Morning broke, but the sky refused to brighten. Clouds hung low and bruised, and the red moon still glared faintly through them, as if mocking the sun. The camp stirred with unease. No one had slept well; the air was thick with whispers of betrayal, of visions, of hunger that gnawed deeper each hour.
Ulysses rose stiffly, brushing dirt from his clothes. The boy was awake, rubbing his eyes. He offered him the last crumbs of their ration, but the child shook his head. "You eat, Kuya. You're bigger. You need it more."
The words struck Ulysses harder than hunger. He split the crumbs anyway, forcing half into the boy's hand. "We share. Always."
As they ate, a stir rippled across the camp. People rose, craning their necks toward the monument. A man had climbed the steps, tall and gaunt, hair slicked back with rainwater, his clothes tattered but his presence commanding. He held no weapon, only a battered Bible raised high above his head.
His voice carried like thunder:
"Brothers and sisters! Do you not see the signs? The seas roar, the nations tremble, the moon bleeds! The governments fail you because they cannot command the heavens. But the Son of Man is coming—in power, in glory—and you must prepare!"
The crowd murmured, then erupted—some with cheers, some with jeers. Soldiers watched uneasily from the edges, hands tightening on their rifles.
Ulysses scribbled in his notebook: A new voice rises. Not the ragged prophets of the streets, but something stronger, magnetic. The people lean toward him. Even the doubters cannot look away.
The man continued, his voice a whip and a balm at once:
"Do not put your trust in rulers who flee to their bunkers, nor in soldiers who point guns at starving children. Trust only in the One who rides the clouds, whose glory will soon split the sky. Repent! Believe! Be ready!"
The boy whispered, eyes wide, "Kuya… is he telling the truth?"
Ulysses felt the question cut through him. His instinct was to dismiss it, to say the man was another zealot feeding on fear. Yet something about his tone—the certainty, the fire—gripped even Ulysses's skeptical heart. He forced his voice steady. "He's… telling people what they need to hear."
The boy frowned. "But is it true?"
Ulysses had no answer.
The prophet lowered his Bible, scanning the camp as though searching for someone specific. For a moment, his eyes locked with Ulysses's. A chill ran down Ulysses's spine. The man smiled faintly, as if he already knew him.
The crowd surged closer to the monument, torn between worship and rage. Soldiers barked orders, pushing them back. The fragile line between order and collapse trembled like a wire.
And Ulysses, pen poised, felt the weight of history pressing into his hand.
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End of Chapter 17