The Andes Dream-Chapter 201: New Wounds

After taking the carriage toward the library, Francisco finally understood why Weber had said the situation was chaotic. Constant clashes erupted between the guards and the population. Sometimes, if the guards did not arrive in time, a shop would be set ablaze. Other times, the crowd merely shouted at the guards, acting aggressively—even though the guards were technically ignoring most of the protests. Still, when violence broke out, they had no choice but to intervene. If people began destroying the property of other citizens, no one would dare to live in Göttingen.

Weber glanced at Francisco and asked curiously, "What do you think of this situation?"

Francisco was momentarily confused by the question, but then he understood. After the kidnapping incident, it was natural for people to assume he supported the protesters’ cause. Considering what his father was doing in New Granada, it was no surprise that many believed Francisco secretly favored secession from the United Kingdom—or even from Hanover itself.

He smiled faintly and replied, "Honestly, I understand them, though I’m not as radical as you might think. Many people believe my family planned to declare independence from the very beginning, but that’s a myth. At first, we only wanted to raise a personal army to protect our properties in Antioquia, after my father was expelled from Bogotá for his reformist beliefs."

He paused before continuing. "My first thought was simple: if this happened again and we lacked the strength to defend ourselves, we could end up executed by the royal family or the viceroy. So we raised an army and began investing in industries to support both the troops and my experiments. What we failed to realize was that this would make the Spanish Crown suspicious of us—and even lead them to attempt my assassination."

Francisco sighed softly. "Even now, my father has not declared independence, which should make our position clear. We understand the risks better than anyone, and that’s precisely why we hesitate."

Weber nodded thoughtfully. "I remember you brought a woman from Spain with you. What happened to her?"

Francisco thought deeply of the aristocratic woman—supposedly from his extended family—and remembered the day the news from New Granada arrived. He recalled her fury, so intense that she had nearly killed both him and Catalina before the servants restrained her and threw her out.

Enjoy your brief moment of liberty, Francisco, she had spat. Your father’s betrayal will not give you a nation or a good life. Your family is signing its death warrant. The Crown has a long memory, and the desert awaits all traitors.

To this day, he did not know what had become of her, though he doubted her life in Spain—or wherever she ended up—had been a pleasant one.

"If you mean Inez," Francisco finally said, "we didn’t share the same vision of our family’s ideals. For her, protecting the ducal household was more important than her own life. For me, the duke is a distant concept. I never knew my grandfather or my uncles, and my father rarely speaks of them—which tells me enough."

He continued calmly, "At the start of my career, my father tried to reconnect us through projects like Roman cement and alcohol production. But I think he eventually understood that those people simply don’t care about us. So he stopped trying. To us, the ducal household is useful only as long as it serves a purpose. If it doesn’t, we can simply cut contact."

Weber nodded in understanding. He had heard rumors about her being expelled, though he had never known what truly lay behind the incident.

"It’s funny," he said thoughtfully. "Many people would kill to share a bloodline with any noble family, yet you seem not to care at all. That’s... actually refreshing."

Francisco raised an eyebrow. "Is that really so? I thought most people who came here were talented scholars, not nobles. Then again, I haven’t had much contact with other students outside the machinery faculty."

Weber chuckled. "That’s understandable. Most scions and sons of noble families study law or diplomacy. Those who pursue natural philosophy usually come from the lower classes. I deal with both groups, and I can tell you—those noble brats are a pain in the ass. Even the sons of minor branches often act as if the world owes them everything."

Francisco laughed softly. "Then I’m lucky I haven’t met any of them. Though I did visit the law faculty once and hired a Romani—at least, I think that’s what they’re called. Most of the students there didn’t act noble at all. Some were even happy to work for me."

Weber shook his head. "That’s because the ones who actually attend classes are usually commoners who genuinely want a better future. The noble children only show up to make up numbers. Unfortunately, since their families provide the largest donations, our hands are tied."

Francisco nodded in understanding.

