Volume 1: The Ripples of Time

March 2025 – Manila, Philippines

Miguel "Migs" Ramirez had always been fascinated with history—not just the facts and events, but the lives of those who had lived before him. Their struggles, their victories, their losses. As a historian, he often found himself lost in old books, faded photographs, and brittle manuscripts, imagining what it would have been like to live through the wars and revolutions that shaped the Philippines.

But never in his wildest dreams did he think he would experience it firsthand.

The Quantum Time Displacement Project at the University of the Philippines had been his life's work for the past three years. A classified experiment funded by an unknown private sponsor, it aimed to test the feasibility of time dilation using controlled electromagnetic fields and quantum entanglement.

Miguel wasn't a scientist—he was a historian brought onto the project for a specific purpose: to verify historical accuracy if their experiments ever yielded results. The idea was simple—if time travel were possible, the first step would be to send small probes to observe and record data from the past. His job was to determine whether those readings aligned with known history.

That night, he had stayed late in the underground lab, going over calculations and notes, completely unaware that history itself was about to rewrite his life.

A low hum filled the underground lab as the Quantum Temporal Resonator powered up. Miguel stood in the observation chamber, watching the cylindrical core of the machine glow with an eerie blue light.

"Energy levels stable," Dr. Ledesma, the project lead, announced over the intercom.

Miguel frowned at the readings on the monitor. Something felt… off. The numbers flickered strangely, almost as if they were struggling to stabilize.

He turned to the lead technician, an engineer named Alvin. "Does that look normal to you?"

Alvin hesitated. "There's an energy spike, but it's still within the threshold."

Miguel wasn't convinced. The calculations had been too precise for such fluctuations. The machine was designed to test time dilation, but at its current energy output, it felt like something else entirely was happening.

Then the alarms blared.

"Unstable energy surge detected!"

"Shut it down!" Dr. Ledesma yelled.

Miguel's heart pounded as he backed away from the machine. The glow in the core intensified, turning blinding white. The entire room vibrated as if the universe itself was being pulled apart.

And then—he felt it.

A force unlike anything he had ever experienced, as if gravity had inverted. His body lifted from the ground, his breath ripped from his lungs as he was pulled toward the swirling vortex of light.

The last thing he saw was Alvin's horrified expression and the distant echo of voices shouting his name.

Then—darkness.

---

May 1898 – Somewhere in the Philippine Countryside

The first thing Miguel felt was heat. A scorching sun bore down on him, searing his skin through his clothes. His head throbbed, his lungs burned, and every bone in his body ached as if he had been hurled from the heavens.

His fingers dug into the damp soil beneath him, feeling grass, dirt, and small stones—not the smooth, cold concrete of the laboratory floor. The air smelled different, thick with the scent of wet earth, burning wood, and something else—gunpowder.

Where the hell am I?

He forced his eyes open, blinking against the harsh daylight. Above him, a brilliant blue sky stretched endlessly, interrupted only by the silhouettes of armed men standing over him.

They were dressed in simple white shirts and red bandanas, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and caution. Some held rusted rifles, others had bolos gleaming under the sun. Their faces were hardened, battle-worn.

One man stepped forward, his grip tightening around the rifle in his hands. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, with tanned skin, sharp eyes, and a deep scar running down his cheek.

"Sino ka?" (Who are you?)

Miguel's breath caught in his throat. He knew the language—it was Filipino—but there was something… different about the way it was spoken. The words were older, more formal, lacking the casual slang he was used to.

The young man narrowed his eyes. "Huwag kang magsinungaling." (Don't lie to me.) He raised the barrel of his rifle, pressing it against Miguel's forehead. "Ikaw ba'y isang Amerikano?" (Are you an American?)

Miguel's heart pounded. An American?

The realization hit him like a cannon blast.

The revolutionaries' outdated clothing.

The weapons—antique, but well-maintained.

The question—"Are you an American?"

Miguel's mouth went dry.

This isn't possible…

Then, the distant sound of horses and Spanish voices barking orders shattered the silence.

The revolutionaries tensed. The young man turned to his men and gave a sharp order. "Handa na! Paparating sila!" (Prepare yourselves! They're coming!)

Miguel barely had time to process his situation before chaos erupted.

