PREVIOUSLY.
[Chuta gripped the axe without raising it yet, waiting for the other's first move. The stadium seemed to have compressed around them both. The audience was up there, invisible due to the distance, yet present as a contained roar—an expectation that weighed heavy upon the air.
A faint breeze barely crossed the sand, making the fabrics of the mock structures vibrate, as if the entire place were holding its breath.
Chuta had already made a choice: he would not engage in a contest of brute strength. If his opponent's weapon was superior, he would have to turn that advantage into a liability. Combat was not won by the edge alone; it was won by angles, by tempo, and by reading the rival. And that sword, however superior it might be, seemed to possess a weakness he could exploit.
He settled into a side stance, lowered his center of gravity slightly, and awaited the collision.]
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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.
First Person POV, Chuta.
The first strike from the man of the Northwest arrived not as an announcement, but as a direct lateral cut—a sweeping arc of his iron blade seeking to open my left flank.
I saw it coming: slow, far too obvious for my already calibrated eyes. The weapon's imbalance had been evident from the start; its sheer weight hindered his swing, and the edge was not meant for deep carving, but only to push and threaten.
Too much weight, poorly distributed, I thought, and I moved.
A single step back, precise, and the wind of the cut brushed my hip like a cold whisper. I felt the air displace, but not the impact. My heart gave a single, powerful thrum, and I was already responding.
My bronze axe rose from below with measured control—not with full force, but merely to test his reaction. He adjusted his blade and parried. Sparks flew, brief as falling stars, and the shock rumbled through my entire arm: heat, vibration, a force that suddenly reminded me of the mass difference between us.
"That hurts more than I expected!" I thought, alarmed.
The crowd roared then, a sound that enveloped me like a crashing wave. Cries of support, murmurs of alarm. I heard them, but I did not process them.
That first exchange had been pure measurement: strength against strength, intent against reading. And I already knew something vital: my opponent's weapon lacked a true edge. Every sword, axe, and spear in the tournament had been blunted to prevent fatal accidents. A relief. Less death, more technique. I could fight without calculating every strike as a lethal blow.
I kept moving.
My advantage was speed, and I wore it like a veil.
I stayed just outside his reach, letting him charge, letting him overextend his arm and commit too deeply. Each time he pressed in, I retreated or pivoted, countering with short strikes: a graze of the axe on his forearm, a shove with the haft against his guard.
At first, I intended to tire him, to let his endurance crumble on its own. But no. His body was not just show-muscle; he held firm.
Every exchange left its mark: a shallow cut on my biceps, a bruise on his thigh, abrasions on our legs from falls and friction. The arena sand became true dust, rising in fine clouds that stung our noses and eyes.
The stadium was a living beast around us. The stands vibrated with every clash, waves of shouting rising and falling like the tide.
"Show them, Young Chuta!" "Warrior of the Northwest, do not yield!"
The noise pushed me, yet it also isolated me. My world narrowed to the invisible circle we traced: his heavy footfalls, my lighter movements, the crunch of earth beneath boots.
Fatigue began to show in both of us. His arms moved a fraction slower; mine began to feel the weight of the axe. Then, I saw the opening.
I feigned an overhead cut, taking advantage of my height. He raised his sword to block—high guard, exposed. I shifted the trajectory in a heartbeat: the axe dropped wide, but I drove a direct kick into his torso.
The impact was solid. His body buckled back, losing balance, and I followed the motion. I adjusted the axe in mid-air and struck his right shoulder with the butt of the weapon. The crack was audible even over the din. The kick had destabilized him; the blow left him defenseless. His sword flew from his hand, and he fell sideways, groaning upon the ground.
I did not emerge unscathed. The counter-momentum had thrown me off; I rolled through the sand, feeling the grit slip beneath the collar of my armor. I rose quickly, ignoring the burning in my leg, and approached.
He tried to reclaim his weapon with his left hand, but I was already there. I placed the edge of the axe—blunt as it was—against his throat.
"The winner is Chuta!" the referee cried.
The stadium erupted. Shouts, applause, a roar that lifted me from the ground like an invisible hand. I stood still for a second, axe held high, feeling victory like my own pulse.
Well done, I thought. It wasn't easy, but you controlled it.
A few hours later.
The sun had dipped further, staining the sand in shades of amber and orange.
I stood before Goca. Fifteen years old—two years my senior, but possessing the presence of one who has lived twice as long. We were in the main arena now, stripped of artificial structures; only open earth and the marked circle for the duel.
