The safehouse flickered under unstable power.

  Every few seconds, the lights pulsed like a dying heartbeat, casting shadows that danced along the concrete walls.

  Jose Rizal stood near a cracked terminal, analyzing blueprints of the city that had once been his home—now unrecognizable beneath layers of steel, smog, and silence.

  A place where old heroes were forgotten, and new tyrants wore masks made of chrome.

  “Whatever happened to the people?” Rizal muttered. “They’ve lost their language, their history, their fire.”

  Bonifacio sat on a rusted crate, bolos laid across his knees like loyal dogs. “The fire’s still there,” he said, “but it’s buried under propaganda and neon distractions.”

  The terminal beeped, drawing Rizal’s attention.

  Lines of code scrolled down the screen: surveillance data, encrypted transmissions, and military orders signed by an all-too-familiar symbol.

  A white cross inside a black triangle.

  Bonifacio stood quickly. “You found something?”

  Rizal nodded grimly. “They’re called the Friarcore. A private military order operating under the Central Authority. Elite enforcers trained in psychological control, energy weapons, and suppression of ‘cultural insurgency.’”

  “Cultural insurgency,” Bonifacio repeated. “That’s what they’re calling resistance now?”

  “Or remembering,” Rizal added. “They’re hunting anyone who tries to remind the people of what came before.”

  Bonifacio stepped closer to the screen. “They move like a cult. But they have tech. Money. Soldiers. Who’s leading them?”

  Rizal paused, then clicked a name that appeared across the screen in bold, flickering red.

  “Fray Damaso Veritas.”

  Bonifacio’s grip on his blades tightened.

  “Damaso?” he said, almost spitting. “Like the friar from your book?”

  Rizal’s expression darkened. “It’s not just a name anymore. It’s a persona—adopted by every high-ranking officer in the Friarcore. This one… Veritas… He’s the most dangerous of them. They use his sermons to program fear into people. Broadcast them in schools. Temples. Even hospitals.”

  Bonifacio paced. “So what’s the plan? We kill him?”

  “Eventually,” Rizal said. “But first, we find his network hub. If we take out their control node, we cripple their reach.”

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  Bonifacio raised a brow. “You sound like a strategist now.”

  Rizal allowed himself the faintest smile. “Brains and blades, remember?”

  A sudden, high-pitched alarm shattered the moment. A red light blinked on the wall: Breached Entry Detected – Sector 7.

  Bonifacio was up in a flash. “They found us.”

  “No,” Rizal said. “They found me.”

  At Neo-Tondo Sector 7.

  Hover-bikes descended like vultures, casting their glow over the crumbling ruins of old tenements.

  Marching through the smoke was a squad of black-armored Friarcore enforcers, each bearing the white cross on their helmets.

  Leading them was Fray Damaso Veritas.

  He stood nearly seven feet tall, his armor plated with white marble-like panels etched with Latin and .

  His face was hidden by a gold-plated mask, shaped like a priest’s skull.

  His voice echoed from hidden speakers—rich, deep, dripping with false sanctity.

  “Brothers,” Veritas said, “our data confirms the presence of Heritage-Class Targets in this district.”

  His men bowed.

  “May we cleanse with fire,” they chanted.

  Veritas lifted a scepter-like weapon.

  At its tip was a relic of the past—a crucifix fused with a plasma core.

  “Begin the sweep.”

  Back at the Safehouse.

  Rizal and Bonifacio raced through the underground tunnels.

  Every few meters, Rizal used his pen to draw symbols in the air—disabling traps, triggering old resistance doors, marking escape routes in invisible ink that only his tech could read.

  “You really don’t carry a weapon?” Bonifacio asked between breaths.

  Rizal glanced down at his glowing pen. “I’ve learned the power of words. But yes—this world demands more.”

  He tapped the pen’s side.

  A blade of light emerged from the tip, humming softly.

  Bonifacio laughed. “Now that’s more like it.”

  Suddenly, the wall ahead exploded.

  A Friarcore unit stormed in, weapons drawn.

  Bonifacio didn’t hesitate—he charged headlong, blades spinning in a deadly dance.

  He moved with the fury of a forgotten god, each strike fueled by the memory of oppression.

  Rizal darted through the chaos, weaving between enemies and striking with precision.

  His pen-blade sliced through circuits, disabling armor systems with surgical precision.

  A voice echoed overhead.

  “I see you, Jose Rizal,” Veritas said. “You should have stayed dead.”

  Bonifacio growled. “They know your name.”

  “They know both our names,” Rizal replied. “We’re relics of a past they’ve tried to erase.”

  Veritas’s voice continued: “You were executed once for treason, Rizal. Would you like to die again?”

  Rizal paused, lifting his pen toward a security drone.

  “No,” he said. “This time… I write the ending.”

  He jabbed the pen into the drone’s interface.

  A flood of data rushed through him.

  Blueprints, troop movements, satellite positions—everything the Friarcore had been hiding.

  Bonifacio stared. “What did you just do?”

  Rizal turned. “I found their cathedral.”

  At Neo-Intramuros – The Cathedral of Silence.

  A sleek fortress of white steel rose from the old ruins of Intramuros, transformed into a base of operations for the Friarcore.

  At its peak, a holographic cross rotated slowly, scanning the skies.

  Inside, Veritas watched the data breach unfold.

  “They’re coming here,” he said with calm certainty.

  An aide approached nervously. “Should we activate the Omega Protocol?”

  Veritas turned, removing his mask. His face was surprisingly young, beautiful even, but cold—soulless.

  “No,” he said. “Let them come. I want to face them myself.”

  Bonifacio and Rizal regrouped on a rooftop overlooking Neo-Intramuros.

  “We go in tomorrow,” Bonifacio said. “Strike at dawn. Like old times.”

  Rizal looked out over the city, its skyline lit not by stars but surveillance drones.

  “I spent my life trying to awaken the soul of this country,” he said. “Maybe I failed.”

  “You didn’t fail,” Bonifacio replied. “You lit the first fire. Now we fan the flames.”

  Silence passed between them.

  “Jose,” Bonifacio asked softly, “Do you think we’re ghosts? Or… chosen ones?”

  Rizal turned to him.

  “I think we’re echoes of the past,” he said. “The ones that refuse to fade.”