Miguel "Migs" Salazar jolted awake, gasping for breath. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as he struggled to orient himself. The room he found himself in was dimly lit, its wooden walls lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes. Fine furniture, carved with intricate designs, surrounded him, and a large capiz-shell window let in golden rays of morning sunlight, casting long shadows on the polished narra floor.
"This… this isn't my condo," he muttered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears.
He pushed himself up, his body feeling strangely different—stronger, younger. His hands, smooth and unscarred, touched his face, tracing features he recognized yet couldn't fully believe. His head pounded, memories rushing in like an unstoppable tide.
Miguel Antonio de Salazar.
He wasn't in 2025 anymore. His modern life—his small condo in Makati, his job as a historian, his books and coffee—was gone. He was in 1895.
He staggered toward a tall wooden mirror standing in the corner of the room. His reflection stared back at him, and he barely recognized himself. His face was the same, but his hair was longer, neatly styled in the Spanish fashion. His clothes—an embroidered barong tagalog made of the finest piña fabric and tailored trousers—spoke of wealth and privilege.
A knock on the door startled him.
"Don Miguel, are you awake? Breakfast is ready."
The voice was soft but respectful. The title *Don* sent chills down his spine. He was nobility. A principalia, heir to a vast hacienda, with power and influence over thousands.
Miguel took a deep breath. His mind raced. He needed information. He needed to understand his new world before making a move.
As he stood there, Miguel closed his eyes and focused. He needed to understand the full extent of his "cheat"—the golden pocket watch fused to his wrist. He had felt its strange warmth since waking, but now he needed clarity.
The watch seemed to act as a bridge between his modern knowledge and his current reality. When he concentrated, he could access every piece of information he had learned in his past life: history, politics, economics, military strategy, engineering, and even the biographies of key figures from this era. It was as if his mind had become a vast library, every book, every lesson, every documentary perfectly preserved.
But it wasn't just knowledge—it was also foresight. He could predict potential outcomes of his decisions, like a chess player seeing several moves ahead. This ability, which he called **"The Golden Insight"**, was his greatest weapon. It allowed him to see the weaknesses in others' plans and exploit them with precision.
Yet, the watch came with limitations. It couldn't predict everything—only the most likely outcomes based on current information. And it didn't protect him from human unpredictability. He could see the weaknesses in the Spanish colonial system, but he couldn't predict how individuals—like his father or Captain Ibarra—would react to his actions.
Miguel took a deep breath. This was his edge, but it wasn't foolproof. He'd need to use it wisely.
Miguel's mind raced as he processed his situation. The year was 1895, and the Philippines was under Spanish colonial rule. The Katipunan, the revolutionary movement led by Andres Bonifacio, was still in its infancy. In his timeline, the revolution would erupt in 1896, but it would fail due to disunity, poor planning, and betrayal. The Americans would then arrive in 1898, seizing control and turning the Philippines into a colony. True independence wouldn't come until 1946—after decades of war, colonial rule, and suffering.
But Miguel was determined to change that.
His first challenge was the Spanish colonial government. It was corrupt, exploitative, and brutal, but it was also deeply entrenched. The Spanish had ruled the Philippines for over three centuries, and they wouldn't give up power easily.
Then there were the internal challenges. The Filipino elites, including his own family, were divided. Some supported the Spanish, fearing change. Others, like Bonifacio and the Katipunan, wanted revolution but lacked the resources and strategy to succeed.
Miguel knew he'd need to unite these factions, but it wouldn't be easy. He'd need to build alliances, secure resources, and create a military force capable of defeating the Spanish.
And then there was the looming threat of the United States. Even if he succeeded in defeating the Spanish, the Americans would come. They would claim to "liberate" the Philippines, but their true goal was colonization. Miguel knew he'd need to prepare for that inevitability.
---
The door creaked open, revealing a young woman in a simple yet clean dress. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
"Good morning, Don Miguel," she said softly, her eyes downcast.