My armor was light iron: protection at vital points—chest, shoulders, forearms, shins—leaving the rest free for mobility. The helmet remained the same, fitting like a second skin. I carried a short spear in my right hand and a round shield in my left. It was heavy, yes, but balanced. I could move without feeling imprisoned.
Goca was on another level.
His armor was minimal, less than half the weight of mine. Iron only upon his arms and legs, his torso guarded by braided leather. He wore no breastplate; he relied on his speed and his guard.
His armaments surprised me: a short, broad sword in his left hand—resembling an Italian cinquedea from my memories—and in his right, a double-edged sword nearly twice as long, thin and lethal.
The combination was strange, yet it fit his style perfectly. Goca was no prodigy by chance; he was a combat genius, junior champion for four consecutive years, and the primary victor of the previous year. Even when I competed incognito in the first junior tournament, he was the one who took the title.
This is going to be something else, I thought, feeling the tension rise.
The stadium was more alive than ever. Stands filled to the brink, the air thick with dust and sweat, the sun glinting off the metal of our armor. The public shouted our names in alternation: "Young Chuta! Goca!"
The noise was a constant pulse, but I filtered it out. I focused on him: relaxed but ready stance, eyes fixed on my shoulders, breath controlled.
I took a long breath. The air entered cool and left tense. Strategy: do not fall into his rhythm. His long sword dominates the mid-range; the short one closes the gap. Use the shield to probe, the spear to threaten. Do not let him dictate the space. The helmet narrowed my world, but sharpened my focus.
The signal sounded.
Goca moved first, fast as a whip-crack. The long sword hissed toward my flank; I caught it on the shield. The impact echoed in my arm, vibrating up to my shoulder.
Strong, I thought. But predictable.
I spun the spear, seeking his exposed leg. He retreated, shifted hands, and the short sword came in low. I rolled the shield and parried with the spear's haft. Clashes and sparks adorned the tense scene.
The stadium roared louder. Every strike was an explosion in the stands. Goca was smiling now—that smile of one who relishes the challenge.
Good, I thought. Come for more.
I launched a series: high spear, low shield, shoulder feint. He read most of it, but my tip grazed his forearm. A thin line of blood, nothing grave.
"Go, Young Chuta!" "Goca, do not falter!"
The audience was a sea of voices. Sweat stung my eyes beneath the helmet. Goca closed in with a double attack: long blade high, short blade low. I blocked the first and evaded the second by millimeters.
Close.
I countered with a shield bash to his chest; he pivoted, but I lost my balance for a heartbeat. His long sword whistled past, grazing my helmet. I breathed.
Stay calm. His dual-wielding makes him versatile, but also predictable if you read the hand-switch.
I advanced.
Spear to the shoulder, shield to the thigh. He blocked the spear, but the shield shoved him back. Distance gained. The sun blinded me slightly; dust clung to my skin. The stadium vibrated; drums marked the rhythm.
Goca charged again, short sword first. I blocked, feeling the impact. The long blade followed, hissing. I thrust the spear; it brushed his guard. He grunted, but smiled.
Yes! I thought. This is what you wanted.
The combat became a tense dance.
Every strike was a thought: Block high, threaten low. Use the weight of the shield. Don't let him dictate.
Sweat, dust, sparks.
The crowd was a constant thunder.
"Finish it, Chuta!"
I pushed; he resisted.
The arena was a living circle, and we were its temporary masters. I was the protagonist—or at least, that is what I believed.
One week later.
Private Chamber of the High Priest, Basilica of Suaza.
Central City (Tunja, Colombia), South-Central Region.
Days after that fight with Goca—which still leaves bruises on my soul more than my body—I find myself in the private chamber of High Priest Simte, within the Basilica of the Kingdom of Suaza.
The space was a haven of festive peace before the great ritual: limestone walls carved with scenes of divine union—sun and moon entwined, Pijao and Tairona warriors beneath a starry sky—illuminated by scented tallow torches that cast dancing shadows and a warm aroma of copal and fresh flowers.
The polished flagstone floor creaked slightly under my sandals, and from the half-open doors filtered the soft chants of the choir, a murmur that made my heart beat with familiar anticipation.
Today is the day of my wedding to Umza, Nyia, and Turey—an event that has my family and friends dancing with joy, and leaders like ministers, governors, generals, and priests holding their breath for what it signifies for the kingdom's unity.
I stand still for a moment, gazing at the carvings on the basilica walls representing our unified gods, and I think of how I came to this.
