The Andes Dream-Chapter 203: A Crack in the Bishop Vision

While chaos spread through Göttingen, New Granada was sinking into a far darker stalemate.

The Bishop of the Fanatics’ Army found himself trapped in an increasingly absurd and dangerous situation. The siege of Santa Fe de Antioquia had dragged on for nearly four months. By February, weakness had begun to gnaw at both sides. The Spanish garrison, cut off from supplies, had started stealing food directly from the civilians. Yet the citizens were little better off—unable to work their fields beyond the walls or receive provisions, they were slowly starving alongside their occupiers.

The result was inevitable. Fights broke out daily in the streets, and resentment grew sharper with every passing week. The heavy-handed rule of the Spanish troops, combined with the destruction they had caused inside the city, erased what little goodwill remained toward the Empire. Ironically, many citizens began to look back on the old theocracy with something close to longing—not because it had been merciful, but because it had at least been orderly.

Deep within Sopetrán, inside a small stone church, the Bishop sat alone.

Renovations had once been underway here—new altars, reinforced walls—but those plans had been abandoned the moment war began. The half-finished scaffolding outside creaked softly in the wind, unused and forgotten. Inside, the air smelled of cold incense, damp stone, and old wax.

The Bishop sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the statue of Christ before him.

Behind him stood his guards: soldiers clad in Milanese steel, so finely polished it seemed to glow in the candlelight. Their armor was not the dark, battered iron of common soldiers, but the work of Italian masters. Each breastplate bore gold filigree forming a radiant, sun-like cross that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. Yellow silk surcoats—bright as a cathedral at dawn—hung over the cold metal, making the men look less like living soldiers and more like ancient paladins brought terrifyingly to life.

The door opened softly, and a paladin entered, walking with measured care toward the Bishop. When he was close enough, he lowered his voice and whispered:

"Sir... one of the sheep of our flock came to us. He was recovering bodies in Boquerón when he found a strange one. He swears the man was tall as a giant and white as a ghost. His clothes were unlike anything woven in these lands, Your Eminence—a heavy charcoal-gray frock, made of wool so thick it looked as though it could turn a blade. The sleeves were reinforced with worn black leather, and around his waist he wore a wide crimson sash, stained not only with his own blood, but with the dust of a thousand leagues. The man was so pale the villagers feared he was a spirit. And when he learned you were here, he insisted on bringing the body himself."

The paladin hesitated.

"At first, some feared he was a spirit. When he learned you were here, he insisted on bringing the body himself."

The Bishop listened in silence, then frowned.

"Why are civilians searching for the bodies of the Jesuits?" he asked coldly. "Were they not to be removed and buried in the cemetery?"

The paladin shook his head."That is beyond our duties, Your Eminence."

He hesitated again, then lowered his voice.

"But I heard that the young man—Ezequiel—pressed those responsible for the burials. He ordered them to throw the bodies into a pit and leave them there. If they refused..."

The paladin drew a finger across his throat.

The Bishop exhaled sharply, his frustration plain. Once again, he questioned whether appointing Ezequiel had been a mistake. The boy was absolutely loyal—obedient, predictable—but his cruelty created more problems than it solved.

At last, the Bishop spoke.

"Very well. I will deal with the clergy responsible and order them to correct this disgrace. Now bring the man and the body into the church. And prepare gold coins—enough to compensate that poor soul for his service."

The paladin nodded solemnly and stepped outside. The Bishop’s gaze followed the group of armored men standing guard nearby, and he nodded to himself.

"Perhaps in Europe these armors are relics," he murmured, "but here they are invaluable. I was fortunate that the Vatican was willing to sell them cheaply. The muskets used in New Granada are no real threat to guards clad in full steel. Their powder is weak, their craftsmanship crude. Here, armor still commands fear."

The Vatican had been recycling old armors when he still worked within its circles. When he convinced the Jesuits to support his mission in New Granada, he had also secured a private deal to acquire them. Though still costly, the backing of Bogotá’s elites—men who openly supported the Church—had allowed him to arm his personal guard at a favorable price.

