The shouting swelled into a storm.
At one end of the camp, soldiers forced desperate families toward the trucks. At the other, the prophet's followers formed a human wall, chanting verses, daring anyone to cross. In between stood the uncertain—those too hungry to stay, too afraid to go.
Ulysses found himself caught in the middle with the boy. The air vibrated with tension, like the split second before lightning strikes.
A soldier spotted him, pointing. "You there! You've got a child. Get him to safety. Board the truck!"
Before Ulysses could respond, the prophet's voice rang out, cutting through the soldier's command like a blade:
"Do not touch him! This man is chosen to bear witness. He belongs not to your guns but to the coming Kingdom!"
Every head turned. Again. Ulysses cursed under his breath. "Not this again…"
The soldier frowned, stepping forward. "What's he talking about?"
Ulysses raised his hands. "Nothing. He's just.."
But the prophet's gaze pinned him. "Do you deny it, Ulysses Gonzalez? Do you deny that you have seen the signs and written them down?"
The crowd gasped. The boy stared at him, eyes wide. "Kuya… he knows your name."
Ulysses's chest tightened. He had never spoken it aloud in the prophet's presence. How—?
The soldier grabbed his arm roughly. "You're coming with us. We can't have prophets starting revolts and naming witnesses. You'll answer questions at headquarters."
The boy clung to him, shouting, "No! Don't take him!"
The prophet's followers surged forward, shoving against the soldiers. Shouts turned to screams. A rock flew. A rifle cracked into the air, warning shot echoing across the park.
Ulysses's instincts screamed at him to choose. Go with the soldiers, risk interrogation, perhaps imprisonment. Stay with the prophet, risk being consumed by his movement, branded as something he never wanted to be.
The boy's small voice broke through the chaos, trembling but clear: "Kuya… which way do we go?"
Ulysses looked at the trucks lined with grim-faced soldiers, the promise of food but also chains. He looked at the prophet. Eyes blazing, hands raised, the promise of purpose but also fire. Both sides pulled at him, demanded something he wasn't sure he had to give.
His pen had always been his shield. But now, words were no longer enough. He was being written into the story whether he liked it or not.
He crouched to the boy's level, gripping his shoulders. "Wherever we go," he whispered, "we stay together. That's the only rule."
The boy nodded, tears streaking his dirty face.
Behind them, the clash boiled over. Soldiers and prophets' followers collided, fists and rifle butts striking, voices rising in rage and prayer. The trucks revved their engines. The red moon hung heavy above it all, watching like a judge.
And Ulysses realized with sick certainty: there was no safe path left. Only choices that would carve them into history.
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End of Chapter 23