Chapter 6: Tiradentes Mercenaries

Tetanus was back in the basement of the São Dantas Orphanage, naked on the stone table, ropes cutting into his flesh. Father Arture was there, but different—larger, more monstrous. His arms stretched like tentacles, the stigma on his palm pulsing like rubies, his squinting eyes sliding sideways. The curved knife gleamed under the light of black candles, and when he smiled, his teeth were needles.

“You liked it, didn’t you, my child?” Arture’s voice echoed, distorted, as if coming from inside Tetanus’s own head. “You’re mine now. Marked. And broken.”

The blade descended, but instead of cutting, it penetrated, fusing with the boy’s flesh, becoming part of him. The symbol on Tetanus’s chest burned, the whirlpool spinning faster, pulling him into himself—

He woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged. His fingers gripped the curved knife so tightly that his knuckles were white, the blade pointed at nothing, as if Arture could emerge from the darkness of the woods.

Brazilian Empire — Minas Gerais

The abandoned campsite was silent, the gray light of dawn filtering through the trees. His body was soaked in sweat, his muscles taut like a bowstring about to snap. His chest throbbed, a dull pain that never truly went away.

Tetanus took a deep breath, counting to ten while gripping the dagger tightly, trying to quell the rising panic. Slowly, the world around him came back into focus: the smell of wet earth, the distant song of a bird, the weight of the knife in his hand.

He released the weapon and grabbed the canteen he’d found at the camp, taking a sip of the stagnant water. Even the water tasted of mold, but it was better than nothing. Then he broke off a piece of bread and chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow.

Every movement hurt. His body was still sore, adjusting to the circumstances, but always, forever, there was a sense of filth that no water could wash away.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands.

A crow watched from a nearby branch, its head tilted. Tetanus ignored it. He didn’t have the energy to wonder why the bird followed him or if it was even real.

He stood, stretching his aching muscles, and looked at the trail ahead. There was no plan, just movement. Survive. Escape. Find… something. Maybe answers.

Or maybe just a place where he could sleep without dreaming.

The knife returned to the makeshift holster at his waist. Tetanus gave one last look at the camp, pulling on the blanket. Everything around him was silent except for the rustling of leaves stirred by the wind. He forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to anchor himself in reality.

Suddenly, a sharp snap cut through the forest’s silence. He froze, the knife raised, his senses sharpened. Heavy footsteps, muffled voices, cruel laughter. The boy crouched, hiding under the torn tarp of the camp, his eyes scanning the darkness. Three figures emerged from the trees, ragged men with sparse beards and dirty clothes. One carried a torch casting dancing shadows, another held a crude bow, and the third wielded an old machete. Bandits, likely deserters or thieves prowling the trails of Minas Gerais, taking advantage of the desolation to ambush travelers.

“Look at that, a kid all alone,” said the one with the torch, his voice hoarse, eyes gleaming with malice. “Must have something valuable in that little body of yours.”

The boy gripped the knife, his heart racing, the rage that had sustained him in the orphanage bubbling beneath the surface. He wouldn’t be a victim again. “Get out of here,” he growled, rising slowly, the blade reflecting the torchlight. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

The machete-wielder laughed, a guttural sound, and advanced, swinging his weapon with arrogance. “You don’t call the shots, kid. Hand it over, and maybe we’ll let you live.”

Without warning, the archer fired an arrow, but the boy dove to the side, the projectile embedding itself in the tarp behind him. Adrenaline surged, and he lunged, the knife slicing through the air. The first strike hit the machete-wielder’s arm, who screamed and dropped his weapon, blood gushing. The second bandit, with the torch, tried to land a punch, but the boy dodged and drove the knife into his thigh, eliciting a howl of pain. The third, the archer, hesitated but was already reloading his bow.

The boy didn’t stop. The three bandits, wounded and stunned by the boy’s ferocity, retreated, cursing and stumbling in the dark. “Let’s get out of here! This kid’s crazy!” shouted the torch-bearer, limping as he clutched his thigh.

But before they fled, the archer, in a final act of spite, fired another arrow. The boy tried to dodge, but the sharp tip tore through his shoulder, the pain exploding like fire. He fell to his knees, the knife still in hand, warm blood streaming down his arm. The bandits vanished into the forest, their voices fading into the night.

