The Community Center was no longer just a drawing on mallow paper or an abstract projection in Ubirajara's mind. The foundations, dug deep into the clay soil and reinforced with gravel, supported the first adobe walls that rose in defiance of the traditional straw architecture.
It was a colossal structure by regional standards, a skeleton of mud and timber that demanded voracious logistics and a coordinated effort the village had never before experienced.
The sound of construction was constant and rhythmic: the dry thud of bricks being set, the murmur of workers, and the creaking of heavy hardwood logs being hoisted by tucum fiber ropes.
The Tapuias, now forcefully integrated into the village structure, were tasked with the collection of raw timber.
However, Ubirajara watched with growing irritation at the inherent inefficiency of the process.
The knapped stone tools, though sharpened by skilled hands, struggled to fell the heartwood of the hardest trees in the Atlantic Forest.
Progress was slow and costly, every inch of advancement requiring hours of manual labor that could have been optimized.
"We need iron," Ubirajara thought, watching a stone blade shatter against a century-old peroba trunk.
He understood perfectly the principles of metallurgy: the complex chemistry behind ore reduction and the physics of the heat required to smelt metal.
However, theory was a cruel mistress.
His only practical experience had been during his adolescence in his previous life, when he had spent summer in the countryside forging small, rustic knives with a local bladesmith.
Back then, it was just a hobby; now, it was vital to his plans.
To scale that rudimentary knowledge for the needs of a nation, he would need a refractory ceramic furnace capable of withstanding fifteen hundred degrees Celsius, high-density charcoal, and, above all, quality ore.
He was already projecting a power hammer in his mind, harnessing the force of the mills he intended to build along the river, but the immediate focus was the basics: efficient tools for construction and superior weapons for the army he was molding.
He looked toward the horizon, toward the mountain ranges that rose like walls. He knew he was sitting on one of the largest iron reserves in the world, spanning the axis that would one day be Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, and Minas Gerais.
But coal was negligible at that latitude; he would have to rely on intensive forest management to produce charcoal on an industrial scale. The expedition to the ocean, which had once been a geographical curiosity, was now also becoming a strategic mineral prospecting mission.
Irritated by the limits imposed by technical progress, Ubirajara set the matter aside for a moment and decided to focus on human capital, the engine that truly drove his plans. Through the authority of the Shaman Arandu and the endorsement of Guaraci, he summoned the Tupi warriors to the central plaza.
About two hundred men gathered under the hot sun. Ubirajara felt a brief flash of introspection as he walked before the ranks. I feel like I'm riding on someone else's coat-tails, he thought with a bitter cynicism he kept only to himself. I have no authority based on my own standing; it is all delegated by the traditional leaders.
But he knew this was temporary. The moment he trained that army and won their loyalty through victory and discipline, he would seize political power by force.
Guaraci was innocent and trusted in his goodwill, while Arandu trusted too much in the mystical aspect of his arrival. Ubirajara, on the other hand, trusted only in measurable results.
He looked at the two hundred warriors, strong men accustomed to violence, but devoid of institutional order.
The core of an army, from the times of Rome to Prussian or Janissary modernity, was professionalism, tenacity, and unconditional loyalty to command.
That was what moved the world and toppled empires.
"This is the Atlantic Forest. This is not Mesopotamia or the plains of Africa. This forest is dense, dark, and deadly. Our operations must adapt to this challenging environment and turn it into our ally."
With eyes piercing the crowd with an intensity that made men look away, he began.
"I will professionalize this Army. I expect nothing less than absolute obedience and tenacity. By the end of this training, you will be the most capable warriors in this world. I will crush your fragile spirits and forge you into war machines."
A heavy silence followed. Some warriors looked nervous, others visibly irritated by his arrogance.
The majority, however, were simply confused. The terms were too sophisticated for them. Ubirajara realized the tactical error in his speech and simplified immediately.
"In short: I am the leader of this army by the will of your chiefs. Follow my orders, and I will give you the world. As of today, you belong to me."
He selected fifteen men who appeared to be the most experienced and used them as an initial example for the others. "I'll go easy on you at first," he chuckled softly, remembering the compulsory conscription at eighteen in his past life, the day he learned that the army was not about individuals, but about gears.
"Attention!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, adopting the posture of an infantry instructor. "How many here have completed the basic arithmetic course with the Shaman?"
