I stopped talking about fighting and started building for it.
The cheat helped. All I had to do was think about "traps." Images filled my head. Diagrams, instructions, crude sketches. Most were from wars centuries after this one. But if sharpened bamboo works against men with rifles, it'll work against men with steel.
I picked spots around the aqueduct. Narrow alleys. Corners where patrols might cut through. Hidden ground where shadows fell thick. Then I worked.
Pits were impossible. Too much digging, not enough strength. So I made punji sticks.
I broke wood into stakes, sharpened them with obsidian shards, and hammered them into tilted holes. Covered them with mats and ash so they looked like solid ground. Anyone who stepped there would lose a foot or leg.
I rigged another trap with a heavy stone balanced on rope. Pull the line, it drops. Not perfect, but good enough to break bones.
Crude. Slow. Ugly. But traps don't need to look nice. They just need to hurt.
When I finished, I gathered the group. Showed them where they were. Pointed to each spot.
"Don't walk here. Or here. Or here. Ever," I said. "If you fall in, it's your leg. Maybe your life. These aren't for us. They're for them. If you forget, you'll die."
Blank stares. A few nervous glances.
I picked up a reed mat, pulled it aside, and jabbed the spear down. The point hit wood. The group flinched.
"See? That's your foot. Remember it."
They nodded. No questions. Just fear. That was fine. Fear kept people alive.
After that, I turned on myself.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Planks. Anything I could do without weights.
I pushed until my arms gave out, until my stomach cramped, until my legs shook. Then I kept going. Every day. Morning, noon, night. Stone floor for a mat, broken walls for bars, my own body as the weight.
I wasn't a gym bro. Never had been. Back home, I sat behind a screen. Fast food, soda, late nights. Now, my body screamed every time I moved.
But I forced it.
Because every night, we heard someone scream in the distance. Every day, we saw a patrol drag another sack that twitched. Every hour, dogs barked over another body.
And it gnawed at me.
The thought that I was just another mouth waiting my turn.
The problem was food.
The beans and maize I'd found didn't last. What little we had, I gave to the group. But conditioning chewed through me faster than I thought. Hunger clawed at my insides like fire.
I needed more.
Not just for them. For me.
If I wanted muscle, if I wanted strength, if I wanted to swing a macuahuitl without collapsing, I needed fuel. Meat, maize, beans. Anything.
Every scavenging run became about two things: food for them, and extra for me. I hated how selfish it felt, but I couldn't build myself on scraps. If I stayed weak, nothing else mattered.
By the fifth day of training, I started to notice small changes. My arms weren't big, but they didn't shake as fast. My legs didn't buckle after twenty squats. My chest didn't burn after ten push-ups.
Still pathetic. Still scrawny. But not as useless.
I kept pushing.
Cihuatzin watched me sometimes. Not with approval, not with contempt. Just… watched. Like she was waiting to see if I'd actually stick with it.
The old man muttered one night, "You'll break yourself."
"Better me than waiting to be broken," I told him.
He didn't argue.
By the end of the week, the aqueduct wasn't just a hiding spot. It was a nest. Traps on the edges. Silent fire pit in the center. A small stash of food hidden under stone. Broken weapons leaned against the wall.
Still weak. Still fragile. But not as helpless as before.
I sat by the fire, sore all over, and thought about the simple truth:
Traps, food, muscle. Step by step.
Not enough to win. Not yet.
But enough to survive another night.
And for now, that was all I had.
I was getting ready to head out again. Basket in hand, spear across my back, mind already running through which ruins I hadn't searched yet. The group sat quiet under the aqueduct. The fire was down low, bowls empty.
Then the baby cried.
It wasn't loud at first. Just a soft wail. But in the stillness of night, it cut through the air like a blade.
The mother shushed, rocked, pressed the child against her chest. Didn't matter. The crying grew sharper, desperate.
I froze. My stomach dropped.
Footsteps. Close. Too close.
Then a voice. Harsh, mocking.
"Who's there? Come out, Mexica bitch. Bring me the brat."
A Tlaxcalan. His accent was thick, his words slurred, but clear enough.
The mother clutched her baby tighter. Eyes wide, body stiff.
The man laughed. "Don't be shy. I'll take good care of you. Be mine, and I'll make sure your little shit grows up strong. Healthy. Better than you can. Better than trash like you deserves."
The words made my skin crawl.
He stepped closer. His voice grew louder, crueler.
"You hear me? Come out! You and your brat belong to me now. I'll raise it right. As a real man. Not some whimpering Mexica tlacuache."
The woman shook. Tears welled in her eyes. I saw it — the temptation. She was scared, but she was thinking about her baby. Afraid, but almost ready to walk out just to keep him safe.
I wanted to move. Wanted to do something. But my body locked. My throat closed. My heart pounded so loud I thought the Tlaxcalan could hear it.
He shouted again. "Last chance, whore. Walk out, or I'll drag you out by your hair. Your little child is mine either way!"
The mother buried her face against the child. Paralyzed.
The Tlaxcalan laughed. It echoed in the ruins. He took one more step—
A scream tore out of his throat.
A wet crunch followed.
The group jolted. The baby went silent.
I turned toward the sound. The Tlaxcalan was on the ground, thrashing, leg skewered through by sharpened stakes. One of my traps.
He tried to pull himself free, but the wood was buried deep. Blood poured into the dirt. His screams cut through the night.
The group stared, pale and trembling.
He clawed at the ground, spitting curses, trying to crawl. His foot twisted wrong. The more he moved, the worse it got.
I forced myself to stand. My hands shook. My chest felt like it would burst.
"That's what happens if you step where I told you not to," I said, my voice low, rough. "That's what happens if they come too close."
Nobody answered.
The Tlaxcalan kept screaming. Cursing us. Promising he'd gut the baby, burn the woman, skin me alive. His voice cracked with pain, then rage, then fear.
Cihuatzin stood slowly. Her eyes didn't leave the man. "He'll draw others," she said.
I nodded. My mouth was dry. My spear felt heavy.
The old man whispered, "What do we do?"
The trap had done its job. But the trap didn't finish it.
Everyone looked at me.
The baby started crying again.