PREVIOUSLY.
[Murmurs swept across the table—not merely born of curiosity, but of genuine inquiries regarding ingredients and preparations. I felt a strange, lingering nostalgia: in my former life, such gatherings were cold, bound by rigid protocol. Here, the cultural clash was palpable yet welcoming, as if the stew and cider acted as better ambassadors than any formal speech.
"This is what I shall remember," I thought. "Not the treaties signed in the aftermath, but this moment where a Tarascan and an Englishman share bread before speaking of borders."
The conversation flowed now, translators working effortlessly.
I navigated between tongues with ease, responding to each in their native language, feeling a silent pride in the skill my photographic memory had perfected.
It was more than mere convenience; it was a way of saying: "I see you. I understand you. Come, sit at my table."]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1495).
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), South-Central Region.
Bochica Sports Center, Combat Stadium.
One month later.
From sub-zone 1 of the Bochica Sports Center, the roar of the stadium arrived like a storm before it breaks; first a dull tremor in the earth, then the remote echo of thousands of voices, and finally the drumbeats that seemed to climb the stone walls and settle, vibrating, within my ribs.
I was about to step out into the arena, but for a moment I remained still, one hand resting on the metal railing of the interior corridor, watching as attendants adjusted straps, checked gloves, and brushed the last traces of chalk dust from my clothes.
A little over a month had passed since my birthday, and yet, I felt as though the entire kingdom had not let me draw a full breath in ages.
The meetings had been relentless since I turned thirteen: governors, ministers, directors, foreign envoys, and counselors of every stripe. My life had become a chain of rooms filled with maps, figures, projects, and faces awaiting answers. And yet, among all those conversations, one continued to return to me with greater force than the rest: that of Nezahualpilli.
I had seen him arrive with his particular blend of prudence and weariness, as if every step through Mexica territory cost him something more than mere political risk. In our meeting—low-profile and nearly secret—he spoke to me with frankness regarding the war against us that had now lasted nearly a year.
He told me how Moctezuma was gradually pushing Ahuízotl aside, preparing to crown himself Tlatoani of Tenochtitlan and leader of the Triple Alliance. What unsettled him most was not the succession itself, but the shadow following behind: more astute than that of his uncle, more determined, colder.
I remember he did not raise his voice a single time. He merely rested his fingers upon the edge of the table, looking at me with the tense calm of one who knows that every word could be fatal if it fell upon the wrong ears.
"Moctezuma," he told me. "Moctezuma did not think only of subduing great kingdoms; he is weaving a web of alliances to the south and the north."
"Tututepec, Yopitzinco, and Teotitlan—lordships that once remained independent, with their own customs and laws—were brought to heel in a matter of months," he added with a mixture of awe and dread.
Through Nezahualpilli's remarks, I understood that Moctezuma did not rely solely on force; rather, like the Kingdom of Suaza, he employed a blend of military pressure and economic benefits. However, unlike our kingdom, he had imposed his beliefs, though this time in a far more subtle manner.
At the same time, Moctezuma began to tighten bonds with northern peoples who previously would have remained on the periphery, such as the Chichimecas, Guamares, and Xalisco. He had also begun to forge alliances with southern kingdoms that in other eras had orbited Mayan power.
Cities of the ancient Palenque region, which had maintained a reticent relationship with the Kingdom of Suaza, along with the southern kingdoms of the Mayan territory—Utatlan, Iximché, and Zaculén—had joined the Triple Alliance in a maneuver against the Suaza.
"Moctezuma is not warring blindly like Ahuízotl," Nezahualpilli told me, a shadow of bitterness touching his lips. "He is encircling the world before he tightens his grip."
That comment remained lodged within me.
As I continued to dwell on that meeting, the roar of the stadium shoved me back into the present. The crowd, gathered above and around the structure, struck the skeleton of concrete and stone with palms, voices, and footfalls. Somewhere within that mass of noise, they were waiting for my name.
Before I could be fully swept away by the memory, another appeared—warmer, more distant, and for that very reason, more unexpected.
Ismail, the merchant from the Songhai Empire, had arrived in the Kingdom of Suaza a few months ago by order of Muhammad. He had boarded one of our ships to better learn our routes, our ways, and our coastal cities.
And when he learned that my birthday was approaching, he asked to attend the kingdom's most important celebration with the same naturalness another might ask to see a marketplace.
His presence had intrigued me from the first moment. He was not merely a man of trade; he seemed more a politician. Through him, the Guanza Quyca ceased to be an abstraction across the sea and became voices, fabrics, coins, and the names of cities and dynasties.
At the feast, Ismail had moved with almost reverent prudence among our tables, observing everything: the cultural blending, the weight of gold without ostentation, the way priests, merchants, and warriors shared the same space without devouring one another.
I remember he asked me, with a smile of near disbelief, how we managed to hold so many different worlds together without the center fracturing.
And I told him it was not by magic, but by rules, by patience, and by a degree of tolerance that sometimes felt more like an exercise of will than of politics. He nodded, though I suspect he did not entirely believe me.