Late last year, following the wedding of my elder brother, Upqua, I announced these unions all at once, breaking a rule I had established myself: women would marry at sixteen to give them time to flourish strong, and men at fourteen so they might grow with measured responsibility.
"But Chuta, what if you wait as you said?" my mother, Za, had asked me that night, her eyes shimmering with familial concern as she embraced me at home.
I explained to her that, thanks to our new ways of sustenance—a balanced and healthy diet, physical preparation based on adaptive training, and knowledge that is not only technical but formative—our physical and mental development is superior to anything any culture of the Great Quyca has ever seen.
"Enhanced Physical Development"—a term I coined years ago, but which has only been rigorously applied in recent times—is my standard for measuring parental maturity, with clear metrics such as height, muscle mass, hormonal cycles, and mental tests of responsibility.
For men, it is arbitrary, guided by brute strength and judgment; for women, it is methodical, tracking widened hips, normal hormonal development, and stable minds thanks to diets rich in fortified maize, proteins, and fruits that I promoted since I was a child. Diets that have only improved with the passing years and newly acquired resources.
At thirteen, having recently celebrated my birthday, I already stand 1.70 meters tall, with a considerable but not disproportionate muscle mass. Furthermore, I possess a mind sharpened by my two lives.
Initially, I wanted to wait until Umza and Nyia turned sixteen, protecting their slow flowering as I decreed for the kingdom. I was not worried for myself, but for them—or at least, that is what I convinced myself of.
But Umza, with her endearing hyperactivity and that contagious laughter, had been pleading since I was ten: "Chuta, the southern wind unites us already; do not make me wait like a withered leaf!"
Nyia, with her deep eyes and artist's hands, hinted at it in her paintings and weavings with red threads intertwined like our destinies, blushing: "When you are ready... I am."
Turey, whispering alongside her owls: "The animals know when to fly together."
Waiting another year would drive Umza to despair, and the kingdom needs this union now, with expectant leaders and realms appearing after every exploration.
"It is for the kingdom, Mother. With this, we will unite the cultures of the realm definitively. We will join the mountainous south with the Pijao, the Tairona north coast, and the Floating Islands with the Taino," I replied, and she laughed softly: "You always think of everyone, my son, but do not forget to be happy yourself first."
"Of course, I also think of my own happiness, Mother. I love them and they love me," I replied then, as she offered me a warm smile.
That same happiness my mother showed then, she and my father, Hyba, show now.
My parents are radiant near the altar, with my four-month-old younger sister in my mother's arms—that little one who arrived after months of accumulated joy, added to the marriage of my older brother Upqua to Fiba, and my recent birthday.
All that happiness had culminated and reached an apex with my wedding.
"Look how you have grown, Chuta! All of this is because of you, for us," my father told me before entering the hall, his voice husky with emotion, clapping my back as he did when I was a child, while Upqua nods: "Brother, after your participation in the tournament, this is your sweetest victory; Fiba and I are ready to celebrate as a family."
I feel that familial warmth anchoring me, remembering how I helped them in this short life of mine, yet it is they who have given me roots in this world.
In the background, I see generals like Michuá and Sagua conversing with regional governors, and priests like Tachiua blessing the space; they had expected this since I announced the engagements as a symbol of the kingdom's cultural union.
Just as I was reminiscing and observing the kingdom's leaders from the hall, the side door of carved wood—adorned with feathered serpents and caimans—opens, bringing Xiua; Nyia's father, governor of the northwest region, a veteran who forged Suaza by my side through treaties and alliances, alongside High Priest Simte.
Xiua envelops me in a clumsy embrace of joy, his embroidered tunic brushing my skin: "Chuta, light of the kingdom! Today my Nyia, my Tairona jewel, weds you; she shall be queen, loved as our own daughter! What a familial blessing!"
I return the gesture with a pat on his back, smelling his excited sweat mixed with coastal earth; I know why he is so effusive: his daughter will ascend, but above all, I care for her as I do for Chuquy or my little sister.
Simte approaches with his slow gait, smiling beneath his grey hair: "Son of Heaven, you have honored our traditions by uniting cultures without erasing them; are you ready for this eternal bond?"
"More than ever, High Priest," I reply.
Noticing not only his concern for the kingdom—which seemed more a mere formality—but a genuine concern for me and my future, an emotion wells up from within. All these years, this man, through his beliefs, his customs, and a blind faith in me, had supported me without hesitation.
If Simte had not convinced the priests, if he had not supported my 'divine' knowledge in the name of the gods, the result would have been very different, and surely it would have taken me much longer to achieve what we have achieved.
