The storm had passed, leaving Manila damp and glimmering under a pale dawn. Rain trickled along the tiles of the Ayala mansion roof, each drop echoing like the heartbeat of the world outside.
Yet inside, the mansion hummed with an energy unlike anything the city had ever felt. Miguel, swaddled in Isabella's arms, slept peacefully.
But beneath his serene exterior, a faint crimson glow flickered in his eyes—subtle, yet unmistakable. Even in slumber, he sensed the currents of the world.
Alonzo paced the nursery, hands clasped behind his back, mind a whirlwind of thoughts.
"Isabella… do you understand what just happened?"
She shook her head, her fingers tightening around Miguel. "No… I don't… but I felt it. The air… the energy… everything. And they—" she glanced at the doorway, now empty, imagining the bowed envoys — "they recognized it.
Something… beyond us."
Alonzo leaned against the wall, closing his eyes briefly. "They will report back. Every single one of them. The Muslim scholars, the Zoroastrians, the rabbis, the cardinals, the envoys from China and Europe… this child… Miguel… he is not ours alone. He is the center of something much bigger."
_______
Outside, the envoys gathered their belongings, faces pale but resolved. The rain had softened, leaving mist curling across the gardens. Each one mounted their horses or climbed into waiting carriages, though none could shake the awe—and fear—they had felt within the nursery.
One Muslim scholar paused at the edge of the garden, gaze fixed on the glowing window. His hands, trembling from the Qi that had surged through the room, lifted in a silent prayer. "May Allah guide us… and may the Mahdi lead wisely," he whispered. Around him, his companions nodded solemnly, reluctant to leave, feeling the child's presence linger like a weight in the air.
In Persia, Zoroastrian Mobeds spurred their horses across the plains, sacred urns secured tightly. The Eternal Flame flickered violently, as if stirred by Miguel's unseen hand. One murmured, "The fire has chosen… east. Manila awaits." Their mounts shifted nervously under them, sensing an invisible power pulling them toward the distant islands.
Rabbis in Jerusalem, clutching trembling scrolls, descended from their steps and returned to caravans, their hands shaking violently. Each scroll seemed alive, quivering in response to the memory of Miguel's gaze. One whispered, voice quivering, "The Messiah… he comes from the east." Another added, "Our ancestors' blood… it stirs. We must witness, we must report."
In Rome and Istanbul, cardinals, patriarchs, and envoys mounted horses or carriages, eyes lowered as they exited. Their minds churned with visions of red eyes and pulsing Qi, and though their steps were careful, their hearts raced with the knowledge that the heavens themselves had spoken through a child.
Envoys from China paused near the shore, jade fragments and ceremonial swords in hand. Lu Bu's halberd, long buried in its tomb, had responded to the pull of Miguel's aura, floating slightly as if recognizing its successor. Daoist priests whispered prayers, "The east… Manila… the child awaits."
Even European kings and noble houses, upon receiving the envoys' reports, marveled at the uncanny unanimity of the visions.
Across continents and oceans, every envoy carried the same story: a child in Manila, eyes like fire, aura like a storm, demanding reverence and fear alike.
Back in the Ayala Mansion
Inside, Miguel stirred, tiny fists stretching as if feeling the invisible threads that had drawn the envoys. Though still a newborn, a subtle pulse of Qi radiated outward, deliberate and measured. Isabella noticed instinctively, shivering as the faint warmth pressed against her chest. "He… he knows. He sees them leaving. He feels it."
Alonzo's hand rested gently on the infant's head. "Yes… he understands already. Hours old, and yet… he senses the world. He sees intentions, fear, awe… everything." His voice faltered. "…and it terrifies me."
The servants whispered among themselves, glancing at Miguel with unease. Even they, untrained in spiritual matters, sensed something primeval and powerful in the child. The air itself seemed to vibrate, charged with energy that defied reason or explanation.
As the envoys departed, their influence began to spread. Whispers of the child with red eyes reached local officials, merchants, and scholars, even before formal reports arrived. In the marketplaces, rumors spoke of a child whose presence unsettled the air, whose gaze made adults falter, whose aura seemed almost divine.
Some dismissed it as exaggeration or superstition, but the details were consistent: the child's eyes glowed, the air pulsed around him, and even the wind seemed to pause when he cried. Mothers whispered to each other in fear and awe, merchants paused in their accounts, and guards unconsciously bowed their heads when the child's aura brushed their senses.
Alonzo and Isabella sat together long after the envoys had gone. Miguel slept between them, calm, yet radiating a presence neither parent could ignore.
"He is… special," Isabella whispered, tears in her eyes. "I can feel it. In my bones. Something monumental begins with him."
Alonzo nodded slowly. "No… more than special. He is… a force. And the world will bend toward him, one way or another. We must prepare—not just for him, but for the storm he will bring."
Miguel stirred, tiny hands opening. His eyes flickered red, catching the first rays of sunlight. He released a subtle pulse of Qi, enough to make the room quiver and the candle flames bend toward him. Isabella gasped, feeling the pressure as if the air itself pressed into her chest.
"He's looking… at everything," she whispered. "At all of them… at the world."
Alonzo swallowed hard, placing his hand on Miguel's small chest. "Yes… and we are only the beginning. The world will know him. We… we must raise him carefully. Train him. Protect him. This is not a child. This is… a reckoning."
Miguel's red eyes glimmered, reflecting the sunlight, pulsing with deliberate energy. Even at hours old, Cheon Ma's consciousness within him sensed, analyzed, and responded to every movement, thought, and heartbeat in the room.
On the streets of Manila, the envoys gathered themselves for the journey back. Each moved with a mix of reverence and trepidation, understanding that what they had witnessed could not be forgotten.
The Muslim scholars rode silently, their minds occupied with prayers and visions of the Mahdi in Manila. "The child… he is more than words can express," one whispered to his companion.
The Zoroastrian Mobeds urged their mounts faster, flames from their urns flickering violently before settling, a reminder of the power they had glimpsed. "The Eternal Flame will watch him," one murmured. "We are mere observers of destiny, tasked to guide if necessary."
Jewish envoys clutched their scrolls, hands still trembling. "We must report… every word, every sign," one said. "The east… the child… our people will understand."
Cardinals and patriarchs in Rome and Instanbul exchanged somber glances. "The heavens have spoken," one muttered. "And this child… he carries a force beyond understanding. God's will is here in Manila."
Even Chinese envoys could not hide their awe. Daoist priests whispered prayers to the Jade Emperor, jade fragments and ceremonial swords vibrating lightly in their hands. "We follow the threads of destiny… east… Manila," one breathed.
Ships, carriages, and mounts began the long journey home, but the aura of the child traveled with them in memory and in Qi, influencing their thoughts, prayers, and decisions even as miles stretched between them and the Ayala mansion.
Back at the mansion, Miguel's red eyes glowed faintly as Isabella and Alonzo watched over him. The rain had ended completely, leaving Manila damp but sparkling. Though the world outside continued unaware of the magnitude of the event, the Ayala mansion had become the epicenter of something monumental—a force beyond nations, beyond religion, beyond understanding.