The instructions came fast.
Three groups were organized before midday. The first left for the outer marshes and dry lakebeds to retrieve the components of gunpowder. Ehecatl gave them exact descriptions of tree charcoal, white crystals from old latrines and ash pits (saltpeter), and yellow mineral deposits around fumaroles and sulfur springs. They didn't need to know chemistry. They just needed to find what he told them, collect as much as they could, and report anything unusual.
The second group was waist-deep in lakewater before the sun peaked. Their job was to dredge the edges of the lake and shallow canals for the sticky rust-colored slime Ehecatl described. It stank. It clung to hands and baskets. They didn't ask questions. He told them it was valuable, and that was enough.
The third group stayed inside the city. Ehecatl personally assigned them to scavenge clay, timber, scrap stone, and any intact copper or bronze tools. These would be reworked into molds, pipes, and valves. He also had runners notify the masons to prepare stone enclosures for the furnaces, and for the carpenters to cut bellows based on new designs.
As always, Cortés was assigned the worst of it. Ehecatl made sure the former conquistador worked alongside the lake dredgers, waist-deep in rot, hauling baskets of sludge under guard. Only an hour break to eat and rest. Protection just to prevent anyone ending his life before Ehecatl squeezed every bit of life out of him through hard labor. No luck, nor plot armor to help his fate. He wasn't just a prisoner in a cage; he was a beast of burden, moved from task to task, day to day, until his body failed.
Ehecatl didn't watch the work for drama or pride this time around. He focused on the flow of materials, checking how fast tools were returned, how often laborers were rotated, how many baskets broke in a day. Efficiency came first.
He spent hours drawing exact diagrams for the smelter; where airflow needed to enter, where slag would drain, what type of stone would withstand the heat. Scribes recorded the designs by hand. He made sure they didn't use metaphors, no religious or flowery language; just plain measurements and assembly steps. They asked questions when they didn't understand something, and he answered clearly.
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The courtyard at the main square was cleared by midmorning the next day. Rain had passed through the night before, but the flag still stood tall; damp, proud, and fluttering above the scaffold where Ehecatl waited. The fabric gleamed wet under the sun, a sharp-clawed eagle perched on a cactus, devouring a serpent.
Children filled the square. Dozens at first. Then hundreds. Cleaned and combed. Some wore patched cloaks, others the bright fabrics of noble birth. Not one reached the age of fourteen. And yet all stood shoulder to shoulder with the same wide, waiting eyes.
Ehecatl didn't sit.
He stood with them.
He waited with them.
And when he stepped forward, it wasn't with fanfare or authority, but something warmer.
Something familiar.
"I know you're tired," he said. His voice reached across the square. Strong but kind. "I know what they did to you. I saw it too. I remember the mistreatment, the fighting, the smoke, the hunger. I remember what they called you. Slave. Animal. Barbarian. Dog."
He pointed to the flag behind him.
"They don't call you that anymore."
A few of the older boys nodded. One of the girls clenched her jaw. Another stared up at him like she'd seen this moment before in a dream.
"I see warriors here," he continued, raising his voice. "I see healers. Builders. Priests. Poets. I see your ancestors behind you and the entire world in front of you."
He walked along the edge of the scaffold, not pacing but meeting their eyes one by one.
"I see the future of this land."
The children didn't cheer. Not just yet. They aren't used to a Cihuacoatl speaking like this, but the silence cracked just a little. A few of them stood straighter.
Ehecatl crouched down at the edge, so the front rows were eye to eye.
"When the Caxtilteca came, they told us our gods weren't real. That our ways were backwards. That we'd forgotten how to be people, and only through them that they can save us, but they were wrong."
He tapped his chest twice, over his heart.
"We didn't forget anything. We were waiting for you."
He stood again. Not slow. Not dramatic. Just enough to rise with the weight of the moment.
"Now raise your left hand," he said, lifting his own and placing it flat against his heart. "And with your right hand clench it behind your back."
