A few weeks had passed since Ehecatl's return from Texcoco, the marriage alliance with Cihuatecuhtli Ayauh sealed in passion and pragmatism, her women now ruling the city as a matriarchal stronghold with their reed-and-blood banners waving over the traitor nobles' empty halls, tribute flowing west like a redirected river. The valley pulsed with renewed vigor, schools echoing with children's pledges, forges hammering steel under Chimalli's absorbed networks, Cholula's priests preaching Quetzalcoatl's "avatar" from temple steps. But Tlaxcala hadn't taken the reconquests lightly, first it was Huexotzinco under Cuetlachtli's fanatic grip, then Cholula bound by Cuauhmecatl's zeal.
Border skirmishes had escalated with Tlaxcalan raiders clashing with Mexica patrols, the twenty remaining Castilians under Cristobal de Olid training them in arquebus volleys, horseback riding, swords and cannon fire. Talks in the tecpan had stalled as the nobility were split. Half baying for war to crush the old enemy, and the other half urging consolidation and fortifying the valley before striking.
Ehecatl hadn't attended those meetings, his absence a deliberate shadow. Truth was, he'd been at home. He was locked in, getting busy working on bark-paper ledgers and charcoal sketches, the amoxtli on herbs he'd given Xochiquetzal gathering dust nearby as his mind churned through scenarios. Surprisingly, he hadn't been handsy or pervy with the women. Malinalli's smirks, flirts, and toxic talks went unanswered, Catalina's devoted glances met with distracted smiles, and Xochiquetzal's nice ass was noted but untouched. The household had settled into a rhythm regardless of his presence or not, with the three women bonding over shared chores and stories, their pregnancies (and Xochiquetzal's budding role as healer) a focal point amid the empire's hum. But Ehecatl's focus was razor-sharp on the looming threat, planning for both war and peace.
In case the nobility voted for war, he'd upgrade the looted arquebuses and cannons with rifling of helical grooves machined into the barrels to spin projectiles for accuracy and range, turning erratic shots into deadly precision. The cheat had given him the mechanics: grooves cut by hammer-forged tools, steel from the forges wrapped around mandrels.
"It stabilizes the bullet," he'd explained to a smith earlier, sketching cross-sections.
He'd also introduce the three-line formation. A volley system where ranks rotated firing: first line shoots, kneels to reload; second advances to fire; third prepares. It would've been attributed in another world to Oda Nobunaga, here it'd be Ehecatl's innovation, maximizing firepower against Tlaxcalan warriors.
"They'll break before they close. I almost feel bad for the poor bastards." he muttered, envisioning the lines and battlefields.
To professionalize the Mexica, so that not only would they stay a cut above the rest, but above the world itself militarily. He'd adopt the Prussian-style military doctrine, its key principles of discipline, rapid mobilization, and merit-based promotion, mirroring the Junkers' rigor but infused with Mexica ferocity.
Universal conscription, officer training in tactics over birthright, interior lines for swift maneuvers.
"Similar to our ways already," Ehecatl noted, "but honed, it'll turn out warriors into machines of war."
Reports of Tlaxcalans using Castilian weapons made it urgent; the twenty under Olid were drilling them in European formations, but Ehecatl's upgrades would counter that. Once again what would've been attributed to the Germans in another world, will be attributed to the Mexica in this world.
For peace, he'd plan to send an envoy to Cholula to speak with Cuauhmecatl, leveraging the priest's zeal to reach out to Tlaxcalan envoys for a sit-down in Cholula. A neutral ground where talks could unfold without immediate blades, probing for truce amid the skirmishes.
As Ehecatl sketched late into the night, the household slept, the empire's fate balanced on his plans.
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Ehecatl stirred late the next day, the sun already high and filtering through the courtyard vines in golden shafts that danced across the reed mats. The sounds of the women pulled him from sleep. Malinalli's sharp laugh echoing from the comal where she warmed tlaxcalli with meat and spices, Catalina's soft hum as she folded mantas with gentle care, and Xochiquetzal's broom sweeping in rhythmic strokes, her form bending occasionally in ways that caught the light on her huipil. His alcove felt stuffy from the night's marathon of sketches and projections, bark-paper ledgers scattered like fallen leaves around him, the cheat's Intel still echoing in his mind: rifling grooves for spin, three-line rotations for volleys, Prussian discipline to forge warriors into unbreakable steel.
