Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar, Tenth Month.
10 days after the expansion council.
Dawn City.
Ten days after my meeting with Foza, Chewa, and Zasaba, I found myself in a chamber of the Stone Mansion in Dawn City, enveloped by the aroma of copal incense and the whisper of the wind that stole in through the open windows.
Sunlight bathed the Muisca tapestries on the walls, replete with symbols of the moon and sun, while Foza, clad in his blue cotton tunic, unfurled scrolls upon a polished wooden table.
Foza, the governor of the Federal Region of the Islands of the Rising Sun (FRIRS), possessed a keen gaze, the fruit of his years spent navigating the islands' complexities. He had lived there long enough to understand their cultures, and I trusted his experience to shape the future of these distant lands.
"Young Chuta," Foza began, his voice firm yet respectful, "the islands are a world unto themselves. Their people are freer, less bound by the traditions of the inner regions. They do not rely on vast fields or sprawling territories, but on the sea... The kingdom's policies must adapt to that liberty."
I nodded, absorbing his counsel. The islands, with their wind-swept coasts and maritime communities, presented a unique challenge. "I understand, Foza. What do you propose for their development?"
Foza indicated a map, his fingers tracing the islands' silhouettes. "First, a council of local leaders who shall govern alongside me. Each island would possess independent cities, developing gradually without altering their internal structures. We also require a more connected naval communication system, with fast ships linking the islands to the kingdom."
He paused, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "As for resources, I propose crop rotation techniques used in the kingdom, but adapted for local crops or those suited to the island climate. Food drying techniques and large-scale pisciculture. And for the economy... Let us base it upon tourism and export: fruits, dyes, handicrafts, unique island elements that appeal to the kingdom and, eventually, to the European kingdoms."
The clarity of his vision impressed me. Foza did not merely understand the islands; he lived for them.
"You have considered everything," I said, smiling. "But I believe we can go further. What of a local shipping industry? Shipyards in the great chieftaincies of the FRIRS, to strengthen the connection you propose and grant them an economy of their own."
Foza blinked, surprised, but nodded with fervor. "That would be transformative, Young Chuta. We could build ships that not only serve the islands but compete with those developed by the coastal regions or the Europeans."
We spent hours discussing details: schools to integrate cultures, educational programs that respected island traditions, and ports that would attract merchants. As the sun set, hunger drove us to a late lunch in the courtyard, beneath a clear sky. The table was laden with tropical fruits, corn bread, and fresh chicha, and good spirits enveloped us.
"To the islands," I toasted, raising my cup of natural fruit juice. Foza smiled, and I knew this was the beginning of something grand.
A month later, Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar, Eleventh Month.
I arrived in Grand River City, in Northern Quyca. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Chesua, Chewa's son, received me with a vibrant celebration: drums resonated, dancers with colored feathers spun in the square, and the market buzzed with more life than during my last visit.
There were more local faces, their tanned skin mingling with those from the inner regions and former citizens of Central Quyca. Chewa's shipyards, with their timber structures rising beside the river, stood as a testament to the city's growth.
Chesua, wearing an embroidered green tunic, approached me with great joy. "Young Chuta! Welcome," he exclaimed, his smile wide. "Come, I will show you what we have done."
As we walked along the stone streets, I noted the city's palpable energy: vendors offering textiles and jewels, children darting among the stalls of goods, and the constant hammering from the shipyards.
"You have worked wonders, Chesua," I said, impressed. "There are more people, more life."
Chesua laughed, pointing to the market and then the port. "The locals have embraced commerce, appreciating the food and tools brought from the south. And the shipyards... they are my father's pride."
We arrived at a stone house overlooking the river, where Chesua invited me to rest. There, with a more serious tone, he offered an apology.
"Young Chuta, I regret not accepting your proposal to lead the trade with Guanza Quyca and Southern Quyca. It is a great honor, but my life is here."
I looked at him, curious. "What holds you here, Chesua?"
He smiled, and a woman approached, her white cotton dress decorated with local motifs. "I present to you White Owl, my betrothed."
She inclined her head, her voice soft but firm, and spoke in Muisca: "Son of Heaven, it is an honor. Your wisdom is a blessing to the Suaza Kingdom. The spirits have guided you with a light that illuminates all."
I bowed, grateful. "The honor is mine, White Owl. And Chesua, I understand your decision. Building a life here is as valuable as any mission."
The meeting continued with a meal of roasted fish, corn, and fruits, the atmosphere filled with laughter and stories. Chesua spoke of his plans to expand the shipyards, while White Owl shared tales of her people, her words weaving bridges between cultures. I felt a warmth in my chest, not only from the food but from the certainty that the Suaza Kingdom was growing not just in power, but in heart.
As the sun set, painting the river in golden hues, I reflected on the islands and Grand River City. Foza's proposals, Chesua's passion, White Owl's faith... all were part of a tapestry I had begun to weave.
Every step, from shared crops with Europe to the shipyards that challenged the sea, was a movement toward a future where the Suaza Kingdom would not only survive, but lead. And as I gazed at the horizon, I thanked the gods for granting me the vision to guide my people.
"Are they gods? A single god? Or something more?" I wondered thoughtfully.
The next day.
The morning in Grand River City was a whirlwind of life. The sun gilded the stone streets, and the air carried the aroma of toasted corn, wildflowers, and the faint salty touch of the nearby river. I walked through the market, still echoing with the celebration Chesua had hosted yesterday to receive me. The stalls overflowed with colorful textiles, jade jewelry, and baskets of fruit, while the shipyards in the background buzzed with the hammering of builders. The city had grown since my last visit, and the local faces, mingled with those from the inner regions and former inhabitants of Central Quyca, lent an air of unity that warmed my heart.
