By the age of three, Alejandro had learned to walk the shores of Lake Lanao with purpose. While other children stumbled and laughed, he watched—always watched. The ripples in the water, the flight paths of birds, the way fishermen positioned their boats depending on the wind. To the villagers, it seemed like idle curiosity. To Alejandro, it was data.
His father, Don Emilio, began taking him on short walks beyond the village. "The land speaks," Emilio said. "If you learn to listen, it will warn you before danger comes." Alejandro listened carefully, not just to his father's words, but to the terrain itself. He noticed how paths narrowed near dense foliage, how rocks formed natural choke points, how elevation offered both safety and risk.
In his mind, these observations connected to memories that did not belong to this era. He remembered maps filled with symbols, satellite images, and tactical overlays. Though those tools did not exist in 1873, the principles remained the same. Terrain dictated outcomes. Preparation decided survival.
One afternoon, while villagers prepared for a small festival, Alejandro wandered toward the edge of the forest. He noticed footprints—fresh, unfamiliar. When he pointed them out to his father, Don Emilio stiffened. "Good eye," he said quietly. The prints belonged to traders passing through, harmless, but the moment stayed with Emilio. His son was not merely observant—he was instinctively alert.
That night, Alejandro lay awake, replaying the day in his mind. He imagined what could have happened if the footprints belonged to raiders instead. Where would sentries stand? Which paths would need guarding? His thoughts were methodical, almost unsettling for a child his age.
From that day on, Alejandro began building a mental map of his world. Every tree, every hill, every shoreline became a potential asset or liability. Without realizing it, he was already practicing the art of reconnaissance—an essential skill of any great commander.