The rebellion erupted into chaos as Miguel led the prisoners against the guards. 

For a fleeting moment, it seemed like freedom was within reach. The armory was breached, 

weapons distributed, and the prisoners fought with ferocious determination.

But the guards were more prepared than Miguel had anticipated. 

Reinforcements arrived from the mainland, heavily armed and ruthlessly efficient. 

The tide turned swiftly, and the rebellion descended into a massacre.

Miguel, bloodied but relentless, fought alongside Andres, Mateo, Carlos, and Rico. 

They pushed through the courtyard, defending each other against the overwhelming wave of guards.

Carlos: (gritting his teeth, covering Miguel)

Go! You have to make it out, Miguel! This isn’t the end for you!

Miguel: (shouting)

Not without you, Carlos!

Carlos: (grinning through the pain)

You’ll do more alive than dead. Go!

Carlos charged headfirst into the guards, giving Miguel a chance to flee. One by one, Miguel’s friends fell. 

Mateo was overrun, Rico was shot while attempting to climb the walls, and Andres took a spear to the chest while shielding Miguel.

Miguel: (holding a dying Andres in his arms)

No! I promised we’d make it together!

Andres: (weakly)

Keep fighting, Miguel… for all of us.

With tears streaming down his face, Miguel pressed on, but he was struck by a rifle butt to the side of his head. 

Dazed and bleeding, he stumbled toward the edge of the prison, where the rocky cliffs met the sea.

A guard fired, the bullet grazing his side. 

Miguel’s body jerked, and he lost his footing, tumbling over the edge into the dark, churning waters below.

The waves battered Miguel’s unconscious body, carrying him far from the prison. 

By sheer chance, a passing merchant ship spotted him drifting near the coastline, bloodied and barely alive.

Old Don Alejandro de Varga, a wealthy merchant in his sixties, ordered his men to pull Miguel aboard. 

Don Alejandro was a man of immense wealth, his fortune built on years of trade and cunning, but he was also a widower with no heir.

Miguel awoke in a grand villa on the coast of Batangas, his wounds dressed and his body lying on a luxurious bed. 

The scent of herbs filled the air, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore calmed his fevered mind.

Don Alejandro sat by his bedside, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

Don Alejandro:

Ah, you’re awake. I thought the sea had claimed you for good. You’re lucky my ship was nearby.

Miguel: (weakly)

Why… why did you save me?

Don Alejandro: (smiling)

Because the sea told me to. And because I saw a fighter in you—a man who has lost much but refuses to die. 

Tell me, who are you?

Miguel hesitated, the weight of his failure and the deaths of his friends heavy on his heart. 

He couldn’t bear to speak his name, the name tied to so much loss.

Miguel: (softly)

I am no one.

Don Alejandro: (leaning forward)

Then I will give you a name and a purpose. You remind me of myself, boy—fierce, determined, and filled with fire. 

I have no son, no one to carry my legacy. If you will take my name, 

I will give you everything: wealth, power, and the means to take back what you’ve lost.

Miguel: (confused)

Why would you do this for a stranger?

Don Alejandro: (seriously)

Because you are no stranger to me. You are the son I never had. And because I can see the revenge burning in your eyes. 

Whatever enemy you have, I will help you destroy them. But first, you must let me rebuild you.

Over the next two years, Miguel was reborn. Under Don Alejandro’s guidance, he was trained in every art of war, strategy, and deception. 

He learned to wield a sword with precision, to fire a pistol with deadly accuracy, and to command a room with his words.

Don Alejandro:

The world is a battlefield, Miguel. You don’t just need strength—you need cunning. You need to be smarter than your enemies.

Miguel also underwent a complete physical transformation. His body, once battered and broken, became stronger and leaner. 

His sun-worn fisherman’s clothes were replaced by the finest suits and coats tailored to perfection. 

His identity as Miguel Alcantara was erased, replaced by Señor Santiago de Varga, the adopted son and heir of Don Alejandro.

In private, however, Miguel never forgot who he truly was. At night, he stared at the stars, thinking of Isabela, 

his fallen friends, and the betrayal that had brought him here.

Miguel: (whispering)

Rafael, Capitán Morales, the Spanish Crown—you will all pay.

Don Alejandro: (interrupting)

Revenge, my son, is a dish best served cold. Let them believe you are dead. Build your strength, 

your influence, and strike when they least expect it.

Two years later, Santiago de Varga, a wealthy and mysterious merchant, returned to Manila. 

His arrival caused a stir among the elite. Who was this charming, intelligent man with a fortune that rivaled the Spanish merchants?

At a lavish party hosted by Don Rivera, Miguel—now Santiago—stood at the gates of his former life, his heart steady but his mind burning with purpose.

As he entered, he spotted familiar faces: Isabela, now colder and more distant; 

Capitán Morales, laughing smugly; and finally, Rafael, who now wore fine clothes and carried himself as a man of influence.

Miguel: (to himself)

They will not recognize me. But I will make them remember.

Miguel standing in the grand ballroom, his eyes locked on Rafael. 

The music plays, the guests laugh, but Miguel’s thoughts are clear:

This is where my revenge begins.