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MHA: Ashes and Aurora
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NEW GOLD MEMEBER:- Fightas
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The Great Hall of the Commander's tower had not seen a gathering like this in a hundred years.
Usually, the summits were attended by ambassadors, second-in-commands, diplomats, or lesser war chiefs sent to haggle over trade routes or border disputes. But today, that would change.
There were no ambassadors today. Only Kings, Queens, and Chiefs.
The massive circular table, which usually held maps of different territories, had been cleared. In the center, a holographic projector hummed with a low blue light, casting a ghostly 3D rendering of the Eastern United States into the air.
Lexa sat at the head, her face painted with the mask of the Heda. To her left sat Luna, her eyes fixed on the far wall, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
And to her right sat Raven Reyes, as Jaha was still busy with the organization of the camp. Behind her was a translator.
She looked out of place amongst the furs and armor. She wore her red mechanic's jacket and looked around like a nervous cat.
And to her side sat Anya, in her formal attire.
Pacing around the perimeter of the table was Mike.
He didn't wear a crown. He didn't sit on a throne. He wore his black tactical armor, the carbon-fiber plates scuffed from the landing.
Seeing everyone was here, he placed his hands on the table, leaning forward until his golden eyes scanned every face in the circle.
"You all know why you are here," Mike said. His voice wasn't a shout, but it carried to the vaulted ceiling.
"We do, commander," a rasping voice cut through the silence.
The speaker was a woman who looked as if she had been carved from a glacier. Her skin was scarred, her hair white-blonde and braided with bones. She wore the pelt of a snow leopard. Queen Nia of Azgeda. The Ice Nation.
She looked at Mike with respect, then flicked her eyes toward Raven, the respect vanishing. "But why have you brought a Sky Girl to our table. Where is their Chief? Where is this 'Jaha' you told us about?"
Raven bristled, opening her mouth to snap back, but Mike answered first.
"Jaha is managing the settlement," Mike said smoothly. "He is an administrator. But this is a War Council. I don't need politicians today, Nia. I need weapons. And she..." He pointed a thumb at Raven. "...is the smartest weapon in the room."
Nia scoffed but said nothing more.
"Tradition is dead," Mike continued, tasting the word like it was sour wine. "Tradition is why you were all killing each other over a patch of berries while a tidal wave of death gathered in the South. Survival is the new god. I have already explained this to your diplomats, but I will repeat everything anyway."
He tapped the console on the table. The hologram flickered, zooming in on the southern border — the Dead Zone. A mass of red dots pulsed there, moving steadily northward.
"The Aztecs," Mike announced. "For those of you who think this is a Trikru problem... look closer."
He swiped his hand. The simulation ran forward in time. The red dots swarmed up the coast, bypassing Trikru defenses, spilling into the plains, flooding the forests, and finally, creeping into the frozen north.
"They consume," Mike said. "They do not conquer. They do not tax. They eat. They will strip the Broadleaf of every tree. They will burn the Glowing Forest to the ground. And Azgeda? They will use your ice to preserve the meat of your children for their long march back home."
Nia's sneer faltered. She looked at the red tide on the map.
"We have one month," Mike stated, straightening up. "Thirty days before the Vanguard hits the choke point. In that time, we must cease to be twelve clans. We must become a single machine. I know this is a new thing, and it will take a will to fully get used to it, but we don't have the luxury of time."
He walked around the table, stopping behind each leader as he spoke, assigning them their fate.
He stopped first behind a man whose skin was weathered and cracked like dry mud, his eyes hidden behind goggles that he now wore around his neck. Chief Ahran of Sankru, the Desert Clan.
"Sankru," Mike said. "Your people know the heat. They know how to survive where nothing grows, and know how to disappear in the sand."
Ahran nodded slowly. "The Dead Zone is our backyard."