Suddenly, a boom echoed through the narrow street—the dull, concussive thud of a gunpowder petard.

The carriage horses shrieked, their hooves clattering wildly against the cobblestones.

"Hold the line!" a guard shouted from outside, but his voice was swallowed by a tidal wave of noise.

A mass of students and laborers rounded the corner—a sea of dark wool and flickering torches. They were no longer mere protesters; they were a force of nature. To them, the carriage was a symbol of the stagnant nobility they had come to despise.

"Death to the puppets of Hannover!" a voice roared from the crowd.

Francisco barely had time to brace himself against the mahogany frame before the world tilted violently. The carriage groaned as the weight of the mob slammed into it. There was a sickening crack of splintering wood, followed by the explosion of glass as the window shattered into a thousand silver fragments.

With a brutal thud that knocked the air from their lungs, the carriage overturned, skidding across the stones on its side.

Inside, a terrifying silence followed—broken only by the fading roar of the mob. They weren’t looking for blood that afternoon. Their momentum carried them onward toward the Town Hall, and the carriage had been nothing more than an obstacle in their path to revolution.

"Hiss... what the hell happened?" Francisco muttered, pressing a hand to his temple as a thin line of warm blood trickled down his skin.

Weber, buried beneath a pile of scattered manuscripts, his spectacles dangling from one ear, shook his head in a daze. His fingers trembled as he clutched a crumpled map tightly to his chest.

"Reason has died in Göttingen, Herr Francisco," Weber whispered, his voice cracking. "The mob no longer asks for books—they ask for heads."

Above them—what was now the ceiling—the carriage door was torn open with a metallic screech. Pale evening light poured in, revealing a guard in a shredded uniform, his face caked in gray dust and ash. Shame weighed heavily in his eyes; he had failed his duty.

"Sirs..." the guard croaked, extending a trembling hand. "The path to the Town Hall is lost. You must leave—now—before the tide turns back for what remains of this carriage."

With the guards’ help, they crawled free from the wreckage. Dazed but alive, they moved through the streets on foot. From time to time, small groups of protesters rushed past them—fewer than before, but more frantic. Francisco couldn’t help but notice it.

Something significant had happened. Whatever fury now consumed Göttingen had drawn the main body of the crowd toward the Town Hall.

After a long walk, supporting one another through the chaos, they finally reached the library.

There, a different sight awaited them.

A line of soldiers—far more disciplined than the city guard—stood in tight formation before the entrance. Their weapons were raised, fingers steady on the triggers. Blood stained the stones outside; proof that some had tested their resolve and learned the price of disbelief.

When the soldiers spotted Francisco’s group, an officer barked sharply,"Prepare ammunition!"

In a single, terrifying motion, rifles were leveled directly at them.

Weber immediately raised his hands. "I’m Karl Weber, assistant to Director Christian!" he shouted. "We were attacked on the way here—that is why we arrived on foot!"

The officer narrowed his eyes and gestured sharply. One soldier broke formation and inspected them closely. After a tense moment, he returned and nodded.

Recognizing them as allies, the officer exhaled sharply. "You two—assist them to the doctor. Quickly. And stay alert. If anyone follows—fire."

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation.

Once they were under medical care, the officer turned back to Weber. "Now tell me what happened."

Weber recounted the events plainly. As soon as he mentioned the crowd’s movement, the officer stiffened.

"Toward the Town Hall?" he muttered darkly. "This is bad."

He straightened at once. "If anything happens to the Governor, the United Kingdom will send troops in retaliation. And if that happens..." He hesitated, then finished grimly, "the University of Göttingen may not survive the response."

Without another word, he turned and rushed into the library.

Francisco sat heavily as the doctor worked. Shards of glass were embedded in his arms, reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal—silent reminders of how fragile life had become in this city.

Weber had been luckier. Their positions inside the carriage had sealed Francisco’s fate; he had taken the brunt of the impact.

As blood stained the bandages, one truth became impossible to ignore:

Göttingen was about to cross a line.