Then he spoke of Muhammad, of his pilgrimage to Mecca, of the growing importance of Ottoman power, and of how the world was reorganizing with a speed that not even the old merchants of the Sahara could measure.
He said it with the serene tone of men who have seen too many ports to be easily enthralled, yet who still retain the capacity to notice when something truly shifts.
The thunder of the stadium intensified once more.
In the upper tiers, words had already been spoken that reached my position only in broken fragments. Someone struck a Great Drum, and the blow resonated through my chest. Then I heard my name—clear and sharp, amplified by the stadium's echo—and I knew the moment had arrived.
The lifting mechanism began to move beneath my feet. I felt first a brief vibration, then the slow, steady surge that raised me from the subterranean darkness toward the light. The walls of the ceremonial elevator were of wood and metal, reinforced to dampen the movement, yet fragments of the outside still reached me: the breath of the crowd, the clatter of objects against the stands, the murmur of a living stadium.
As I rose, confetti began to drift through the slats. Flower petals, small colored papers, fine smoke from the ceremonial braziers. All of it entered in swirls, forcing me to squint. The air smelled of wax, crushed flowers, and that sweet smoke that only appears when a celebration is about to become a spectacle.
I thought, with a smile I could not suppress, that the kingdom had a strange custom: turning into ritual even that which for others would have been merely an exhibition match. And perhaps that was why it still worked. It was no accident that those warriors from the continental regions, the Floating Islands, and other corners of the realm were waiting for me as if for an entrance both religious and martial.
The Kingdom of Suaza had not erased its warrior spirit; it had framed it within a new discipline, and I still did not wish for that to disappear.
The platform rose higher. I could now distinguish the edge of the arena, the line of light upon the packed earth, the blurred faces of the first warriors waiting at the sides. Then, the drums ceased abruptly.
That sudden silence was almost louder than the preceding noise. I stepped out into the arena, and the world stopped for an entire heartbeat. I looked up at the sky, as I had imagined so many times, and raised my fist.
The stadium responded like a wave. Shouts, applause, the echo of thousands of throats erupting from within and without the structure. I felt the shock of that sound in my chest, at the nape of my neck, in the very base of my arms.
The arena received me with a light that blinded me for an instant, and I knew the men standing there were not just waiting for a fight; they were waiting for a sign that everything spoken in halls, at tables, and in private meetings could become flesh before their eyes.
My own breathing slowed. I remembered Nezahualpilli speaking of Moctezuma as an expanding enclosure; Ismail describing the rise of Muhammad and Ottoman power; the months of internal meetings that had left my head filled with human maps.
The wonder of this moment in the stadium lay not only in the multitude or the drums; it lay in the fact that every ceremony, every alliance, every conversation concluded in a secluded room ultimately flowed here: into an arena where the kingdom looked upon itself and proved it was a power in the world.
3rd Person POV.
Chuta felt the weight of the armor even before seeing it reflected in any polished metal.
The fabric and leather clung to his body with a well-calculated lightness, but atop them rested the finely finished steel plates that protected his torso without making him clumsy. Upon his chest, the sun on the left side and the moon on the right caught the stadium light each time he breathed, as if the army's emblem possessed a life of its own.
Beneath, his short trousers were nearly hidden by the leather and steel guards covering his thighs and knees. The armor was not striking through excess; it was striking by design. Every piece seemed to tell the world that the Kingdom of Suaza had learned to fight without renouncing mobility, without sacrificing a light step for the illusion of a full cuirass.
Chuta, who had spent far too many hours thinking of how to turn strength into something useful, found a kind of honesty in that balance.
His helmet encased his head with a sensation that was almost intimate.
He had designed it himself, drawing from a memory of his other life: the silhouette of Maximus's helmet in Gladiator, that image of a warrior who remained standing even when the entire world sought to bury him. But the helmet he wore now bore the curves, reliefs, and markings of the Kingdom of Suaza—more sober and solemn, as if the memory of the past had been translated into a new tongue.
Chuta felt the fit against his forehead, the edge barely grazing his temples, and for an instant, it seemed as though his breathing grew deeper within that small metal chamber.
The combat stadium vibrated around him, though he had not yet entered the arena. From the preparation zone, he could hear the mass of the crowd above like a sea enclosed in stone. Every clap rose muffled by the structures, arriving in waves, echoing through the halls and fading into the subterranean corridors.
In that echo, Chuta felt the familiarity of the spectacle and the pressure of history. He was not entering a simple exhibition match; he was entering a ceremony where the kingdom gazed upon itself.
Several participants had already been announced before him. The order of appearance followed a precise logic, and Chuta knew he was eighth in line. Eight out of sixteen. That midpoint was, in itself, a small map of the kingdom and its borders.
Twelve regional champions, hailing from the ten continental regions and the two federal ones; two soldiers, one from the army and one from the navy; and two special guests—himself and Son of the Bear, from the Northern Quyca (North America).
That list, more than a roster, seemed a manifesto of everything the Kingdom of Suaza had united in little over a decade.
Every announcement that reached from the arena ignited a response from the public. Chuta could hear the roar separated into layers: first the name, then the explosion, then the applause that dissolved into whistles and shouts.