Miguel nodded, trying to appear calm. "Good morning. What's your name?"
The girl looked up, startled. "I—I'm Rosa, sir."
Miguel smiled gently. "Thank you, Rosa. Lead the way."
Rosa's eyes widened in surprise. It was rare for someone of Miguel's status to address a servant by name or thank them. She quickly composed herself and gestured for him to follow.
As they walked through the grand halls of the Hacienda Salazar, Miguel took in the details. The walls were adorned with oil paintings of Spanish nobility and landscapes of the Philippines. The floors were polished narra wood, gleaming in the morning light that filtered through the windows. Servants moved quietly, cleaning and preparing for the day ahead.
*This is my life now,* Miguel thought. *I need to get used to it.*
---
At the grand dining hall, a long table was set. Plates of fragrant fried rice, crispy dried fish, fluffy scrambled eggs, and steaming hot chocolate were arranged meticulously, a testament to the wealth and status of the Salazar family. Sitting at the head of the table was a man in his late fifties, with sharp eyes and a presence that commanded respect.
Don Enrique de Salazar.
Miguel's father.
"Finally awake?" Don Enrique's deep voice carried authority. "You were sleeping like a drunk soldier."
Miguel forced a chuckle, slipping into the role expected of him. "Just a restless night, Father."
His father gave him a scrutinizing look but said nothing. Instead, he gestured toward the table.
"Eat. We have business to discuss."
Miguel sat, taking in the simple yet elegant meal. As he ate, he observed his father carefully. Don Enrique was a former Spanish military officer turned businessman, known for his ruthless efficiency and sharp mind.
"The Spanish authorities have raised tariffs again," Don Enrique said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Our sugar exports will suffer."
Miguel's mind worked quickly. This was a perfect opportunity to test his newfound knowledge and influence.
"Perhaps it's time we consider new trade routes," Miguel said carefully. "If the Spanish increase taxes, we should look at selling directly to the British or Japanese."
Don Enrique raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but cautious. "And risk angering the Governor-General?"
Miguel smiled, his confidence growing. "Business is business, Father. We must adapt."
His father stared at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled.
"You've grown bold, hijo."
Miguel only smiled. This was just the beginning.
After breakfast, Miguel decided to explore the Hacienda Salazar. He needed to familiarize himself with his new surroundings and understand the extent of his family's wealth and influence.The Hacienda was vast, spanning hundreds of hectares of sugar plantations, coconut groves, and rice fields. Workers toiled under the hot sun, their faces etched with fatigue but also a quiet resilience.
Miguel's heart ached as he watched them. These were the people he needed to protect—the backbone of the Philippines.
As he walked, he noticed a group of men gathered near the stables. They were armed with bolos and wore stern expressions. These were the hacienda's guards, tasked with protecting the property from bandits and rebels.Miguel approached them, his mind already working on a plan.
Miguel approached the group of guards near the stables, his presence immediately commanding their attention. The men straightened, their hands instinctively clasping their bolos in respect. Miguel noted their discipline—these were not untrained men, but soldiers of a sort, albeit rudimentary.
"Good morning," Miguel greeted, his tone firm but respectful.
"Good morning, Don Miguel," they chorused, their voices tinged with surprise. It was rare for the haciendero's son to address them directly.
Miguel's gaze settled on the tallest man among them, a wiry figure with sharp eyes and a scar running down his cheek. There was a quiet intensity about him, the kind that spoke of experience and unspoken struggles.
"You," Miguel said, gesturing to the man. "What's your name?"
The man stepped forward, his posture straight but his expression wary. "I'm Rafael Ibarra, sir. Captain of the hacienda guards."
Miguel nodded, committing the name to memory. "Walk with me, Captain Ibarra."
The two men moved away from the group, their boots crunching softly against the graveled path. Miguel waited until they were out of earshot before speaking.
"You've been with the hacienda for a while, haven't you?" Miguel began, his tone casual but probing.
"Seven years, sir," Ibarra replied. "Before that, I served in the Spanish colonial army."
