Weeks had passed since the mountain tribes pledged their first warriors. Word of Elijah's survival—once just a whisper among the scattered remnants of the Katipunan—was now spreading across valleys, forests, and villages like wildfire.
Small rebel cells, previously leaderless and demoralized, were starting to move again. Messages were passed in coded letters hidden in bread loaves. Arms smuggled in from old Spanish caches reappeared in the hands of determined farmers. The war wasn't over—not yet.
In a temporary encampment north of Nueva Vizcaya, Elijah stood before a group of twenty new recruits. They were young, some barely old enough to remember the Spanish retreat, but their eyes burned with conviction.
"You are not soldiers of empire," Elijah began, voice rising over the sound of wind and fire. "You are guardians of your homeland. You fight not for gold, nor glory—but so that the generations after us may not kneel again."
The recruits raised their fists in silent salute.
Isa watched from the side, a quiet pride in her eyes. She had helped train the scouts, instilling in them discipline and awareness. Eli-Ah, meanwhile, oversaw tactical coordination—mapping the locations of enemy supply lines and identifying vulnerable American outposts in the northern valleys.
What had started as a whisper was becoming a movement.
Strikes and Sabotage
The first coordinated action was swift.
A small American checkpoint guarding a railway depot in Pangasinan was raided at midnight. Guerillas emerged from the jungle, disabling the telegraph lines and overwhelming the outpost before the garrison could mount a defense.
By dawn, the station was in flames and the resistance had captured precious ammunition and food supplies.
More importantly, they left behind a message scrawled in blood-red paint:
"The Revolution Lives."
The attack sent a ripple of fear through the American command. They had believed the northern provinces pacified—quiet and broken. But now, whispers of a "general from the future" and a band of mountain warriors haunted their reports.
Tensions Within
Back at the rebel camp, a council of leaders was convened under a bamboo shelter. Representatives from the Ilocanos, the Kalinga warriors, and the scattered remnants of the former Tagalog factions sat in a loose circle. Maps lay between them, marked with red Xs and charcoal notes.
Elijah addressed them calmly, confidently. "We cannot afford to act like fragmented provinces. The Americans will exploit every crack in our alliance. We must fight as one."
An older Ilocano chief narrowed his eyes. "And what of Manila? Aguinaldo still rules from the south. Will he share command with a ghost from the mountains?"
Eli-Ah, standing at Elijah's side, leaned forward. "Aguinaldo is not the enemy—but he is surrounded. Cut off. We must become the hand that strikes where he cannot."
The chief considered, then slowly nodded.
After the meeting, as the leaders dispersed, Elijah walked with Isa through the forest edge. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting silver shadows across her face.
"You speak like a leader now," she said with a faint smile.
"I didn't ask to be one," Elijah replied, sighing. "But if I don't lead, who will?"
Isa touched his arm lightly. "Sometimes we are forged by what we must become."
Their eyes met for a moment—lingering, uncertain—but before anything could be said, a call rang out from the lookout post.
"A messenger approaches!"
The Call from the South
The rider arrived dust-covered and half-exhausted, but his message was clear: a large-scale American offensive was being prepared from Manila—one aimed at cutting off all rebel activity in the north.
"The railway lines are being cleared. Artillery is being moved," he gasped. "They know something's happening up here."
Elijah absorbed the news in silence.
"If they come in force," Isa said, "we won't be able to hold them—not without the lowland towns."
Eli-Ah stepped forward, voice sharp. "Then we have to act first. Take the initiative. Show them we won't be pushed back into the hills."
Elijah nodded slowly. "It's time we show them that the fire they tried to stamp out is alive—and spreading."
He turned to the map, eyes locking on a key location: Tarlac, the old seat of the first Philippine Republic.
"If we take Tarlac," he said, "we reclaim our voice—and the people will listen."
Embers in the Wind
That night, preparations began for a full campaign southward. Runners were sent to friendly towns, weapons distributed, and alliances reaffirmed.
Isa watched Elijah from afar as he worked tirelessly, strategizing, delegating, inspiring. Her chest tightened with something unspoken, something she had pushed down for weeks.
Eli-Ah, too, stood quietly, watching the man at the center of the storm. The man who had changed everything—and who was changing still.
Neither of them said a word. But in the silence, the triangle of hearts began to tilt, pull, and stir.
The revolution burned hotter than ever—but so did the questions of the heart, flickering in the shadows of war.