In the heart of Sagres, where the cobblestones were worn smooth by generations of pilgrims, merchants, and barefoot children, stood a boy and a woman—mother and son—bathed in golden sunlight.
They were paused at the edge of the main street, where town life buzzed gently around them: the clatter of hooves on stone, the creak of cart wheels, the laughter of fishmongers haggling over salted cod. But the boy, Marino, wasn't paying attention to any of that. His eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling with deep, contented breaths, as if the very air here were sacred.
And to him, it was.
Gone were the chemical-laced skies and neon-lit food courts of his past life. Gone were the sirens, the smog, the endless churn of war machines. Here, the air smelled of sea salt and rosemary. The sky was an unbroken blue. Birds chirped in leafy branches above honest stone houses, and even the weeds growing between the cobblestones looked healthier than anything he'd seen in his old world.
In his former life as Jack, he had died amidst fire and steel—his final breath tasting of blood and burned plastic. Now, reborn as Marino in this untouched world, he could almost taste the opportunity in the wind.
Surely, he thought, grinning to himself, this was divine providence. Why else would he be given this second chance, when billions had rotted with the world?
He turned toward his mother, eyes gleaming with a childlike glee only partially feigned. "This is it," he announced with theatrical pride, spreading his arms wide. "Right here. On the other side of the street. This is where we'll build our first business. The heart of the empire starts here!"
Mary looked across the cobbled lane, following her son's outstretched arm.
On the opposite side stood the Church of the Burning Dawn, Sagres' only house of worship. It rose like a dark flame from the earth—built in the old Gothic tradition, with high stone buttresses, pointed arches, and narrow windows that filtered sunlight through deep reds and golds. A great statue of Saint Jerónimo the Hammer-Bearer stood above the entrance, eyes cast skyward, his face stern and weathered, one hand raised in eternal benediction and the other resting on a massive stone hammer.
The bells above had been rung at dawn, and their echo still seemed to linger in the bones of the town.
Around the church stood only a scattering of small, two-story timber-and-stone houses, each pressed close like children gathered at the foot of a stern father. But directly across from the church, across a quiet stretch of open land covered in weeds and loose gravel, was a vacant lot. Untouched. Unclaimed.
Marino could hardly believe it. He could already see it—SubColombo's humble beginnings.
His mother nodded, her face unreadable, but her eyes lingered on the lot. "It is convenient," she admitted. "Only a few minutes from the house. Central. Near the chapel. Plenty of foot traffic after morning mass."
"And cheap," Marino added quickly. "Because no one wants to build in front of the church."
That was true. Mary had already asked around the market—many in town believed the land to be "too close" to holy ground. Some whispered that those who built too near risked the ire of the Flame-God. Others feared it was haunted by the ghosts of heretics once burned in the square. Superstition lingered in these parts like old smoke.
Perfect, Marino had thought when he first heard it.
"People are stupid," he said now with a grin. "Their fear is our opportunity."
Mary gave him a wary look. "Don't say that so loud, child. If the priest hears you…"
"Right, right," Marino said quickly, straightening his posture as a cloaked figure passed by, muttering prayers under his breath. "Saints preserve us. Praise be the Hammer."
Still, the location was ideal. And Marino had no intention of wasting silver on stonework or a full tavern when something quicker would do. No, this first step in their empire would be humble.
"We'll build a food cart," he explained to his mother, already gesturing with his hands to show the size. "But not just any cart. A proper wagon. Sturdy wheels, a counter on the side, maybe a painted sign above. We set up some benches. A couple of tables. Somewhere people can sit and enjoy the sun while they eat."
Mary raised a brow. "And what do you know about wagons?"
"Enough," Marino lied cheerfully. "Papa can help with the frame, you and I can handle the food. It doesn't need to be fancy. Just practical. Catchy name, simple menu. Bread, meat, cheese. Fast and hot."
Mary frowned thoughtfully. "And the priest?"
"We'll keep it clean," Marino assured her. "Pious. No heresy, no jokes about holy bread. Maybe we offer a discount after mass."
She chuckled at that, a rare sound from her. "You're clever, I'll give you that."
Marino beamed. He could already see it in his mind's eye: the smell of roasting meat, the laughter of customers, the copper coins stacking up. Then gold. Then ships. Then sails.
He looked back at the towering statue of Saint Jerónimo and nodded respectfully.
Let the old gods watch. Let the priests grumble. He would build this empire in their shadow if he had to—and one day, he would cross the sea to lands no one in this world even dreamed of.
America. The New World. His true home.
But for now… sandwiches.
After inspecting the plot of land across from the church, the mother and son duo turned their steps toward the docks, where the only workshop in Sagres stood.
The walk took about five minutes, winding past rows of small houses, the occasional fish stand, and a stray goat or two. The scent of salt and iron filled the air as they neared the clanging heart of the town's craft district—if a single workshop could be called that.