Gunfire cracked through the air as Spanish soldiers on horseback emerged from the tree line, their uniforms gleaming under the sun. The revolutionaries scattered, some taking cover behind trees, others firing wildly at the advancing enemy.

Miguel scrambled backward, his mind racing. This wasn't just some reenactment—this was real.

A bullet whizzed past his head, embedding itself in the dirt beside him. His instincts screamed at him to run, but he had no idea where to go.

The young revolutionary who had confronted him moments ago turned and grabbed Miguel by the collar.

"Kung ayaw mong mamatay, sumunod ka sa akin!" (If you don't want to die, follow me!)

Before Miguel could respond, the man yanked him up and pulled him toward the treeline.

The battle raged around them—rifle shots, the clash of bolos, the screams of wounded men. Miguel could smell the gunpowder, the sweat, the blood.

They ran through the dense forest, Miguel stumbling as he struggled to keep up. His mind was in overdrive.

This isn't a dream. This isn't a simulation.

I'm in the past. I'm in 1898.

They reached a small clearing where several other revolutionaries were taking cover. The young man shoved Miguel behind a tree and turned to fire at the approaching Spaniards.

Miguel tried to steady his breathing. His hands shook as he pressed himself against the tree bark.

Then, for the first time since arriving in this nightmare, a terrifying question formed in his mind.

If I'm stuck in 1898… how the hell do I get back?

Miguel "Migs" Ramirez had never been in a war.

Not the kind where bullets sliced through the air, screams filled the battlefield, and death lurked around every corner.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he pressed his back against a tree, trying to make sense of everything. Less than an hour ago, he had been standing in a futuristic laboratory in 2025. Now, he was dodging gunfire in a war that had already been written in history books.

But I'm not supposed to be here…

The revolutionaries around him moved with practiced efficiency, reloading their rifles, exchanging quick orders in whispers. The young man who had pulled him to safety was now crouched behind a fallen log, his rifle aimed at the Spanish soldiers advancing through the trees.

Miguel had studied the Philippine Revolution and the Spanish-American War, but experiencing it firsthand was completely different. The smell of gunpowder burned his nose, the screams of the wounded dug into his brain, and the thick humidity of the jungle made every breath feel heavier.

Then he heard it—a voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"Maghanda kayo! Sa hudyat ko, umatake!" (Prepare yourselves! Attack on my signal!)

Miguel turned toward the voice.

A man stood at the center of the revolutionaries. Tall, strong, and wearing a military-style uniform. He held a revolver in one hand and a sword in the other. His presence commanded respect. Even the injured soldiers seemed to find strength just from looking at him.

Miguel's breath caught in his throat.

Holy shit.

He was looking at General Emilio Aguinaldo.

The man who would lead the Philippines to victory against Spain.

The man who, in just a few weeks, would declare independence.

Miguel had seen Aguinaldo's pictures in textbooks, but seeing him in person—alive—was something else entirely.

But there was no time to be awed. The battle was raging.

Aguinaldo raised his sword. "Laban, mga kapatid! Para sa kalayaan!" (Fight, my brothers! For freedom!)

And the revolutionaries charged.

Caught in the Crossfire

Miguel had never been in a real fight before.

Sure, he had seen movies and read books about battle tactics, but nothing prepared him for the pure chaos that followed.

Gunfire erupted from both sides. Revolutionaries rushed forward, some firing rifles, others wielding bolos, slashing at Spanish soldiers in close combat. The Spaniards, dressed in their blue and white uniforms, fought back fiercely, using bayonets and sabers to keep the Filipinos at bay.

Miguel was frozen.

He had no weapon, no training, and no idea how to survive.

A nearby revolutionary—a man no older than twenty—suddenly cried out in pain, clutching his stomach where a bullet had torn through him. He fell to the ground, blood soaking into the dirt.

Miguel felt bile rise in his throat.

This wasn't a simulation. This was real war.

A sudden movement caught his eye—a Spanish soldier was running straight at him, bayonet raised.

Miguel's body reacted before his mind did. He ducked. The soldier's blade missed by inches, slicing through the air where Miguel's head had been.

Miguel scrambled backward, his hands searching for anything—a rock, a weapon—anything to defend himself.

Then—BANG!

The soldier jerked violently, his face twisting in pain. He collapsed, revealing the young revolutionary from before, the one with the scarred cheek.

He held a smoking rifle in his hands.

