The old militia man glared fiercely at Tikalo again, thinking about the injured crew on the ship. The Maya merchant shrank his neck, just about to speak, when he saw the old militia man point a finger, and shadows moved on both sides. Then, a piece of yellowed cloth, full of spit and extremely sour, was once again stuffed into his mouth.
"Mm...mm...mm!"
The old militia man shifted his gaze, not looking at the struggling old fox. He thought for a while and confidently drew a conclusion.
"The real knowledge of the alliance's strength is known only by Tikalo and the remnants of Mayapan behind him. So, in the eyes of the different parts of the Lowland Maya, we are just red falcons flying from the West now. Though swift in flight, we may not even be able to defeat an ordinary native dog, let alone a jungle leopard!"
"Exactly! Without strength, there is no foundation for alliance. Even if allied, we would be oppressed, extorted for benefits, and even used as cannon fodder!"
