The soldier led Andres out of the principal's office and toward the quartermaster. Along the way, several cadets noticed him—some polishing their boots, others idling near the training yard. Their eyes followed him, and soon the whispers began.
"Another Criollo?" one muttered.
"He looks too soft," another sneered. "Probably bought his way in."
A taller boy laughed. "His family must have pulled strings. Look at him, he doesn't even walk like a soldier."
The voices carried just enough for Andres to hear. He kept his face still, showing no reaction. Inside, he felt no anger, only amusement. Children, he thought. You think words can wound me? I've been through worse in another life. There's no use wasting energy on children who don't know the world beyond these walls.
He walked on without a word, letting the sneers bounce off him like stones thrown at a fortress.
The quartermaster was a gruff man with a scar across his cheek. He looked Andres up and down before handing him a bundle of items: a cadet uniform, rough bedding, and a wooden rifle. "Keep your kit in order," the man said flatly. "Lose it, and you'll regret it. Understood?"
"Yes, Señor."
"Good. Your dormitory is down the hall. Third door on the right."
Andres carried his bundle, ignoring the curious stares of a few boys lounging nearby. When he reached his dorm, he found a long row of bunks, the air thick with the smell of sweat and waxed leather. A few cadets glanced up as he entered. Some offered curt nods, others only smirks. Andres laid his kit neatly on his bunk, ignoring them all.
Days turned into weeks.
From the very start, Andres approached the academy differently than the others. In the classroom, he excelled. Mathematics, geography, strategy—these were child's play to him. When asked to calculate artillery ranges or supply routes, he answered with precision that left instructors nodding in approval. Written exams that left other cadets scratching their heads were easy for him; he finished them quickly and accurately, sometimes even correcting the teacher's mistakes politely.
The whispers spread.
"How does he know all this?"
"Impossible, he's just a boy…"
"He acts like he's older than all of us."
But if the classrooms were his domain, the training grounds were another matter.
Marching, drills, running under the sun—his body was young and not yet hardened. He struggled at first, lagging behind older cadets. During sparring, he was often thrown to the ground. Senior cadets sneered, barking insults.
"Genius in books but weak in body!"
"You'll never be a soldier at this rate."
"Crown's banner won't carry weaklings!"
Sometimes, they tripped him on purpose during drills. Other times, they forced him to carry extra weight, laughing as his small frame shook. He endured it all in silence. He had no intention of wasting time on petty fights.
Andres adapted quickly. He forced his body to catch up, training alone at night when others were asleep. Push-ups until his arms trembled, running in place in the dark, practicing drills with his wooden rifle until his hands blistered. Slowly, his endurance improved. Slowly, his strikes grew sharper.
By the end of his first month, even his tormentors noticed he was no longer falling behind.
By the end of his second, he was matching them stride for stride.
And by the end of his third, his name was being whispered again, but this time, with something else in their tone.
But bullying didn't vanish. Older cadets, especially those proud of their lineage, still targeted him. They shoved him in the halls, mocked his Criollo blood, and tested his patience with insults.
Yet Andres never retaliated. He simply looked at them with calm eyes, the eyes of a man far older than his body. To them, he was strange, too composed, too detached.
To Andres, they were still just children who hadn't seen the world break a man's soul.
***
Time moved quickly within the academy. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. What began as a struggle of endurance slowly transformed into routine. The drills that once left his body aching became second nature, the wooden rifle that once blistered his hands now felt like an extension of his arm.
The instructors pushed them harder each season. Marching drills lengthened. Weapon practice grew more intense. And beyond the rifle, they were taught the arts of combat—bayonet charges, fencing with sabers, and even hand-to-hand strikes meant for war. Bruises became part of life. The cadets learned to eat through pain, sleep through soreness, and fight through exhaustion.
Andres endured it all. At first, he was always on the losing end, knocked down by stronger boys, mocked for his Criollo blood. But his body adapted, shaped by nights of secret training when the others slept. Push-ups in the dark, silent drills with his rifle, sparring against the shadows until his movements flowed without hesitation. Slowly, his muscles hardened, his shoulders broadened, and his frame grew lean and defined.
The first time he floored an opponent in sparring, the yard went quiet. His fist had landed clean, knocking the air out of a cadet who once mocked him daily. Andres didn't boast, didn't even smirk. He simply stepped back, calm and collected, offering no satisfaction to his opponent's humiliation. That calmness unsettled the others more than victory itself.
"He fights differently," some whispered.
"It's like he's not afraid of anything."
"Does he even feel pain?"
Andres ignored them. Words didn't matter, results did.
Year by year, he climbed. In the classrooms, he remained unmatched. Strategy, logistics, geography, while others struggled, Andres excelled. He wrote plans so precise that even instructors raised their brows. Some tests, he finished faster than they could grade.
In short, he was smurfing in this life.
***
The date was the 19th of September, 1814.
Five years had passed since Andres first stepped into the academy as a boy mocked for being a Criollo. Now, he stood straight in full uniform, polished boots planted firmly on the parade ground. The cadets were lined up in formation, rows upon rows, the sound of drums echoing as banners of Spain fluttered in the morning breeze.
It was graduation day.
On the platform stood the instructors, officers of the crown, and families of the cadets. Among them was Doña Isabella Novales, dressed in a fine baro't saya. She held herself with quiet dignity, her eyes never leaving her son. Pride shone in them—pride that her child had endured, triumphed, and risen above the sneers and hardships.
The academy head, Colonel Don Rafael de Ortega, stepped forward.
"Cadets, today you cease to be students. Today, you take your first step as officers of His Majesty's army. For five years you have been tested in discipline, endurance, and intellect. Some faltered, others persevered. But only the best among you stand here now."
His eyes scanned the rows before settling briefly on Andres.
"This year," the colonel continued, "the highest honor belongs to one who excelled beyond expectation. A cadet who, despite his youth, has shown unmatched brilliance in the classroom, and unyielding strength on the field. Top of his class in every subject, from mathematics to strategy. Exemplary in discipline, steadfast in character. Cadet Andres Novales—step forward."
A murmur spread through the cadets. Some nodded with respect, others clenched their jaws in silence. But all eyes followed Andres as he marched to the front.
He stopped before the colonel and saluted.
Don Rafael's stern expression softened slightly as he placed a hand on Andres's shoulder.
"From this day, you are no longer a cadet. You are a lieutenant in the service of Spain. Serve with honor, and may your sword bring glory to the crown."
He handed Andres the officer's sash and insignia.
The crowd applauded. Doña Isabella pressed a handkerchief to her lips, her eyes glistening. For her, it was the proudest moment of her life. For Andres, it was merely the next step.
He saluted again, then turned sharply and returned to formation.