Miguel raised an eyebrow. That was unexpected. "Why did you leave?"
Ibarra hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Disagreements with my superiors, sir. I was… insubordinate, as they put it."
Miguel's lips curled into a faint smile. There was more to that story, but he didn't press. Instead, he steered the conversation toward the future.
"You've seen the state of things, haven't you? The workers, the guards, the hacienda itself. It's all… stagnant. Vulnerable."
Ibarra's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Miguel continued.
"I don't believe in stagnation, Captain Ibarra. I believe in progress. In strength. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to achieve it. The question is—are you willing to help me?"
Ibarra studied him, his expression unreadable. "With all due respect, Don Miguel, what exactly are you proposing?"
Miguel met his gaze, his eyes steady and unwavering. "I'm proposing we build something greater than this hacienda. Greater than the Spanish empire. I'm proposing we build a future where Filipinos are no longer oppressed, where our people can stand tall and proud. But to do that, I need men like you—men who aren't afraid to fight for what's right."
Ibarra's eyebrow twitched. "You're talking about rebellion."
"I'm talking about liberation," Miguel corrected. "But it won't be easy. It'll require discipline, strategy, and sacrifice. So I'll ask you again—are you willing to help me?"
Ibarra was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You're either a madman or a visionary, Don Miguel. But I'll follow you either way."
Miguel smiled, extending his hand. "You won't regret it."
They shook hands, sealing an unspoken pact. As Miguel walked away, he felt a surge of confidence. With Ibarra by his side, he was one step closer to changing history.
After his conversation with Ibarra, Miguel returned to the main house, his mind buzzing with plans and possibilities. He knew that to succeed, he needed to understand every facet of his family's wealth and influence.
The Hacienda Salazar was more than just a sugar plantation—it was a sprawling empire. Its lands stretched across thousands of hectares, encompassing sugar fields, coconut groves, rice paddies, and even a small port for exporting goods. The workers—hundreds of them—labored from sunrise to sunset, their lives tied to the land.
Miguel spent the day touring the hacienda, accompanied by Rosa, the young servant who had become his unofficial guide. She showed him the sugar mill, where cane was crushed and processed into raw sugar, and the warehouses where the finished product was stored before being shipped to Manila and beyond.
As they walked, Miguel observed the workers closely. Their faces were worn, their hands calloused from years of labor. They bowed respectfully he passed, but there was a tension in their eyes—a quiet resentment that Miguel couldn't ignore.
"Rosa," he said, turning to the young servant. "How are the workers treated here?"
Rosa hesitated, her eyes darting nervously. "They… they are treated as well as can be expected, Don Miguel."
Miguel frowned. "That's not an answer. Tell me the truth."
Rosa looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. "They are overworked and underpaid, sir. Many are in debt to the hacienda and cannot leave. Some… some are beaten if they do not meet their quotas."
Miguel's jaw tightened. This was unacceptable. If he was to build a new Philippines, it couldn't be on the backs of exploited workers.
"Thank you for your honesty, Rosa," he said gently. "I'll see to it that things change."
---
That evening, Miguel sought out his father in the study. Don Enrique was seated at his desk, poring over ledgers and correspondence. He looked up as Miguel entered, his expression unreadable.
"What is it, hijo?" he asked, setting down his quill.
Miguel took a deep breath. "Father, I've been touring the hacienda today. I've seen how the workers are treated, and I believe we need to make changes."
Don Enrique raised an eyebrow. "Changes? What kind of changes?"
"Better wages. Fairer treatment. Perhaps even a system to help them pay off their debts."
His father's expression darkened. "You're young, Miguel. You don't understand how these things work. The workers are lazy. If we give them an inch, they'll take a mile."
Miguel shook his head. "With all due respect, Father, I disagree. If we treat them well, they'll work harder. And if we're seen as fair employers, we'll attract better workers."
Don Enrique leaned back in his chair, studying his son. "You've changed, Miguel. You're thinking like a businessman."
