The revolution didn’t end with the truth.

  It began with it.

  Across Neo-Filipinas, the newly awakened data from La Liga ignited spontaneous protests, mass power shifts, and rogue elements within Friarcore defecting to the people's cause.

  But in the mountains—far from noise and celebration—two men stood before a fire, surrounded by silence.

  Jose Rizal sat cross-legged, watching the flames crackle.

  Beside him, Andres Bonifacio nursed a deep plasma burn under layers of herbal gauze.

  They didn’t speak at first.

  They simply were two sons of a shattered motherland.

  Two ghosts made flesh again.

  “Funny,” Bonifacio finally said, voice raspy. “They always thought we hated each other.”

  Rizal didn’t look up. “They even forgot our original timeline.”

  “Exactly,” Bonifacio smirked. “They turned us into myths. Heroes who will never crossed paths again. But here we are. Real. Burned. Tired.”

  Rizal chuckled faintly. “And not nearly as graceful as the textbooks made us seem.”

  Bonifacio turned serious. “Tell me something, Jose. Why didn’t you lead it yourself—the uprising?”

  Rizal took a long pause.

  “I believed in change through awakening. Not destruction. My words were meant to spark thought—not blood.”

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  Bonifacio stared at the fire.

  “But blood is what woke the people up.”

  Rizal nodded slowly. “And maybe... maybe both were necessary.”

  “You write,” Bonifacio said, “like a man who’s trying to save the soul of a country.”

  “And you fight,” Rizal replied, “like a man trying to save its heart.”

  Then Bonifacio leaned forward, his voice gentler.

  “I used to envy you. Your books, your travels, the way people listened to you. I was just a warehouse worker, trying to organize a secret brotherhood in alleyways.”

  Rizal turned, meeting his eyes.

  “I envied you too. Your courage. Your conviction. You risked everything when I still hesitated.”

  Bonifacio scoffed. “We were both fools.”

  “But we’re still here,” Rizal said softly. “And this time… we lead together.”

  Bonifacio cracked a rare, tired grin. “Brotherhood.”

  Later that night, Rizal sat by lamplight, pen in hand.

  This time, he didn’t write a novel or a manifesto.

  Just a letter. A quiet entry.

  Not for the world, but for the future.

  To the children of the revolution,

  We did not rise to be heroes. We rose because the truth could no longer be buried. We rose because silence would have killed us faster than the bullets.

  My name is Jose Rizal. I was a doctor, a writer, a dreamer. And I walked alongside a man of fire.

  His name was Andres Bonifacio. He was not perfect. Neither was I. But together, we lit the path.

  If you read this one day—know that we fought not to be remembered… but to remind you.

  The country is you.

  The revolution never ends.

  It only changes form.

  At dawn, the rebel camp stirred.

  Oryang brought news—resistance cells were asking for guidance.

  Some wanted to rebuild, others wanted to strike while Friarcore reeled.

  There were rumors that a corrupted clone of Aguinaldo still controlled half the archipelago’s air defenses.

  But Rizal and Bonifacio didn’t answer immediately.

  They stood on a cliff’s edge, looking at the sunrise breaking through the fog.

  “You know,” Bonifacio said, “when I died the first time, it was in betrayal. My own people turned on me.”

  “I know,” Rizal said quietly.

  “And now,” he continued, “I have a second life. A second revolution. But part of me still fears… it’ll end the same way.”

  Rizal placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “This time, we write the ending ourselves.”

  Bonifacio looked out at the new world, the battle half-won, the dream unfinished.

  And he smiled.

  For the first time in centuries, they are fighting for freedom again.