It was the sixth night of me talking at them. Same thing. Same rant.
I was pointing at the fire, telling them again how the pipiltin had failed. How they'd taken and taken, and left the people broken. How they weren't here now.
That's when Cihuatzin snapped.
She set her bowl down and looked at me. Really looked. Her voice cut sharper than any blade.
"You've talked for nights now," she said. "Always about what we were. Always about how we failed. Tell me, boy—what have you done?"
The others glanced up. Some curious. Some nervous.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
She didn't stop.
"You speak of pipiltin as if we were one thing. Parasites who sat and fattened ourselves while the macehualtin starved. Do you think all nobles lived like that? Do you think every warrior's family had jade bowls and feather cloaks? My brothers bled in the Flower Wars. My cousins died on these very streets. My father gave tribute until there was nothing left to give. Was that greed? Was that luxury?"
I tried to say something, but she raised her hand.
"You say the nobles failed. But where were you during the siege? Where were your words then? Where was your fire when we stood on the walls, starving, fighting every day? Where was this 'encouragement' when it mattered?"
Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit.
I thought about it. About waking up choking in mud, surrounded by corpses. About not knowing who this body even belonged to before I took it.
I didn't have an answer.
Cihuatzin leaned forward, her face hard in the firelight.
"And now? You feed us scraps and water. You think that makes you a leader? You think that gives you the right to tell us we should rise and bleed again? We just buried everything. We lost everything. And you want to drag us into another war because you're angry?"
I shrank back without meaning to. She was right. I didn't know what Ehecatl had been doing before I woke up in his skin. Maybe he'd fought. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he was just another commoner who died in the mud.
I was using his name to bark orders at survivors who had already been through hell once. And I was asking them to go back through it.
Nobody else spoke. They just watched.
Finally, I muttered, "I just don't want to stay broken."
Cihuatzin's eyes narrowed.
"Then fix yourself first," she said. "Before you demand it of others."
She picked up her bowl, finished the last of the soup, and lay down against the wall. Conversation over.
I sat there staring into the fire, small, useless, and more aware than ever of just how little I really knew.
"Then fix yourself first, before you demand it of others."
Cihuatzin's words stayed in my head. I couldn't shake them.
She was right. I'd been ranting like an idiot, trying to sound like men from history. Hitler had crowds. Movements. Parties backing him. I had twelve people who barely cared if they woke up tomorrow. They weren't soldiers. They weren't believers. They weren't even loyal. They followed me because I didn't force them to eat corpses, and I didn't violate the women. That was it.
I wasn't a leader. I was the least worst option.
And here I was, expecting them to scream some Nahuatl version of "Sieg Heil" while we marched on the Spanish. Pathetic.
The next morning, I checked myself in canal water. The reflection was warped, but clear enough.
Scrawny. Half-starved. Fifteen. Ribs showing. Cheekbones sharp. That wasn't charisma. That wasn't power. That was a kid who looked just as broken as the people he was lecturing.
I clenched my jaw. Cihuatzin was right. If I wanted them to believe in me, I had to fix myself first.
I put my cheat to use.
Workout routines. Bodyweight exercises. No gym, no weights. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, dips on stone walls. Planks. Anything to build muscle slowly.
I pictured them in my head like a video tutorial. Step by step. Form, breathing, reps. I started doing them at dawn. Push-ups until my arms shook. Sit-ups until my stomach cramped. Squats until my legs burned. My chest felt like it was tearing open, but I kept going.
They watched. Nobody said a word. But I caught some of them staring while I strained against the ground, sweat running down my face. Good. Let them watch. At least they'd see I wasn't just barking orders anymore.
Next was water.
I asked my cheat for a purifier. Something primitive. The answer came quick: clay pot with a layered filter. Charcoal, sand, gravel, cloth. Slow, but safer. I scavenged pieces from broken houses, made a crude version. It dripped too slow to be useful yet, but it was better than nothing.
I spoke to them the steps, so the others could repeat it without me.
"Charcoal. Sand. Gravel. Cloth. Drip slow. Boil after."
Even the old man nodded. He could follow that.
Weapons came last.
Not swords. Not steel. Just wood. I found broken beams, stripped them with obsidian shards, carved crude points. Spears, more like sticks than weapons, but better than nothing.
I didn't hand them out yet. Not to everyone. They weren't ready. But I wanted them in sight. Leaned against the wall near the fire so the group could see them while they ate.
Reminders. We weren't just beggars. Not anymore.
At night, I didn't rant. I kept it short.
"We survive today. Tomorrow we survive again. That's it. Nothing more."
Cihuatzin gave me a long look. Didn't speak. Didn't need to.
For the first time, I shut up and let the silence stand.
It was slow. Too slow for me. But this time, I accepted it.
If I wanted them to follow, I had to show them something worth following.
And that started with me.