The rebel base had gone quiet.

  Not out of fear—but anticipation.

  The keys had been retrieved.

  The coordinates decoded.

  La Liga, the lost archive of the Republic, now shimmered in orbit like a forgotten constellation waiting to be reborn.

  But before takeoff, two men found themselves alone—facing not the battle ahead, but the shadows of the past.

  Jose Rizal sat beneath a rusted telescope dome, staring into the endless sky.

  He wore a long coat lined with digital parchment, and his writing stylus pulsed faint blue beside a worn leather notebook.

  He wasn’t writing.

  He was remembering.

  “I was a doctor. A writer. A reformist.”

  His voice was quiet, but the dome echoed it back like a prayer.

  “I believed words could change the world. That ideas, once planted, could not be killed.”

  He opened his notebook, flipping through scanned fragments of Noli Me Tangere. He traced a line with his finger:

  “There are no tyrants where there are no slaves.”

  But now, he saw that ideal blurred.

  He’d ignited a rebellion by hacking the memory stream.

  He’d watched his words become weapons.

  And still, the world spun with war.

  He looked up.

  “Am I the cause… or the cure?”

  Behind him, Oryang approached quietly. “The cure always hurts before it heals.”

  Rizal managed a weak smile. “Bonifacio would’ve just punched that thought into the wall.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But he still followed your words.”

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  Rizal turned back to the sky. “I just hope this time, we get to write the ending together.”

  Andres Bonifacio sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening his bolo with a worn leather strap.

  His gaze was fixed—not on the blade, but on an old, frayed red cloth resting beside him.

  The Katipunan banner.

  The last real one.

  He’d sewn it with his own hands under candlelight, before the first cry of revolution.

  He still remembered the feel of it, heavy with hope.

  Before betrayal. Before exile. Before history buried him in martyrdom and myths.

  He spoke quietly to the cloth.

  “I followed you to the end. But maybe… this time, I lead beyond it.”

  He stood, wrapping the blade and the banner together.

  “I’ve died once. Not again.”

  The rebels had restored an old solar-rigged orbital pod—once property of the Americans, later stolen by Friarcore, and now liberated for a single purpose: reaching La Liga.

  Oryang briefed the crew—Rizal, Bonifacio, and herself.

  “The station is unmanned. But if Aguinaldo intercepted our signal, we won’t be alone.”

  Mabini’s voice came through their comms.

  “I’ve rerouted most orbital satellites to shield your path. But once inside La Liga, you’ll need to upload the Republic Core into the mainframe. No mistakes.”

  Rizal nodded. “We won’t fail.”

  Bonifacio looked out at the sea of clouds. “We can’t.”

  The pod broke the atmosphere in silence.

  Outside, Earth glimmered—a wounded pearl in blackness.

  They approached the derelict La Liga station, its hull flickering with dim nationalist lights.

  The solar wings bore the Katipunan insignia—though faded from time and neglect.

  Bonifacio muttered, “Still standing. Just like us.”

  They docked with the main chamber.

  As they stepped inside, the walls came to life.

  Holograms. Memories. Crystalline archives of the First Republic.

  Old broadcasts of real voices: Mabini, Del Pilar, Luna.

  And at the heart—a throne of code and light, awaiting the final key.

  Rizal took out the Seal.

  Bonifacio input his genetic cipher.

  The system hummed.

  “Almost there,” Oryang said. “Just one more confirmation from the last key…”

  Suddenly—the lights dimmed.

  A new presence entered the station.

  Aguinaldo.

  Projected through a combat drone, clad in golden armor, flanked by assault AIs.

  “You think you can rewrite me?” his voice boomed.

  Bonifacio drew his bolo. “We’re not rewriting you. We’re remembering everything.”

  Aguinaldo’s drone raised its cannon. “Then die with your memories.”

  Blades clashed with steel.

  Rizal fought with precision, evading turret blasts and defending the console.

  Bonifacio held the line, charging through guards like a storm.

  Oryang reconnected the core. “One minute to full upload!”

  Aguinaldo’s drone fired a plasma blast—Bonifacio dove in the way, taking the hit.

  Rizal caught him. “Andres—!”

  “I’m fine,” Bonifacio groaned. “But finish it!”

  Oryang screamed, “It’s done!”

  The station pulsed.

  Across Neo-Filipinas, every screen flickered.

  Friarcore feeds dissolved.

  Aguinaldo’s false history shattered.

  In its place: The Original Republic Archives.

  Unedited. Raw. Real.

  Rizal’s letters.

  Bonifacio’s speeches.

  Mabini’s constitution.

  The cries of those never named in textbooks.

  The nation watched.

  And wept.

  Truth had returned.

  The rebel pod crashed gently back to Earth, landing in a rice field lit with rebel torches.

  Bonifacio limped out first, the old Katipunan banner draped over his shoulder.

  Rizal followed, blinking at the stars.

  Oryang turned to them. “So what now?”

  Bonifacio looked at the crowd gathering—students, farmers, workers, dreamers.

  “Now,” he said, “we build the future.”