CHAPTER 122: IRRATIONAL

I emerged from the stairs to find the chaos I had expected.

In the cramped anteroom, it looked like a cyclone had swept through. An upturned chair lay awkwardly by the door, a broken table had splintered into jagged fragments, and a shattered flower vase bled water and petals across the floor.

Two dead Pulajan cultists completed the grisly picture. One had collapsed near the landing, his body sprawled sideways with a grotesque expression of horror frozen on his blood-spattered face—likely the first to fall.

The other had made it farther, a few feet from the wall, machete inches from his hand. He had gone down fighting. His torso was riddled with gashes and punctures—no doubt from Medina’s bayonet.

To the left of the landing was a narrow hallway leading to the gobernadorcillo’s office, the door marked by a weathered wooden sign hanging askew. Another Pulajan lay just outside the threshold, sprawled on his back. A clean bullet hole marked his chest, and smoke still curled lazily from the barrel of the pistol clutched in his hand.

I stepped inside the cramped office. The scent of gunpowder and blood lingered, mixing with the musty odor of damp paper and wood rot. I stepped over the outstretched leg of the corpse by the door and hopped to the other side, careful not to slip on the pooling blood. Kneeling beside the body, I leaned forward as something caught my eye. A detail obscured by the shadow cast by the window shutters.

He didn’t look like a peasant.

The dead man wore the faded navy-blue uniform of the Guardia Civil. Though frayed and unkempt, the insignia was unmistakable. I narrowed my eyes, studying his face. There was something familiar about it.

"Is this the commandante?" I asked, already sure of the answer. The Orbea pistol in his death grip was proof enough. I pried it from his stiff fingers, weighing it in my hand. It wasn’t as pristine as the one given to me by the president, but it would do. In both Kasily and now here, I had sorely felt the absence of a proper sidearm. More than once, I had considered the dishonorable act of taking back the one I’d given Vicente.

"Si..." Medina nodded. "Sargento Casimero. Head of the Guardia Civil detachment here in Santa Cruz."

I raised an eyebrow. "A fellow loyalist? Why didn’t you ask him to surrender?"

The teniente shrugged without remorse. "Nahhh... I never did like him."

I let out a chuckle as I stood and strapped the looted holster around my waist. "Well, fortunate for me, then, that you like me, Teniente."

"I never said that," he grumbled.

"Heneral!" Sargento Guzman’s voice called out from the hallway. "You might wanna see who we found in the archive room."

I already knew. Or at least, I had a gut feeling. Still, I hurried out, needing to see for myself.

The archive room sat adjacent to the office. I exited just in time to hear someone begging in a hoarse, cracking voice. Soldiers were dragging a man out into the antesala, his hands flailing, feet slipping against the faded carpet. The moment they let go, he collapsed, curling up like a terrified animal.

I froze.

Of all the people I might have expected to find here in Buenavista, he was the last. And yet, in hindsight, I should have seen it coming.

I stepped forward with a sigh, eyeing the man on the ground. His beard, once meticulously trimmed, had grown wild and dirty. His suit was a mess of wrinkles, sweat stains, and days of unwashed wear. His hair, normally combed to the side with the dignity of a provincial gentleman, now clung in greasy strands to his temple.

"Señor Nieva... you seem to be on the wrong side of the conflict," I said dryly.

He looked up, slowly at first, as if recognizing the voice of a ghost. His eyes widened when he saw my boots—then my face. In a flash, he crawled forward and wrapped himself around my legs, sobbing.

"Have mercy, Don Lardizábal! They forced me! I didn’t want to be here! They kept me prisoner!"

He was incoherent, his words tumbling out between gasps, saliva flecking the floor.

I felt a twinge of pity. The man had once been a proud figure in the principalia. I had not forgotten how he used to debate me in the Casa Real and would have cursed me if decorum had allowed. He haunted even my dreams, along with Don Contreras.

Now, he was broken. Perhaps he had witnessed the worst of the cultists’ atrocities here in town.

"You know him?" Medina asked, peering over my shoulder. "He came here with Señor Paras, but they had a falling out... I think after Nieva saw too much blood."

"Since then, he’s been locked away," he continued. "I’ve heard whispers that Paras wanted him dead."

Señor Nieva’s eyes widened as if learning this for the first time. His sobbing ceased for a heartbeat, before resuming with greater desperation.