Francisco Freeman's workshop was a sprawling mess of sawdust, smoke, and shouted curses. A tin roof extended awkwardly from the main timber frame, sheltering stacks of logs, barrels of nails, and a wide wooden table covered in half-finished projects. The rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal rang from the forge next door, where Francisco's younger brother, Frederico, stood bare-chested and soot-covered, hunched over the anvil.
Francisco himself was hunched over a plank of pine, carving it with long, confident strokes. His thick arms flexed as he worked, sawdust coating his beard like snow. Nearby, three dusty apprentices—each one scrawnier than the last—scurried about hauling timber, sharpening tools, or bellowing for more nails.
Though Francisco was the best carpenter in town and Frederico the finest smith, in a village of only 800 people with no real competition, such titles were more honorary than earned. Together, they were known simply as the Free Brothers—a nickname drawn from their surname, Freeman. Most of their work involved repairing broken carts, hammering out rusty scythes for farmers, or patching the town guard's battered helmets.
As Marino and Mary approached, Francisco's sharp eyes caught sight of them. He squinted through the wood shavings, then immediately straightened up, brushing sawdust from his apron.
It wasn't the boy with the paper in his hand that caught his attention—it was the woman beside him. Francisco's gaze lingered shamelessly. Mary was petite but radiant, with chestnut hair tied up in a simple ribbon and a curiously youthful glow to her. Her dress, modest though it was, did little to conceal her natural charm.
"Well, well," Francisco boomed, puffing out his chest as he wiped his hands on a rag. "If it isn't the most beautiful woman in all of Sagres. To what do I owe the pleasure, my lady?"
He performed a clumsy bow, one leg forward and a callused hand to his chest—his attempt at nobility looking more like a drunk dancer mid-collapse. He flashed a grin, teeth yellowed but sincere, and winked.
Mary blushed, chuckled, and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, you jest, my lord."
They both laughed—the sound warm, familiar, and harmless enough. But Marino stood by with his arms crossed and face frozen in barely disguised disgust.
He could see right through this old goat's theatrics.
Francisco was built like a barrel—muscular, broad-shouldered, but with a belly that hinted at too many ales and too few fasts. His beard was streaked with grey, and his face lined with years of sun and sweat. Marino guessed he had to be nearing fifty. Mary, meanwhile, was only twenty-six. Both of them married. Both of them with children. And yet here Francisco was, drooling like a starving dog at a feast.
Of course, Marino couldn't entirely blame him. His mother was beautiful—but still.
He cleared his throat loudly.
Both adults turned to look at him.
"Mother," Marino said, his voice clipped and irritated, "we came here for business. Please. Let's not waste time."
Francisco chuckled and clapped a heavy hand on Marino's back, almost knocking the wind out of him.
"Ah, come now, lad! No need to be so serious all the time," Francisco said with a grin. "You've grown tall and sharp since I last saw you. It's been too long. You should be out running with the other boys, not buried in books and ship scribbles."
Marino wordlessly pushed the rolled parchment into Francisco's chest.
The carpenter took it, unrolling it with curiosity. The drawing was rough—done with charcoal and awkward angles—but the design was clear: a wagon with a fold-down counter, small chimney, and shelves inside. It was a mobile kitchen.
Francisco raised an eyebrow.
"So you want a food cart on wheels?"
"A mobile kitchen," Marino corrected. "Built strong. Enough space for one person to cook inside. We'll set up tables and benches outside. Here's the payment."
He handed over a small but weighty pouch of coin. The unmistakable sound of silver clinking together made Francisco's brow lift even higher. He untied the pouch and peeked inside.
One hundred silver coins.
With the coin purse in hand, Francisco began counting the silver, letting the coins slide through his thick fingers one by one with the slow concentration of a man hoping to find a few more than expected. Though the amount looked right, his brow furrowed deeper with each coin. Materials weren't cheap, labor even less so, and this strange contraption—this mobile kitchen—would take time, thought, and craftsmanship. Truth be told, there'd be little profit in it for him.
As Francisco muttered under his breath and shuffled coins, Marino leaned close to his mother and whispered something in her ear.
Mary blinked. "You want me to what?" she whispered back.
Marino gave her a small, imploring nod.
She hesitated, biting her lower lip in protest. A modest and chaste woman by nature, this sort of thing went completely against her upbringing. But when she looked into her son's eyes—so full of ambition and fire, so convinced of his dream—her resolve melted. With a soft sigh, she nodded.
"Only this once," she murmured.
Adjusting the red-and-white laced gown that clung tight to her bodice, Mary loosened the chest straps slightly, just enough to push her bust upward. With her petite waist and curvaceous figure, she looked like some wandering version of Red Riding Hood—if Red Riding Hood had grown up, discovered mascara, and caused woodcutters to drop their axes mid-swing.