Miguel smiled faintly. "I'm thinking like a leader."
His father was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Very well. We'll try it your way. But if this backfires, it's on you."
Miguel inclined his head. "Thank you, Father."
---
Miguel knew that economic reforms alone wouldn't be enough. To truly change the Philippines, he needed to understand the political landscape. He also needed allies—powerful ones who could provide resources, influence, and legitimacy to his cause.
One name kept coming up in his father's ledgers and conversations: Don Antonio Ramirez, a wealthy landowner and influential figure in Manila. Miguel remembered Ramirez from his modern-day studies—a man who had maneuvered carefully between the Spanish authorities and the emerging nationalist movement, leveraging his wealth and connections to survive and thrive in a turbulent era.
How did Miguel know Ramirez?
Miguel's family had long-standing business ties with Ramirez. The Salazars supplied sugar to Ramirez's trading company, which exported goods to Hong Kong, Singapore, and even Europe. While Miguel had never met Ramirez personally, his father often spoke of him as a shrewd and resourceful ally.
Miguel decided to arrange a meeting with Ramirez, but he knew he couldn't be direct about his true intentions. Instead, he approached the meeting as a young heir seeking to expand his family's business interests.
It was March 10, 1895—a time when tensions between the Spanish authorities and the Filipino elite were beginning to simmer. The Spanish had recently increased tariffs on exports, squeezing the profits of landowners like the Salazars. Meanwhile, whispers of the Katipunan and other revolutionary groups were spreading, though they were still in their infancy.
Miguel sent a carefully worded letter to Ramirez, citing his father's wishes to strengthen their business partnership and explore new opportunities. He requested a meeting in Manila, framing it as a chance to discuss trade routes and market expansion.
---
After finalizing his plans with his father, Miguel prepared for the journey to Manila to meet Don Antonio Ramirez. He knew this meeting would be crucial—it wasn't just about securing a business partnership; it was about laying the groundwork for his broader ambitions.
Miguel spent the evening packing his belongings in his spacious room. He carefully selected his attire—a finely tailored barong tagalog made of piña fabric, paired with dark trousers and polished leather boots. He wanted to make a strong first impression on Ramirez, and his appearance would play a key role.
As he packed, he glanced at the golden pocket watch fused to his wrist. It was warm to the touch, a constant reminder of his "cheat" and the advantage it gave him. He concentrated briefly, accessing his modern knowledge of Ramirez's life and influence. 'A shrewd businessman, a master manipulator, and a man who knows how to survive in turbulent times', Miguel thought. 'Exactly the kind of ally I need.'
---
The next morning, Miguel set out on horseback, accompanied by two trusted guards. The journey to Manila would take the better part of a day, and the road was fraught with dangers—bandits, wild animals, and the unpredictable weather of the tropics.
As they rode through the lush countryside, Miguel observed the landscape with a historian's eye. The fields were dotted with nipa huts, their thatched roofs blending seamlessly with the greenery. Farmers toiled under the sun, their backs bent as they worked the land. The scene was both beautiful and heartbreaking—a testament to the resilience of the Filipino people, but also a stark reminder of their exploitation under Spanish rule.
Miguel's mind wandered to the challenges ahead. *The Spanish are watching us closely,* his father had warned. He knew that any misstep could draw unwanted attention, but he also knew that he couldn't afford to hesitate. The future of the Philippines depended on his ability to outmaneuver his enemies.
After several hours of riding, Miguel and his guards stopped at a small village to rest and water the horses. The villagers greeted them with cautious respect, offering fresh coconut water and bananas. Miguel took the opportunity to speak with them, asking about their lives and struggles.
"The Spanish tax collectors came last week," one farmer said, his voice trembling with anger. "They took half our harvest and left us with barely enough to feed our families."
Miguel's jaw tightened. *This is why I'm doing this,* he thought. *To put an end to this injustice.*
He handed the farmer a few silver coins, earning a look of gratitude. "Thank you, Don Miguel," the farmer said, bowing deeply. "You're a good man."