He rose, stretching the kinks from his back, his tilmatli rumpled as he stepped into the courtyard. The women glanced up, Malinalli's eyes narrowing with that toxic curiosity, Catalina's softening with devotion, Xochiquetzal flushing slightly as she paused her sweeping, broom in hand. Malinalli wasted no time, setting down the comal with a clatter and crossing her arms over her swelling belly, her huipil loose and teasingly low. "What the hell have you been up to, boy?" she demanded, her voice raw with a mix of concern and impatience, stepping close enough for him to smell the spices on her skin. "Locked in that alcove like a hermit, ignoring us all with not even a slap or a grope. Spill it, or I'll drag it out myself."
Ehecatl chuckled, pulling her in by the waist despite the slap he delivered to her ass that was firm, possessive, and drawing a yelp that turned into her signature smirk. Catalina watched with a soft smile, while Xochiquetzal averted her eyes, though not before a faint blush crept up her neck. He kissed Malinalli deeply first, tongues brushing in a quick tangle that left her breathless, then turned to Catalina for a tender press of lips, his hand lingering on her belly. Finally, he gave Xochiquetzal a playful nod, resisting the urge to slap her ass too as she resumed sweeping.
"Alright, my venom," he said to Malinalli, settling on a mat with them as Catalina passed him a spiced tlaxcalli with meat.
"The gist of it is Tlaxcala's not taking kindly to us retaking Huexotzinco and Cholula. Border skirmishes are heating up with their raiders with now using some Caxtilteca weapons along with their typical weaponry, those twenty Caxtilteca under Olid training them in volleys. The nobility's at a standstill in the tecpan as half want war now, crush the old enemies; the other half says consolidate, fortify the valley first. I've been planning contingencies for both peace or blood."
He tore into the tlaxcalli, explaining between bites, his voice steady and charismatic, drawing them in like a storyteller. "For war, I've thought up ways to enhance how we operate the warriors into something more professional, disciplined. Borrowing from… well, ideas that work with the first being universal conscription, merit over birth for officers, and finally rapid marches using interior lines. Similar to our ways but honed, turning warriors into a machine that doesn't break. New formations too, that's called the three-line volley which invoked ranks rotate firing arquebuses, first shoots and kneels to reload, second steps up, third prepares. Keeps the thunder constant, breaks charges before they hit. And I've also brought upgrades to the arquebuses and cannons. Rifling the barrels which basically means grooves inside the barrels to spin the balls, make shots deadlier, accurate at ranges the Castilians never dreamed. If the war pops off, we'll shred them."
Malinalli nodded, rubbing her reddened ass with a grin, while Catalina listened wide-eyed, her hand on her belly, though at a standstill as well, since even if she doesn't fully grasp anything remotely military it still doesn't sound good when her lord speaks of making things that her people don't have, or do but he's making better. Xochiquetzal paused her sweeping, drawn in despite herself.
"For peace," Ehecatl continued, "I'm making plans to travel to Cholula soon and have Cuauhmecatl invite Tlaxcalan envoys for a sit-down there. Neutral ground, talk terms before blades fly. I also haven't forgotten about xochiquetzal's family, I'll bring that up to Cuauhmecatl as well once I'm there."
Malinalli smirked, leaning in. "Clever as always, boy. But don't burn yourself out, we need you… handsy again." The women shared a knowing glance, the courtyard settling into the day's rhythm as Ehecatl finished his meal.
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Ehecatl finished his spiced tlaxcalli, the flavor lingering on his tongue as he rose from the low table, the courtyard bathed in the morning's golden haze. The women watched him, Malinalli with her smirking curiosity, Catalina with quiet devotion, Xochiquetzal pausing her chores to glance up shyly, broom in hand. He pulled Malinalli close first, his hand sliding to her ass for a firm squeeze rather than a slap, kissing her deeply with a possessive tangle of tongues that left her breathless.
"Keep the fire burning, my venom," he murmured against her lips. Then Catalina, drawing her in for a tender kiss, his forehead resting against hers. "Stay strong, my light." To Xochiquetzal, he gave a charismatic wink, his eyes lingering on her form as she bent slightly to set down the gourd. "Keep helping them sweet cheeks, you're settling in well."