"Tumayo ka!" (Get up!) he barked at Miguel.

Miguel didn't argue. He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding.

The young man handed him a bolo. "Kung gusto mong mabuhay, gumamit ka niyan." (If you want to survive, use this.)

Miguel swallowed hard and took the weapon.

For the first time in his life, he was holding something meant to kill.

And the war was far from over.

The battle raged on, but the revolutionaries were outnumbered.

Miguel tried to stay low, moving where the young revolutionary ordered him to. His mind was still struggling to process everything. Why was he here? How had he traveled through time? And most importantly—was there a way back?

Then he heard Aguinaldo's voice again.

"Umatras tayo! Hindi ito ang tamang panahon!" (Fall back! This is not the time!)

The revolutionaries began retreating into the jungle.

Miguel turned to follow them—

BANG!

A sudden explosion knocked him off his feet. His head slammed against a rock, and darkness swallowed him whole.

At the Spanish Military Camp

When Miguel woke up, his entire body ached. His wrists were bound in thick rope, and the rough wood of a cart beneath him told him he was being transported somewhere.

He groggily opened his eyes, only to find himself surrounded by Spanish soldiers.

His heart stopped.

They had captured him.

Across from him, another prisoner sat, her hands bound just like his. She was a woman—Filipina, with wavy black hair and deep brown eyes filled with defiance.

Miguel recognized her face instantly.

Isabella de los Reyes.

Daughter of the famous writer and revolutionary propagandist Isabelo de los Reyes. A woman who, in historical records, had been imprisoned by the Spaniards for helping the revolution.

Miguel Ramirez sat in the back of the wooden prisoner cart, his wrists raw from the thick ropes binding him. The rhythmic creaking of the wheels against the dirt road echoed in his ears, mingling with the distant cries of the wounded and the muffled voices of Spanish soldiers marching alongside them.

Across from him, Isabella de los Reyes sat stiffly, her face set in defiant silence. Despite her disheveled appearance, she held herself with an air of quiet dignity.

Miguel's mind raced. He had studied history his whole life, but never had he been part of it.

Now, bound and at the mercy of the Spanish military, he realized just how different history was when you weren't reading it from a book.

How did I get here? More importantly—how do I get out?

He stole a glance at Isabella. If his memory served him right, she was supposed to be captured much later in the revolution. But here she was—already imprisoned.

That could only mean one thing: his presence had started altering history.

Miguel's gut twisted at the thought.

If history changed too much, what would that mean for the future?

And what would happen if he never made it back?

----

The prisoners were being transported to Intramuros, the walled city in Manila, where the Spanish kept their most dangerous captives. Miguel knew what that meant—torture, interrogations, and possibly execution.

As night fell, the convoy stopped at a small Spanish outpost for the soldiers to rest. The prisoners were roughly pulled from the cart and dragged into a makeshift holding cell—a small bamboo hut with nothing but dirt floors and a locked door.

Miguel collapsed against the wall, his wrists aching. Isabella sat beside him, her breathing steady despite their dire situation.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Miguel broke the silence. "You're Isabella de los Reyes."

She turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "And who are you?"

Miguel hesitated. Telling the truth—that he was a historian from the future—was out of the question.

"I… was captured with the revolutionaries," he said instead.

Isabella studied him carefully, as if sensing something was off. "You don't look like a soldier."

Miguel let out a dry laugh. "Because I'm not."

Silence stretched between them before Isabella spoke again, her voice lower this time. "Are you afraid?"

Miguel exhaled. "More than I've ever been."

Isabella nodded. "Good. That means you're still alive."

Something in her tone surprised him. There was no fear—only quiet determination.

Miguel wasn't sure if it was comforting or terrifying.

---

Outside the cell, Spanish soldiers drank and laughed around a small bonfire. The smell of roasted food drifted through the air, making Miguel's stomach twist with hunger.

Among them, a man stood out.

Dressed in an immaculate officer's uniform, he carried himself with the air of someone who was used to being in control. His sharp blue eyes scanned the area with a predator's gaze, and his neatly trimmed mustache twitched with amusement as he listened to the laughter of his men.

Miguel recognized him instantly.

Captain William Hartley.

An American officer working as a Spanish military advisor.

Miguel's chest tightened. This wasn't right.

