POV: Ehecatl
I sat on a broken step outside what used to be someone's entryway, a pile of moss-covered stone that now served as my bench. The air smelled of brackish water and mold, and somewhere far off I heard a splash — either fish or another desperate soul trying not to die.
My eyes stared at nothing, but my brain was working overtime.
If knowledge was my only cheat, then I'd better fucking use it.
This wasn't some video game where you could grind XP by slashing away at wild boars or stacking crates for side quests. We didn't have time for that. We didn't have time for drills, rites of passage, or the warrior's way of honor and death. That shit got people killed.
We needed something else.
Something fast. Brutal. Dirty.
So I closed my eyes and searched — like muscle memory from another life.
Training the Way of Desperation
I thought about Muay Thai — not the elegant art in shiny shorts, but the raw clinch work. Elbows. Knees. Low kicks. Then I jumped to Krav Maga, the kind of stuff taught to women in parking lot seminars. Eye gouges. Throat punches. Palm strikes. Elbow to nose. BITE if you have to. Use your teeth like jaguar fangs.
I remembered one lesson vividly:
"When you're attacked, you don't aim to win. You aim to survive."
That's what I needed. That's what they needed.
Even Blackbeard, Columbus, Genghis Khan—they all used fear, misdirection, manipulation, superstition.
If they could manipulate the world with knowledge, then so could I.
A New Doctrine Begins
I stood up and marched straight back to our little camp — the ruined neighborhood turned sanctuary — and I didn't even wait to gather them.
I barked orders.
"Everyone. On your feet. Now."
Mothers. Children. Elders. Everyone. Eyes wide. No one argued — not after the last outburst. Not after they saw I wasn't playing anymore.
I pointed at Teyalli first.
"You. You're learning how to fight. Especially you. You'll be playing the part of Cihuacoatl again, and you can't keep counting on illusions alone. If someone grabs you, you better know where to strike — and I'll make sure you do."
Then to the rest.
"I don't care how old, how tired, or how broken you are. You'll learn. Everyone will. Women, too. Because if anyone finds this place, and you can't escape, you better know how to make the bastard regret touching you."
No Mercy, No Honor, Just Survival
"You'll learn to strike fast. Strike first. Strike where it fucking hurts — the throat, the stomach, the groin. No fancy honor. No rituals. No prayers to a war god who won't answer."
Cihuatzin opened her mouth but I shut it down before a word escaped.
"I don't care if it's wrong. I don't care if it's dishonorable. You think I have time to learn the noble way of warriors? Fuck that. I don't have time to learn whatever the hell the jaguar knights used to do."
I pointed to the dirt.
"From now on, this is our school. This broken road. These ruins. This fucking swamp."
The Rules Are Simple
1. Hit first.
2. Hit hard.
3. Hit where they scream.
4. If they don't scream, you're not hitting hard enough.
5. If they fall, you run.
6. If they grab you, bite and gouge.
7. If you're scared, use it. Fear makes you faster.
The First Training
"I'll show you how," I said.
I grabbed a stick, broke it in two, and stabbed one end into the dirt. "Throat," I said.
The other end I held at waist level. "Groin."
I mimicked a strike with my elbow. "If your arms are grabbed, use your knees. If your knees are trapped, use your teeth."
I looked around. No one spoke. No one joked.
I wasn't a leader anymore.
I was a drill sergeant.
And this wasn't a rebellion.
This was survival.
I started with the basics.
"Line up."
It wasn't a request. It was the new law.
There were thirteen of them — fourteen if you counted the new baby, but I wasn't training infants. Cihuatzin, Teyalli, a few other women, the two scared young men, an elder or two. They didn't look like warriors. They looked like people trying to pretend none of this was happening.
Too fucking bad.
Step One: Target Practice
"Today, we learn how to hurt people."
Some flinched at that. The older woman looked away, and one of the younger boys swallowed hard. Teyalli didn't flinch — that was good.
I dragged out a sack stuffed with damp cloth and vines, shoved it into a headless effigy I tied to a crumbling pillar.
"This—" I stabbed a finger toward its neck, "—is the throat. Aim here first. Collapse the windpipe, and they panic. If they panic, they stop fighting."
I grabbed a small stick and jabbed it hard into the neck zone.
"Your turn. All of you."
They Begin to Learn
The first woman approached timidly. Her swing was weak — it bounced off the sack like a slap.
"Again," I snapped.
She hesitated. I stepped behind her and guided her arm.
"No more half-assed swings. You're not in the marketplace trying to scare off a dog. You're in the fucking swamp, and he's trying to kill you. Or worse."
This time, she struck hard.
"Good. Again."
I moved down the line. Some still held back — out of fear, or shame, or both. But eventually, they all got it.
Some faster than others.