The children mirrored him. Some with nervous glances. Others with quiet discipline. Dozens of tiny palms pressed to dozens of hearts.
"This is your oath. You speak it together. You remember it forever."
Then he said it. Clearly. Proudly. Not robotic. Not like an order.
But like a promise:
"My life I give to the Mexica Empire.
With my hands I fight for the Huey Tlatoani and our ancestors before him.
With my mind I seek ways to strengthen the Empire.
And with my feet may our march of conquest continue eternally.
I swear this before the flag of our people—
The eagle on the cactus, devouring the serpent, symbol of our unbreakable will."
A pause.
A breath.
And then they repeated it.
Hundreds of voices. Uneven. Wavering at first. But strong by the final line.
The eagle on the cactus, devouring the serpent—
Symbol of our unbreakable will.
Ehecatl let it linger. He didn't say anything right away. Just looked across them all. A thousand futures staring back.
Then he smiled.
Genuine. Sharp. And maybe even a little proud.
"You're not the children of defeat," he said. "You're the children of victory, of the future, the world, and this world will learn to kneel when you walk by."
The first cheer came from a little girl near the back. Then a boy followed. Then a wave of voices swelled from the center, rising into a full-throated shout that shook the courtyard walls.
These weren't broken children anymore.
These were Mexica.
And they had not just pledged themselves to the empire, but had just started to regain confidence in themselves.
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The pledge was only the beginning.
The next morning, Ehecatl toured the newly reopened schools. He didn't send envoys or issue quiet orders through scribes. He walked into the calmecac and telpochcalli himself, unannounced, with his hands behind his back like a curious uncle. The teachers bowed; the children froze mid-lesson.
He waved off the formality with a soft grin. "Don't stop on my account. I just came to see what the future looks like."
And he meant it.
In the girls' quarters, he praised the weaving practice, complimented the dye work, and asked the students to explain the math behind their stitch counts. Some blushed when he listened closely, not because he was the Cihuacoatl, but because he smiled like they mattered. Because he asked names. Because he remembered them.
When they reached the open court, where girls typically drilled in dance and balance, he stopped the headmistress with a soft gesture.
"Let's add something new," he said, turning back to the students. "Stretching. Leaping. Body strength. Not just for grace—though you're already graceful—but for health, confidence, beauty, and the children you'll bring into this world one day."
He stepped into the center of the group, crouched low, and showed them how to bridge their hips up from the ground.
One girl giggled. Another tried. Soon half the class was on their backs, laughing and learning side by side, while Ehecatl explained in cheerful tones what strong hips and posture could mean for childbirth, balance, and even intimidating a husband into doing chores.
"You think I'm kidding," he winked, standing again. "But strong daughters raise strong sons. And strong wives keep the world in order."
The teachers took notes. The girls clapped when he left.
He made the boys wait.
Their classes had already started with drills, chants, and mathematics—but Ehecatl waved them to gather in the courtyard anyway.
"You look hungry," he said, eyeing their skinny arms and scrawny shoulders. "You should be. Hunger means you're growing. But you're going to need more than beans and shouting to become warriors."
He gestured behind him to a pair of runners carrying baskets.
Inside were smoked fish, ground amaranth, and new ration cakes packed with roasted insects and mashed avocado dense in protein, nutrient-rich.
"You eat this every morning. You train after it. You sleep after stretching. You grow. Taller. Stronger. Smarter."
He paused, letting it sink in.
"I want Mexica boys to be the tallest in the world. Not just in strength. But in pride."
They didn't laugh. They nodded.
He then pointed to one boy's arms. "Stretch them out."
The boy obeyed.
"From fingertip to fingertip, that's your wingspan. I want that span to reach farther than any child born across the lands and across the seas."
He pointed to another.
"I want your lungs to carry chants louder than foreign drums. Your legs to outrun horses. Your hands to build homes, temples, and families."
Then he looked at them all.
