Alejandro was ten when he first heard his mother speak seriously of Luzon.
It was not a casual mention. Rosalia spoke carefully, her voice measured. "My cousin's son," she said, "is growing into a remarkable young man. His name is Antonio Luna."
The name struck Alejandro like distant thunder.
Memories surged—fierce eyes, unyielding discipline, brilliance marred by temper. A man whose loyalty to the nation burned brighter than caution. A general whose death would scar history.
Alejandro kept his face calm.
Rosalia explained the family connection: bloodlines tied through marriage, letters exchanged occasionally, news carried by travelers. Luna's family valued education, science, and discipline—qualities rare and dangerous under colonial rule.
That night, Alejandro lay awake, staring at the ceiling woven from palm and bamboo. Luzon represented opportunity—and risk. It was the heart of power, the center of Spanish authority, the place where revolutions were born and crushed.
If history followed its old path, disaster awaited.
If it did not—then everything could change.
Over the following weeks, Alejandro began preparing without being asked. He studied Spanish phrases more diligently. He asked traders about Manila, about schools, about how Spaniards trained their officers. He listened more than he spoke.
Don Emilio noticed. "You are looking far ahead," he said.
Alejandro answered truthfully. "The future does not wait."
By the lake one evening, Alejandro imagined himself walking unfamiliar streets, standing beside Luna not as a follower—but as an equal. He understood the danger of pride, of rivalry, of unchecked fire.
"I will not repeat the same mistakes," he whispered.
At ten years old, Alejandro Navarro turned his gaze northward—not with excitement, but with resolve.
Mindanao had shaped him.
Luzon would test him.
And history—if he had the will—would obey him.