Night fell heavy over the camp. The generators sputtered out one by one, plunging the tents and tarps into darkness broken only by scattered candles. The air hummed with tension—families whispering prayers, soldiers muttering into radios that no longer reached anyone, children crying softly in the shadows.
Ulysses sat against the trunk of a tree, the boy curled up beside him, head on his lap. The child had fallen asleep, but his small fists still clutched Ulysses's shirt as though letting go meant being swallowed by the night.
Ulysses should have rested too, but his mind refused to still. His notebook lay open on his knees, the pages smeared and wrinkled. By candlelight, he scrawled:
Manila fractures. Government falters. Prophets rise. Fear gnaws at the edges of order. This is no longer disaster reporting—it is chronicling the unraveling of nations.
He paused, staring at the words until they blurred. Once, he had dreamed of writing stories that mattered, stories that shook the powerful. But this—this wasn't a story. It was the end of all stories.
A shadow fell across him. He looked up to see the priest—the same one from the bay, cassock torn, face lined with exhaustion yet eyes burning with conviction.
"You again," Ulysses whispered.
The priest nodded. "God keeps putting you in my path."
"I don't think it's God," Ulysses muttered. "Just bad luck."
The priest crouched beside him, glancing at the sleeping boy. His voice softened. "You saved him. That is not bad luck. That is calling."
Ulysses clenched his jaw. "I'm a journalist. My job is to write, not save the world."
The priest studied him, then said quietly: "Sometimes, the pen is heavier than the sword. And sometimes, God chooses even the unwilling to be His witness."
The words struck deeper than Ulysses wanted to admit. He closed his notebook, hiding the shaky handwriting. "If God wanted a witness, He should've chosen someone who still believes."
The priest gave a tired smile. "Belief is not always a requirement. Survival is."
Before Ulysses could respond, a burst of shouting echoed from the far side of the camp. He saw flashlights darting through the crowd, soldiers dragging away a group of men. One of the men shouted, "The government lies! They will abandon you all!" The soldiers struck him down with rifle butts, hauling him away.
The camp murmured uneasily. Some looked to the soldiers for protection. Others looked to the prophets. The air felt like dry tinder, waiting for the next spark.
Ulysses's chest tightened. He realized something chilling: the government and the prophets weren't just clashing with words. They were beginning a war over who would rule the ruins.
And in the middle stood people like him—and the boy—caught between hunger, fear, and the unbearable weight of hope.
He pulled the child closer, whispering more to himself than to the boy:
"The nations are breaking apart… and if we're not careful, so will we."
The red moon still glowed above the camp, unmoved by prayers, bullets, or tears.
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End of Chapter 16