Cerro Rico, the mountain that looms over Potosí, Bolivia, at 4,700 meters, has swallowed generations of miners since Spanish colonists first tore silver out of it centuries ago. The film follows the men who still work its tunnels today, hacking at rock in suffocating heat and dust so thick it scars their lungs within a decade. Eduardo, 22, is one of them, chewing coca leaves to fight altitude sickness and hunger as he chases the fortune that has eluded almost everyone who has tried before him. Cameras go deep into the shafts alongside the miners, capturing collapses, makeshift dynamite blasts, and the shrines to El Tío, the devil figure they pray to for protection underground, since Catholic saints are said not to reach that far below the surface. Interviews with veteran miners and their families lay out the math of the trade plainly: short-term pay against a life expectancy that rarely stretches past middle age. It is a portrait of a mountain that built an empire and has been quietly killing the people who work it ever since.