"Gobernador... I am not like them. I swear! I hate everything they stand for! Please don’t kill me!" He backed away, then threw himself prostrate, kissing the dusty floor. "Spare me, and I’ll give you everything—money, lands, even my grandson! Or me, if need be!"

"Don’t worry, Señor Nieva... I’m here to rescue you." I smirked, standing over him. "But I’ll hold you to that promise. Your contributions to the Republic will be very much appreciated."

His eyes lit up with something close to gratitude, and he began mumbling thanks, kowtowing over and over again—until a fresh burst of gunfire shattered the calm.

"What’s happening?" I barked, already striding toward the window. A soldier was stationed there, ducking low behind the sill. He fired a quick shot before recoiling.

A bullet slammed into the window frame, splinters flying.

"The Pulajanes’ eastern flank, Heneral! I think they disengaged Teniente Triviño’s men and are charging the presidencia!" he shouted, his breath ragged. His left hand bled from a nasty wooden splinter embedded near the thumb.

I crouched beside him and peeked outside. The cries of the attackers were already audible—a discordant cacophony of rage and fanaticism. I counted at least ten Pulajan fighters, rushing forward with raised blades. A few had already fallen under rifle fire, but the smarter ones were using carts, fences, and alleyways as cover, taking potshots at the windows.

It wasn’t just the eastern flank. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the south. More figures. More shouts.

This was not what I had planned. We had gambled on capturing the presidencia quickly to demoralize the defenders. But these weren’t regular militiamen. They were zealots—superstitious, bloodthirsty, and irrational. Demoralization meant nothing to them.

A shot cracked, hitting just below the sill. I ducked instinctively, then popped up and fired at a bamboo fence hiding one of the shooters. The bullet tore through. The structure collapsed—and the body behind it with it.

I ducked again, then turned to Guzman, who had shifted to another window along with Medina.

"Who’s defending below?"

"Six of our men," Guzman said quickly.

"Hold this floor." I passed him my spot. The wounded soldier had been pulled aside and was getting bandaged.

I made for the stairs, determined to reinforce the lower level. We needed to hold the presidencia at all costs, at least until our other platoons broke through the other flanks. If the enemy had redirected their focus here, it meant the perimeter defenses were thinner.

Or so I hoped.

But halfway down the stairs, gunfire erupted again—this time from the storeroom. Bullets punched through the floorboards beneath me. A soldier screamed.

"Retreat upstairs!" someone shouted from below.

Estrada was the first to clamber up, pale and wide-eyed. He dodged a storm of bullets, barely making it to the landing. I stepped aside to give him space.

"Where’s the rest?" I asked, grabbing his arm.

"One’s dead. Four are still down there," he said, his voice cracking.

’No...’ I whispered. I had promised no more deaths. Not again.

Another soldier darted up behind him, miraculously unscathed. I turned on both of them, furious.

"If you must abandon a position, you do it together! You cover each other!"

Estrada looked ready to faint. "The ground floor’s gone, Heneral. We’re being attacked from all sides."

My blood boiled. I clenched my fists. "Anak ng put—Guzman! Come with me!"

The sergeant left the window without hesitation. We rushed down the steps. I only made it halfway.

Bullets screamed past my ears, striking inches from my head. I fell to my hands and knees, the deafening roar of gunfire rattling the stairs.

Then I saw them.

Across the hall, one soldier lay face down, unmoving. Two others still alive were backed against a thin wall. No cover. Nowhere to go. Still, they chambered rounds into their rifles, defiant to the end.

I watched in horror as their bodies jolted—twisted—until the bullets claimed them.

Not again.

It was all my fault. I had sent them here. I—

"Heneral! Snap out of it!" Guzman was shouting in my ear, yanking me to my feet.

The noise returned. The pain. The smell of blood and powder.

We scrambled back up.

Medina was already shouting orders in Spanish. Soldiers moved with desperation—turning furniture into barricades. A table, a cabinet, a pile of chairs—they stacked them against the stairs as the enemy pounded against the walls below.

"They’ve broken through, Heneral!" someone cried from the window.

I slumped against the wall. Good news, too late. I asked weakly, "Dimalanta?"

"No, senor!" the soldier replied, shaking his head. "It’s Teniente Triviño’s men!"