Moments later, a man entered the church nervously, pushing a small cart behind him. His hands trembled, though his posture remained solemn. He understood nothing of royalty or theocracy, but he knew one thing with certainty: the man before him wielded immense power.

"S–sir... this is the body."

The paladin behind him nodded. The Bishop smiled kindly, easing the man’s fear.

"Thank you, my son. You may go outside. My paladin will reward you for your help. And if you ever encounter something... unusual again, come directly to me. You will be paid."

The man’s face lit up with relief. "Yes, sir. I swear it."

He left happily, abandoning the cart without hesitation. With the gold he would receive, he could easily buy another.

The Bishop gestured for the paladin to reveal the body. When he saw the corpse clearly, his expression stiffened.

"This man... he is German, isn’t he?"

The paladin hesitated. As the son of one of Santa Fe de Antioquia’s elite families, his knowledge of Europe was limited. Beyond the Italian Jesuits in the army, foreign distinctions meant little to him.

The Bishop sighed. "Call someone from Europe."

The paladin returned shortly with a priest. "This is Father Valerius, from Bavaria. He traveled across much of Germany in his youth."

The Bishop inclined his head gratefully. "Father, someone found this body. Can you tell us—was he German, like you?"

Father Valerius bent closer, studying the corpse. His eyes widened.

"That is correct," he said quietly. "And not just German. He appears to have been an elite soldier of the Prussian army. I had almost forgotten how they looked."

The Bishop’s face darkened.

Prussian soldiers... in New Granada?That was not what he had seen in his visions. Germans belonged to the north. New Granada was meant to be Hispanic—mestizo at most. A soldier like this did not belong here.

Unless...

His thoughts raced.

Could there be someone like me within the Gómez family?No—impossible.

Mercenaries, then. Or perhaps Prussians existed in the old histories but never mattered...

He clung to the thought. If others shared whatever made him special, then his divine purpose—his destiny to preserve spiritual purity against the chaos of the future—would be a lie. And he could not allow that.

"There must be German mercenaries operating in the region," he said at last. "And they are likely working for the Gómez family. We must be cautious. They are more dangerous than we first believed."

He turned sharply to the paladin.

"Warn the soldiers. And summon General Giuseppe. It is time to cleanse Santa Fe of these heretics. There is no reason to delay any longer."

His voice hardened.

"The people already need us to bring them peace."

The paladin nodded solemnly and went out. The Bishop remained behind, staring at the great cross.

You did not give these visions to anyone else, did you, my God? he wondered. If you did... then am I truly working for You—or only for myself? Did I choose wrong?

He shook his head, trying to banish such heretical thoughts, yet the doubt lingered. For the first time, the certainty that God alone had chosen him began to erode.

On the other side of the city, Giuseppe wiped the burning sting of aguardiente from his lips with the back of a scarred hand. He leaned over a rough wooden table, his shadow dancing along the tavern wall, looking more like a bandit than a general. The local soldiers watched him with a mix of awe and fear.

"Listen to me," Giuseppe growled, his voice a low rasp cutting through the smoke-filled room. "I’ve seen them in the old country—those peacocks with their powdered hair and sacred bloodlines. I remember one of them well. A Marquis who smelled of lavender, while my men smelled of rot in the trenches."

He leaned closer, eyes flashing like flint.

"He tried to give me orders, looking down from his saddle as if the dirt beneath my boots belonged to him."

Giuseppe snorted.

"So I told him, ’Go fuck yourself, you useless noble.’ I told him his title wouldn’t stop a piece of lead, and that his gold was only good for burying him."

The soldiers leaned in.

"You see those Paladins at the cathedral?" he continued. "They think steel makes them holy. But beneath the metal, they bleed red—and they die screaming, just like any beggar."

He slammed his cup onto the table, the clay cracking.

"Drink, you bastards! Today we drink the Bishop’s liquor. Tomorrow, we show them that a man with nothing but a machete and a free soul is worth more than a thousand cowards in gilded cages!"

The soldiers erupted into cheers, drunk and exultant. Giuseppe was the best general they had ever served under—no aristocratic airs, no false dignity. Though mercilessly strict in war, he drank with his men, laughed with them, and treated them as equals.