Hartley wasn't supposed to be here yet. The American forces were still weeks away from their full involvement in the Philippine Revolution. If he was already here, that meant…

History was shifting.

Miguel turned to Isabella, lowering his voice. "Do you know that man?"

Isabella followed his gaze. When she saw Hartley, her expression darkened. "His name is Hartley. He works for the Spanish… for now."

Miguel frowned. "What do you mean, 'for now'?"

Isabella's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Rumors say the Americans will betray the Spaniards soon."

Miguel's mind whirled. She's right. The Spanish-American War would soon break out, and America would switch sides, allying with the Filipinos—only to colonize the Philippines themselves.

Hartley's presence here was proof that the Americans were already playing both sides.

But if history was already changing… would the Americans still betray Spain?

And if they didn't—what would happen to the Philippines?

---

The Escape Plan

Miguel knew one thing: they couldn't afford to reach Intramuros.

If they did, there was no guarantee they'd make it out alive.

Leaning toward Isabella, he whispered, "We need to escape."

She gave him a sharp look. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Miguel bit his lip. He had no weapons, no allies, and no idea how to navigate 19th-century military procedures.

But what he did have was knowledge.

Taking a deep breath, he whispered, "They'll let their guard down soon. Some will be drunk, some will sleep. That's when we strike."

Isabella arched an eyebrow. "And what do we use? Our fists?"

Miguel smirked. "No. We use their arrogance."

---

As expected, by midnight, most of the Spanish soldiers were either asleep or too drunk to stand properly.

Miguel's hands were still bound, but his fingers worked against the rope, rubbing it against the sharp edges of the bamboo wall. It was slow, painful work, but after what felt like hours, the rope finally loosened.

Miguel held back a grin. It worked.

He turned to Isabella and quickly untied her restraints.

She flexed her hands, nodding approvingly. "Not bad."

Miguel crawled to the locked door and pressed his ear against it. The guard outside was still awake, but his movements were sluggish.

Miguel took a deep breath. "Get ready."

Then, he slammed his shoulder against the bamboo wall.

The guard jerked in surprise, turning toward the sound. The moment he unlocked the door to check inside—

Isabella struck.

In a single fluid motion, she grabbed his collar and slammed his head against the wooden frame. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Miguel let out a breath of relief. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

Isabella smirked. "Too late for that."

They quickly grabbed the fallen soldier's weapons—a knife and a pistol with only two bullets.

Miguel whispered, "We need to steal horses."

Isabella nodded. "Then let's move."

---

Sneaking through the camp was easier than expected. Most of the soldiers were still passed out, and those who weren't were too busy arguing over a drunken card game.

Miguel and Isabella made their way to the corral, where a dozen horses were tied up. Miguel quickly untied one, hopping onto the saddle.

Isabella did the same, her movements smooth and practiced.

Miguel shot her a look. "You've done this before."

She smirked. "You haven't."

Before he could argue, a shout rang through the camp.

They had been spotted.

Miguel didn't hesitate. "Go!"

They kicked their horses into a full gallop, charging through the camp's open gates as bullets whizzed past them. Spanish soldiers scrambled, but in their drunken state, they were too slow.

Miguel's heart pounded as the wind rushed against his face. They had done it—they were free.

But as they disappeared into the dense jungle, one thought haunted him.

History had already started shifting.

And if it kept changing…

Would there even be a future left for him to return to?

May 1898 – Somewhere in the Philippine Jungle

The dense foliage pressed against Miguel's body as his horse tore through the undergrowth, the sound of snapping branches and rustling leaves mixing with the distant shouts of Spanish soldiers. His heart pounded as he stole a glance at Isabella, who rode beside him with the grace of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

They had escaped the Spanish outpost, but their troubles were far from over.

"We need to lose them before dawn," Isabella called over the thundering hooves.

Miguel gritted his teeth. The jungle was vast, but the Spanish had scouts, and they wouldn't stop hunting them until they were either recaptured or dead.

Somewhere behind them, gunfire cracked.

Miguel's horse whinnied in alarm as a bullet whizzed past.

"We have to split up!" Isabella shouted.

"What? No!" Miguel protested.

"They'll have a harder time tracking us if we separate. Trust me!"

Miguel hesitated. Splitting up meant a higher chance of survival… but also a higher chance of failure.

Isabella didn't wait for his answer. She veered left, disappearing into the thick jungle.

