The Tlaxcalan screamed and writhed, pinned on the stakes. Blood ran into the dirt, dark in the firelight. He clawed at the ground, spit flying from his mouth as he cursed us.
"Fucking Mexica! I'll skin you all! I'll gut that brat first!"
His voice echoed, sharp, too sharp. Too loud.
The group huddled close. Eyes wide, faces pale.
The old man whispered, "He'll bring others. You have to shut him up."
My throat went dry. My grip on the spear slick with sweat.
I stepped forward, then stopped. My chest felt tight. My legs shook.
Kill him?
I'd never killed anyone. Not here. Not back home. Not anywhere.
I looked down at him. His face twisted in pain, veins bulging in his neck, teeth bared. He wasn't even a man to me right then. He was noise. Noise that could get us all killed.
But I couldn't move. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought I'd faint.
Behind me, voices rose.
"Do it."
"End it."
"Shut him up before they come!"
The baby started crying again. The mother wept, holding him close.
Cihuatzin stepped forward, her face hard, voice sharp.
"You were the one spitting words every night. Glorious Mexica. Strong people. Proud people. And now? One Tlaxcalan in a hole and you can't even swing?"
"I—" My voice cracked.
"You said we were broken. You said we needed to rise. Then prove it!" she snapped. "Or admit you're just a boy playing leader."
Her words hit like a blade.
The Tlaxcalan groaned, trying to crawl, blood soaking his leg. His voice broke but still spat hate. "Cowards… all of you… I'll—"
"DO IT!" Cihuatzin barked.
The group echoed her, their voices a mix of fear and anger. "Do it! Do it before he brings them!"
My hands shook so bad I thought I'd drop the spear. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat.
I stepped closer. The Tlaxcalan looked up at me. His eyes weren't fear. They were fury. He spat blood at my feet.
"You're dead already, boy."
I raised the spear. My arms trembled. My knees felt weak. My breath came in gasps.
The group pressed closer. The baby cried louder.
Cihuatzin's voice cut through everything. "If you can't kill one Tlaxcalan, then stop calling yourself a Mexica at all."
Something snapped in me.
I drove the spear down.
The point hit his chest. He convulsed, choking, blood spilling from his mouth. His eyes bulged, then went glassy. His body jerked once, twice, then stilled.
The air went dead quiet.
The group stared. Some horrified. Some relieved. The baby's cries turned to soft hiccups.
I pulled the spear back, my hands coated red. My arms shook. My chest heaved. I felt like I'd throw up.
I stumbled back, staring at what I'd done.
My first kill.
Cihuatzin didn't look away. She didn't flinch. She just said, flat and cold, "About time."
The others whispered prayers, not for the dead man, but for themselves.
I couldn't hear them. My ears rang. My vision blurred. My whole body trembled.
I dropped the spear, fell to my knees, and gagged until nothing came out.
The Tlaxcalan lay still, eyes open, blood pooling around him.
I couldn't stop staring.
That was it. No speeches. No glory. No pride. Just blood and silence.
I'd killed a man.
And nothing would ever wash it off.
Nobody spoke after I killed him.
The Tlaxcalan lay in the dirt, blood pooling under him, eyes staring at nothing. The baby whimpered but quieted fast. The mother rocked him, silent. The others just went back to their spots.
That was it.
No one thanked me. No one praised me. No one cursed me either. They'd seen worse. They'd lived worse. One more dead enemy wasn't new.
I was the only one shaking.
I sat with the spear across my lap, hands trembling so bad I had to grip the wood to keep it from falling. My stomach twisted. My throat burned. I felt hollow, like I'd been scooped out from the inside.
I thought it would feel different. Like I'd crossed some great line and now I'd be harder, stronger. But it didn't feel like that. It felt like nothing.
Not victory. Not relief. Just empty.
The others weren't afraid of me. Why would they be? They'd grown up in a warrior's world. Sacrifices on temple tops. Flower Wars. Battles every season. They'd seen blood since childhood.
To them, me killing one Tlaxcalan was nothing. They didn't look at me like a leader now. They didn't look at me like a monster either. Just… nothing. Neutral.
Maybe even less.
I'd ranted for nights about pride and glory, about the Mexica rising again. And when it came to it, I froze like a coward, shaking until they forced me to act.
If anything, I looked weaker now.
I sat there for hours, lost in thought. The fire burned low. My eyes kept drifting back to the corpse.
This wasn't the first time I'd felt like this.
The first few days after I woke up here, it was the same. Watching women dragged screaming into the dark. Smelling bodies burn. Hearing kids cry until someone silenced them.
That time I stumbled into the siblings — the boy biting my arm, the girl slashing me with obsidian just to protect him. That was another crack in me.
Then there were those two former warriors, laughing as they tore into the noblewoman. I thought I could stop them with words. That if I reminded them they were Mexica, they'd act like it. All I did was make it worse. She was beaten harder because of me. After, all I could do was cover her body with scraps of her skirt. I didn't even check if she was breathing. I just walked away.
Now this.
One kill. My first.
And it didn't feel like survival. It didn't feel like justice. It didn't even feel real.
It just felt like another piece of me was gone.
Every time I step outside, I lose something.
The boy from before — the one who joked about being isekai'd, about teaching the Mexica to fight back — he wouldn't last five minutes here. He didn't. He died the second I woke up choking in mud.
And what's left?
A fifteen-year-old in a stolen body. Scrawny. Shaking. Trying to lead twelve broken people when I can't even stop being scared long enough to swing a spear without gagging after.
Cihuatzin was right. I keep demanding strength from others I don't even have myself.
How the hell can I lead anyone when I can't even do what's needed without wanting to crawl into the dirt?
I leaned back against the wall, staring up at the cracked stone above me.
Every day here feels like another cut. Another piece of me breaking off.
And I don't know how many pieces I have left before there's nothing.