But today, an unexpected encounter awaited me, one that seemed written by the gods.
My assistant informed me that Nezahualpilli, the Aztec noble of Texcoco, had requested a meeting. I recalled our encounter years ago, when we met in this same city for the first time, and when he attended my tenth birthday as a member of the Floating Islands Trading Company. His presence in Grand River City, right now, seemed an uncanny coincidence. I agreed without hesitation, and we met in a sitting room of the house where I was staying, a space with stone walls adorned with Muisca tapestries and a table covered with fruit and chicha.
Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating Nezahualpilli's weathered face, his dark eyes shining with a mix of warmth and concern. His cotton tunic, embroidered with feathers and Aztec symbols, contrasted with the simplicity of my white attire.
"Young Chuta," he said, bowing respectfully and using the Nahuatl he knew I also spoke, "it is a pleasure to see you again."
I smiled, feeling the familiarity of his voice. "Nezahualpilli, how strange it is to meet here once more. It seems this city unites us."
He chuckled, but his laughter was strained. "Perhaps the gods have willed it so." I noted a slight frown on his brow, a shadow I could not ignore. Tactfully, I asked: "Something troubles you, friend. What is amiss?"
Nezahualpilli sighed, his hands fiddling with a gold pendant. "It is the situation of my people, the Aztec Alliance. It is... complicated." He paused, as if weighing his words. "Since your meeting with Moctezuma years ago, he has taken the faith of the gods to an extreme that divides our people."
I feigned ignorance, though The Shadows—the spies operating in the Aztec Alliance—had informed me of tensions.
"What sort of conflicts?" I asked, leaning toward him.
"Moctezuma is a pure Mexica, as is Ahuízotl, the leader of Tenochtitlán," he explained, his voice low but fraught with frustration. "The Mexica have imposed their extreme beliefs and policies upon the alliance peoples. Years of sacrifices, expansionist wars, and mistreatment have bred resentment, not only among neighboring towns but among the remnants of those conquered centuries ago."
I remained silent, processing his words. In my knowledge, brought from the future that had not yet arrived, I had assumed the Aztec Alliance was a unified bloc, a monolithic force. But Nezahualpilli was revealing deep cracks.
Suddenly, the stories of Cortés allying with local tribes to overthrow the Aztecs made perfect sense.
"I was unaware," I said, truthfully. "I thought the alliance was solid."
Nezahualpilli shook his head. "Moctezuma and Ahuízotl seek to expand their territory, but they have encountered an unexpected obstacle: your kingdom."
He smiled ironically. "The Suaza traders have brought bronze tools to the northern peoples, those you established north of the Aztec territory. This has halted their expansion and strengthened their rivals."
I was surprised, though I disguised it. I had not foreseen our commerce having such an impact. "And you, as governor of Texcoco, what have you done?"
"They have demanded I send troops to Tenochtitlán, but I have refused," he confessed, his voice hardening. "I use my love for art and poetry as an excuse, but in truth, I do not wish to support their extreme measures."
I nodded, admiring his astuteness. "You have done well, Nezahualpilli. Violence only breeds more violence. But tell me, what drives Moctezuma to act this way?"
His eyes darkened. "Since he visited your Central City, he has mistrusted the sacred codices. There are rumors that he has altered inscriptions, claiming that the god of death will come to destroy our land, not bless it... He uses that fear to impose his will upon the lesser nobility."
A chill ran through me. My presence, the kingdom, had altered the course of history without intending to. What Moctezuma interpreted as a destructive god was, in part, the echo of my influence. "That is grave," I murmured, my mind racing. "Do you believe there will be war?"
"Soon," Nezahualpilli said, his voice heavy. "Among the Aztec peoples themselves. That is why I ask you, Chuta, to evacuate your northern settlements to prevent them from becoming embroiled."
I looked at him, my face set. "I thank you for your warning, but the Suaza Kingdom is peaceful, not weak. We will defend our people with all our strength."
Nezahualpilli nodded, respecting my stance. "I understand, Young Chuta. I only wished to warn you."
Silence fell between us, broken only by the song of a bird outside. I rose, walking toward the window. The river reflected the sun, and Chewa's shipyards hummed with life.
The irony struck me like a wave: upon my rebirth, I had assumed my first great confrontation would be with the European kingdoms, with their ships and ambitions.
Yet now, the internal conflicts of this continent, stirred by my own influence, rose up first. I had sought to build bridges, but without realizing it, I had ignited bonfires.
"Thank you for your candor," I said, turning back to him. "Let us work for peace to prevail, however difficult it may be."
Nezahualpilli smiled, weary but hopeful. "For peace, Young Chuta. And for the gods who crossed our paths here."
As we shared a pitcher of chicha and I a natural juice, my mind was already planning. The Shadows must watch Moctezuma more closely.
The shipyards must accelerate the production of armed vessels, not only to keep the Europeans at bay but to maintain the peace on this side of the world.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
We're back with Chuta's perspective for Chapter 100. Wow, and since he's about to turn 11, the first war is coming.
However, the Suaza Kingdom won't be participating much, and if it does, it won't be with cannons and arquebuses.
But there will be a new chapter section.
From the creators of Tales of Icons and The Other Side of the Coin, we introduce the Shadows!!! WOW, incredible.
They'll basically be the perspectives of some spies in other territories.
Unnecessary Fact of the Day: The King of Portugal, Manuel I, financed the expeditions of Vasco da Gama and Pedro Álvares Cabral with the wealth accumulated by the crown. His motivation was not only prestige, but also a monopoly on the spice trade. He promoted the construction of fortresses on the African and Asian coasts to secure trade routes, transforming expeditions from mere exploration into a project of military and commercial expansion.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 83)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 29) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 9) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]