Miguel cursed under his breath but turned his horse in the opposite direction. Survival first. Regroup later.

---

The jungle became darker, the thick canopy blocking out the moonlight. Miguel urged his horse forward, branches slashing at his arms as he ducked low in the saddle.

Then, suddenly—the ground disappeared beneath him.

Miguel barely had time to react before he and his horse tumbled down a steep ravine. He hit the ground hard, pain exploding across his ribs as he rolled down the muddy slope. His horse cried out before crashing beside him, struggling to stand.

Miguel groaned, every part of his body aching. He coughed, tasting dirt and blood.

Above, the distant sounds of the Spanish search party grew fainter. Maybe the fall had saved him.

But now he had another problem—he was alone, injured, and lost in an unfamiliar time period.

Great.

---

Miguel forced himself to move, wincing as pain shot through his side. His horse had survived but had a slight limp—not good for a long escape.

Then he heard it. A rustling sound.

Miguel's breath caught as he turned toward the noise, his fingers tightening around the stolen pistol at his belt.

A figure emerged from the trees.

An elderly man, dressed in worn clothing, a simple hat shielding his wrinkled face. His sharp eyes studied Miguel carefully.

"You are not Spanish," the man said in Tagalog.

Miguel hesitated before answering. "No… I'm not."

The old man nodded slowly, then gestured. "Come with me."

Miguel hesitated. He had no idea if he could trust this man, but his options were limited.

Taking a deep breath, he followed.

---

Katipunan Rebel Camp, Philippine Jungle

The old man led him deeper into the jungle until they reached a small clearing where a makeshift camp had been set up. Tents and wooden huts dotted the area, and men and women—many of them armed—moved about with determined purpose.

Miguel's stomach twisted. This was a Katipunan hideout.

A group of rebels spotted them, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.

"Who is he?" one of them demanded.

"A lost soul," the old man replied.

Miguel raised his hands. "I mean no harm. I was captured by the Spanish and escaped."

The rebels exchanged wary glances.

Then, from the largest tent, a familiar figure emerged.

Miguel's breath caught.

General Emilio Aguinaldo.

---

Aguinaldo's sharp gaze settled on Miguel, studying him carefully. Despite his young age, the general carried himself with the weight of leadership.

"Who are you?" Aguinaldo asked.

Miguel struggled for an answer. Historian from the future probably wouldn't go over well.

"My name is Miguel," he said simply. "I fought against the Spanish."

Aguinaldo narrowed his eyes. "You do not look like a soldier."

Miguel sighed. "I get that a lot."

Aguinaldo glanced at the old man. "You trust him?"

The elder nodded. "I believe he is running from the same enemy as we are."

Aguinaldo considered this before finally nodding. "Then he stays."

Miguel let out a slow breath. He was safe—for now.

But as he looked at Aguinaldo, something gnawed at his mind.

He knew how history would play out.

Aguinaldo would win victories against the Spanish. But then, the Americans would arrive. They would promise friendship, only to take control of the country.

---

Miguel sat by the dying embers of a campfire, staring at his reflection in the metal cup of lukewarm water he held. His hands were still sore from the ropes that had once bound him, his ribs aching from the fall down the ravine.

But it wasn't the pain keeping him awake—it was the weight of what he knew.

Across the fire, General Emilio Aguinaldo was deep in discussion with his men, strategizing their next move against the Spanish forces still holding Manila. History was unfolding before Miguel's eyes.

He wanted to warn them.

Wanted to tell them that just months from now, Spain would surrender—but not to the Filipinos. That the Americans would swoop in, claim victory, and declare the Philippines as their new colony.

But would telling them even make a difference?

Or worse… would he make things worse?

Miguel exhaled sharply. If I interfere too much, I might erase my own future. But if he did nothing… he'd have to watch history repeat itself.

---

Aguinaldo approached, his sharp gaze assessing Miguel. "You've barely spoken since you arrived."

Miguel hesitated. "Just… a lot on my mind."

The general sat beside him. The air smelled of damp earth and burnt wood, and in the distance, the jungle hummed with the sounds of nocturnal creatures.

Aguinaldo spoke quietly. "We all have our burdens."

Miguel's fingers tightened around his cup. This was it. The moment he had to decide.

Slowly, he said, "What if I told you that Spain… isn't the only enemy you'll have to fight?"

