By the third night, I was done waiting.
We had twelve people. That's it. Barely enough to call a group. They were weak. Hungry. Half of them looked like they'd collapse if I asked them to walk across the street.
I kept telling myself it was a start. History said rebellions never began with armies. Just small groups. Peasants in the hills. Villagers with pitchforks. Guerrillas hiding in forests. Weak people who became strong by fighting.
But these twelve weren't becoming anything.
The boy with the leg wound spent more time whining than watching. The old man forgot half the rules I drilled into him. The kids I sent running corners came back late, distracted, empty-handed. The women kept their heads low, doing what I said, but only because I hadn't laid hands on them. That's what they expected from men now. Abuse. Cruelty. Barter for food. I was different, so they stayed. That was all.
I wanted more than that.
I wanted fighters. Scouts. Guerillas.
Instead, I had ghosts.
That night, I snapped.
They sat around the fire eating thin maize soup. Quiet. Always quiet. No talking, no asking questions, no spark in their eyes. Just silence.
I slammed my bowl down. "What is wrong with you all?"
Heads jerked up. Nobody answered.
"You think this is living? Sitting here like tlacuache hiding and waiting for someone else to kill you? You think food and water are enough? That's all you want?"
Still nothing.
"I've been studying people like you my whole life," I spat. "Groups who lost. People who got crushed. You know what happens when you sit around waiting? You get chained. You get sold. You get wiped out."
A kid started crying. The women shushed him.
I pointed at them. "There was once a group of people who lost a war. Their altepetl collapsed. The winners forced them to crawl. They made them a puppet altepetl. That's what we are right now. The Mexica aren't teteuctin anymore. You're slaves. Your 'Excan Tlatoloyan' is gone. You bow to Caxtilteca (Spaniards) and Tlaxcalans like those who have once bowed to us."
The old man flinched.
"But this group of people didn't stay down," I pressed. "One man got up and screamed until the people listened. He gave them pride again. He gave them bread. He gave them a reason to fight back. He built them into something the whole world had to fear. You think I'm asking you to worship me? No. I'm saying stand the hell up. You were Mexica once. You ruled everyone else. And now you're too scared to lift your heads?"
My voice bounced off the stone. Too loud. Too harsh.
They looked at me, but not the way I wanted. Not fired up. Not ready. Just staring, tired.
Cihuatzin finally spoke. Her tone was flat. "We had warriors. I told you. They're gone. The rest of us…" she shook her head, "the rest of us are what's left."
I clenched my fists. "Then why are you here?"
"Because you feed us," she said simply. "Because you don't hurt us. That's all."
The old man whispered, "We have nothing left to give."
It hit me harder than any blow.
I looked around the fire.
The women wouldn't meet my eyes. The kids leaned against each other, too thin, too tired. The men stared at the dirt.
I had ranted like history's great speakers. Tried to drag them up with words. But they weren't ready. Not for speeches. Not for anger. They were barely hanging on.
I sat down again. My chest burned. My throat felt raw.
Nobody said a word.
Later, lying awake, I thought about it. Back home, I thought charisma could move people. That speeches could light fires. But these people weren't firewood. They were ashes.
Words don't fill stomachs. Words don't erase scars.
Right now, I wasn't leading rebels. I was keeping half-dead strangers alive one more night.
That was the truth.
And if I wanted them to ever fight, I'd have to start there. Not with speeches. Not with pride. With survival.
Slow. Too damn slow.
But it was the only way.
I stayed awake most of the night. Couldn't stop thinking about it.
If I sent them out now, it would be suicide. They could barely carry water without spilling half. Half of them limped. All of them shook with hunger.
If I forced them, they'd get caught. The Caxtilteca (Spaniards) or their allies would beat them until they gave up everything. And they would. They weren't soldiers. They weren't martyrs. They'd break. They'd tell them about me, about the kitchen, about everything.
That would be the end.
The thought made me grind my teeth. This wasn't like the books or the fanfics I used to read. There was no quick rise, no neat montage. Just slow, miserable survival.
And the worst part? They didn't follow me because they believed in anything. They followed me because I didn't make them eat corpses, and I didn't force myself on the women. That was enough to make me the best man they had.
That wasn't leadership. That was the lowest bar in history.
By the fourth night, I started talking at dinner. Not speeches — just angry rants that spilled out of me.
"You were Mexica," I told them, pointing at the group huddled around the pot. "You built cities that shamed the world. You cut stone better than any Caxtilteca (Spaniard) can. You filled markets with food they'd never seen before. Cotton, cacao, jade, Quetzal feathers. You were strong enough that every town around you bowed."
Nobody answered. They just ate in silence.
I pushed harder. "And where are your teteuctin now? Where are your pipiltin? Hiding. Dead. Gone. They left you here starving. They took tribute, they took your work, they filled their bellies, and when the city burned they vanished. They failed you. All of them."
That got a reaction. Cihuatzin glared at me across the fire. Her jaw was tight, her broken nose crooked in the firelight.
"Careful," she said.
"Careful of what?" I shot back. "You think I'm wrong? Look around. You're here, not them. You're sitting in the dirt with me while they rot or sell themselves to the Caxtilteca (Spaniards). What did your pipiltin give you? Nothing. They took and took, and when it mattered, they couldn't even keep their own city standing."
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She didn't like it, but she couldn't argue either.
The others didn't even look up. They just kept eating.
I kept going anyway.
"You want to know why we lost? It wasn't tepotzli (steel), or cahuayo (horses), or tlequiquiztli (guns). It was because you trusted men who didn't care if you lived or died. They got rich. You bled. And now you're paying for it."
Still nothing.
The old man coughed. The boy scraped the bottom of his bowl. One woman rocked her baby to sleep.
I looked at them and felt the words die in my throat. It didn't matter what I said. They were too tired, too broken.
But I couldn't stop. Every night I ranted again. About what the Mexica were. About how their pipiltin betrayed them. About how Spaniards and Tlaxcalans laughed while they begged for scraps.
And every night Cihuatzin sat there, stone-faced, listening to me tear into the class she was born into.
I wondered how long before she snapped.
By the fifth night, I realized something.
I wasn't waking them up.
I was just talking to myself.