Teyalli? She cracked that dummy like she meant it. Elbow, palm, knee. Like she had demons to exorcise.
Good.
Step Two: Groin, Gut, and Gouge
I raised my voice. "If the throat fails, strike the groin. If they flinch, slam their nose, gouge the eyes, elbow their temple. You fight like cornered prey."
The younger men looked uneasy. I got in their faces.
"You don't like it? Then go find someone else to feed you. Go find someone who'll keep risking their life while you sit in the fucking ruins staring at the walls."
They lowered their eyes.
"Good," I muttered. "Now fight."
Step Three: Panic Training
After a few rounds, I changed the drill.
I lunged at Teyalli with no warning — no real strength behind it, but sudden and aggressive.
She gasped, backed up, swung.
Too slow.
"Again," I barked. "React faster."
I kept doing it to each of them. Random charges. Feints. Grabs.
One woman slapped the shit out of me when I grabbed her wrist. I grinned.
"Perfect."
A New Kind of Fire
By the time the sun dipped low, sweat soaked everyone's clothes. Faces flushed, hands bruised. Spirits… a little less broken.
This wasn't about turning them into warriors. That would take years.
This was about survival. And fear.
I wanted them to be feared.
I wanted every Tlaxcalteca or Caxtilteca patrol that came near to feel something wrong in this part of the city.
A whisper of a ghost. A scream in the fog. A corpse in the canal.
They wouldn't know it was us.
But we'd know.
Final Orders
As the sun bled orange, I clapped my hands once.
"Training is now daily. At dawn. No excuses. No late risers. No slackers. You miss one session? You better be out finding food or bringing back supplies."
I looked each of them in the eye. No fear in mine. No apology.
"Teyalli, you're staying after."
She nodded without hesitation.
Finally, I said:
"If you don't want to learn how to fight, how to survive, how to win in this new world — then you can leave. But don't expect to come back."
Teyalli stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, eyes down. She hadn't asked for this training. She didn't even know if she wanted it.
But Ehecatl wasn't asking.
He stood across from her barefoot, crouched low on the balls of his feet. The sleeves of his tilmatli were rolled up, chest bare, cuts and bruises still fresh from the last raid. The others were busy — some boiling what little food there was, others sharpening sticks, stones, or just pretending they had something to do.
But right now, all he cared about was her.
"Look at me."
She did. Hesitantly.
"I ain't doing this to turn you into a warrior. You're not one. I'm not either. But you're walking out there dressed as death itself — so if someone grabs you again, I'm making damn sure you don't go out like last time."
She said nothing.
He stepped closer, grabbed a bundle of wrapped cloth, and unrolled it. Inside were smooth river stones, sticks, and a dull blade carved from obsidian.
"Throat. Groin. Eyes. Stomach," Ehecatl said, tapping each target on himself. "You don't aim for pride. You aim for collapse."
Teyalli blinked, unsure. "Isn't that… not how they fought? I mean, the warriors—"
"You think they fought fair?" he snapped, not angry at her, but at the stupidity of the thought. "You think they gave a shit about fighting 'like warriors' when they took you?"
Silence.
He dropped into a squat again.
"We're not training you to win a fight. We're training you to end one. Fast. Dirty. Quiet if you can. Loud if you must. But never hesitate."
He tossed a small stick at her feet. "Pick it up."
She did. Awkwardly.
"Now come at me."
She frowned. "You want me to…?"
"Try to hit me. And if you can't, then I'll show you how."
The first swing was wide. Hesitant. Weak.
He didn't dodge. Just stared.
"Again."
This one was faster, but still shallow.
"You're not angry enough," he said. "You need to imagine someone's laughing at you. Coming at you. Right now. Hands on your throat. What do you do?"
Teyalli flinched at the imagery, but her hands tightened.
"Good. That feeling? Use it."
She swung again — lower this time, a bit sharper. Ehecatl deflected it with his wrist and stepped forward.
"Now—when they grab you—knees up." He tapped her thigh. "To the groin. Hard."
He positioned her body, adjusted her stance.
They did this again. And again. Every miss was corrected. Every flinch was noted.
He didn't yell. He didn't coddle.
He trained her.
Eventually, sweat rolled down her temple. Her breathing got heavier. Her swings came faster.
And then Ehecatl stepped back.
"You're not gonna be a warrior," he said. "But you might just get to live."
She looked up at him, eyes unsure, but steadier.
"Why me?" she finally asked. "Why this much effort?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Because you're the one wearing the face of a goddess out there," he said bluntly. "And the last thing I want is to fish your body out of a canal."
Silence settled.
Then Ehecatl added, voice flat:
"This world doesn't care about fairness. So neither will you."
He turned away to grab the next training item. Behind him, Teyalli slowly bent down, picked up the stick again.
No more hesitation.