Only ten men stepped forward, uncertain. Ubirajara smiled at the group. "An even number... perfect. You," he pointed to the largest of the group, a man with broad shoulders and an attentive gaze, "will be my direct assistant. The other nine will each choose ten men from the rest."
The division was made with methodical speed. Ninety men would form specialized units, while the remaining one hundred and ten would stay under his direct command to be trained as heavy infantry. Ubirajara's strategy was clear, divided by functions vital for jungle warfare.
For the composition of the main force, he established a functional hierarchy that divided the men into distinct tactical specialties.
The bulk of the army would be formed by the Line Infantry, a contingent disciplined with iron will and prepared for coordinated advancement, equipped with light toughened leather shields and short spears to act as an unbreakable core in any formation.
Supporting this maneuver force, thirty Archers would operate in trios of ten, focused exclusively on breaking enemy formations through a constant and precise rain of arrows.
The periphery of combat and the shadows of the forest would be the responsibility of twenty Scouts and Ambushers, masters of silence and camouflage who would use psychological warfare and reconnaissance to destabilize the opponent even before the first visual contact.
For critical missions, Ubirajara separated twenty elite warriors into the Decapitation Unit, intended for surgical strikes to eliminate opposing leadership and cause the immediate moral collapse of enemy ranks.
Finally, standing as the ultimate symbol of authority and strength, another twenty men would form a squadron designated to reinforce his personal authority the most loyal, ensuring the security of the central command under any circumstance.
The following days were a blur of pain, sweat, and forced learning. Ubirajara applied HIIT training to his men, subjecting them to cycles of extreme effort followed by brief recoveries, molding the cardiovascular endurance the jungle demanded.
Arandu, in the Community Center, taught them literacy and basic arithmetic immediately after physical training, taking advantage of their fatigue to break down any resistance they may have to learning.
While the men practiced marksmanship and weighted marching, Ubirajara organized the newly arrived refugees into productive industrial modules.
A garment and ceramics factory began operating on the outskirts of the village, transforming idle labor into technical production.
He had already designed the uniforms for the warriors, as he understood well the psychological value that a uniformed and organized army projected onto the enemy.
There would be no heavy armor that retained the humid, suffocating heat of the forest. Everything was strictly functional.
A soldier had to be able to sweat, move freely through the forest, and yet appear menacingly organized. Ubirajara presented the prototypes with pride.
For the visual and functional identity of the troop, he designed equipment that balanced protection and mobility under the tropical sun.
The Solar Plume Helmet served as the centerpiece, inspired by the functional geometry of the classic Corinthian helmet but adapted to be open and light.
It was crafted from hardened leather and adorned with a vertical plume of scarlet ibis feathers dyed with urucum, ensuring immediate identification and an intimidating effect on the battlefield.
For torso protection, he introduced the Trellis Breastplate, a vest of woven plant fibers (mallow or tucum) reinforced by small hardwood or bone plates strategically sewn over vital points.
This structure allowed constant airflow through the body, essential for avoiding thermal exhaustion during long marches in the closed canopy.
Complementing the uniform, Ubirajara institutionalized the warriors' tattoos, transforming the warrior's body into a permanent record of his military career.
Through genipapo tattoos and urucum marks, the skin indicated the hierarchy, unit, and accumulated experience of each man.
He sought inspiration from the old Prussian officers who displayed dueling scars to appear more fearsome, desiring the same psychological effect where the soldier's body served as a document of his ferocity and dedication.
"The uniform is not just to protect the body, Guaraci," Ubirajara explained as he ran his fingers over the rough texture of the hardened leather bracers.
The Morubixaba frowned, weighing the piece in his hand with visible doubt. To him, it seemed purely aesthetic and a waste of resources.
Ubirajara noticed the doubt and continued, his voice taking on a firm, didactic tone.
"It is to create, above all, a sense of unity. When combat begins and chaos sets in, a man tends to feel isolated, like a prey surrounded by predators. But when that same warrior looks to his side and sees a helmet just like his, a plume of the same color, and the same pattern of breastplate, he understands he is not just one man alone. He sees himself as part of a powerful collective with only one objective: to conquer and destroy his enemies."
Ubirajara pointed toward the central courtyard, where the first recruits were donning the experimental gear and trying to get used to their new war-skin.
