The mountains offered no respite. They were an endless, desolate tableau of rock and scrub where the dust of the plains gave way to the sharp, unforgiving grit of stone. Salvador Cruz, now barely twelve, had shed the last remnants of his former life—both the life of the frightened boy and the fleeting idealism of Nandita. All that remained was the will driven by the Sequence.
He was alone, having deliberately put distance between himself and the other scavenging children. The lesson he received earlier in his life was simple: attachments were vulnerabilities.
The Canyon Raid
Salvador spent his days mastering the terrain, learning to read the subtle signs of water and the not-so-subtle signs of war. He survived by trapping small desert creatures and by becoming a shadow to the large revolutionary bands that crisscrossed the region. He learned their routes, their habits, and their weaknesses.
One freezing night, a large convoy of Federales carrying confiscated silver and arms was ambushed in a narrow canyon pass by a band of Villistas guerrillas. Salvador, hiding high on the canyon rim, watched the scene unfold with cold detachment. It was a bloodbath. When the last shot echoed and the victors began to collect their spoils, Salvador saw his chance.
He wasn't interested in the silver or the rifles. He was interested in medicine.
Under the cloak of darkness, while the guerrillas were celebrating their spoils, Salvador descended into the gore-soaked canyon. The air was thick with the stench of gunpowder, blood, and spilled liquor. He moved among the fallen, his hands searching the bodies not for valuables, but for the canvas medical kits carried by some soldiers.
He found one attached to a dead Federal sergeant. As he knelt to cut the strap, a sound made the hair on his arms stand up.
"Look what we have here," a rough voice drawled in Spanish.
The Trial of Strength
A lone Villista had been watching him, a man named "El Toro"—a giant with a scarred face and eyes that held only cruelty.
"You've got guts, niño. Stealing from the dead before we even finish counting our gains," El Toro chuckled, raising a heavy boot to crush Salvador's hand.
Salvador didn't flinch. He didn't plead. Instead, he did the most unexpected thing: he spoke.
"The man has a broken leg," Salvador said, his voice level despite the tremor in his body, pointing to a wounded Villista writhing in pain a few yards away. "If he gets gangrene, you lose a soldier. I take the kit to patch the living, not rob the dead."
El Toro paused, momentarily stunned by the child's audacity and grim logic.
"You think you can save him?" El Toro sneered.
"Survival," Salvador replied, looking him dead in the eye, quoting the mantra his father had taught him, now amplified by the machine's directive. "The dead are done. The living still serve."
This cold pragmatism, rooted in the deepest layer of the Sequence's need for efficiency, impressed the brute. Instead of killing him, El Toro kicked the medical kit toward Salvador. "You fail, I cut you into pieces, mocoso."
Hardening the Iron
For the next two days, Salvador was dragged along with the Villistas column. He became their makeshift, reluctant medic. He learned to clean wounds with whiskey, stitch skin with whatever thread he could scavenge, and amputate frostbitten toes with a dirty field knife—all with a stoicism that horrified the men he served.
The Rahmat layer of compassion allowed him to see the pain, but the Nandita and Jason layers enforced a surgical detachment. He learned to view the human body not as a sacred vessel, but as a machine to be repaired, ensuring its operational Survival.
He was beaten, starved, and constantly threatened, yet he never complained or broke down. He became essential, not beloved. He became Iron.
On the third day, as the column prepared to cross the border, El Toro decided Salvador was a liability. He marched the boy to a desolate rock face.
"You're useful, niño, but you know too much," El Toro grunted, raising his rifle. "Run, and maybe I miss."
Salvador didn't run. He stood still. He had learned the final, terrible lesson of this segment: Survival isn't always about evasion; sometimes, it's about forcing the enemy's hand. He looked past El Toro, towards the rising sun, and waited.
Just as the hammer clicked back, a separate, desperate skirmish erupted a few hundred yards away. El Toro cursed, lowering his weapon. "This isn't over." He shoved Salvador hard and ran toward the fighting, leaving the boy to the indifferent sun.
Salvador didn't wait. He didn't hesitate. He simply took a dead soldier's compass, turned his back on the revolution, and walked the opposite way, towards the silence and the mountains. He had earned his trait. He was Iron, and the Sequence was stronger for it.