"I'm taking off to meet Cuauhtemoc,"
he told them, slinging a bark-paper bundle of sketches over his shoulder.
"Gotta inform him of the plans for war or peace, we're ready. Don't wait up if it runs long."
Malinalli nodded with a playful pout, Catalina offering a soft smile, Xochiquetzal murmuring a quiet "Safe travels, my lord."
He strode out the door, the empire's hum enveloping him, the distant clang of forges, children's pledges echoing from plazas, flags waving like defiant hearts.
On the way to the tecpan, weaving through bustling streets where vendors hawked feathers from Huexotla and salt from Mixquic, a spark hit him, he had just realized and remembered that grapeshot would be another game changer.
"Scattershot loads," he muttered to himself, visualizing it. Cannons packed with clusters of small iron balls, turning artillery into crowd-shredders at close range. A game changer against Tlaxcalan warriors or Castilian-trained lines that are deadlier than solid shot for infantry rushes. He'd add it to the briefing, prep the forges for clustered munitions alongside the rifling. The cheat crunched +40% effectiveness against massed formations, minimal redesign needed for existing cannons. Perhaps a combination of smooth bore cannons and rifled cannons.
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Ehecatl arrived at the tecpan, the palace complex looming with its fresh lime-plastered walls and repainted murals of eagles devouring serpents, guards in ichcahuipilli nodding him through with spears tipped in new steel. Cuauhtemoc awaited in the central chamber, but first, Ehecatl requested an audience with the high priests of Huitzilopochtli. In the inner sanctum, amid copal smoke curling from eagle-skull braziers and the faint metallic tang of dried blood on the altars, he laid out the doctrine. "Merit over birth with warriors rising by skill. I know that used to be the way things were and I hope we reimplemented that, and if the highest fall, others take command seamlessly, no chaos in the ranks."
The high priest, a grizzled man with scars from old flower wars etching his face like ritual glyphs, leaned on his staff, his voice gravelly and measured, eyes sharp with the wisdom of battles survived.
"We've seen leaders fall before, Cihuacoatl. Good men, their hearts offered to the sun, only for the line to fracture like brittle obsidian. In the siege, during the war when the Caxtilteca's thunder struck down our tlatoque, who stepped up? Chaos reigned, brothers scrambling while the enemy advanced. Your proposal… it mends that wound. Merit ensures the strong lead, not bloodlines diluted by peace. Another reason why we've lost the war was to hesitation, let skill forge the chain unbroken."
Another priest, his robes crusted with ritual ash, nodded, his tone pragmatic, laced with the fatigue of endless rites.
"The gods demand blood, but victory demands order. We've adapted before with counters to their horses by fighting in terrain unfavorable to the horses, run in zig-zags or dropping to the floor when their arquebuses and cannons shot out, lay stakes in the lake to prevent their ships from getting closer. This doctrine? It's war's logic, command flows like the lake's currents, not stalling in eddies. If a high ranking warrior dies, the next rises without the sun blinking. Beneficial, yes. Huitzilopochtli would approve, for it multiplies the hearts we offer."
A third, older with eyes narrowed from years scanning omens in smoke, added flatly, "Genetic ties failed us in the war. Afterall most pipiltin were targeted, women targeted for rape, nephews unfit, chains broken by disease and blade. Your way prunes the weak branches. We've no illusions; the Fifth Sun nearly ended us. This strengthens the Sixth, let merit be the knife that carves our path."
Ehecatl nodded, the priests' agreement coming not from fanatic zeal but the hard calculus of survival. With their blessing, he proceeded to Cuauhtemoc, the path clear for war or peace.
As he left the sanctum, Ehecatl's mind turned inward, the slap of his sandals on stone echoing his thoughts. He'd prepared a whole speech with eloquent arguments to sway what he assumed were wide-eyed, bloodthirsty fanatics, obsessed with sacrifices like caricatures from his old world's memes. He chuckled inwardly, recalling that one image of Dwayne The Rock Johnson dressed as an Aztec priest, hand outstretched to stop a cannonball after sacrificing twenty to some tongue-twisting god, sunglasses on like a bad joke.