"Any resource that increases this aspect of a single mass is positive for morale. The enemy will not see two hundred individuals fighting for personal glory; they will see a single monster with two hundred heads," Guaraci whispered, finally understanding the logic behind the aesthetics as he watched the ranks of men.
For the first time, they did not look like a group of hunters gathered by necessity, but like something solid, geometric, and deeply threatening.
The Morubixaba nodded slowly, beginning to understand that professional warfare was made of psychology as much as brute force.
At the end of an exhausting day of training and construction, with the sun setting behind the new palisades beginning to encircle the village, Ubirajara walked toward the elders' area.
They were brewing Cauim, the low-alcohol fermented beverage that served as the tribe's social lubricant.
He accepted a gourd and sat among them, feeling the weight of the day leave his shoulders.
The liquid was tart and comforting, bringing a necessary relaxation.
He watched the laughter and the stories told around the fire, feeling, for a brief moment, relaxed and sociable.
"We need more of this," Ubirajara commented, pointing to the pots of cauim fermenting in the corners.
"We need to expand production in an organized way. Every hardworking people needs a moment to be human and celebrate life"
The elders laughed, clapping him on the back with familiarity. Ubirajara drank, feeling the warmth of the drink go down and heat his chest.
The future of this proto-city-state became palpable with every brick laid.
Ubirajara watched the last shadows of the night dissipate over the adobe walls of the Community Center the following morning.
The air was fresh and heavy with the scent of damp earth, but he already felt the weight of the leather backpack on his shoulders.
It was not an expedition of conquest or war, but a one-week technical incursion to map important geographical landmarks and collect data on the immediate terrain surrounding them.
Tainá approached while he adjusted the straps of his bag, which was heavy with rolls of mallow paper and jars of genipapo ink. "I'm going with you," she said in a voice that did not accept easy refusals.
Ubirajara stopped what he was doing and looked at her with calm eyes, but absolutely firm in his decision.
"No, Tainá. This is not a trip."
"I know the trails better than half of the men you plan to go with," she retorted, crossing her arms and showing her displeasure at being left behind.
"This is not a walk or a leisure hunt," he explained patiently.
"It is military and technical work. I need scouts who respond to sound signals automatically and who maintain the march formation I have taught exhaustively. Furthermore, I need you to stay and observe how the rice planting reacts during my absence and how the captives behave without my direct supervision. You are the only person I trust with these tasks."
Tainá looked away, visibly irritated, but she knew he would not yield.
Ubirajara tied a final knot in his backpack and walked toward the center of the plaza, where Guaraci and the Shaman Arandu were waiting for him under the pale light of dawn.
"Why leave now with only twenty men?" Guaraci questioned, leaning on his war spear.
"It would be better to wait until the works you are developing are completed and bring one hundred well-armed warriors, because that way you would have more security against any surprises."
"If we wait too long, we will be marching in the dark over our own territory," Ubirajara explained. "A larger expedition is slow, noisy, and consumes too many resources for a simple mapping. I need agility to mark the ridges, the rivers, and the possible sources of ore before we move the bulk of the army for any campaign. Knowing the terrain now will save us blood and time in the future. It is better to lose the way with twenty men than with a hundred."
Arandu nodded, understanding the pragmatic logic of prospecting. "Go and see what the earth has to tell us, Ubirajara."
With formal authorization from the leaders, Ubirajara called his personal assistant. "Ubiratan, everything ready for the move?"
The large young warrior, who had mastered basic arithmetic, approached carrying a wooden case with writing supplies. Ubiratan was attentive and silent.
"Everything in order, leader. The paper is protected against moisture in leather cases and the inks are sealed with wax so they won't leak during the march," the youth replied almost mechanically, exactly as he had been trained.
Ubirajara looked at the other nineteen men, all wearing the Solar Plume Helmet and leather bracers, their bodies marked with the new geometric tattoos that shone slightly under the morning light. They were no longer just hunters acting on instinct; they were the reconnaissance detachment of a new order being born in the forest.
"In column!" Ubirajara commanded in a voice that admitted no hesitation.
The dry, unison sound of feet hitting the beaten earth floor echoed through the plaza like a war drum.
He gave one last nod to Tainá and the village leaders, and the group disappeared into the green density of the Atlantic Forest.
As each day passed, the village stood out more in the landscape, beginning to resemble a city.