I embrace Simte, surprising him, his slightly grey hair brushing my cheek.
"Son of Heaven, your affection warms this old heart," he says serenely, his wrinkled eyes shining, but he adds formally after we part: "Decorum, Son of Heaven; the gods watch, this is an important event."
Xiua laughs, joining the happiness of the moment: "Yes, listen to the High Priest!"
Laughter echoed among the three of us, though suddenly Xiua's smile turned into a serious countenance.
"Young Chuta, I ask that you love them in the same way. Not just Nyia for being my daughter, but also Umza and Turey. Protect them as you do the people, and between us..." he paused, and then his expression returned to one of full joy. "A grandson soon would fill my house with laughter!"
I catch his mischievous murmur and respond naturally: "Everything in its own time, Xiua. We must not rush, especially with matters so significant."
I tried to sound convincing, but truth be told, as the moment approached, my resolve faltered. I knew they were surely ready, both physically and mentally, but it seemed I was the problem.
Upqua will surely mock me if he finds out, I thought, remembering how I gave him advice before his wedding, yet I was falling into the same state.
Hyba bursts into the room with his deep, warm voice: "Son, the basilica is ready. The incense burns, the priests are waiting, and your betrothed wait radiantly under the canopy of floating flowers."
Xiua exclaims, eyes moist: "At last! Onward, Young Chuta, the kingdom will celebrate this for days."
I frown fleetingly, a sharp annoyance returning to my mind, reliving Goca holding back in the arena. That fight had been close, but Goca, just as in our first encounter years ago, had been holding back.
At the moment I realized he was holding back again, I ordered him to act with all his strength.
I should have told him to restrain himself a little, I thought as I stepped forward with my father, Xiua, and Simte. Goca had only taken half a minute to defeat me after that, moving on to the final once again and winning it for the second consecutive time.
I sighed deeply, clearing my mind of those memories.
I could hear the murmurs inside the Basilica as we advanced.
Today is a general celebration for the entire kingdom, a familial feast to share, with the smiling gods looking on.
My life was about to take a new path from this moment, becoming unpredictable, yet at the same time, brilliant.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETEDD
Hello everyone.
Today we finally finished the fight and the wedding, or maybe not?
For those wondering what all these scenes were for (I don't think anyone is).
They're to set up something that will appear a few years later, no spoilers. Also, to: subtly add narrative information, show Chuta's current mental state, his personal relationships, and clearly show that I haven't forgotten any characters.
Well, maybe I've left Sogeking out a bit. But based on what I'm planning, we're going to get bored of him later on. There will be many scenes of naval battles, landings, more explorations, fights with pirates, among other things. And while the idea was that he would be partly comic relief, it's difficult to add him naturally when from the beginning he was described as someone who spends little time on land.
Maybe I should make Chuta a captain in the navy? Hahaha
Regarding the subtle information.
Well, there are details about adulthood in that era, research and nutritional progress, and the unity of the kingdom is mentioned (several times), albeit not very subtly. Explorations are also mentioned, and while it's not explicitly stated that they were present at the wedding, there were envoys from other parts of the world.
By the way, speaking of nutrition, did you know that the diet of pre-Columbian peoples contributed to a lower number of maternal deaths compared to those recorded in Europe during the same period?
Unlike in Europe, generally speaking, the diet of corn, beans, and squash contributed to women's nutrition. This combination helped to achieve higher bone density.
On the other hand, the lack of animal protein, or its derivatives, meant that women experienced a delayed menarche, allowing them to develop physically more fully before their first pregnancy.
In the case of European women, their unbalanced diets led to deficient bone development, even resulting in underdeveloped pelvises or limited capacity for childbirth at an early age. Not to mention that red meat, dairy products, and their derivatives caused early menarche, leading to early and dangerous pregnancies.
But again, I'm only generalizing. There may be different individual cases.
Finally, taking into account the opinions in the comments, from this moment on, Chuta's fights in first or third person are canceled. From now on, he will only devote himself to pleasure and the planning of the kingdom.
Hahaha, I'm just kidding.
I truly appreciate the support, corrections, and criticisms, so every opinion is very helpful.
I was trying to improve my battle writing, both in first and third person, not only for this novel but for others in the Race Against Time saga. I'm already writing chapters with some ideas, and I needed to know if I have at least some skill for it.
What culture and era will the next novel be set in?
We'll see in the next chapter of Detective Conan.
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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.]