The sound of water being cut by a heavy, creaking keel echoed across the steep slopes of the Mantiqueira River. There, the river was narrower and faster than the main waterways along the coast, forcing the vessel to fight for every inch of progress.
Ubirajara, now known as Jaguar Tupanem, stood at the bow, his eyes fixed on the white, turbulent waters ahead. He observed the first prototype of the Ygaru with a mixture of pride and deep technical frustration.
To the men of the village, the boat was a miracle, a wooden titan defying the laws of the river. But to Jaguar, who carried the memories of steel hulls and diesel engines, it was a rustic and clumsy experiment. It was a hybrid between a giant war canoe and a primitive flat-bottomed barge, lacking the elegance of a true ship.
Without an abundance of metal nails, the structure relied on complex joints, wooden pegs, and a thick layer of plant resin.
The smell of burnt sap and damp wood was constant, while the sun's heat hardened the sealants in the cracks. Each time the hull scraped against a submerged rock, Jaguar felt a pang of anxiety in his chest.
Without the heavy fabric of sails, the vessel moved solely by the brute force of thirty men rowing with long, rhythmic oars. They were coordinated, yes, but they were waging a war of attrition against the descending current from the mountains.
Jaguar knew that his current industrial base was still too rudimentary to sustain his ambitious naval dreams. He lacked the heavy looms needed to weave thick cotton canvas, and the forge in Itabira was still focused on weapons and tools.
Building a single ship with thousands of iron nails would deplete his entire strategic metal reserve in a few days. For now, they would have to rely on the strength of the Tekoan weapons and the resilience of tropical woods.
Despite its flaws, the Ygaru was still the largest man-made object to navigate those particular highlands.
Lurking hidden in the undergrowth, dozens of eyes watched the wooden monster pass by. They were the Puris, a people who traditionally inhabited the mountain range.
Unlike the Tupi, who were generally tall and slender, the Puris possessed compact and muscular bodies, built for climbing.
Their skin was a deep copper tone, and their hair was cut in thick fringes that framed broad, alert faces. They remained motionless, their bodies camouflaged by thin stripes of clay and charcoal that mimicked the forest floor.
A young Puri warrior, barely old enough to bear his first scars, gripped his bow until his fingers ached.
The sight of the Ygaru filled him with unease. "They don't look like the Tupi we know," he whispered. "And their boats are like houses floating on the water." He turned to Jor, the oldest hunter among them.
Jor studied the boat in silence. He noticed the dark metal weapons, the identical clothing, and the disciplined movements of the rowers. "Let's go. Now," he said softly. "There are too many of them. If they're like the Goitacás, they'll hunt us down and eat us."
The mere name was enough. Fear swept through the group. Without saying anything more, they returned to the forest, moving quickly and silently, confident that the mountains would hide them.
They were wrong.
High above, in the branches of a huge pink jequitibá tree, a Tekoano scout watched everything. Guará, tied to a tree trunk for stability, followed the Puris through the trees. He hadn't been trained for the glory of hunting, but for observation and reporting.
Jaguar's orders were clear: identify anyone within sixteen kilometers of the colony.
Guará waited until the group moved away from the river, then descended and followed their trail. After an hour, he found their camp: a small cluster of palm shelters in a ravine. No defenses. Children present. About forty people. A group of refugees.
He memorized the details and ran back to Itabira.
In the administrative center, Jaguar was bent over a table, sketching mine drainage systems, when Guará arrived and greeted him.
"Report for Jaguar Tupanem. I found the Tapuia settlement."
Jaguar looked up. "How many?"
Guará straightened up, completely serious. "I don't know, sir."
Jaguar blinked. The confidence in the response almost impressed him.
He sighed inwardly. The accuracy was still developing. At least the scout hadn't lied.
"Excellent," Jaguar said finally. "Gather the troops."
"Very well, Guará," said Jaguar, rising and reaching for his belt.
"If you can't count them, show them to me so I can count them myself."
He turned to his assistant, a young man who served as his shadow and messenger within the colony.
"Gather the troops. We're going to visit those Tapuias before they decide to disappear into the higher mountains."
"And Guará... you will guide us, considering you know the way."
Ten minutes later, Jaguar went out to the main square of Itabira and saw the fruit of his labor.