"You will be my eyes," Mike ordered. "I want your best runners and scouts deployed south of the defensive line. You will harass their supply lines. You will poison the few water wells in the desert region on their path. Make them bleed for every mile they march before they even see our walls."
Ahran slammed a fist against his chest. "It will be done."
Mike moved on. He stopped behind a tall, lithe woman with dark skin and armor made of woven, hardened leather. Chief Olla of Ingranronakru, the Plains Riders. Her clan was famous for one thing: they were born in the saddle.
"Ingranronakru," Mike said. "The Aztecs' vanguard lacks horses; they march on foot. We use that against them."
Olla smirked, touching the hilt of her curved blade. "Our horses are faster than the wind."
"I don't need speed," Mike said. "I need chaos. When they break out of the tree line and hit the valley floor, I want your cavalry to flank them. Hit and run. Drive them toward the center. Herd them like cattle into the kill box. Do not engage in a standing fight. Bleed them and move."
"We will run them down," Olla promised.
Mike continued his circle. He stopped behind a man who looked more like a boulder than a human being. He was covered in heavy plate armor made from scavenged riot gear and slate. Chief Groz of Boudalankru, the Rock Line Clan.
"Boudalankru," Mike said. "You build the world, Groz. Your people can raise a wall in a day."
Groz grunted, his voice deep as shifting tectonic plates. "Stone stands."
"I need you to work with Raven," Mike said, gesturing to the mechanic. "The Sky People have engineers. They have designs for fortifications you haven't seen. You provide the muscle and the stonecraft. She provides the blueprints. I want a wall across the Southern Pass strong enough to hold the enemies."
Groz eyed Raven suspiciously. He looked at her, then at Mike.
"If the metal girl draws it," Groz rumbled, "we will build it."
The translator explained to Raven what Groz said, and then she met his gaze and nodded sharply. "It'll hold. I promise."
"Good." Mike moved to the next.
He looked at Chief Kael of Yujleda, the Broadleaf Clan, and Chief Zuna of Trishanakru, the Glowing Forest. Both clans were masters of the deep woods, experts in biology and poisons.
"The forest is your weapon," Mike told them. "The Aztecs will try to move through the tree line to avoid the open plains, after Olls's army is done with them. Make them regret it. I want every foot of that forest trapped. Punji sticks, deadfalls, swinging logs. Zuna, your people know the bioluminescent toxins of the Glowing Forest?"
Zuna nodded, her eyes bright. "The glowing sap burns the skin. The berries stop the heart."
"Harvest it all," Mike commanded. "Coat every arrow, every spike, every blade of grass if you can. When they walk through your woods, I want them afraid to even breathe."
He walked past Luna. He didn't stop. He didn't need to. Her orders were already given, and the tension radiating off her was enough to blister paint.
He stopped next to a man who smelled of fish and algae, but not the salty kind. Chief Hoda of Podakru, the Lake People.
"Podakru," Mike said. "Logistics. An army of this size eats a mountain of food a day. We cannot rely on hunting. You control the rivers that flow from the north to the south. You are the supply chain. You will ferry grain, weapons, and wounded on your barges. If the river stops moving, the army starves."
Hoda nodded. "The river never stops, and neither do we, Strat Heda."
Mike nodded and turned to Nia.
"And you, Nia," Mike said softly.
Nia tilted her chin up. "Does Strat Heda have a task for the Ice Nation?"
"You are the hammer," Mike said.
Nia blinked. She hadn't expected that.
"Trikru," Mike gestured to Lexa, "is the Anvil. Anya's warriors will hold the center line at the wall. They will take the brunt of the charge. They will hold the shield wall until their arms break."
He leaned in close to Nia.
"But when the Aztecs are pinned against the wall... when they are tired, and bleeding, and frustrated... I will open the side gates. And I will unleash Azgeda."
A slow, cruel smile spread across Nia's scarred face. It was a terrifying look.
"You want us to slaughter them," she clarified.