Panting, he touched the wound, the arrow still lodged, its tip buried in his flesh. The pain was unbearable, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to pass out. With a trembling hand, he snapped the arrow’s shaft, leaving the tip inside to avoid worsening the bleeding. He dragged himself to the tarp, grabbing the burlap sack and canteen, and collapsed against a tree, the world spinning.

Dawn crept over Minas Gerais, the sky tinged with a pale gray that barely dispelled the forest’s darkness. The boy, with the broken arrow still in his shoulder, limped along the trail, each step a battle against pain and exhaustion, dried blood mingling with the dirt on his skin.

The woods began to thin, the trees parting to reveal a wide clearing. The sound of metal clashing and hoarse voices cut through the morning silence. He stopped, hiding behind a tree, his senses alert despite his weakness. Before him stood a military encampment, a vision seemingly torn from a brutal past, like something out of a war tale. Thick canvas tents, some patched, were scattered in haphazard rows, surrounded by sharpened wooden stakes. Faded white flags bearing a red triangle crossed by swords fluttered in the wind. Men, women, and youths too young to be adults, most in leather and iron armor stained with dirt and blood, moved with purpose—some sharpening blades, others carrying crates or tending fires where pots simmered with the smell of rancid stew.

The boy hesitated, knife in hand, his survival instinct warring with the fear of trusting strangers after Davi’s betrayal. But the pain in his shoulder was a constant scream, and he knew he wouldn’t survive long without help.

He stepped forward, emerging from the tree’s shadow, and immediately felt eyes turn toward him. A tall, robust man with a thick beard and a scar across his forehead dropped the sword he was sharpening and approached, his hand on the hilt of an iron sword.

“Identify yourself or eat steel!” he demanded, his voice deep, eyes narrowed. “It’s not common for bloodied kids to show up out of nowhere around here.”

He swallowed hard, his throat raw. “Just… need help!” he exclaimed, pointing to his wounded shoulder, the broken arrow shaft still visible. “I was attacked… in the forest.”

The bearded man sized him up, noting the stolen clothes, the curved knife, the lean frame of someone who hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. Something in his expression softened—perhaps pity, perhaps recognition of someone who’d faced hell. “You look like you’ve seen the devil, kid.” He gestured to a nearby woman with short, tied-back hair, a monocle-like device hanging from her neck, and leather armor reinforced with iron plates. “Captain, call the healer. This one won’t last long without care.”

The woman, her name unknown, nodded and disappeared among the tents. Two soldiers helped the boy walk, guiding him to a central fire where a larger tent, used as an infirmary, was set up. He was placed on an improvised stretcher of planks and cloth as the healer, an old man with calloused hands and sunken eyes, arrived carrying a leather bag full of tools and herbs. The smell of alcohol and balms filled the air.

“This is gonna hurt,” the healer warned bluntly, examining the arrow. “The tip’s deep, but it didn’t hit bone. You got lucky, kid.”

Tetanus gritted his teeth, the muffled scream escaping as the camp seemed to pause for a moment, soldiers outside casting curious glances. The healer yanked the arrowhead out with a swift pull, blood gushing before he pressed a cloth soaked in a burning liquid against it. The boy arched his back, the pain rivaling memories of Arture’s basement, but he refused to faint. The healer stitched the wound with coarse thread, applying a poultice of green herbs and a white liquid.

“It’ll leave an ugly scar, but you’ll live. Better than nothing, eh?” the old man said, wiping his hands on a dirty uniform. “Sleep. If you try walking now, you’ll rip the stitches.”

The bearded man, who seemed to be the leader, crossed his arms, watching. “What’s your name, man? And how’d you end up here, alone in the forest?”

He hesitated, the word “Tetanus” nearly slipping out, but he decided to own it. “Tetanus,” he answered, his voice weak. “I was… attacked by bandits. Came from far away.” He didn’t mention anything prior to that.

The leader grunted, as if not entirely convinced, but didn’t press. “I’m Tiradentes, commander of this… troop. We’re mercenaries, hired to protect Minas Gerais’s trade routes. We’re no saints, but we don’t let random folks die at our doorstep—we don’t need more trouble with the baron. Stay till you’re better, but don’t expect endless charity. Here, everyone earns their place in hell.”

Tetanus nodded, exhaustion outweighing distrust. The red-haired woman with the makeshift monocle brought a bowl of watery stew with tough meat and roots, and he swallowed it with difficulty, the warmth easing the emptiness in his stomach. They left him in the tent under the watch of a young soldier who seemed more bored than threatening, and Tetanus stayed on the stretcher.

