Eduardo led Jerónimo to a storage warehouse.
"Are we allowed to use this place?" Jerónimo asked.
"Hmm… technically, no," Eduardo admitted. "But the truth is, the chairman of the academy is my uncle, so he let me use it."
Should he really be telling me that? Their military logistics are an absolute mess.
"…I see. Well, whatever. What is it you wanted to show me?"
Eduardo rummaged through a corner of the warehouse and produced a flintlock musket that appeared rather ordinary.
"This? Why?"
"Look inside the barrel."
Etched along the inner walls of the barrel were spiraled grooves.
Rifling.
Jerónimo felt a flicker of disappointment.
It was true that the invention of rifling marked a pivotal development—enough that firearms were divided into two eras: muskets before rifling, rifles after. But the idea was not new, and it had long been sidelined due to two glaring drawbacks.
"Yes, it's rifled. I know that improves accuracy and range," he said, "but isn't it too expensive to manufacture? And the reloading becomes painfully slow."
"Oh? You know about that? So you really are into firearms," Eduardo said, eyes alight.
"…Told you so. Is this all?"
"Of course not."
Eduardo opened his palm and revealed a bullet.
He's even got bullets? This academy's munitions control is a joke… someone's going to get killed at this rate.
Despite his disbelief, Jerónimo turned his focus to the bullet Eduardo held.
It was not a typical spherical shot of the era. Rather, it was aerodynamically shaped like a modern bullet, with two deep grooves cut into the rear.
"Look—when you fire the gun, gas pressure builds at the rear of the bullet, right? Because of the deep grooves here, the pressure causes the bullet to compress and expand outward at the back. That expansion lets it automatically engage with the rifling inside the barrel."
"Ohhh… so you don't need to jam the bullet perfectly into the grooves. Just ram it in roughly and fire—it'll align itself. That's brilliant."
"Exactly. You get it immediately."
Jerónimo hadn't recognized it by sight alone—he wasn't that much of a gun enthusiast—but Eduardo's explanation illuminated it.
This is the Lorenz bullet. Or rather… is it now the Eduardo bullet? Or maybe the Vega bullet, after his surname?
"You've solved one of rifling's two biggest flaws. That's impressive," Jerónimo murmured in genuine admiration. "Why aren't you in business? Why come to the military academy?"
Even though Mexico still ran on the archaic hacienda system—agrarian, semi-feudal—it had been over fifty years since the Industrial Revolution began in Britain. Naturally, knowledge of industrialization and the rise of the bourgeoisie had reached Mexican shores. Entrepreneurs were beginning to emerge, and surely any young man of ambition had thought of business at least once.
"My family's broke," Eduardo confessed. "What connections we have are in the military. I figured if I could improve weaponry and prove its effectiveness here, the army might adopt it and fund production through their budget."
At that time, weapons like guns were generally produced in government-owned arsenals. The concept of modern defense contractors barely existed. Under ideal conditions, perhaps Eduardo's plan could have worked—but given Mexico's disarray, history suggested it would likely fail.
Still… the man's a patriot.
Jerónimo believed patriots deserved support.
"So, what you really want isn't to be a soldier—it's to develop weapons?"
"…Yeah. That's right."
Eduardo nodded.
I'll make him rich.
"Then how about going into business with me? I've got an idea too."
"Oh? What is it?"
"A rifling machine."
Even in this era, rifling wasn't carved by hand. It was done using manually operated crank machines—a process that was incredibly labor-intensive. Rifles only began widespread use in the latter half of the 19th century, when steam-powered rifling machines were developed.
Jerónimo didn't know the precise design of such a machine, but he had a general idea of how it might work.
If we work together on this, we could have something viable before graduation.
"If your idea works, we could drastically lower rifle production costs," Eduardo said. "Let's do it."
Jerónimo's days were full: training, classes, business correspondence with his agents—and now, weapons development with Eduardo. He was always busy.
Tch. Everything's great, but there's no sports culture here?
Training and work kept them occupied, yes—but still, the absence of sports struck him as a loss.
Sports weren't merely for entertainment. They offered an enjoyable way to exercise while building teamwork. For an institution like a military academy, sports were a goldmine: improved physical fitness, stronger camaraderie, better stress management.
I'll have to introduce it myself.
"Everyone, gather up."
He dragged his lethargic classmates out of the dorm and onto the field.
"What is it now?" grumbled Lorenzo, scratching his thigh with a bored expression.
Ugh. That guy looks like a golden retriever in the sun.
Jerónimo regretted ever speaking casually to him.
"See that?"
He had already persuaded the instructor and academy chairman to allow the installation of a soccer goalpost by pitching the many virtues of sports.
"What is it?"
"Stand over there."
He pointed to the goal. Lorenzo took position, still grumbling.
Jerónimo took the ball and launched it with full force. It soared—a perfect strike.
Thwack!
"Gaaah! What the hell!"
Lorenzo barely dodged the shot.
"What're you dodging? You're supposed to block it! Your team just gave up a goal."
"You lunatic! At least explain the damn rules first!"
"That thing just now—that was a goal. Now gather up, I'll explain the rest."
After a brief tutorial, the first match began.
