The silence that followed the prophet's declaration was heavier than the gunshots.
Dozens of eyes fixed on Ulysses, their gazes piercing, measuring. Some faces glimmered with hope, as if they saw in him a bridge to truth. Others narrowed with suspicion, whispering that he might be part of some conspiracy. A woman clutched her child and edged closer, as though simply being near him would offer protection.
Ulysses's pulse thundered in his ears. "No," he said aloud, shaking his head. "I'm not—whatever you think I am. I'm just a reporter."
But the prophet raised his arms higher, amplifying his words:
"A reporter, yes—but more than that. A witness! Do you not see? The Son of Man comes not only in clouds of glory but through the testimony of those who endure. This man writes what others cannot. He will remind the world of what it has forgotten."
The crowd rippled with cries—some cheering, others hissing. Soldiers at the edge of the camp muttered to one another, eyes darting between the prophet and Ulysses.
The boy tugged at his sleeve, whispering urgently, "Kuya, they're looking at you like you're… special."
"I don't want to be special," Ulysses muttered, his throat dry. "I just want to survive."
The prophet descended the steps, walking past soldiers who dared not touch him. As he passed Ulysses, he leaned close again, his voice low, almost gentle:
"You can't hide from it, son. The storm has chosen you."
Then he was gone, swallowed by a cluster of weeping followers.
Ulysses sat frozen, words tangled in his chest. He had always believed the journalist's shield was distance—that he could watch the world burn without being part of the fire. But now, the flames licked at his skin.
Around him, whispers grew. A man muttered, "If he's with the prophet, he's dangerous." Another countered, "No, he's chosen—maybe he can help us." A third spat on the ground, glaring at Ulysses with open hatred.
The boy pressed closer, fear etched across his face. "Kuya, what do we do?"
Ulysses forced a shaky smile. "We keep moving. We stay alive."
But even as he said it, he knew survival was no longer simple. The prophet's words had branded him—witness, chosen, whatever name people gave it. And in a world unraveling, names carried power, sometimes enough to save, sometimes enough to kill.
That night, as the camp settled into uneasy silence, Ulysses lay awake beneath the shadow of the red moon. The boy slept at his side, dreaming perhaps of a safer world. Ulysses stared at the sky, the prophet's words echoing in his skull: The storm has chosen you.
He wanted to dismiss it as madness. He wanted to cling to his role as observer, nothing more. But deep inside, a seed of dread had taken root.
Because for the first time since the sea rose and the heavens burned, Ulysses wondered if maybe—just maybe—it was true.
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End of Chapter 20