Aztec Civilization: Destiny to Conquer America!

"What? My grave?! You!..."

On the summer hillside, the sun's warmth made everything feel cozy. The three little mounds and pits were like homes meticulously dug by a Mexica fox. Upon closer inspection, the pits faced south, the mounds to the north, considerately "facing south." Even on the mounds, there were three abstract little figures, vaguely depicting two adults and a child...

Old militiaman Chiwaco was left speechless, his eyelids kept twitching, and his mouth twitched. He looked at the "auspicious site" chosen by Chipawa, glanced at the little figure representing himself, then turned to his son's earnest face. Trembling, he raised his hand, clenching his teeth hard, but ultimately couldn't bring himself to strike.

"Good son... Father is still alive! For now, I reckon, there's no need for this place..."

"Right! Dad, since you're still alive, and sister is too... tomorrow I'll flatten both yours and sister's graves..."

"You!..."

The old militiaman's eyes widened, trembling with anger. He was silent for a moment, looking at the genuine joy on his son's face, a sudden sorrow welled up, and he let out a low sigh.

"Forget it! Just leave them be!..."

The old militiaman turned his head, gazing at the scenery on the hilltop. The not-too-tall hill abloom with summer wildflowers. To the east, the expansive Great Lake, to the west, the bustling camp, with flat wilderness and farmland to the north and south... everywhere was vibrant with life.

"With mountains, water, flowers, and fields... the scenery here is truly beautiful! Since you want to stay here, just... leave the graves be! Dad doesn't even know where and when he will die. You keep this place... in the future, it will be a token of remembrance!..."

Saying this, the old militiaman turned around, lowered his head, and walked toward the lake shore at the foot of the hill.

"Dad! Why are you going back? Red Crow City is to the west!..."

"Wait for me a bit! I'm going to the ship to get something."

The hill wasn't high, and the longship near the lakeshore wasn't far. Moments later, the old militiaman returned to the hilltop with some seeds from the Cuba tung oil tree, glanced at his stupefied son, and asked.

"Chipawa, the grave you dug for me... is this hilltop yours?"

"Huh? Dad, this hilltop can't grow anything, no tribes claim it. If I want to claim it, it's just a matter of a few words."

"Hmm... then go claim it! Don't let our family grave really be flattened by someone else..."

Old militiaman Chiwaco nodded, extended his hand, and beckoned Chipawa over.

"What are you standing there for? Don't you know how to dig? Come and help me dig a pit!... Plant these oil tree seeds carefully all around, spacing each a few steps apart... The hill is bare, flowers but no trees, always lacking something..."

"Huh? Plant trees? Oh, okay..."

Wilderness Samurai Chipawa squatted on the ground, swiftly using an axe to dig pits while asking curiously.

"Dad, what kind of seeds are these? They feel weird to the touch? Did you just say oil tree?"

"Yes! Trees that produce oily seeds, seeds that can be pressed for oil! It was tough for dad to bring them back from Cuba Snake Island on the eastern sea..."

"Oh! Can be pressed for oil? Is it edible?!"

"Eat eat eat! All you know is eating! Remember, the oil pressed from these seeds is poisonous! Can be used, but not eaten."

"Oil that can't be eaten? Then what use is it?"

"Chipawa, when you lead men to war, you need oil to maintain equipment... Apply oil to the copper blade to prevent rust, apply on the leather armor to reinforce, soak the spear shaft to add toughness, oil the greatbow for maintenance... This oil is for you to make thorough preparations before battle!... Don't let the grave you dug for me end up unused, instead..."

At this, the old militiaman pursed his lips, unwilling to say the rest. Wilderness Samurai Chipawa blinked, somewhat understanding. The two of them busied around for quite a while, planting over a dozen tung oil trees from Cuba. Then, the old militiaman looked at the row of freshly dug small mounds, and let out a faint sigh.

"That's it then! Although it's not the clothwood tree from our homeland, oil-producing trees are certainly useful... After I'm gone, remember to care for these trees... and take good care of yourself..."

"No worries! Dad! I'm quite brave, and I have thick armor made of buffalo hide! Those tribal warriors with stone spears, even ten of them wouldn't hurt me a bit!"

"You... you fool!"

"Huh?..."

After a brief episode, the longship group descended the little hill and headed west again. They traveled a few miles, passing through the outer fence, and arrived at Red Crow "City," full of shanties and mud huts, and teeming with wilderness tribes. Wilderness Samurai Chipawa led his father through the chaotic camp to his own hut. He proudly showed off some war spoils, only to be admonished. Then, the trusted aide of Alan the Young Chieftain finally arrived.

The guide was a strong wilderness female warrior, with fearsome facial tattoos, her arms two times thicker than the old militiaman's. She held her head high, with a long spear and bow and arrow on her back, coldly observing this group of "Mexica people," and asked "Who is the leader?". She then led the two leaders, old militiaman Chiwaco and Priest Mekate, to the solemn chieftain's tent.

Wilderness Samurai Chipawa wanted to follow, but was coolly refused by the wilderness female warrior. He could only look on with some concern as the two's figures slowly disappeared, step by step, into the large tent at the center of the camp.

Inside the large tent, a flickering bonfire burned, and a faint herbal aroma lingered. More than ten red-haired canine descendant hunters looked fierce, holding long spears and bronze axes, faces showing obvious hostility. They watched the two not-so-strong Mexica leaders like a pack of wolves baring their fangs at a fox that walked into their den.

At the top of the tent sat a tall and slender warrior leader. She wore sturdy cowhide armor, with two sharp bronze axes slung at her side, muscular long legs dangling, seated on a bearskin rug elevated by a meter. Behind the bearskin rug were two hanging greatbows, a row of quivers filled with arrows, along with the massive head of a brown bear, seemingly as some testament to bravery.

Old militiaman Chiwaco cautiously observed the female chieftain but failed to notice obvious female characteristics. The only thing that confirmed her identity was a silver chieftain mask, engraved with mysterious wilderness patterns. At this moment, under the firelight, the mask glinted with a cold silver gleam, covering half of her face, hiding her unknown features.

Below the silver chieftain mask were eyes sharp as a hunter's eagle, prominent nasal contours, and revealed coldly stern red lips.

Chieftain Alan, wearing the mask, gazed icily at the two who entered. Her sharp gaze fell on them like arrows ready to shoot, creating a sense of facing sharp edges and danger. She kept that predatory gaze until beads of sweat formed on the old militiaman's forehead, then used a deliberately lowered authoritative voice to mock sternly.

"Ha! Are weak warriors like you the leaders of the Mexica fleet?"