Alejandro's mind was sharp, but he knew instinctively that a weak body would betray even the best plans. By eight, his training intensified.
Don Emilio woke him before sunrise. Running along uneven paths, swimming across cold stretches of Lake Lanao, holding stances until his legs burned—none of it was punishment. It was preparation.
"Your mind may lead," Emilio said, "but your body must obey."
Alejandro learned breathing control, balance, and endurance. He practiced moving silently through brush, stepping where leaves would not crack. His father taught him how to fall safely, how to absorb impact, how to rise quickly. These were lessons from a warrior's life, passed carefully to a child who listened too well.
There were days Alejandro failed. His arms shook. His lungs burned. Once, he collapsed in frustration. Emilio did not scold him.
"Rest," he said. "Then continue."
That lesson stayed with Alejandro longer than any physical drill.
In the evenings, Alejandro reflected on what his body could and could not yet do. He adjusted his expectations, planning strategies that relied on patience rather than force. In his other life, he remembered training elite soldiers—how discipline was built slowly, deliberately.
Now, he applied those same principles to himself.
By the end of his eighth year, Alejandro could outlast boys older than him in endurance and outthink them in movement. Yet he never boasted. He understood something rare for his age: strength invited challenge, humility preserved longevity.
Standing by the lake one dusk, muscles aching, Alejandro looked at his reflection. A child's body stared back—but behind his eyes was the resolve of a man who had already lived a war.
And he knew this was only the beginning.