Time felt slower here, as if the world itself moved to a different rhythm — slower, more organic. Marcos Stefano Barbosa walked like a ghost caught between centuries. Each step on the dusty ground stirred a small cloud, and the sound of his rough leather boots echoed against the old earth.
In the distance, the church bells rang three times. Noon.
He had walked for about an hour since leaving the hill. During that time, he hadn’t spoken a single word. Only observed. His mind — trained to analyze, calculate, design — was working at full speed.
The village had no clear name, but he noticed clues: the layout of the houses, the primitive tools, the melodic dialect — an archaic Portuguese, half-sung, full of terms long vanished from modern speech.
Children ran from him. Others stared. He tried to look natural, but something gave him away. His posture, the way he looked people in the eyes, the silent weight of confidence — he was a stranger.
And there it was again — the system interface, hovering gently before him:
[SRN System – Active]
Primary Mission: Establish a local trade route.
Objective: Negotiate between at least two villages.
Reward: Alkaline soap recipe + local reputation bonus + regional map unlock.
Recommended time: 10 days. Remaining: 10 days.
Marcos read the mission carefully. A trade route. It sounded simple — in theory.
But in practice? He knew no one. Had no currency. Not even basic knowledge of legal frameworks in 1831.
Still, commerce was a universal language.
He reached what appeared to be the village square — a wide patch of reddish soil, with a wooden cross in the center and several buildings nearby: a butcher, a smith, a tavern, and a larger house with a hand-painted sign:
“Guedes & Sons General Store – Est. 1803”
The building was sturdy, made of rough stone and old wood. There was a steady flow of traffic: men carrying sacks, crates, fabric rolls. It was the beating heart of the village’s economy.
Marcos took a deep breath. Ran a hand through his hair. Straightened his shoulders. And stepped inside.
It was cool and dark. The scent of grease, leather, alcohol and wood filled the air. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with items — oil tins, tools, tobacco bundles.
Behind the counter stood a stout man with a thick beard, counting coins with an abacus. He looked up.
— Don’t know you. Where’re you from?
— From the south. I’m a merchant.
— What do you sell?
— Ideas. — Marcos smiled. — But I can turn ideas into profit.
The man narrowed his eyes. Then gave a short laugh.
— You speak like a court politician. Or a liar.
— Neither. I have knowledge. And I want to build a trade route between here and the next village — Congonhas, right?
— Yes… — the man replied, folding his arms. — Why should I deal with you?
Marcos stepped closer. His voice dropped, serious.
— Because I can double your profit in two months.