As the camp returned to its routine—the clanging of swords, shouts of orders, the crackling of fires—Tetanus closed his eyes again. He was alive, and that was enough to keep fighting.

The sun had already set when Tetanus woke again. His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was now a dull, manageable ache. The healer’s tent was empty except for a skinny boy—the same soldier who’d kept watch—now mending a leather bag with needle and thread.

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The boy sat up slowly, avoiding sudden movements. The soldier looked up, surprised.

“Already awake? The old man said you’d be out till tomorrow.”

Tetanus ignored the comment, rubbing his face. “Need water.”

The soldier, a kid not much older than him, maybe ten years old, with brown eyes and a chin marked by acne, handed over a canteen. “Here. And stay quiet, or the healer’ll have my ears.”

He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. The soldier watched him curiously.

“Is it true you killed three men before getting here?”

Tetanus frowned. “What?”

“It’s what they’re saying, uai. That you came from the forest covered in blood after taking on a gang of thieves alone. They found their bodies half a league from here, eyes gouged out, tongues too. You’re downright creepy, man.” The soldier—more like a kid in costume—grinned, showing a broken tooth. “They’re saying you’re some kind of trained assassin, or worse.”

Tetanus’s eyes widened as he took another gulp, avoiding a response. Good stories spread fast, he thought. And scary stories keep people away.

The soldier leaned forward. “Commander Tiradentes wants to talk to you. Said to bring you as soon as you woke up.”

Tetanus looked up, tension returning to his muscles. “Why?”

The soldier shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he wants to recruit you. Or maybe he just wants to know if you’re a real threat.”

He finished the water and stood, testing his balance. His shoulder ached, but not as much as before. “Take me to him, then.”

The camp was livelier at night. Torches lit rows of tents, and the smell of roasted meat and tobacco filled the air. Men and women laughed loudly, playing dice or sharpening weapons. Some glanced at Tetanus as he passed, whispering among themselves.

Tiradentes sat by a large central fire, skewering a piece of meat with a knife. He wore an open linen shirt, revealing old scars and a silver chain with a triangular symbol—the same as on the flags.

“Ah, the survivor.” Tiradentes smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “Sit. Eat something.”

Tetanus hesitated, but hunger won out. He took a piece of hard bread and sat on the opposite log, then noticed his knife was gone.

“Thanks.”

Tiradentes laughed. “Polite. Interesting.” He chewed a piece of meat, eyes fixed on the boy. “Do you know where you are, kid?”

“Uh… Piagûl?” Tetanus threw out the first place name that came to mind.

“That’s geography. I’m asking if you know where you are.” Tiradentes pointed his knife at the camp. “This is the Last Comradeship of Minas Gerais. Mercenaries, yes, but also the only thing between the villages and what crawls in the forests. The baron pays us to keep the roads safe, but… well, safety’s a flexible concept.”

Tetanus didn’t respond, his fingers tightening around the meat he ate, the best thing he’d tasted in his last twelve years.

“You’ve got two options, kid.” Tiradentes wiped the blade on his high boot. “First: you leave tomorrow morning with a canteen and a piece of bread, and hope you don’t run into more bandits—or worse—on the way.”

“And the second?”

The commander smiled. “You stay. Learn to fight. And pay your debt with blood.”

Tetanus stared at the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. He had nowhere to go. No place was safe. But here… here he could become strong enough to never be a victim again.

“I’ll stay, then.”

Tiradentes nodded, as if he’d known the answer. “Good. Tomorrow you start training. And, kid?” He leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows on his face. “Here, you either die or you learn. There’s no middle ground.”

“I’m kinda used to that,” Tetanus replied.

The dead sun hadn’t fully risen when a splash of cold water hit Tetanus’s face, jolting him from restless sleep. He sprang up, gasping, his lungs protesting as water dripped down his chest and soaked the straw bed. His eyes met the red-haired Captain, her short hair tied in a tight ponytail, the monocle-like device around her neck glinting in the tent’s dim light. She held an empty bucket, a sarcastic smirk on her lips.

“Wake up, recruit!” she said, her voice sharp as a blade. “No time for laziness here. Get up and put this on.” With a quick motion, she kicked a worn leather armor toward his feet, the basic material—likely stolen—clattering softly.

