At five years old, Alejandro learned that leadership carried consequences.
It began with a small dispute—two boys fighting over fishing rights near the shallows of Lake Lanao. What should have been harmless play escalated into shoving and angry shouting, drawing the attention of nearby adults. Before anyone intervened, Alejandro stepped between them, his small frame firm despite trembling hands.
"Stop," he said. Not loudly—but clearly.
The boys hesitated. They were older than him, stronger, yet something in his voice made them pause. Alejandro listened to both sides, asking questions instead of accusing. He noticed fear beneath anger, pride beneath stubbornness. Then he proposed a solution: shared turns, timed fairly, with watchers to ensure no one cheated.
The elders approved. The conflict dissolved.
That night, Rosalia sat beside her son as oil lamps flickered. "You could have been hurt," she said softly.
Alejandro looked down. "If I didn't step in, they would hurt each other."
Rosalia realized then that her son did not think like a child. He thought in outcomes, not emotions.
From that day on, villagers began turning to Alejandro—not officially, not openly—but subtly. When children argued, when games became dangerous, when tempers flared, someone would say, "Ask Alejandro."
The responsibility weighed on him. He began to understand that every decision shaped trust, resentment, or peace. In his memories from another life, he saw leaders who failed their people—not because they lacked power, but because they lacked judgment.
He vowed not to repeat those mistakes.
Late at night, Alejandro stared at the stars, whispering promises to a future that did not yet exist. "I will choose carefully," he said. "Lives depend on it."
At five years old, he learned his first true lesson of command: authority is granted by trust, and trust is earned through fairness.