The morning heat was already oppressive when Rafael and his team loaded the prototype canister onto the back of Kuya Bong's tricycle. The thing was heavy, awkward, and clunky, but the workers strapped it down with rope as if it were treasure.
They rumbled through narrow streets, past sari-sari stores and laundry lines, until the road turned to mud. Beyond lay a barangay still struggling with floodwater that had lingered for weeks. Children splashed barefoot through brown puddles. Mothers crouched with basins, washing clothes in water that reeked faintly of rot.
When Rafael stepped off the tricycle, all eyes turned. Whispers rippled: "AquaPure… the company that fought HydraCorp."
Maria climbed down next, clipboard in hand. "Alright, team. We do this by the book. Setup, demonstration, results."
Arnel and Jericho wrestled the canister into place on a small wooden platform the barangay captain had cleared. Lolo Ed crouched down, tightening bolts one last time. Julian adjusted the valves, muttering to himself like a scientist about to unveil his life's work.
The barangay captain, a stout man with kind eyes, approached Rafael. "If this works," he said, "you'll save us more than money. You'll save lives."
Rafael nodded. "That's the goal."
They began. Dirty floodwater was poured into the top, sloshing down with a dull glug. Arnel worked the hand pump, his shirt already damp with sweat. The machine hissed, rattled… then clear water began to trickle from the spout.
The children cheered. Mothers reached for cups. A boy no older than seven dipped his hands beneath the stream and splashed his face, laughing.
The barangay captain took the first official sip. His eyes widened. "Clean. Truly clean."
Reporters, who had tagged along after hearing whispers of the field test, snapped photos furiously. One shouted questions: "Mr. Dela Cruz, is this your next big product? How soon until mass rollout?"
Rafael kept his answers measured. "This is a prototype. Today we're not proving business—we're proving possibility."
For fifteen minutes, the canister flowed strong. Buckets filled, children danced, and the residents clapped their hands in joy.
Then came the first hiccup. The stream slowed to a drip. The pump wheezed. Arnel cursed under his breath.
Julian rushed in, opening a valve, adjusting pressure. "Carbon layers are over-saturated. It needs flushing."
Murmurs rose from the crowd. Reporters leaned in, hungry for failure.
Rafael crouched beside the sputtering machine, placing a hand on its side. He didn't panic. Instead, he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
"This is what prototypes are for. To find limits. To improve. What matters is this—" he lifted a glass of crystal-clear water, still dripping from the spout—"it works. And when we fix the flaws, it will work for every family here."
Applause broke out, hesitant at first, then growing louder. The barangay captain clapped Rafael on the back. "You've given us hope today. That's more than most promise."
Behind the crowd, Maria leaned close to Rafael and whispered, "Careful. The politicians are watching. I saw a councilor's aide in the back taking notes."
Rafael's eyes flickered briefly to the corner, where a man in a crisp polo shirt pretended to type on his phone. He already suspected what the Codex would tell him later: success bred attention, and attention always carried danger.
But as the children filled bottles and mothers laughed with relief, Rafael allowed himself a moment of pride. This was more than a victory—it was proof that AquaPure could grow beyond the warehouse, beyond Manila.
The Codex pulsed faintly in his vision as the sun burned hot overhead:"Field Test: Partially Successful. Data Collected. Iteration Required. Market Signal Detected: High."
Rafael tightened his grip on the prototype's handle. They would fix the flaws. They would improve.
Because today, he had seen the future with his own eyes—muddy water transformed into something clear, something pure, something worth fighting for.