With a sway in her hips, she stepped forward toward Francisco.
He looked up mid-count—and froze.
His eyes bulged. His breath caught. For a solid two seconds, Francisco was a statue, eyes locked onto the sudden and miraculous display approaching him like a vision out of a tavern tale. The sawdust in his beard might as well have been snow; he was winter-struck.
Before he could fully process the turn of events, Mary took his free hand and gently—yet firmly—pressed it against her chest. Her eyes met his with trembling lashes and a voice laced with tender worry.
"Is... is something wrong?" she asked, her eyes darting to the bag of coins and then back to him. "You looked troubled."
Francisco opened and closed his mouth a few times before words stumbled out like drunks from a bar.
"N-no! Not at all! I was just—uh—admiring the... generosity of the payment. Yes, generous. Very generous." He gave a sheepish, toothy grin and laughed nervously, still unsure whether he'd been blessed or hexed.
"Oh, you're the best, Francisco," Mary cooed, planting a dainty kiss on his bicep, the highest point she could reach on her toes. Then she turned and walked back to her son.
Marino gave a smug nod and turned toward the workshop's back room, where they finalized the contract—one cart, six weeks to build, all terms agreed.
As mother and son left, Francisco remained standing there, dazed and slack-jawed, eyes glued to Mary's figure as she disappeared into the sunlight. A thin line of drool formed at the corner of his mouth.
Smack!
A heavy slap landed on the back of his head.
Francisco stumbled forward and whirled to find his younger brother Frederico glaring at him, arms crossed and soot still smudging his forehead.
"What the hell was that for?" Francisco barked, rubbing the back of his head.
"That," Frederico growled, "was for making a completely unprofitable deal because some woman jiggled her udders at you like it was market day. Use your head next time—the one on your shoulders."
Without another word, Frederico stomped back to the forge, muttering darkly about "idiots with sawdust for brains."
Francisco stood there in silence for a moment, the sting of the slap still lingering—but so did the memory of Mary's soft kiss.
He looked at the coin purse again, sighed... and then smiled.
"Worth it," he murmured to himself, then whistled a tune and got back to work.
The sun now stood high overhead, casting short shadows and bathing the town in a golden warmth. It was nearing lunchtime, but there was still one final errand left for the mother and son.
Their destination: the castle of the local lord.
Situated on the southwestern edge of town, the castle sat on a rocky peninsula, its flanks guarded by sea spray on three sides. A narrow, 100-meter-wide land bridge connected it to the mainland. Across this stretch ran a sturdy three-meter-tall wall—functional, not decorative—ending at a broad wooden gate, currently wide open.
Two guards stood at either side of the gate in polished steel cuirasses, their armor modeled after the conquistadors Marino remembered from his old life. The only difference was the cloth beneath: white and blue instead of crimson and gold. Local colors, probably.
As they approached, Marino gave the guards a respectful nod while Mary explained their purpose: they sought permission from the lord to use the plot of land near the church for their sandwich business.
One of the guards grunted and said, "Just a moment," before trotting off through the gate toward the keep.
Marino raised an eyebrow as he watched the man disappear, leaving the wide gate completely unguarded. A single bored soldier now stood with his halberd leaning lazily against his shoulder.
"This seems like a bit of a security risk," Marino muttered.
Mary chuckled, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "You worry too much. It's a peaceful town, not a battlefield. Besides," she added with a faint smile, "I've seen the lord before. He's a good man."
"Oh?" Marino glanced sideways. "When was this?"
She smiled a little proudly. "Sometimes he visits the docks to speak with your father about trade. I've seen him once or twice. Tonel Segres, his name is. Thirty-six years old, they say. Fair, just, and patient. The people like him."
Marino crossed his arms. "I'll judge that for myself."
Before Mary could answer, the first guard reappeared, jogging back toward them with a sheen of sweat on his brow.
"The lord has heard your request," he huffed. "You've been granted an audience. Go straight through the gate to the keep entrance. Guard Three will meet you there and lead you to the throne room."
They thanked him and stepped past the open gate. The outer courtyard was sparse—little more than packed dirt, a few scrubby bushes, and a pair of gnarled olive trees swaying gently in the breeze. Off to the right stood a small stone chapel and a priest's modest house beside it. Aside from that, nothing. Clearly, this part of the castle was designed with defense in mind—no clutter, no places for enemies to hide. Archers on the walls would have an unobstructed view of anyone crossing the courtyard.
At the inner gate, Marino paused to admire the house sigil carved above the entrance: a blue shield with a white war galley sailing forward under bold yellow sails. Simple, proud, and oddly fitting for a lord of a seaside town.