Funny in a twisted way, but wrong, and prejudiced, like most 21st-century views of the Mexica. People back then, in his time, purposely painted them as savage, wide-eyed monsters to justify the conquest, ignoring the strategists, the poets, the astronomers who built empires. The Spanish killed off the intelligent ones, the scribes, the tlatoque, the healers and burned the books, the codices that held their knowledge, and their history. Erased them to make their victory seem inevitable, their god superior. But here, these priests… shrewd, experienced, understanding war's cold math. No stereotypes fit; they were more. The Sixth Sun would prove it.
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Cuauhtemoc awaited in the central chamber, seated on his icpalli throne amid copal smoke curling from braziers, his quetzal colored cloak shimmering as he gestured Ehecatl to sit.
"Cihuacoatl," the Huey Tlatoani said, his voice resonant.
"The nobility debates still between war or peace. What contingencies have you forged?"
Ehecatl unrolled his sketches, his voice steady and charismatic, drawing Cuauhtemoc in like a strategist unveiling fate.
"For war, enhancements to make us unstoppable. First, rifling the arquebuses and cannons. It's basically simple grooves inside the barrels, like spirals carved in wood, to make the balls spin. They fly straighter, hit harder at longer ranges. Think of twisting an arrow feather for true flight; same idea, but for lead and iron. Deadlier than the Castilians' wild shots. Then there's this new idea I thought of on the way over here called the grapeshot."
Cuauhtemoc leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And this… grapeshot?"
"The idea is to pack the cannons with clusters of small iron balls, like a handful of pebbles in a sling but fired at once. It scatters wide, shreds crowds at close range and turns one shot into a storm of death against charges. I guarantee you this is something else the Caxtilteca don't have or have thought of, anyone getting hit by this would turn into a bloody mist."
The tlatoani nodded slowly, grasping the concept with a warrior's intuition.
"Clever and basic, yet brutal."
"For the military itself," Ehecatl continued, "ways to enhance operations, discipline like our flower wars but rigid. A universal conscription, officers risen by merit not birth, rapid marches using interior lines to outmaneuver. Similar to our ways, but professional. It'll turn our warriors into a war machine, that'll be unbreakable."
Cuauhtemoc's eyes lit up, the concepts clicking like obsidian into a macuahuitl. "I see it. our ferocity, honed to steel."
"And I even came up with a formation called the three-lines formation. It involves three lines for volleys with the first firing, kneels to reload; second steps up, shoots; third prepares. Constant thunder, no pause."
Again, the light of understanding as Cuauhtemoc pounded his fist. "The enemy breaks before they touch us."
"For peace," Ehecatl added, "I'll travel to Cholula soon to have Cuauhmecatl invite Tlaxcalan envoys for a sit-down there. Neutral ground, probe for truce amid the skirmishes."
Cuauhtemoc leaned back, approval gleaming. "War or peace you've arm us for both. Proceed, Cihuacoatl and may you keep making us proud."
Ehecatl bowed, the tecpan's hum rising as he departed, the empire's fate tilting on his contingencies.
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After briefing Cuauhtemoc on the contingencies of the rifling upgrades for arquebuses and cannons, grapeshot clusters to shred infantry, three-line volleys for unrelenting fire, and the Prussian-inspired doctrine to forge the Mexica military into a professional machine. The Huey Tlatoani's approval still rang in Ehecatl's ears like a forged blade on anvil.
With the priests' unexpected blessing on merit-based command still fresh from a pragmatic nod from men who'd seen the empire crumble to disease and disarray. Ehecatl left the tecpan, the palace's lime-plastered walls and serpent murals fading behind him as he wove through Tenochtitlan's bustling streets.
The city as always pulsed with life with vendors hawking maize from Chalco bins, children reciting pledges in plazas with left hands on hearts, flags waving the eagle-serpent from every rooftop like defiant claims. But Ehecatl's mind churned ahead, the visual image of grapeshot as iron hail against Tlaxcalan charges, rifling to outrange Castilian-trained volleys. He headed straight to the forges, the air thickening with the acrid tang of smoke and molten metal as he approached the yard.
The smiths, hulking men from Teotihuacan and Otumba, their aprons singed and arms corded from hammer work had labored under horse-powered bellows, the massive bloomery furnace roaring like a caged jaguar.
