Chapter 10, Part 2: The Quantum Shepherd

Elías, now firmly back in the tangible world, embraced his new "job" with the same cool intensity he applied to all his endeavors. The subtle complexities of the village, so different from the stark landscapes of his dreams, presented a fresh, engaging puzzle. Here, emotions were raw, thoughts rudimentary, yet they formed intricate patterns he was driven to decipher. He no longer simply arranged books; he curated knowledge, watching with an analytical eye as the children interacted with his creations.

"They believe I'm just the librarian," he thought, a faint, almost imperceptible current of amusement running through his mind. This illusion was a critical component of his strategy. He began his days early, his focus now fully on expanding the meager village library, filling it with the small books he meticulously crafted. His "quantum brain" was a relentless engine, processing, refining, and generating content at an astonishing rate.

His attention then shifted, with cold precision, to the children he had chosen as his "subordinates." His approach was direct, yet subtle. He'd find them, often lying in the tall grass during a break from chores, or huddled in the shade of a tree. He wouldn't interrupt their quiet moments but would offer a book, a question, or a simple observation about the world around them. "Rosita," he might say, gesturing to a particular type of leaf, "how many veins does this one have compared to the one near the river?" His voice was even, devoid of any condescension, simply curious. Rosita, a sharp-eyed girl, would study the leaf, then the book he offered, her initial shyness slowly replaced by genuine engagement.

Elías began to teach them basic concepts, not through lecturing, but through subtle interactions. He'd point out errors in their existing, often worn, textbooks—a miscalculated sum, a factual inaccuracy about a local animal—and then, with a natural fluidity, present his improved version. The children, particularly Rosita and a few others, were captivated. They were still rooted in the fields, their hands calloused, but their minds soared. They admired this quiet, unassuming young man, never suspecting the vast intellect hidden beneath his calm exterior. He made no effort to reveal his identity, understanding that his anonymity was his greatest shield.

"Efficiency," Elías's internal monologue began, "is paramount." Conscious of the village's poverty and the inescapable importance of money, he sought ways to leverage nature to overcome their limitations. He led small groups of children, including Rosita, to one of his hidden groves – a secluded spot where bamboo grew thick and tall. He handed them specially cut bamboo sticks, not for striking, but for meticulously tapping specific points on their bodies. Each tap was precise, following a pattern Elías had gleaned from observing the resilience of wild animals and the subtle pressure points depicted in some discarded medical texts he'd salvaged. This wasn't combat training; it was a method to build cellular resistance, to harden their young bodies against fatigue and minor injuries. It was an intense, repetitive exercise, each precise tap a micro-trauma designed for adaptation.

"This is slow," his internal voice noted, analyzing the rate of physical conditioning. He began to devise more intense, yet still non-injurious, routines. After two long weeks, the results were astounding. These small villagers, once prone to weariness, now moved with an almost ethereal discipline, a quiet concealment in their movements that would have made a seasoned scout proud. Their very presence seemed to blend into the natural background.

Recognizing the complexities of direct communication, Elías began to conceptualize new teaching methodologies. Since these were his own people, he held nothing back. He started writing books in a "quantum" format, improving them to an unthinkable level – a level that would typically require millions in funding and extensive prior research. These weren't just "basic" books; they were distillations of profound knowledge, simplified and integrated in ways that bypassed conventional learning hurdles, almost as if he were writing directly to the genetic code of understanding.

His focus then expanded. Elías began to form a small network of "spies" around the village. The innocent children, now subtly disciplined and observant, transformed into his eyes and ears. This was achieved through a special mechanism: bamboo sound mixers, cleverly crafted and hidden throughout the village. These devices, capable of amplifying and directing distant sounds, allowed Elías to monitor events, conversations, and the movements of outsiders.

A new resolution solidified in his mind: to make the village a closed fortress, inaccessible to outsiders. For now, his primary focus was to absorb every detail of this rural microcosm, understanding that this would only temporarily sate his insatiable desire for research. His quantum brain yearned to explore the world beyond, to unravel its mysteries. He channeled his strengths into physical and mental conditioning. Using primitive formations inspired by children's movie and series reviews – adapting physical movements and training methods that were not bloody, prioritizing health and agility – he guided the children. He blended basic foreign books on Chinese martial arts principles with rudimentary US medical knowledge, creating a foundational exercise he internally dubbed "The Thistle Exercise." It was based on the gathering and adaptation of nature's resilience, designed to enhance the body without breaking biological order or the higher chains of human potential. He started with these basic trainings, cultivating his young followers, the village's nascent dreamers.

What is the first major challenge or observation Elías faces now that his "fortress" is taking shape and his young followers are being trained?