They passed beneath the iron portcullis and wooden inner gate, stepping into a much more refined courtyard. Here, the greenery was lush and cared for, with trimmed hedges, flowering vines, and a modest fountain burbling in the center. Birds flitted between fig trees, and the air smelled faintly of lavender.
Guard Three met them beneath a shaded archway and led them toward a small flight of stone stairs flanked by two motionless sentries.
Just before the steps, he turned and gave them a quick nod.
"You'll find the lord through those doors. Before you enter, remember: kneel, speak clearly, and introduce yourselves properly. The lord appreciates good manners."
Mary offered a grateful nod. "Thank you, soldier."
As they stepped toward the doors, Marino paused, staring at the threshold with a thoughtful expression.
In his past life, he'd never once knelt before anyone. Authority figures got salutes or handshakes—never the knee. To some, it might have been humiliating. To others, a matter of pride.
But Marino simply shrugged.
This wasn't Earth. This wasn't some modern city where you could sue someone for bruising your ego. This was a medieval world, where lords held real power, and pissing off the wrong noble could get you branded a rebel—or worse, a heretic.
This isn't some Chinese web novel, he thought dryly. I'm not going to start a blood feud over kneeling. I'm not here to slap faces and topple dynasties—I just want to sell sandwiches.
And with that very practical thought, Marino stepped up the stairs and pushed open the doors to meet the lord of Segres.
As the guards pushed open the heavy double doors, Marino and Mary stepped into the lord's hall.
Calling it a "great hall" would've been generous—it was more modest than majestic. Still, it had its charm. Six stone pillars flanked the chamber, three on each side, carved with delicate ivy patterns and draped with the blue-and-white banners of House Segres. The floor was a patchwork of polished stone, and light filtered through tall, narrow windows behind the throne, casting dappled patterns on the floor.
At the far end, only six meters ahead, stood the throne: a simple but elegant wooden seat atop a raised stone platform with two steps. Seated upon it was Lord Tonel Segres himself.
The man looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a trim, slightly muscular build. His blond hair was brushed back neatly, and his expression was calm, almost gentle. He sipped wine from a finely cut glass, his big blue eyes watching the pair with polite curiosity. Beside him stood a thin man in clerical robes, holding a quill above a sheet of parchment on a portable desk—likely the court scribe.
Marino and Mary stopped a respectful distance from the throne—roughly three and a half meters away. Mary dropped to one knee, and Marino followed suit. He kept his back straight, mimicking a soldier's salute in kneeling form.
The lord's voice was low but carried clearly in the hall. "You may speak."
Mary lifted her head with poise and began.
"My lord, we wish to request the right to rent the land in front of the chapel. There, we envision building a fast-food restaurant, as my son calls it. A place where laborers and travelers alike may enjoy hot, freshly prepared meals—quickly and affordably. This business would serve those with little time to cook at home and provide warmth on cold days, nourishment for the weary, and satisfaction for all."
She paused for breath, her tone earnest.
"We believe this venture will uplift the spirits of your townsfolk and increase productivity across the board. With fuller bellies come brighter smiles and stronger backs. My lord, we humbly request the honor of establishing this business on your land."
She bowed her head once more.
Marino blinked. Damn, he thought, she made that sound way better than I wrote it. A bit theatrical—but solid. It was a polished performance, and he was genuinely impressed.
Lord Tonel let out a warm chuckle, clapping softly a few times.
"Well said. A touch dramatic, perhaps, but certainly entertaining."
He rose from his throne with a fluid motion, still holding his wineglass.
"There's no need for such grand speeches in my hall. I am a just man, and as long as your venture breaks no laws and causes no harm to my people, I see no reason to deny you. You have my permission."
Marino blinked again.
Wait—that's it? Just like that?
The lord took a final sip and turned toward a side door.
"My scribe will handle the rest. I wish you luck."
With that, Tonel Segres left the hall, his blue cloak fluttering behind him as he disappeared into the shadows of an adjacent chamber.
For a few seconds, Marino just stared, eyebrows raised.
"Well," he muttered, "that was... anticlimactic."
Mary smiled as she rose to her feet. "That's how you know he's a good lord. Fair and efficient."
Together, they stepped toward the scribe, who was already jotting down notes. The contract was simple: they provided their personal and business information, agreed to a modest monthly rent, and accepted a 15% tax on all earnings from the operation. The scribe stamped the parchment with a wax seal bearing the house sigil—white war galley, blue shield, yellow sails—and handed them a copy.
Satisfied, Marino and Mary exited the hall, their steps lighter than before.
They returned home under the warm midday sun, already dreaming of sizzling meats, toasted bread, and hungry customers lining up for their revolutionary meals.
Now all that remained was to wait for Fransisco's wagon to be completed.
And then? Then the SubColombo sandwich empire would begin.