Marcos spent the next three days walking the village and its surroundings like a man on a mission.
He slept little, ate only what he needed, and observed everything: how people washed their clothes, how they preserved food, how they bartered, how long it took to travel between properties, and most of all, he studied faces—their expressions, their posture, their habits. He listened to dialects, stored information about routes and goods, and kept mental notes of who held power, even informally.
His 21st-century mind worked like a machine. He didn’t just see what was there—he saw what was missing.
The local economy was fragile, almost primitive. The village survived on direct barter between producers, with a few silver réis circulating and a handful of merchants holding credit influence over the rest. Scarce goods came from Congonhas or São João del-Rei, transported slowly on mule caravans or creaking wooden carts.
But one thing became clear to Marcos by the end of the third day: the economic heart of the village beat inside a modest building painted in worn-out red letters—Guedes & Sons General Store.
The name was simple. The man behind it was not.
Jerônimo Guedes was a short but thick man, round-bellied and sharp-eyed. He was always present—counting sacks, checking weights, watching others work. He never shouted, but everyone obeyed. He had no soldiers, but inspired more discipline than a barrack.
Marcos watched him from a distance before approaching.
At the end of that third day, with the sun low and shadows long, he walked into the store.
The smell of tobacco, leather, and rust filled the air. Barrels of dried meat and grain sat along the walls. Tools and imported goods were displayed in careful rows. The place was dark, but orderly.
Jerônimo stood behind the counter, running wooden beads on a primitive abacus. His eyes flicked up the moment Marcos stepped in.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “Where are you from?”
“From the south,” Marcos replied. “I’m a merchant.”
The old man squinted. “What do you sell?”
“Profit.”
Jerônimo grunted. “Everyone sells profit, boy. That’s the idea.”
“But not everyone knows how to make it double in half the time.”
That made him pause.
Jerônimo dropped the abacus and leaned forward, arms crossed.
“You’ve got a good tongue. Maybe too good. What are you proposing?”
“A deal,” Marcos said. “I’ve studied the market. I know the price of soap in Congonhas. I know the flaws in the way it’s made here—too soft, melts quickly, inconsistent in size and color. I can give you a formula to make better soap. Cleaner, stronger, longer-lasting.”
“And you just want to give me that?”
“No. I want a credit line. Ten thousand réis worth of goods from your stock. I’ll take them to Congonhas and resell them. When I return, I’ll bring you the profits—and the improved soap formula. Exclusive to you.”
Jerônimo stared. He didn’t blink.
“You look honest,” he muttered, “but you’re young. And youth lies well.”
“Old age lies too,” Marcos replied. “It just takes longer.”
Jerônimo chuckled. For the first time, he smiled.
“You’ve got balls. Fine. Deal. But if you vanish, I’ll have you hunted from here to São Luís.”
Marcos extended his hand. Jerônimo took it. The handshake was firm, final, binding.
At that moment, something shifted in the air.
[Mission Completed: Establish a local trade route]
Rewards Unlocked:
– Alkaline Soap Recipe
– +3 Local Reputation
– Skill Unlocked: Value Appraisal (Level 1)
Marcos blinked. The information flooded his mind.
Suddenly, he could glance at any item on a shelf and estimate its real worth—material, labor, market scarcity. It was like seeing numbers behind the world, profit margins overlaid on wood and cloth.
“This system,” he whispered, “is more than information. It’s leverage.”
He left the store with two fabric rolls, a sack of flour, six old soap bars, and more importantly—momentum.
That night, under a star-filled sky, he sat in the corner room of a boarding house and drew maps by lamplight. Routes, villages, distances. Supply and demand. Points of influence.
Three settlements. Seven products. Two potential allies.
“ShadowMarket,” he murmured. “It starts here.”
And in that candle-lit room, the future of the Barbosa name began to take shape—not as a whisper, but as a plan.