Unchosen Champion

Tzultacaj jerked his axe in the air in a futile effort to rid the blade of the thick layer of viscous blood that was coating its edge. The shaking did nothing. His gaze darkened at his failure to easily clean the ancient inherited weapon. If there would be time for proper maintenance, it would come after the Cult of Chakyum was eliminated, but that was in the distant future. The stains upon his heritage would remain for now. His axe already bore the evidence that the journey had been long, but it promised to be longer still. Stepping away from the quieted battlefield, he broke from his normal pattern and sought to hear the status of their second campaign before moving on.

Tzultacaj rarely hesitated. Once one battle was done, he moved to the next. But in this case, he paused his constant forward progress. There was no fear clouding his mind. It was the unusual behavior of the Cult that drew him to his tactician, seeking answers. It wasn’t the first strangeness he had noticed since openly beginning their second campaign.

They had defeated a strange formation of Cultists who were camping in the parade grounds of an infantry base within the previous borders of Mexico. It was a location he had been before, several times, but there had been no enemies present. It was a mere 50 to 100 miles from the Yucatan settlement, taking into account the changes to the mana awoken Earth. The former infantry base now fell within the confines of the civilization shard’s territory, but the land between was the thick rugged jungle that had proven to be difficult during their first campaign. The monsters had grown relatively tame in the time since. A positive development for the Jaguar Sun, but they still looked forward to leaving their territory. The Ruin Nebulas were their preferred enemies.

There hadn’t been nearly as many Priests as he anticipated prior to reaching the infantry base. He had more successful hunts with Juliana in the weeks prior, where they confronted individual holdouts on a regular basis. The ones they did find on their current campaign weren’t dug in as he would expect. They weren’t holding large groups of hostages or picking apart smaller unprotected settlements as they engaged in dark rituals. Tzultacaj was struck by the eeriness of their altered actions.

It was odd to find Chakyum’s forces in transition. They were typically securing themselves in strongholds of their choosing or moving as solitary individuals, like missionaries in search of a new flock. He had never encountered a large convoy on the move before this one, and its existence added to the oddities of the Cult’s recent behavior. They were already strange, but a departure from their normal operations raised his hackles. For a hunter, it was the difference between cornering healthy prey compared to something diseased. The altered behavior was suspicious.

While Tzultacaj had yet to rid his homeland of the blemish that the Cult represented, his efforts were unceasing. If anyone was familiar with their regular actions, it was him, the one who made the Cultists his prey. Day after day he was traversing new and old hunting grounds, slowing the infection’s spread. Naturally, he would notice when something changed.

After the Jaguar Sun had failed, the situation in the region deteriorated further. In response, Tzultacaj redoubled his efforts, attempting to make up for lost ground. The Cult wasn’t even aware of how close they had come to fighting an all out war over the Yucatan settlement, but afterwards they were able to expand almost completely uncontested aside from what little he could do. The Primal Constructs were of no help when it came to the settlement that, over time, had become the focal point of the Cult.

It felt like several lifetimes ago that momentum had built behind his axe and a war host had formed to cull Chakyum from Central America once and for all. He knew that those around him were losing hope, finding themselves caught between challenges that were too threatening to continually face. Both the Cult of Chakyum and the wild Primal Constructs were strengthening, but the Jaguar Sun had been fading into memory. The movement that followed in Tzultacaj’s path was a brief flash of hope that disappeared as it was eclipsed by the system’s events.

Tzultacaj didn’t have any expectations. For him, there was no need for hope. There was only duty and a simmering rage. His class had granted him power that he used to fight for those who struggled. It was natural to share in times of plenty and to be aided in times of scarcity. The assimilation had provided plenty for Tzultacaj.

There was a time, before the assimilation, that he had been on the other end of the struggle. Neighbors and strangers pitched in from time to time to make sure his family wasn’t left behind as the modern world encroached on their more traditional way of living. He believed he was merely doing what anyone else would do if the tables were turned and they were the ones that had been empowered. The innate cooperation throughout their community was ingrained in his blood. When others joined forces to follow in his wake, he felt it was proof that his instinct was a communal one.