Alejandro learned quickly that blood ties did not guarantee warmth.
The household in Manila was orderly, educated, and restrained—very different from the open rhythms of Mindanao. Conversations were measured. Emotions were filtered. Even laughter seemed moderated, as though excessive expression invited danger. Spanish rule had taught the people of Luzon that visibility could be a liability.
His host, Don Joaquín Luna, regarded Alejandro with polite curiosity. "So," he said in careful Spanish, "you are Rosalia's son. From the south."
"Yes, señor," Alejandro replied, voice calm, posture respectful but not submissive.
That subtle distinction did not go unnoticed.
The household was filled with books—science texts, philosophy, military histories smuggled in under the guise of academic interest. Alejandro's eyes lingered, but he did not ask. Instead, he listened. Questions revealed hunger. Silence revealed control.
Over the following days, Alejandro observed the rhythms of the home. Lessons began early. Discipline was intellectual rather than physical. Logic, mathematics, and languages were emphasized. Errors were corrected immediately, without mercy—but without anger.
It was here that Alejandro first understood the difference between strength born of survival and strength born of refinement.
At meals, discussions often drifted toward Spain, progress, and the contradictions of empire. Alejandro spoke rarely, but when he did, his comments were precise. Never radical. Never submissive.
"You think carefully before you speak," one relative remarked.
Alejandro inclined his head. "Words cannot be taken back."
That evening, Rosalia took him aside. "Antonio will arrive soon," she said quietly.
Alejandro's pulse quickened—but his face remained composed.
"He is… intense," she continued. "Brilliant. Proud. Difficult."
Alejandro nodded. "Fire is dangerous without direction."
Rosalia studied him closely. "And do you believe you can direct him?"
Alejandro did not answer immediately. In his other life, he remembered Antonio Luna's brilliance—and his fatal rigidity. A man who demanded discipline but struggled with trust. A man betrayed by politics as much as by bullets.
"I believe," Alejandro said carefully, "that fire listens to those who do not fear it."
That night, Alejandro stood at the window overlooking Manila's streets. Soldiers marched below, their boots echoing against stone. The city felt tense, like a drawn bow.
He realized then that Mindanao had prepared him to endure hardship.
But Luzon—Luzon would demand precision, restraint, and patience.
And soon, he would meet the man history remembered as a great general.
This time, Alejandro intended to ensure that greatness did not end in tragedy.