Forty warriors stood in a silent and perfect line, their posture in stark contrast to the relaxed posture of the traditional tribes.
They wore thick cotton tunics, dyed a deep and intimidating red with urucum and stabilized with mineral clay. In their hands, they wielded spears with wide, leaf-shaped points, made of tempered black iron.
"The scout Guará encountered a group of Tapuias observing our movements," Jaguar announced to the assembled men.
"Our mission today is not to hunt, nor to collect trophies to adorn the beams of our houses."
"We will get to know these people and show them that their future is in congruence with Tekoá, not with the Aruaques."
"Formation in column! To the left, march!"
The sound of forty pairs of leather sandals striking the ground in unison was a psychological weapon in itself.
The march through the forest was a demonstration of discipline unthinkable a year before.
In a typical Tupi attack, the warriors snaked through the trees at their own pace, shouting and seeking individual glory.
Jaguar's men moved like a single segmented serpent, their spears at a uniform angle that caught the light filtered through the trees.
The metallic clinking of their equipment and the firm sound of their steps created an aura of undeniable power.
As they approached the ravine where the Puris were sheltered, Jaguar signaled for the column to split and surround the camp.
He didn't want a massacre; he wanted human capital to supply the labor demand of the iron mines.
Jaguar took his place at the front of the formation, accompanied by Gor, a man of the Aimoré ethnicity.
Gor was a man who had fled the Arawak expansion with his tribe and had been assimilated months before, and would serve as a translator.
He spoke a dialect of the Macro-Jê branch, a linguistic family like Tupi-Guarani.
When the Tekoano soldiers emerged from the foliage, surrounding the Puri camp, the scene was one of total shock.
The Puris reached for their bows, but were met with a wall of shields and iron spears.
The uniformity of the soldiers was terrifying.
Jor, the veteran hunter, stepped forward, his body trembling as he tried to protect the women and children behind him.
He looked at the situation and knew they wouldn't be able to hold out in case of combat.
"We will leave this territory immediately," Jor shouted, his voice choked with fear.
"We don't want war." Gor heard the rhythmic sounds of the Puri language and translated them to Jaguar in a low voice.
Jaguar nodded, his expression unreadable as he studied the man before him.
"He said they are leaving and don't want conflict, sir," Gor whispered.
Jaguar stepped forward slowly, making sure the sunlight reflected off the polished iron knife at his belt.
"Gor, ask him if they have seen the Aruaques coming down from the northern rivers," he said.
The interpreter spoke. Jor reacted instantly. His eyes widened and he stepped back.
"He says yes," Gor translated. "They are fleeing from them. The Aruaques take everyone they find. The forest is no longer safe, but his people have nowhere else to go."
Jaguar saw the opening and pressed forward.
"Tell him this," Jaguar said. "The Aruaques are a shadow. A shadow that will follow them wherever they hide. If they stay here, they will be hunted until none remain. If they come to Itabira, they will have clay houses, clothing, and the protection of iron. They will no longer be prey. They will be Tekoanos."
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small iron hatchet. With a short motion, he tossed it to Jor. The hunter caught it by instinct. The weight alone made him hesitate.
Jor tested the blade on a nearby tree. One swing was enough. The iron cut deep into the hardwood, something stone could never do.
Silence followed.
Jor looked at his people, then at the disciplined ranks of red-clad warriors, and finally at Jaguar.
"We will come," he said, letting his bow fall to the ground.
Jaguar nodded. He was already deciding where they would live and what work they would do.
The migration began that same afternoon. Forty people started toward the smoke rising from Itabira. As they walked, Jaguar explained the laws of the new land through Gor.
"You will work, and you will be fed," he said. "You will learn our language. Your children will be raised in the Great House of Tekoá."
It was an old method. By raising their children within the state, loyalty would come naturally. The next generation would belong to Tekoá, not the forest.
By sunset, they reached the colony. The Puris stared at the adobe walls and the glowing forges. Sparks flew from iron tools, and people moved with calm purpose.
Jaguar watched as a Tekoano woman handed warm bread to a Puri child.
The peace he had bought was fragile, but it was enough.
The mountains were no longer a border. They were the foundation of his growing power.