Rain fell sideways in Neo-Manila.

  It wasn't water, not really—more like a chemical mist, glowing faintly blue as it hissed against metal rooftops.

  Neon signs buzzed in Tagalog, Bisaya, Ilocano, forgotten tongues now preserved only in code.

  Somewhere deep beneath the city, past crumbling archives and abandoned MRT tunnels, something ancient stirred.

  Jose Rizal awoke.

  {Jose's POV}

  He sat up suddenly, lungs gasping like he had just surfaced from drowning.

  His clothes—foreign yet familiar—clung to him: a long coat trimmed in electric silver, stylized after a 19th-century barong.

  Around his neck hung a pen.

  No, not an ordinary pen.

  It pulsed. Like it had a heartbeat.

  "What is this place...?" he whispered.

  As he stumbled forward, flickers of memory flashed across his mind like holograms—his mother's soft voice, the sting of exile in Dapitan, the blinding flash before the gunfire at Bagumbayan.

  He should be dead.

  Instead, the pen in his hand came to life, projecting a glowing script into the air. Words formed:

  "You are needed once more, Jose."

  He turned sharply at the sound of distant shouting.

  A street gang—faces masked, armed with crude digital blades—was closing in on a lone figure. his eyes widened.

  The man wielded two glowing bolos, fighting not just with strength but with fury.

  That stance. That fire.

  "Andres...?" he breathed.

  The warrior turned. Their eyes locked.

  "Jose?" his old friend said in surprise. "How are we even here? And what is this place? Can you fight?"

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He stepped forward, lifting the pen like a sword. It shimmered with energy.

  "I'm a writer," he said softly, "but I remember how to fight."

  The clang of steel rang like thunder in the alleyways of Neo-Tondo.

  {Andres' POV}

  Andres Bonifacio didn't remember being born into this world—but he sure as hell knew how to survive in it.

  The moment he opened his eyes in a gutter two nights ago, instincts kicked in.

  His calloused hands reached for anything sharp.

  Two bolos shimmered beside him like old friends, their hilts marked with the ancient seal of the Katipunan—three bold K's in a circle.

  Now, those blades sang as he moved.

  "Come on, then!" he roared, slicing through the air as the gang circled him.

  They were scavengers, half-human, half-modded, dressed in synthetic street armor and neon tattoos.

  They fought dirty.

  Fast. But not smart.

  He ducked, parried, then flipped one over his shoulder.

  The sound of cracking ribs was familiar—sickening, maybe, but necessary.

  "Fighting for scraps," he muttered, spitting blood. "They don't even know who the real enemy is."

  A flash of movement caught his eye. Not one of them.

  This one wore a long coat, glowing faintly with old-world elegance.

  He stood oddly—like a man out of place. And he carried no real weapon. Just a glowing pen.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  "Jose?" the man said in surprise. "How are we even here? And what is this place? Can you fight?"

  His old friend didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped forward, lifting the pen like it was Excalibur.

  "I'm a writer," the man said, "but I remember how to fight."

  For a moment, he laughed.

  A soft, disbelieving chuckle.

  "You're crazy," he muttered. "Or you hit your head too hard."

  The sound of hover-drones echoed in the sky—police units scanning for resistance.

  He said quickly. "Come with me, if we want to live long enough."

  He turned and sprinted down the side street, motioning for his friend to follow.

  Behind them, the alley dissolved into smoke and static, like the city itself wanted to erase what had just happened.

  [At Katipunan Safehouse, Neo-Tondo Underground.]

  The safehouse was built into the remnants of an old train station.

  Vines crawled over broken monitors.

  Graffiti of old revolutionaries painted the walls—names only history books remembered.

  Except these two... remembered it all.

  Andres leaned against a crate, wiping blood off his blades.

  "Is that really you my friend?"

  "Jose Protacio Rizal in the flesh," the man said calmly.

  Andres blinked. Once. Twice.

  "No. That's not possible. They said your remains were exhumed and... I watched the world mourn you. And then I died the next year."

  "And I think the world already forget about us," Jose replied. "But here we are."

  Silence fell between them, heavy and sharp.

  Then, Andres stood and said: "If you really are Jose... then I guess we've got work to do."