Many of the regional champions were already known from past youth tournaments, and some had even held the primary title for years. The stadium received them as one receives old heroes: with noise, yes, but also with expectation. There was no surprise in the people's affection; there was recognition.
Among them all, one stood out in his memory with an almost uncomfortable clarity: Goca. Chuta had not seen him in a long time. He remembered the match when he was seven and Goca was nine, already fighting as if his body were two steps ahead of his age.
Goca had been, since then, a useful anomaly: a child turned into a master of hand-to-hand combat, a kind of talent the kingdom did not typically squander.
Afterward, as Chuta knew well, he had gone on to represent the army and had been crowned principal champion the previous year, in addition to securing four consecutive youth titles. Even when Chuta participated incognito five years ago, it was Goca who emerged victorious.
The thought of their ages made him smile inwardly.
Goca, two years older than him; Son of the Bear, three; and himself were, curiously, the youngest among the day's combatants. The youth category began at ten and ended at fourteen; the principal category spanned from fifteen to twenty-nine; the veteran category, from thirty onward, had no ceiling.
That the youngest in the tournament were precisely these three prominent names seemed to him further proof that the kingdom was entering a rare era: one where youth was no longer a burden, but a visible force.
The crowd continued to roar, but Chuta no longer heard it as a single mass. The voices blended with memories of recent months, with reports, with endless meetings.
Nezahualpilli had spoken of Moctezuma and his rise within the Triple Alliance; Ismail had brought news of Songhai and Muhammad's journey to Mecca; other envoys had passed by his table, through his office, and tested his patience. It all accumulated in a strange way: politics, ritual, war, diplomacy. And now, all of it was to culminate in a raised fist before a packed arena.
While Chuta remained lost in thought, the announcers finished giving instructions.
He barely noticed the change; the sounds had become a continuous current. Only when he saw the stadium assistant give him a respectful sign did he realize it was his turn to take his place.
Chuta moved naturally, though his blood throbbed hard in his throat. The arena was not just a circular space; from there, it appeared as an architecture of stone, stands, and light designed to magnify every breath.
Before him stood the champion of the Chibcha Federal Region, the most recently established. Chuta was not sure if the order of the match-ups had been a coincidence or a small courtesy from the stadium, but he gave it little thought.
The warrior was a man of about twenty-five, with the bearing of one who knows his worth and feels no need to prove it prematurely. He bowed slightly with respect and spoke in his local dialect, a variant of Chibcha that sounded softer than other tongues of the region.
Chuta responded in the same language, and surprise crossed the other man's face like a brief spark. It was rare for the young leader to return a greeting in the visitor's tongue without intermediaries. Chuta saw him relax his shoulders slightly, recognizing, all at once, that he stood before someone who not only commanded but also listened.
"Today, hold nothing back," Chuta said to him, keeping his tone low but clear. "The gods are watching. Show them what a true warrior is."
The phrase hung between them for a moment. Chuta knew exactly what he was doing: it was not a hollow provocation, but a deliberate reminder. If that champion intended to restrain himself out of respect or protocol, Chuta would pull him from that comfort.
He wanted a real fight, not a demonstration tamed by titles or courtesy. He wanted to see the full capability of the man before him, for the truth of the spectacle depended on that as well.
The warrior understood the implication.
Chuta saw him look first to the sky, as if seeking confirmation for what he had just heard. Then he returned his gaze to him. There was no fear or hesitation in those eyes; only a determination that made Chuta's own blood run a little hotter.
That instant—before the clash, before the noise, before the movement—was, for him, the true ceremony. The body still poised, the air still whole, the will already taut as a bowstring.
Then, the signal to begin sounded.
The sound pierced the stadium with a dry, almost sacred precision. Chuta felt the arena change its nature beneath his feet, how the space before him suddenly became a distance to close, a decision, a risk. The crowd roared again, but the echo reached him now as something distant.
What he had in front of him, instead, was real: a champion, a shared history with the kingdom, and an arena prepared to measure them without mercy. Chuta lowered his center of gravity slightly, mindful of the weight of his armor, the fit of his helmet, and the first movement of his opponent.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
First, I apologize for disappearing, but it seems I'm jinxing myself every time I speak. So, no more comments about whether there will be another chapter this time.
Back to the chapter.
I won't lie, I wanted to make this chapter just about the fight and the upcoming wedding, but every time I write, more and more things are added to the story without me even realizing it. So, I finally decided to split it into two (hopefully not three).
By the way, as I mentioned before, characters who were previously left behind are starting to reappear, but they haven't been forgotten. One is Goca, and the other is Son of the Bear. This isn't intentional; it was planned this way, and it also has a purpose. What is it? I don't even know.
As for the abundance of chapters that begin with meetings, well, this is the new format, so I don't have to dedicate entire chapters to them, as I did before. So they'll keep appearing, and perhaps with time they'll become increasingly fleeting memories.
Leaving the chapter.
Did you know I've been working on this novel for over a year now?
Happy Birthday! .... dear novel.... YAY!!!
Thank you all for your support.
And that's the end of the author's note.
(Dramatic and pointless escape)
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future. (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]