course I can, maggot. But it’ll cost me.”

“What do you want?”

“A new body when we find one. And some of the gold here.”

Tetanus cursed but nodded. “Whatever. Just get us out.”

Al-Yasiin began chanting in an ancient, guttural tongue, like stones being crushed. His eyes glowed a fiery yellow, and the wall at the back of the chamber trembled. Stones shifted, revealing a narrow, dark passage.

“Mana’s gone. Ten seconds,” Al-Yasiin said. “Then it seals forever!”

Meia-Noite dove into the passage first, followed by Gume, who grabbed a chest before going. Tetanus opened the nearest chest, grabbing whatever was inside without looking, then ran for the passage as the wall began to close. At the last moment, he leaped through, the passage sealing with a boom behind him.

The darkness was absolute, but then—

A tug at the navel, the sensation of the world spinning.

They landed on their knees in a Salvador street, the smell of smoke and blood filling the air. The city still burned, but they were near the port, far from the bank.

“By all the hells!” Gume grumbled, standing and brushing dust from his armor. “That head’s packing some serious witchcraft.”

Meia-Noite was already up, the document secured inside his coat. “The port. Now.”

They ran through the alleys, avoiding the last clashes still raging in the city. The port was chaos—sailors shouting, merchants trying to save their goods, imperial soldiers forming barricades.

A drunken captain, wearing a tattered coat and clutching a rum bottle, leaned against the mast of a weathered but seaworthy ship.

“Looking for passage, my noble adventurers?” he said with a broken, toothless grin. “I’ll take you anywhere… for a price.”

Meia-Noite glanced at Tetanus and Gume, then at the ship. “Looks like our only option.”

Tetanus tossed the sack of coins to the captain, who caught it midair and opened it, eyes gleaming.

“Heh! Welcome aboard!” he shouted, stumbling toward the deck. “Next stop: anywhere but this shithole!”

Gume laughed, clapping Tetanus on the back. “At least the drunk’s honest. And damn, it’s good to see you again, friend!”

As the ship sailed, leaving Salvador’s flames behind, Tetanus looked to the horizon. They’d escaped this mess alive, thanks to a decapitated head and a bit of audacity.

Al-Yasiin let out a loud cackle one last time as the ship pulled away from the port.