Aguinaldo's eyes darkened. "Explain."

Miguel took a deep breath. "The Americans will arrive soon. They will claim to be your allies. They will help drive out the Spanish… but when the war is over, they won't leave."

Aguinaldo's jaw tensed. "You speak with certainty. How do you know this?"

Miguel hesitated. "Let's just say… I've seen things others haven't."

The general studied him carefully. "Are you saying the Americans will betray us?"

Miguel exhaled. "Yes."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Aguinaldo let out a quiet chuckle.

Miguel blinked. "Did I say something funny?"

Aguinaldo shook his head. "You are not the first to suspect them. Some of my men have voiced the same concerns." He turned serious again. "But we are at war. If the Americans can help us rid these lands of the Spaniards, then we will take that help."

Miguel's stomach twisted. "But what if—"

Aguinaldo held up a hand. "One war at a time."

Miguel clenched his jaw. One war at a time? But what if winning this war only meant losing the next one?

---

Before Miguel could say anything more, a loud whistle pierced the air.

The camp snapped to attention. Rebel soldiers scrambled for their weapons, their movements disciplined but swift.

A scout ran toward them, breathing heavily. "General! A messenger has arrived."

Aguinaldo straightened. "From whom?"

The scout hesitated. "From the Americans."

Miguel's heart stopped. It's happening.

The camp tensed as a figure stepped into the firelight.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with piercing blue eyes and a polished uniform. His boots barely had a speck of dirt, and he carried himself with the ease of someone who knew he had power.

Miguel recognized him immediately.

Captain William Hartley.

The same man he had seen at the Spanish outpost.

The same man who shouldn't have been here this early.

History was shifting.

Hartley's lips curled into a practiced smile. "General Aguinaldo, I presume?"

Aguinaldo stepped forward, nodding. "You are?"

Hartley removed his hat, giving a slight bow. "Captain William Hartley of the United States Army. I come bearing a message from Commodore George Dewey."

Miguel stiffened. Dewey was the American admiral who would destroy the Spanish fleet in Manila Bay.

The invasion had begun.

Hartley continued, his voice smooth. "The United States sees your struggle. We admire your bravery. We wish to extend our hand in friendship and offer our assistance in your fight against Spain."

Miguel could barely breathe. This was the moment that would define everything.

Aguinaldo eyed the captain warily. "And what do you ask in return?"

Hartley chuckled. "Only that we work together as allies. After all, we share a common enemy."

Miguel's hands clenched into fists. Liar.

Aguinaldo nodded slowly. "Then we shall see if our interests truly align."

Miguel wanted to scream.

Hartley's smile widened. "I am confident they will."

---

That night, as the camp settled, Miguel watched from the shadows as Hartley spoke with a few American officers who had accompanied him.

Miguel edged closer, straining to hear.

"…ensure they don't suspect anything yet," Hartley was saying. "Dewey wants them cooperative until the city is secured."

Miguel's blood ran cold. Until the city is secured.

The Americans didn't plan on handing over Manila.

They were just waiting for the right moment to take it for themselves.

Miguel backed away carefully—only to step on a loose twig.

Snap.

Hartley's head snapped toward him. His sharp eyes locked onto Miguel's.

Miguel's breath hitched.

For a second, neither moved.

Then Hartley's expression shifted into a slow smirk.

"Eavesdropping, are we?"

Miguel's heart pounded.

Before he could react, Hartley moved.

In a flash, the captain had him by the collar, slamming him against a tree.

"I don't know who you are," Hartley murmured, his grip tight, "but you have the look of a man who knows more than he should."

Miguel forced himself to stay calm. "You're mistaken."

Hartley studied him, then smirked. "Perhaps."

Then he released Miguel, patting his shoulder. "Be careful where you step, my friend. You never know who might be listening."

Miguel swallowed hard as Hartley walked away, his message clear.

He knew Miguel was a threat.

And in this time period… threats didn't live long.

---

Miguel sat alone by the fire, his thoughts racing.

Hartley was onto him.

The Americans were already manipulating Aguinaldo.

And history was shifting faster than Miguel could keep up.

He had tried to warn Aguinaldo. But would it be enough?

Or was he already too late to stop the betrayal?

One thing was certain.

Miguel had interfered too much already.

And now, history was looking back at him.