"I want you to do what Azgeda does best," Mike said coldly. "I want brutality. I want shock. I want you to hit their flank with such violence that they forget their gods. No prisoners. No mercy."
Nia chuckled, a low, dry sound. "We can do that."
Mike stepped back to the center of the room. He pointed to Louwoda Kliron, the Shadow Valley clan.
"Your valley is the only green patch that survived the first bombs unscathed. It is the most fertile land on Earth. You are the breadbasket. Every farmer you have works double shifts. We need grain, corn, and meat. You feed the war."
He pointed to Ouskejonkru, the Blue Cliff Clan.
"You are climbers. High ground specialists. You will take the cliffs overlooking the pass. I want spotters and archers on every ledge. Skaikru will give you long-range rifles and teach you how to use them. You will rain death from above."
Finally, he pointed to Delfikru.
"You are the reserve. You guard the rear. If any Aztec scouts slip past the lines, if any ships bypass Luna's blockade and land on the coast... you hunt them down. You keep our backs safe."
Mike exhaled, the weight of the assignments settling over the room. He looked at Raven.
"And Skaikru," Mike said. "You are the Force Multiplier. You don't have the numbers to hold a line. But you have radios. You have weapons. You have medicine, and those who can operate them."
Raven straightened up, tapping the holographic table. "We can set up a comms network," she said, her voice steady. "We can give you eyes and ears across the battlefield. My team can turn that gunpowder into landmines. And Abby... our doctors... they can set up field hospitals."
Raven finished, and the translator explained it to the crowd.
"Exactly," Mike nodded. "You are the glue that holds this war together. Don't let me down, Reyes."
"I won't," she said firmly.
Mike looked around the table. Twelve clans. Twelve distinct cultures, histories, and hatreds.
"The Aztecs believe they are coming to a buffet," Mike said. "They believe we are scattered. They believe we are weak. They believe we are food."
He slammed his fist onto the table. The hologram flickered and stabilized, showing the unified front of the Coalition.
"For one hundred years, you have fought each other. You have spilled blood over insults and borders. Today, that ends. Today, there is no Ice Nation. There is no Tree Crew. There is no Sky People."
He drew the sword at his hip — a blade forged from the dark metal of the drop ship. He held it high.
"There is only the Army of the Living, as said before."
He looked at Nia. He looked at Lexa. He looked at Luna.
"We have one month," Mike roared. "One month to turn this valley into a fortress. One month to sharpen every blade. One month to learn how to fight as brothers and sisters."
He raised his sword higher.
"You are one crew. One clan. One people."
Lexa stood up, drawing her sword. "With Strat Heda!"
She looked at Mike, her eyes burning with the fire of command, and she shouted the words he had taught her, the new creed of this alliance.
"With Strat Heda!" Anya followed.
Mike looked at them all, his golden eyes glowing.
"FOR WONKRU!"
The silence held for a heartbeat. Then, Groz of the Rock Line slammed his fist on the table.
"WONKRU!" he bellowed.
Nia stood up, drawing a jagged bone knife. "WONKRU!"
Olla of the Plains drew her blade. "WONKRU!"
Even Raven, caught in the gravity of the moment, grabbed the edge of the table and pulled herself to stand. She raised a wrench she had pulled from her pocket like it was a scepter.
"WONKRU!" Raven shouted, her voice joining the chorus.
The sound grew. It started as a chant and became a roar that shook the dust from the rafters of the tower. It was a sound of defiance, a sound of unity forged in the fires of necessity.
"WONKRU! WONKRU! WONKRU!"
Mike stood in the center of the storm he had created. He watched them scream the name of their new identity. He knew the cost of this war would be high. He knew many of the people in this room would be dead in thirty days.
But looking at the fire in their eyes, he knew one thing for certain.
The Aztecs weren't walking into a buffet. They were walking into a meat grinder.
Mike sheathed his sword with a sharp click.
"Let's get to work."
---XXXX---
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