"This is what we call… a tackle!"
"AAAH!"
"Oho… so that's how it works."
The game quickly devolved into chaos—brutal, ruleless street soccer.
"Hey! That's a foul, dammit!"
Lorenzo, despite being new to the sport, played surprisingly well.
Why's he so good? Is it the Torres bloodline or something?
With his raw athletic talent, Lorenzo led the opposing team to dominate Jerónimo's side.
No way I'm losing to a first-timer.
He shed all prior arrogance.
"Once called the Bloody Sun Shot… I now descend upon Mexico City!"
"You mad bastard."
"…"
After a vicious brawl of a game, Jerónimo's team won, 3 to 2. Everyone seemed to enjoy it immensely.
He added a new ambition to his growing list.
One day, when Mexico has overcome all its crises and risen as a great power—I will develop a world-class football industry. Clubs like Barcelona and Real Madrid, with weekly El Clásico matches. And the birthplace of football shall not be England or Spain, but Mexico.
Training and weaponry were vital—but ultimately, business was everything.
Even at the academy, Jerónimo maintained communication with his agents via letters. Though he lived like the other cadets—same quarters, same food, same gear—he had requested one special privilege: a small private room for writing.
Too noisy in the dorms to write letters. Lorenzo keeps barging in wanting to play soccer.
That week, he received three letters.
Using a letter opener, he slit the first envelope.
[Your Highness, I hope this finds you well. This is Emilio. I have successfully purchased the designated iron-rich land at a reasonable price using the funds you provided. As expected, the landowner was unaware of the iron deposits. Upon hiring mining experts, we confirmed significant ore reserves. I have secured additional funding through Her Majesty the Empress, which will be allocated to developing the mine. I will provide further details and requests in the next report. I wish you endless success and prosperity.
—Your loyal servant, Emilio Estrada.]
"Hm… maybe this is a bit of a burden."
He had handed Emilio the initial capital directly, but couldn't expect his agents to come all the way to the academy for updates.
He needed someone trustworthy to manage his wealth and disburse funds—someone who could be relied upon completely.
That person was his mother.
She was born into a wealthy landowning family, trained in finance and accounting. After all, women from such backgrounds were expected to manage the estates of their future husbands. Even now, she oversaw all of Emperor Agustín I's estates through proxies.
After explaining his business plans in detail, Jerónimo had asked her to manage and distribute his capital as needed. She had gladly agreed.
In hindsight, I've basically sent my agents to the Empress to ask for money… how awkward. Still, she's the only one I can entrust with everything right now.
"Emilio's doing well. Next…"
[Your Highness, thank you for granting me the time to—]
"…Why so stiff? I'll tell him to cut the flowery language next time."
He skipped to the relevant section.
[Unfortunately, I was unable to find any domestic supplier capable of delivering cotton at scale. Due to resumed trade with Britain, British cotton is flooding the market. Domestic suppliers have lost competitiveness, and many have gone bankrupt. I have thus arranged a small import contract with a British supplier, pending your approval.]
"Damn it."
There was no competing with Britain's textile industry—not yet. Their machinery had gone through ten rounds of improvements while Mexico was just beginning to adopt mechanization.
[Fortunately, I have secured blacksmiths and forges to produce rivets. We plan to launch small-scale production and test the market. I seek your guidance on how to proceed with the cotton issue.
Your loyal servant, Ramón Alvarado.]
"Hmm… troublesome."
Using British cotton would be more profitable in the short term—but as crown prince, Jerónimo had to consider the empire's economy.
Without domestic cotton mills, our farmers will have no choice but to sell abroad—where foreign buyers will slash prices mercilessly.
If local mills survived, they'd at least have some negotiating power. Otherwise, colluding foreign firms would siphon away all profits, leaving only the bare minimum for Mexican growers—just enough to keep them tethered.
Better to take the long view.
In his reply to Ramón, Jerónimo ordered him to acquire one of the more stable domestic textile firms that had recently gone bankrupt. The factory was to produce half the cloth used in their products; the rest could still be imported.
The production cost will rise, but with rivets added and sold as workwear, the margin will remain healthy.
The business might progress slower than planned—but so be it.
He took a sip of water and opened the third letter.
[Your Highness,
This is Alfonso Ríos. I have launched the postal and freight service between Mexico City and Veracruz. Relay stations have been installed every 40 miles, and existing wagons have been modified into stagecoaches. I have hired riders, guards, and clerks.
The first delivery run was made three days ago, and initial results suggest high profitability along this route. Further details will follow in my next report.
All profits will be reinvested to expand this route.
—Alfonso Ríos.]
"…Efficient and succinct."
Alfonso, a taciturn and practical man even during construction, let that same nature shine through in his letter.
He's the first to generate profit, it seems.
Everything was progressing well on his end. Jerónimo wrote a brief note of appreciation in return.
As for Hernando in Sacramento and Isidro in San Francisco—they had already departed for California after sending their final letters. Given the distance, Jerónimo had disbursed their full operating capital in advance. It would be at least a year before their next letters arrived.
Some things didn't go exactly as planned, but overall… not bad.
The snowball had begun to roll.