The lead smith, a scarred veteran named Yaotl with soot-streaked face and eyes sharp as his tools, bowed as Ehecatl arrived. "Cihuacoatl, progress on the rifling." he reported, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag. He gestured to a workbench where arquebus barrels lay in various stages: steel tubes wrapped around mandrels, helical grooves being chiseled with hammer-forged cutters, the spirals precise under the cheat's guided designs.
"The grooves spin the balls true with tests showing shots piercing armor at twice the range. Cannons too, steel reinforcements hold the blast. But the cutting's slow; we need more hands from the tribute crews."
Ehecatl nodded, picking up a rifled barrel to inspect the interior. The spirals gleaming like coiled serpents, ready to impart deadly twist. "Good work and keep pushing; the Tlaxcalans won't wait. And add this, a grapeshot. Pack the smooth bore cannons we got with clusters of small iron balls. Think scatter arrows, but thunderous. Fire them at close range to shred hordes. It'll turn charges into mist of raining blood and fucking guts."
Yaotl's eyes lit with understanding, pounding his fist on the anvil. "Like a macuahuitl storm, deadly. We'll start molds today, Cihuacoatl. The empire's fire grows."
Satisfied, Ehecatl left the forges, the clang of hammers echoing his steps. The upgrades a shield against Tlaxcala's brewing storm, the grapeshot a new fang in the eagle's beak. The Sixth Sun rose sharper, deadlier.
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The sun climbed higher as he made his way through Tenochtitlan's bustling districts, the city's pulse affirming his vision. children reciting pledges in plazas, their voices a chorus of renewal; forges echoing with the clang of steel from Otumba laborers; flags waving the eagle-serpent from every rooftop like unyielding claims. But his mind turned to the Yaoquizque Tlapixque—the Guardian Warriors, his elite force forged from Cuetlachtli's fanatics and Mexica ferocity. It was time to mold them further.
He headed to the training grounds on the city's eastern edge, a vast plaza cleared of rubble and ringed by chinampas blooming with tribute crops from Chalco. Cuetlachtli awaited him there, the Huexotzinco warlord standing tall in his new uniform: black-and-white spiraled patterns swirling across padded ichcahuipilli reinforced with iron plates, a helmet crested with a Huaxtec cone painted in stark contrasts, macuahuitl edged with steel at his hip. His eyes gleamed with that unyielding fanaticism, his scarred face splitting into a reverent grin as Ehecatl approached.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque now stood fifty strong now, recruits from Tenochtitlan and absorbed altepetls like Huexotzinco and Cholula stood in disciplined ranks, their uniforms a whirlwind of dots and spirals evoking battle's chaos, grenades bulging in belts, swords looted from Castilians slung at their sides.
"Cihuacoatl," Cuetlachtli bowed deeply, fist to chest, his voice hoarse with devotion. "The guardians await your command. We've drilled as you ordered. Grenades thrown like thunder, swords wielded with the serpent's strike."
Ehecatl nodded, stepping before the line with that charismatic presence that made men follow into the abyss. He scanned their faces and is impressed to see these were not wide-eyed fools, but hardened raiders turned elite, their eyes sharp with the promise of glory.
"Warriors of the Yaoquizque Tlapixque," he began, his voice resonant and warm, drawing them in like a moth to a flame. "You are the empire's blade, guardians of the Sixth Sun. But every blade needs an oath to guide it. From this day, your motto is this: 'My honor is called loyalty.' Repeat it."
The ranks echoed as one, fists thumping chests: "My honor is called loyalty!" Cuetlachtli's voice boomed loudest, his fanaticism igniting the words like copal flame.
"Good," Ehecatl said, his tone shifting to passionate fire, eyes gleaming as he paced the line.
"Loyalty to the empire, to the eagle-serpent, to each other will be unbreakable, even in death. Now, for the arquebuses once you master them, train in this formation." He sketched in the dirt with a stick, lines forming three ranks. "The three-line volley: first rank fires, kneels to reload; second steps forward, fires; third prepares and advances. Constant thunder with no pause, no mercy. The enemy breaks before they close. Practice with blanks first, then live fire. This turns you from warriors into a storm."
Cuetlachtli's eyes lit with understanding, nodding sharply. "It will be done, ripener of souls. Loyalty demands perfection."
Ehecatl clasped his forearm, the motto sealing their bond as the guardians began drilling, the plaza echoing with commands and the empire's edge sharpening for whatever shadows loomed from Tlaxcala.