The journey to Luzon was long, uncomfortable, and revealing.
Alejandro traveled with traders first—men hardened by the sea, cautious of both storms and authorities. The boat was small, wooden, creaking with every wave. Salt stung his skin, and nights were spent wrapped in thin cloth against the cold.
He observed everything.
How sailors positioned themselves to balance weight. How orders were given sparingly. How panic was suppressed through routine. These men were not soldiers, but they understood survival in ways textbooks never taught.
During a storm, when waves battered the vessel and fear crept into voices, Alejandro noticed something important: the captain did not shout. He repeated simple commands, calmly, rhythmically. Panic subsided.
Alejandro stored the lesson.
They docked briefly in Visayas ports—places caught between resistance and compliance. Spanish guards watched closely. Alejandro learned how eyes followed movement, how uniforms changed behavior, how silence could be safer than explanation.
By the time they reached Luzon, Alejandro felt older than his years—not because of hardship, but because of understanding.
Manila overwhelmed him.
Stone buildings. Church bells. Spanish voices layered with local tongues. Soldiers marching in rigid lines. Order imposed from above rather than built from within.
Alejandro kept his posture neutral, his gaze lowered but alert. He noted patrol patterns, guard rotations, choke points in streets. The city was a fortress pretending to be civilized.
When they finally arrived at the household of his mother's relatives, Alejandro was received politely—but cautiously. Intelligence, education, and ambition were admired here, but also feared.
That night, lying on a narrow bed beneath a tiled roof, Alejandro stared at the unfamiliar ceiling.
Mindanao had taught him who he was.
Luzon, he sensed, would teach him how dangerous that could be.
And somewhere in this city, Antonio Luna was growing—unaware that history had just shifted.