"I want your children to look up at you and say: That is my father. That is a Mexica man."
The cheer that followed wasn't forced. It wasn't orchestrated. It came from somewhere else, somewhere deeper. These boys didn't just believe in him. They believed in themselves.
And that was all Ehecatl needed.
By the end of the week, the new food rations were distributed to every youth academy. Training hours were adjusted. A curriculum of strength, discipline, numbers, and song filled each day.
And across the capital, laughter returned to the playgrounds. Hips stretched on mats. Arms held bricks to build muscle. Feet moved in time with war chants.
The future was learning to walk tall.
And Ehecatl watched it all unfold—smiling not like a general or a noble.
But like a father watching his children grow into giants.
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One morning, Ehecatl appeared again this time in the boys' courtyard with a plank of wood, a stick of white lime chalk, and no entourage. The students were mid-stretch when he walked straight to the wall and began drawing without saying a word.
A curved arc. A straight line. A small dot at the peak. Then a second arc, lower than the first, and a grid around both.
By the time the boys stood behind him, arms still aching from their morning drills, he finished writing something new:
"Mathematics: The Power Behind Thunder."
Ehecatl turned, patting his hands together to dust them clean. "You all want to fire the tepoztli one day, don't you?"
They nodded.
"Then you need to learn this first. Muscle gives you reach. Numbers give you aim."
He motioned them to sit.
On the wall, he pointed at each line and curve, simplifying what would take European gunners years to teach.
"This curve?" he said. "That's your cannonball. It doesn't fly straight. It flies like a hill up, then down. We call that a parabola."
Some boys blinked. Others leaned forward, scribbling with charcoal onto bark paper.
"This angle right here? Change it too low and the shot skips like a stone. Too high and it wastes powder. But just right—and it hits exactly where you want."
He walked them through examples. If a cannon is angled at 45 degrees, and the charge is this strong, and the wind is moving this way—what will hit first: the wall, the gate, or the soldiers standing on top?
They answered wrong at first.
He never raised his voice.
He rephrased. He used examples. He brought them into the equation.
"Let's say you are the cannon. Your hand is the shot. You throw it like this, how far will it go? What if you're standing on a wall? What if it's raining?"
By the end of the day, they weren't just answering. They were arguing. They were calculating.
They wanted to learn.
And so, Ehecatl built a full schedule into their education, STEM studies alongside martial drills.
Boys learned parabolic arcs, angles, range estimation, wind factors, weight loads, and even basic combustion ratios for gunpowder. Ehecatl didn't drown them in terms, but he introduced each concept tied to something practical—something they might one day fire, build, or aim.
And it didn't stop there.
He opened a new division inside the calmecac dedicated to engineering: mechanics, basic tool design, materials science, and even pulley systems to build faster smelters and cannon carriages.
Girls were included, too. Those who showed exceptional curiosity or ability were rotated in under trusted instructors, often paired with weaving and textile work to teach tension, force, and design.
To the outside, it was still a school.
But to Ehecatl, it was a weapons lab disguised as a classroom.
Because he knew something the world didn't, the greatest artillery the Mexica would ever build didn't start with copper or gunpowder.
It started with a chalkboard.
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The first batch of powder was ready by the end of the week. It wasn't perfect. It was coarse, uneven burn, but it worked. Ehecatl tested it himself in a controlled pit outside the city, away from prying eyes. The flash lit the night, a sharp crack that echoed off the hills.
The scribes noted the ratios. The smiths watched the flame.
By the second week, they had grenades. Clay pots stuffed with powder, nails, and obsidian shards, fused with twisted cord. Simple. Deadly. He demonstrated one for a small group of warriors—throw, duck, watch the artist replicate the throw in practice. The explosion shredded a straw dummy, and the men grinned.
"We sell this," Ehecatl said. "But only to those who pay our price."
Word spread carefully as envoys from the warlords arrived, offering jade, cacao, even a Tlaxcalan captive as tribute.