Tetanus, still dazed, rubbed his face, the cold water dripping from his chin. His wounded shoulder throbbed, but the healer’s stitches held. He looked at the armor, then at the Captain, who crossed her arms below her chest, clearly not planning to leave.

Tetanus definitely didn’t want anyone seeing his symbol—not out of shame, but because Arture’s words about the Anti-God still echoed in his mind, and he didn’t know what that mark might mean to strangers.

“I…” He hesitated, searching for a quick excuse. “I’m kinda shy. Can you… step out while I change?”

The Captain raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Shy?” She laughed, a short, dry sound. “Kid, you’re in a camp full of sweaty men, and you’re worried I’ll see your pecker? Nobody cares about your modesty here.” Still, she shrugged and turned, heading to the tent’s entrance. “Two minutes. If you’re not ready, I’ll drag you out naked for training.” She pulled the flap aside, leaving him alone, but her voice echoed from outside: “And don’t try running. I’ve seen kids like you try. It doesn’t end well.”

Tetanus didn’t waste time. He stripped off the damp shirt, the morning air biting his skin.

He touched his mark briefly, a shiver running through him, before grabbing the leather armor. It was light in his hands, worn from years of use, with scratches and dried bloodstains. He donned it carefully, adjusting the straps to avoid pressing on his shoulder wound. The armor was too short, hanging loosely on his lean frame, but it covered the mark completely, letting him breathe a sigh of relief.

As he stepped out of the tent, the camp was already bustling. The rising sun painted the sky in orange hues, and the clanging of swords and shouts of orders filled the air. Soldiers moved among the tents, some carrying weapons, others sparring in impromptu duels. The smell of smoke, sweat, and hot metal was stifling.

The red-haired Captain waited outside, arms still crossed. “Not bad, recruit,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “But that armor’s seen better days. Let’s see if you last longer than it.” She pointed to a circle of packed earth in the camp’s center, where other youths, some as scrawny and disheveled as him, trained with wooden swords under an instructor’s watchful eye. “Your training starts now. Tiradentes said to throw you into the fire right away. Let’s see if you’re as tough as they say.”

Tetanus swallowed hard. The circle of packed earth was scarred by years of blows, deep ruts where countless feet had shuffled, pivoted, fallen. The other recruits sweated under the rising sun, their faces tense as they clashed wooden swords, muscles trembling with effort.

The Captain shoved Tetanus into the circle’s center, her voice cracking like a whip.

“Show what you’ve got, kid.”

He had no time to respond. One of the recruits, a taller boy with broad shoulders and a broken nose, lunged with a direct punch. Tetanus dodged by instinct, the fist grazing his face. The move was clumsy but quick. Before the recruit could recover, Tetanus drove his elbow into the boy’s ribs, making him double over with a grunt.

The Captain laughed, a surprised sound.

“Look at that, the kid’s got fire in his eyes.”

The other recruits stopped to watch, forming a semicircle. The air grew heavy with expectation. Tetanus felt the weight of their stares, the same feeling as when the other orphans watched him kill the orphanage dog.

The redhead picked up two wooden swords from the ground and tossed one to him.

“Let’s see if you can handle more than a knife.”

Tetanus caught the weapon mid-air, his fingers instinctively gripping the handle. The wood was rough, lacking the sharp balance of his curved knife, but he adapted quickly. The next opponent was an older woman, with scarred arms and a calculating gaze. She attacked without warning, a lateral strike that Tetanus blocked with a sharp crack. The impact reverberated through his bones, but he held firm.

He countered with a swift move that caught the woman off guard, forcing her to step back. The Captain whistled, impressed.

“Good reflexes. But reflexes aren’t everything.”

She stepped into the circle herself, grabbing a wooden sword. The recruits parted respectfully.

“Show me what you’ve got, kid.”

Tetanus didn’t hesitate. He struck first, a quick blow that the redhead dodged easily, almost laughing. She countered with a series of precise strikes, each faster than the last, forcing him to retreat. He blocked what he could, but a well-aimed hit struck his side, dropping him to his knees, pain throbbing in his ribs.

“Weak,” she said, smiling, but it wasn’t cruel. It was almost… proud. “But promising.”

He was getting up when a surprise attack came from behind.

A muddy foot swept his legs, sending him face-first into the dirt. Laughter erupted in the circle, and Tetanus spun around quickly, teeth gritted, ready to retaliate.