Miguel nodded, but he knew that charity wasn't enough. Real change would require systemic reform—and that was exactly what he was working toward.
As they approached Manila, the landscape changed dramatically. The rural simplicity gave way to the bustling chaos of the city. The streets were crowded with people—merchants hawking their wares, carriages rattling over cobblestones, and Spanish soldiers patrolling with an air of superiority.
Miguel's guards navigated the streets with practiced ease, leading him to the wealthy district where Ramirez's mansion was located. The contrast between the poverty of the countryside and the opulence of the city was jarring, but Miguel knew it was a reflection of the deep inequalities of colonial society.
Ramirez's mansion was a sight to behold. It stood at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the afternoon sun. The architecture was a blend of Spanish colonial and Filipino styles, with intricate carvings and capiz-shell windows that caught the light like diamonds.
As Miguel dismounted, a servant approached and bowed deeply. "Welcome, Don Miguel. Don Antonio is expecting you."
Miguel nodded, handing the reins to his guards. "Thank you. Lead the way."
The servant escorted him through the grand entrance, where the air was cool and scented with the faint aroma of jasmine. The interior was even more impressive than the exterior, with high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and walls adorned with oil paintings of Spanish nobility.
Miguel was ushered into a lavish drawing room, where Ramirez sat in a high-backed chair, smoking a cigar. He was a man in his late fifties, with sharp features, silver hair, and an air of calculated charm.
"Don Miguel," Ramirez greeted, rising to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Your father speaks highly of you."
"The pleasure is mine, Don Antonio," Miguel replied, taking a seat. "I've heard much about your accomplishments."
They exchanged pleasantries, discussing the weather, the latest news from Spain, and the state of the sugar trade. Miguel played the role of the eager young heir, asking questions and expressing admiration for Ramirez's business acumen.
After a while, Ramirez leaned back, studying Miguel with a calculating gaze. "So, what brings you to Manila, Don Miguel? Your letter mentioned exploring new opportunities."
Miguel smiled, his tone carefully measured. "Indeed. The sugar trade is profitable, but I believe there's room for growth. I'm particularly interested in expanding our exports to Asia—Hong Kong, Japan, perhaps even China."
Ramirez raised an eyebrow. "An ambitious plan. But with the Spanish tariffs, it won't be easy."
"Which is why I'm seeking your guidance," Miguel replied. "You've navigated these waters for decades. I'd be grateful for your advice—and your partnership."
Ramirez chuckled. "You're certainly your father's son. But tell me, Don Miguel—what's your true goal? I sense there's more to this than business."
Miguel hesitated, weighing his words. He couldn't reveal his full hand yet, but he needed to give Ramirez enough to pique his interest.
"Very well," Miguel said, lowering his voice. "I believe the Philippines is at a crossroads. The Spanish rule is unsustainable, and the people are growing restless. When the time comes, those with the resources and vision to lead will shape the future. I want to be one of those leaders—and I believe you can help me."
Ramirez's expression became unreadable. He puffed on his cigar, his eyes never leaving Miguel's. Finally, he spoke.
"You're bold, Don Miguel. Boldness can be a virtue—or a liability. But I admire your ambition. Let us discuss this further."
For the next hour, they delved into strategy, alliances, and the future of the Philippines. Miguel revealed just enough to gain Ramirez's interest but held back crucial details about his long-term plans. By the end of the meeting, Ramirez agreed to support Miguel's cause, providing both financial backing and political influence.
As Miguel rode back to the Hacienda Salazar that evening, his mind raced with plans and possibilities. The meeting with Ramirez had gone better than expected, but he knew the road ahead would be fraught with danger and challenges.
He glanced at the golden pocket watch on his wrist, its warmth a constant reminder of his advantage. *This is just the beginning,* he thought. *The Philippines will not just be free—it will rise as a beacon of strength and prosperity in Asia. And I will be the one to make it happen.*