Ehecatl traded sparingly. A barrel of powder for a haul of cloth and quetzal feathers here, a grenade mold for metal ingots there. The women offered were redistributed amongst single Mexica men, and priests for breeding. Their wombs necessary in the rebuilding effort.
The profits flowed with food stocks swelled, jade for ornaments, gold dust for reserves. Ehecatl saw the opportunity to regulate the trade, control the chaos. The Mexica grew stronger, one deal at a time.
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The propaganda came next. Ehecatl commissioned simple drawings on bark paper posters hung in markets and temples. One showed the flag waving over warriors swearing the pledge, the eagle fierce and unyielding.
Another depicted Mexica workers building under the banner, hammers raised in unity. The images were basic; bold lines, bright colors from cochineal and indigo, easy to replicate with a scribe's brush.
Heaters watched the artists at work, their methods plain for all to see.
"Copy them," he told the youth in the schools. "Spread the vision." The posters promoted the flag, the pledge, the empire's unbreakable will—binding hearts through the eye.
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Tenochtitlan Prepares for the Arrival of the Sixty-Three
By the time the first boats carrying news of the noble hostages' journey neared the lake's edge, Ehecatl had already seen to every detail. He didn't wait for ceremonies or symbolic dreams. He gave orders, enforced deadlines, and demanded results.
Throughout Tenochtitlan, the city moved as if guided by an unseen hand.
Bright red, white and green banners bearing the golden-brown eagle a-perched on the cactus while eating a snake flew from every bridge, pole, and home. No longer just a rebel or identity symbols, they had become marks of compliance and pride. Atop temples and market towers, enormous cloth sheets hung like sails, tall enough to catch the wind and wide enough to be seen from across the lake. Even foreign merchants approaching by canoe could see it, a single unified empire radiating outward from this center.
Men were seen repainting murals that had been hastily scratched or burned during the final days of the war. New ones rose in their place depicting young children in uniform, boys raising spears beside the eagle standard, girls weaving flowers into garlands. Not one image showed violence. Only discipline, training, and ritual.
In each calpulli, ward elders stood before gathered families, giving the orders aloud:
Every man, woman, and child is to attend the welcoming ceremony.
All gates will remain open. There will be no exceptions.
This was not a festival. It was a message.
Not only would the empire survive, it would show its enemies how proud children sang beneath its banners. How loyal youths would carry its future forward. And how foreign-born sons and daughters of distant rulers would be molded here and sent back with new hearts, speaking with Mexica tongues, thinking of Mexica ideals, and dreaming Mexica dreams.
Ehecatl walked the temple steps before dawn. He didn't speak to anyone. He didn't need to. Drummers below rehearsed the rhythm he'd selected to be steady, paced, and heavy with no frenzied tempo, no desperate cries. Just the controlled heartbeat of a civilization that never lost control.
Near the central square, girls practiced acrobatics in synchronized rows, flipping and landing beside instructors who nodded in approval. They wore fitted garments in the famous Mayan blue, designed to highlight movement, form, and strength. To the side, the younger boys trained under strict cadence forming tight rows, moving in near silence, adjusting stances by instinct. They held practice spears, their bodies already moving like warriors.
Soon, the sixty-three noble hostages would arrive. Sons and daughters of once-independent altepetl. The next generation of rulers, judges, priests, and spies. All of them would walk these causeways under watchful eyes. And every child in Tenochtitlan would be there to greet them, not just with celebration, but with unity.
Ehecatl had no illusions about loyalty. These hostages were not friends, nor were they conquered enemies. They were projects. Seeds. And every seed needed soil, water, and pressure to grow the way he intended.
The city was nearly ready.
As the sun broke over the lake, Ehecatl stood alone at the summit of the Templo Mayor. He watched as the banners moved with the breeze, as families swept their thresholds clean, as drummers beat in unison from distant rooftops. He heard no cheering, no chaos, no improvisation.
Just the quiet preparation of an empire ready to be seen.