The rain came down like bullets. Hard, fast, and relentless—pelting the tin roofs of Tarlac as thunder cracked across the sky like an angry whip. Elijah Reyes pulled the collar of his jacket tighter as he stood under the skeletal remains of a ruined Spanish-era watchtower. His boots sank into the mud, but he didn't care. His eyes were fixed on the distant mountains, veiled in mist, and his mind was far from the present.
He had come here to feel something.
He was 32. A military historian, professor, and strategist who had served briefly as a consultant for the Armed Forces of the Philippines. For years, he had devoured battle maps and documents from the Philippine Revolution and the Philippine-American War—his obsession and his frustration. Every time he read about General Luna's assassination, the botched defense of Manila, or the betrayal by the elite classes, he felt it like a knife.
They could have won. If only they had united. If only they had prepared.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the ruined tower in stark white. Elijah took out a small, rusted bullet he always carried—a relic he found on this very hill, a remnant of a forgotten skirmish. He clenched it in his palm.
"What if I had been there?" he muttered. "What if someone who knew came back and guided them?"
Another bolt of lightning struck—this time closer. The ground shook. His vision blurred. Pain stabbed into his skull as his body convulsed.
And then… nothing.
He awoke to birdsong.
Elijah blinked slowly, his head pounding. He was lying on dry earth—no mud, no tower, just a small field beside a dirt road. The sun was high, the air clean, and everything seemed... clearer. Crisper.
He sat up. His clothes were different—coarse linen pants, a cotton camisa, and no phone, no watch. Only the bullet remained in his hand, now gleaming like new.
Panic surged, but before he could react further, he heard voices—Tagalog, accented with the old provincial tone. Two men in rolled-up trousers and straw hats approached, carrying bolos and crates of supplies.
"Hoy! Ikaw!" one of them called. "Bagong rekrut ka ba? Dala ka agad sa kampo!"
Elijah stared.
"Ano? Nganga ka pa d'yan. Bilis!"
The other man smirked. "Siguro natulala. Baka galing sa Maynila."
Elijah rose slowly. Around them, a banner fluttered on a nearby tree branch: Katipunan. Red with a white K.
His legs nearly gave out.
This wasn't a dream.
This was 1898.
As he walked with the men toward what they called "Kampo ni Heneral Luna," Elijah's mind raced. Somehow—by miracle, curse, or divine irony—he had been transported to the eve of the Philippine-American War. He knew what would happen: the Treaty of Paris, the American betrayal, the endless battles, the deaths. He knew every tactical blunder, every missed opportunity.
And now, he could change it.
But history was no longer a story in his textbooks.
It was real. And it would bleed.