The attacker was an unremarkable soldier, with a crooked smile and narrow eyes.

“Who said an enemy warns you before striking, recruit?” he spat, laughing with the others.

Tetanus felt his blood boil. He stood, fists clenched, but before he could react, the redhead grabbed him, stepping in.

“Enough, Rastro.” She shoved the soldier, making him stumble. “If you want to fight here, fight fair. Not like a cowardly rat.”

The soldier, apparently named Rastro, spat on the ground but backed off, his eyes still fixed on Tetanus with hatred.

The Captain extended a hand to Tetanus, helping him up.

“Don’t let them knock you down twice. That’s today’s lesson.”

He grabbed her hand, and she pulled him up with surprising strength.

“I’m Zara,” she introduced herself, her eyes burning with a fire he’d never seen before. “And if you want to survive here, you’ll have to learn to fight better than that.”

Tetanus took a deep breath, his shoulder throbbing, but his heart pounded, and his blood surged—he felt alive again.

The gray sun was dipping toward the horizon when training ended. Tetanus was drenched in sweat, his muscles burning, his hands calloused from striking wood and earth. His shoulder ached, but the pain was a living thing, almost comforting—proof he was still moving.

Zara dismissed him with a wave, tossing him a piece of hard bread.

“Go eat. Tomorrow we’ll see if you learned anything.”

He caught the bread mid-air, but before he could leave, a group of recruits approached. There were three: a tall, lean Black boy with scars on his arms, wearing leather clothes that covered everything but his arms and a red scarf; a girl with a shaved head and almond-shaped eyes; and the same kid who’d watched over Tetanus during his recovery days ago.

“You’re the new guy, right? Farpa told me about you,” the lean boy said, crossing his arms. “We eat together. If you don’t mind sharing with the rabble.”

Tetanus hesitated. Strangely, the offer felt genuine. Not like the orphanage days, where every crumb was fought over with nails and teeth. Here, it was almost like camaraderie.

“Alright, I guess,” he nodded, following them to a smaller fire, away from the main bustle.

The lean boy introduced himself as Gume, the girl was Lâmina (obviously a war name), and the younger one was Farpa—a nickname earned after shoving a wooden splinter into a bandit’s eye.

“And you?” Gume asked, chewing a piece of dried meat. “Got a name, or you just gonna be ‘the new guy’ forever?”

“Tetanus.”

Gume let out a laugh. “Damn, a disease name. You must be badass.”

Lâmina elbowed him. “Ignore this idiot. But… why Tetanus?”

He shrugged, dodging the topic. “Long story.”

They didn’t press. Instead, they shared the bread, meat, and a canteen of cheap aguardente that burned Tetanus’s throat like fire. It was the first meal he’d truly shared with anyone.

That’s when Tiradentes appeared.

The commander emerged like a shadow by the fire’s edge, his dark eyes reflecting the flames. The recruits straightened immediately, but he just nodded.

“Relax,” his voice was rough but not hostile. “Just came to fetch the recruit.”

Tetanus swallowed the last piece of bread and stood, following Tiradentes to an isolated clearing where two training swords were stuck in the ground.

“Zara says you’ve got instinct. Seems like it…” Tiradentes pulled one sword, testing its weight. “Let’s see if it’s true.”

Without ceremony, he attacked.

Tetanus barely had time to grab his sword before the first blow came. He blocked it by a hair, the impact nearly wrenching the weapon from his hands. Tiradentes didn’t fight like Zara—he was brutal, efficient, every move calculated to kill.

But Tetanus adapted quickly.

He dodged a lateral strike, countering with a swift move that nearly hit Tiradentes’s flank. The commander stepped back, his eyes glinting with what might’ve been surprise.

“Good,” he smiled. “But not good enough.”

And then, he sped up.

Tetanus didn’t see the next attack. A spinning strike hit his ribs, followed by a sweep that threw him to the ground. His breath left his lungs, and before he could react, the wooden sword’s tip was at his throat.

“Dead,” Tiradentes announced, emotionless.

Tetanus gasped, his chest burning.

“Again,” he growled.

Tiradentes laughed, lowering the sword. “I like the anger. But anger without control just gets you killed faster.”

He extended a hand, helping Tetanus up.

“We’ll continue tomorrow. If you’re still in one piece.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. He just nodded with his thumb.