The rumors were spreading faster than carts.
By the second week of harvest, two new wagons arrived from towns Marcos had never visited, asking directly for "the soap that doesn't rot" or "the string that lifts barrels without snapping." None of them mentioned his name.
But they asked about the triangle mark.
They asked about the quiet man behind the brand.
And that, for Marcos, was progress.
Because power isn't just held — it's believed in.
That morning, he sat alone at his desk, reviewing a growing pile of parchment — requests, reports from Élio, price changes in villages, coded updates from Tobias. But one paper sat apart.
A message from Vicência.
Delivered not through ink, but woven thread — a pattern sewn into a rag delivered as trade to a healer's apprentice.
The pattern read:
"Two men asked about Tobias's route schedule. One speaks like a trader. One watches like a hunter."
They were still close.
Too close.
Marcos circled a section of the map around the fork in the northern road. Then he marked a new one: Point Echo.
It was time to feed the beast.
If someone was trying to follow him, he would give them something to follow — something real enough to seem useful, but wrong enough to turn them in circles.
Marcos called it the Echo Protocol.
The plan was simple: a disinformation loop.
Ana would begin quietly spreading mention of a "rare oil resin" trade. Tobias would leak a few incorrect quantities in casual market conversation. Marcos himself would let slip a half-muttered complaint about an upcoming large contract with a traveling guild.
None of it was real.
But all of it would appear real to those desperate for secrets.
The trap wasn't steel.
It was suggestion.
Meanwhile, he returned to what truly mattered: infrastructure.
The land he'd claimed now had a drying shed, a portable kiln, and a rope-weaving station. But that wasn't enough.
He began sketching plans for something permanent.
A manufactory.
Not a factory in the modern sense — not yet. But a structured compound with separate rooms for paste, drying, sealing, and testing. Brick foundation. Clay walls. A roof that could vent heat properly.
It would be expensive.
But it would legitimize ShadowMarket beyond trade.
It would make it look like what it was becoming: an institution.
And institutions, unlike merchants, aren't easy to shut down.
That evening, the system pulsed again.
[New Mission: Lay Foundations]
Objective: Begin construction of first multi-use manufactory.
Conditions: Minimum 3 specialized production areas. Local labor required.
Reward: Recipe – Basic Battery (Primitive electrochemical cell)
Marcos froze.
A battery?
It was a leap — a dangerous leap. Not for public use. Not yet.
But in the hands of the right craftsmen?
It could be the beginning of light.
And light changed everything.
But first came trust.
He didn't tell Ana or Tobias about the battery.
He simply posted notices for stoneworkers, masons, and clay haulers. He offered generous coin for quality work, but under the guise of storage expansion.
Only Élio and Gaspar knew the true structure's shape.
Only they understood the map Marcos kept under lock and key.
Each wall had purpose.
Each entrance was defensive.
Each room placed for function and control.
While the walls slowly began to rise, Marcos took walks around the village perimeter — not for leisure, but for presence.
People needed to see him. Not hiding, not vanished — but observing. Firm, quiet, calculating.
He spoke with no one unless spoken to.
And when he was, he spoke clearly, but never freely.
Soon, children began calling the east trail behind his property "O Caminho do Patrão."
He never corrected them.
Vicência returned with more information: one of the two observers from the cane trail had been seen meeting with the assistant of a local priest.
Not the priest himself — a lay brother, recently assigned.
Marcos underlined the name. He remembered the man. Slender, too quiet. Always watching during sermons.
Marcos didn't believe in coincidences anymore.
That night, as the first stones were laid for the manufactory's frame, Marcos looked up at the stars.
No speeches.
No smiles.
Just calculation.
One manufactory.
Four operatives.
A city watching from afar.
And a system in his mind feeding him blueprints from a century no one around him could even imagine.
But they would.
In time, they would.