The prophet's words spread through the camp like fire in dry grass.
People shouted back at him, some raising their hands in praise, others cursing his name. A woman sobbed openly, clutching her child as though the words themselves demanded sacrifice. Two young men climbed onto the platform beside him, fists raised, chanting: "Redemption! Redemption!"
The soldiers didn't like it. Their commander barked orders, and a squad advanced through the crowd. Their boots churned the mud, rifles held low but ready.
"Step down!" one soldier shouted at the prophet. "This is unlawful assembly. You're disturbing the peace."
The prophet didn't flinch. He spread his arms wide, his voice ringing louder:
"Do you see? Even now, the rulers try to silence the voice of truth! They would rather muzzle prophecy than feed the hungry! But I tell you—no bullet, no blade, no tyrant can stop what is written!"
The crowd erupted. Some cheered, pushing against the soldiers' line. Others screamed for order, afraid of what might come next. The boy clutched Ulysses's sleeve, his small body trembling.
"Kuya," he whispered, "they're going to shoot."
Ulysses's stomach twisted. He'd covered protests before, seen batons fall and tear gas cloud the air. But this felt different. This was raw faith colliding with raw authority, and he wasn't sure who would break first.
The commander stepped forward, shouting, "Arrest him!"
Two soldiers mounted the steps, reaching for the prophet. But before they could lay hands on him, he lifted his Bible high and cried:
"The heavens shake, the seas roar, and yet you cling to guns! Look above you—your power ends where the sky begins!"
As if on cue, thunder cracked across the heavens. The crowd gasped, some dropping to their knees. Even Ulysses felt his breath hitch. He knew it was coincidence, storm clouds moving in—but the timing was too perfect, too precise.
The soldiers hesitated. That moment of pause was all the crowd needed. They surged forward, a human tide separating the prophet from his captors. Fists swung, bottles shattered, someone screamed. The camp became a whirlpool of chaos.
Ulysses yanked the boy behind a collapsed tent, shielding him from the crush of bodies. His notebook slipped from his grasp, pages fluttering into the mud. For the first time, he didn't care. Survival came first.
The prophet's voice carried even above the melee, echoing through the park:
"Stand up and lift your heads! Redemption is near!"
Ulysses pressed the boy close, heart hammering, and thought: This is no longer reporting. This is living inside the prophecy.
Gunshots cracked. The crowd scattered in screams. And Ulysses knew nothing in Manila—or the world—would ever be the same again.
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End of Chapter 18