The sun had not yet risen, but the camp of the Katipuneros stirred restlessly, as if it shared in the collective anxiety of the revolution. Roosters crowed in the distance, their cries drowned out by the rhythmic clang of metal, the muffled thud of footsteps in training, and the occasional bark of a commander drilling a group of tired but determined men.
Elijah stood at the edge of the clearing, watching a cluster of soldiers practicing with bolos and makeshift rifles. The air was heavy with sweat and gun oil. He took mental notes, his strategist's mind already identifying gaps in the formations, the flaws in their movements.
It wasn't their courage that worried him. It was their lack of preparation.
Most of these men had never faced trained soldiers. And soon, they would face the Americans—armed with repeating rifles, artillery, naval support, and a ruthless doctrine of expansionism.
We won't survive this war unless we change the way we fight, Elijah thought grimly.
He needed to speak with General Luna. Not just speak—convince him. And he had to do it before the chain of tragic events unfolded. Before the internal betrayals. Before the fractured leadership. Before Luna's murder.
"Up already?" a voice called behind him.
Elijah turned to see Isa approaching, a satchel over one shoulder and her hair tied back. She was dressed simply, but there was always an unshakable confidence in the way she moved—as if war had carved it into her bones.
"I couldn't sleep," Elijah said. "Too much on my mind."
Isa offered a half-smile. "Welcome to the revolution."
She stood beside him, watching the same group of soldiers. "They're brave. But most don't know how to shoot straight. And some haven't even held a rifle until a few weeks ago."
"I noticed."
"You sound like a commander," she said, studying him.
"I'm not," Elijah replied. "But I know how to make one. Or save one."
Isa tilted her head. "What does that mean?"
Before he could answer, the voice of a soldier echoed across the clearing.
"General Luna has returned! All officers, report to the command tent!"
Elijah's heart skipped. Now's the time.
The command tent was a large canvas structure near the center of camp. Inside, maps and sketches littered a wooden table. Hand-drawn layouts of Manila. Terrain studies of Malolos and San Fernando. Crude but effective diagrams of trench fortifications. It was the war room of a genius—chaotic, precise, and deeply personal.
General Antonio Luna stood at the head of the table, arms folded, a scowl etched across his face as officers filed in. His sharp eyes scanned the room like blades.
Elijah entered last, his pulse pounding. He didn't belong here, but he had to speak.
Luna glanced at him, frowning. "You. Who let this man in?"
One of the officers spoke up. "He's a new recruit, sir. Arrived yesterday."
"He's no ordinary recruit," said another voice—quiet, firm.
Everyone turned. Isa stood at the entrance, arms crossed. "I've treated enough soldiers to know a regular man from someone trained. This one's different."
Luna raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" He turned to Elijah. "Well, 'different one,' speak. You have thirty seconds."
Elijah stepped forward. "General, I know this sounds impossible, but I know the war that's coming. I know what the Americans plan to do. They've already agreed with Spain in secret to take control of the Philippines. The Treaty of Paris will be signed in December."
Luna's face remained unreadable. "Go on."
"They'll pretend to be our allies after helping us drive out the Spaniards. But once they land more troops, they'll declare control and start a war. Thousands will die. You'll want to fight a conventional war. You'll be right—but you won't be listened to. Aguinaldo won't give you full authority. And they'll betray you."
The room fell silent.
Luna walked around the table, slowly approaching Elijah. "What is your name again?"
"El—Elias Cruz."
Luna stared hard into his eyes. "You speak of future events as if you've lived them."
"I've studied them."
"Ah. A bookworm." Luna's mouth twisted. "You expect me to believe that you've read the future?"
"I don't care if you believe it," Elijah said, his voice calm. "But I can prove it."
He reached into his pocket and drew out the bullet—the one he had carried from the future. A .30-06 Springfield round, gleaming in the sunlight. Luna's expression shifted subtly. The officers leaned in.
"This isn't Spanish. It's not Mauser. It's American. And this won't be used here for another few years."
Luna took the bullet, studying it closely. "It's... newer. Cleaner. Heavier."
"It'll tear through your lines like paper," Elijah said. "You need to modernize your trenches, stockpile ammunition, and build mobile defense. I can help you."
A long silence followed.
Then Luna smiled—not kindly, but with the grin of a man who'd just seen a challenge worth meeting.
"You're either insane," he said, "or the most dangerous man in this camp."
"I prefer the second one," Elijah replied.
Luna turned to his officers. "We'll hear him out. Just once. If he's right, we adjust. If he's lying…" Luna looked at Elijah again, "...he'll be the first to stand at the front when the shooting starts."
Later, as the meeting dispersed and Luna pored over his maps with renewed intensity, Isa approached Elijah under the shade of a mango tree.
"Well," she said with a smirk, "you certainly know how to make an entrance."
"I'm good at disasters," Elijah muttered, exhaling deeply.
She sat beside him on the ground. "I don't know what you're hiding. But you're not like the others."
"I wish I was," Elijah said. "Because if I fail, the price isn't just my life. It's the country."
Isa looked at him for a long moment, and then quietly asked:
"What if you don't fail?"
For once, Elijah had no answer.