The revolution had gone viral.

  Across the shattered sprawl of Neo-Filipinas, screens once dominated by Friarcore broadcasts now played something else—memories. Real ones.

  Grainy footage of rallies from centuries ago.

  Passages from Noli Me Tangere.

  Images of Bonifacio holding the first printed copy of Kalayaan.

  Children watched from neon-lit schools.

  Elders wept in silence.

  Hacktivists and historians wept together in joy.

  But not everyone celebrated.

  Power hates a vacuum.

  And in the ruins left by the fall of the Friarcore’s Cathedral, a new flag rose—emblazoned with the sun, twelve golden rays, and a sharp-eyed hawk.

  Bonifacio stared at the transmission on the wall.

  A sleek, armored figure stood on a makeshift balcony before a crowd of augmented soldiers.

  His voice, amplified and perfectly modulated, cut through the static.

  “I am General Emilio Aguinaldo,” he declared. “And I offer order in the chaos.”

  Oryang crossed her arms. “He’s fast.”

  Rizal frowned. “And armed.”

  The man on the screen wore a fusion of old general’s regalia and high-tech exosuit plating—white and gold, trimmed with red.

  His voice was full of promises:

  Protection.

  National unity.

  Control of the memory stream.

  Bonifacio’s jaw tensed. “He’s doing it again.”

  Oryang glanced at him. “Yeah. Nothing changed.”

  "You've met him before?", Rizal asked

  Bonifacio did not answer him immediately.

  He turned toward the edge of the balcony and looked out over the valley where rebel camps flickered with new hope.

  “We fought side by side,” he finally said. “Once. He called me brother. Then gave the order.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “What order?”

  Bonifacio turned his eyes to Rizal, “To have me executed.”

  Flashback — Bonifacio’s Past.

  In a different time.

  A different world.

  Bonifacio on his knees, arms tied, shirt soaked in blood.

  A kangaroo court under the palm trees.

  A younger Aguinaldo looked down at him, face unreadable.

  “I’m sorry,” Aguinaldo said. “But the people need one voice.”

  Bonifacio spat at the dirt. “Then you’re not the leader they need.”

  Present Day – Rebel Hideout.

  Bonifacio’s hand curled into a fist.

  “He’s built a private army from the ruins of the Friarcore. Reprogrammed their tech, claimed he’s restoring the republic.”

  “And people are listening,” Rizal added. “He’s offering safety. Structure.”

  “Under his rule,” Bonifacio snapped. “He doesn’t want a free country. He wants a throne.”

  Oryang walked over to the tactical map. “If we don’t respond, he takes Metro-Kawit next. That gives him full control of the central memory routers.”

  Rizal tapped his pen against the table. “Then we don’t let him reach it.”

  Bonifacio looked at them both. “No. I go first.”

  Rizal frowned. “Alone?”

  “I need to face him,” Bonifacio said. “He knew me in another life. Maybe I can get through to him. If not…”

  Oryang raised an eyebrow. “You’ll kill him?”

  “I’ll stop him.”

  At Metro-Kawit Skystation.

  Bonifacio arrived under cover of fog.

  Oryang’s tech mask kept him invisible from drones.

  Rizal stayed connected via uplink, guiding him.

  “His HQ’s at the old Independence Hall—what’s left of it,” Rizal said through the comm. “You’re heading into enemy territory.”

  “I’ve been here before,” Bonifacio whispered.

  Aguinaldo’s banner flew high above the marble ruins, surrounded by plasma shields and AI turrets.

  Bonifacio slipped past patrols, scaling the wall like a shadow.

  Inside, the hall had changed.

  Once a symbol of freedom, now a war room.

  And there he was.

  Emilio Aguinaldo.

  Older. Harder. But the same calculating eyes.

  “I wondered if you’d come,” Aguinaldo said, turning around.

  Bonifacio stepped forward. “You always did like to stand in the middle of history.”

  Aguinaldo smiled faintly. “And you always tried to burn it down.”

  Their silence was heavy—centuries thick.

  “Why are you doing this?” Bonifacio asked. “You’ve already won.”

  Aguinaldo motioned to the holographic map. “I’ve restored order. The country is waking up. But they need a hand to guide them.”

  “They need freedom.”

  “They need leadership,” Aguinaldo snapped. “Not chaos. Not poets. Not martyrs. They need someone willing to do what you and Rizal never could—rule.”

  Bonifacio stepped closer, hand on the hilt of his blade.

  “You betrayed me once.”

  “I saved the revolution,” Aguinaldo replied coldly. “And I’ll do it again—without you, if necessary.”

  Bonifacio’s voice lowered. “Then say it. You’d kill me again.”

  Aguinaldo’s voice was almost a whisper. “If I must.”

  The lights dimmed.

  Two ghosts of revolution faced each other—one with blades drawn, the other with a pulse-saber crackling to life.

  Rizal’s voice came through Bonifacio’s comm. “Wait for extraction—don’t do this alone.”

  But Bonifacio didn’t answer.

  The blades met.

  Sparks flew.

  Marble cracked.

  History repeated.

  Bonifacio fought with raw fire—rage and righteousness.

  Aguinaldo countered with technique, precision, and cold ambition.

  “You think history favors the noble!” Aguinaldo shouted. “But it only remembers the victor!”

  Bonifacio locked his blades with Aguinaldo’s. “Then I’ll carve my memory into the walls myself!”

  A sudden flashbang burst from above.

  Smoke filled the hall.

  Oryang dropped in from a ventilation shaft, dragging Bonifacio back as turrets activated.

  “Next time, warn me before starting a duel with a general!” she shouted.

  They escaped into the night—barely.

  Back at the Rebel Camp.

  Bonifacio sat, bloodied and quiet.

  Rizal patched his arm.

  Oryang stood guard.

  “You couldn’t kill him,” Rizal said softly.

  “No,” Bonifacio admitted. “But I saw it in his eyes. He won’t stop.”

  Rizal looked up at the stars—faint behind smog.

  “Then we write a different ending this time.”

  Bonifacio nodded. “Together.”