The walls of the manufactory were half raised when the messenger arrived.
He rode a short, well-fed horse and wore a green coat with gold stitching — not ostentatious, but noticeable. His saddle was polished, and his boots were too clean for a road traveler.
He didn't ask for soap. He didn't ask for prices.
He asked for Marcos Stefano Barbosa by name.
Ana found him first.
"He's not like the others," she said later. "He didn't come to buy."
Marcos already knew.
People who want to buy knock.
People who want to own walk straight in.
They met in the manufactory's drying room, still under construction. Clay bricks stacked along the walls, straw bundles in corners, scaffolding made from young timber.
The man introduced himself as Henrique de Sá, a trade attaché from a merchant coalition in Rio de Janeiro. Not guild-aligned, he claimed. "Independent. Modern-minded."
Marcos didn't offer tea.
Henrique walked slowly through the structure, trailing his fingers along an unfinished worktable.
"This is impressive. Quietly ambitious. That's rare."
Marcos didn't respond.
Henrique turned to him.
"We've heard of your operation. Very discrete. Very disciplined. We value that."
Now he smiled, but it was the smile of a man who rehearsed in mirrors.
"We'd like to support it."
Support.
The word echoed like a warning bell.
Marcos knew what support meant. Not help. Not investment.
Control.
"How?" Marcos asked calmly.
Henrique pulled a folded document from his coat. "Preferential access to three coastal ports. One in Espírito Santo. Two in Rio. Fixed tariffs, reduced inspections."
In exchange?
"Information. Reports. Shipments. A small percentage of oversight. Nothing too invasive. We prefer soft hands."
He left the document on the table.
"I'll remain in town for two days. I encourage you to consider the offer. Real ambition needs allies, senhor Marcos."
And then he was gone.
That night, Marcos didn't speak to Ana.
Didn't call Tobias or review ledgers.
Instead, he stared at the unfolded document under candlelight, fingers pressed tightly together.
It was tempting.
Resources. Ports. Legitimacy.
But it would come with eyes. Delays. Leaks.
And eventually — chains.
The system pulsed softly, but differently this time.
[Strategic Fork Detected]
You are being offered structured legitimacy at the cost of partial autonomy.
Two paths presented.
• Accept Offer: Coastal Access (+Immediate Trade Boost), Delayed Tech Unlocks
• Refuse Offer: Maintain Full Control, Unlock Long-Term Political Route
Bonus Unlocked:
[MAP – Regional Influence Grid: Tier 1]
A map unfolded in Marcos's mind.
A live chart showing his influence by region — shaded not by borders, but by trust, reputation, and covert reach.
His current influence:
Belo Horizonte (Core): 68% Stability / 51% Reach
Congonhas (Expanding): 34% Stability / 25% Reach
Ouro Branco (Fragile): 22% Stability / 10% Reach
Rio de Janeiro (Hidden): 3% Influence (Passive)
The map wasn't geographical.
It was strategic.
And it pulsed softly in real time, growing as his actions shaped perception and impact.
He closed the document slowly and burned the edges one by one.
He didn't want fixed ports.
He wanted foundations in every town. Paths no one could intercept. Trade no one could trace.
When Ana entered the room later that night, he finally spoke.
"If someone offers you a map with a fixed road," he said, "it's because they already know where it ends."
She didn't ask what it meant.
She just poured him water and stayed quiet.
The next morning, Henrique de Sá was gone.
No goodbye.
No anger.
Just silence.
Marcos knew that meant they would watch him more closely now.
He updated the map grid with a new mark:
Rio de Janeiro – Alert Status: Red Flag
Surveillance Probable.
Meanwhile, the manufactory reached its second phase.
With the foundation complete, Marcos introduced division of labor, a concept unfamiliar to most of his workers. Instead of crafting a full bar of soap from start to finish, each worker handled one part: cutting, pressing, drying, wrapping.
Efficiency rose by 41% in a week.
Even Ana was surprised.
"It feels unnatural," she said. "But it… works."
Marcos nodded. "It's not unnatural. It's unfamiliar. Until it becomes standard."
He knew that division of labor wasn't just about soap.
It was practice.
One day, he would apply it to governments. Supply lines. Armies.
But first, to soap.
Always to soap first.