The Katipunan camp was alive with movement—men sharpening bolos, cleaning battered rifles, cooking rice over open fires, and whispering war rumors beneath the flickering torchlight. Elijah walked through it all with a sense of wonder and dread. He had studied this period for years, but nothing in textbooks could prepare him for the rawness of the revolution—the smell of gunpowder and sweat, the nervous glances of boys too young to kill, and the grim determination on every face.
"What's your name, kuya?" asked the young man walking beside him. He was scrawny, maybe seventeen, with dirt on his cheeks and a patched-up shirt that hung loose on his frame.
"El—" Elijah caught himself just in time. Using his real name might attract unwanted attention. "Elias. Elias Cruz."
The boy grinned. "New recruit, huh? Don't worry, you'll get used to it. I'm Andres. I serve under General Luna."
Luna, Elijah thought. This is really happening.
As they entered the center of the camp, a loud voice boomed from across the field. A man in an officer's coat was shouting, his face red with fury as he slammed his fist onto a wooden crate.
"Why the hell are the cannons unloaded?! Do you expect to fight the Americans with sticks?!"
Elijah turned and saw him: General Antonio Luna.
Tall, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp as blades. The infamous temper was real—but so was the intelligence burning behind those eyes. He stormed past, barking orders at every direction. At one point, his gaze landed on Elijah. Just for a moment. Their eyes met.
Then Luna turned away.
"He's harsh, but brilliant," Andres whispered. "If we actually listen to him, we might just win."
If only history had listened, Elijah thought bitterly.
Later that night, Elijah sat cross-legged under a makeshift shelter, the firelight casting shadows on his face. His right arm was wrapped in a rough bandage from a scrape earlier in the day, but it throbbed now. He barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere.
He was really here. 1898. The eve of American betrayal.
He had the knowledge—battles, politics, betrayals. He knew how history played out. And now, for the first time, it was his to change.
"You're Elias, right?" came a soft voice from behind him.
He turned.
A young woman approached, dressed in a simple yet elegant skirt and blouse, her sleeves rolled up and hands stained with dried blood—not hers. She knelt beside him, holding a cloth and a bundle of herbs.
"Your bandage is terrible," she said flatly. "You'll get an infection if I don't fix it."
He blinked, caught off guard. "Are you a nurse?"
"I'm a revolutionary," she replied without hesitation. "And yes. A nurse."
She glanced up at him as she began undoing the wrap. "Isabela Alonzo. But everyone just calls me Isa."
"Elijah—Elias," he corrected quickly.
"Strange name," she noted. "You don't sound like you're from around here."
He hesitated. "I travel a lot."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Well, Elias the Traveler, if you want to survive, let me do this properly."
He watched her work, delicate yet confident in every movement. "You're very good at this."
"I've had practice. Too much practice," she said, tying the final knot. "Most of the men here come back torn apart after each skirmish. And they still go back the next day."
"Because they believe in something," he said quietly.
"Don't you?"
Their eyes met. The fire crackled between them.
"I do," Elijah said. "I believe we can win. We just… have to stop repeating our mistakes."
Isa studied him for a long moment. "You speak like you've seen all of this before."
He forced a small smile. "Maybe I have."
That night, sleep refused to come. Elijah lay under the stars, the bandage on his arm warm with fresh pain, the bullet from the future clutched tight in his fist.
He had to find a way to reach General Luna. He had to change the course of the war. He had to protect people like Isa—people who shouldn't have to die for freedom to exist.
But history wouldn't change easily.
And the clock was already ticking.