CHAPTER 123: STUPID ORDER

"They’re shooting at the floorboards!" Estrada shouted in horror, scrambling away from where the floor trembled and cracked sharply beneath the impact of the bullets from the Pulajan fighters below.

A futile attempt. The floor wasn’t made of bamboo, or even ordinary timber. I recognized the reddish-brown planks beneath us: Narra, a native hardwood prized for its density and durability. Dense enough to stop or deflect a bullet—at least for now. That was why I hadn’t considered the same tactic when we were the ones attacking from below.

The real threat wasn’t the floor. It was the only entry point in the room—the stairs. Teniente Medina and a couple of soldiers held the makeshift barricade at the landing. So far, they had held it well. The upturned desks, overturned chairs, and shelves that formed the barricade were all made from solid acacia or molave, providing reliable cover from gunfire.

But we couldn’t hold this position forever.

It was a strange comfort to hear Vicente’s voice from below—shouting, barking orders, alive and near enough for his voice to be heard above the gunshots.

With a weary sigh, I forced myself to set aside the grief clawing at my chest. I had already frozen twice in this battle. Perhaps age was finally catching up to me. My hands trembled more now, and the heart betrayed me more than it used to. Older bones, older wounds—older regrets.

I crawled toward the nearby window, knees groaning against the tiled floor, and placed a hand on the sill as I peered out through the bullet-scarred shutters.

Sure enough, to our left, I saw nothing but rayadillos—our troops—ducking behind corners and fences where Pulajanes had been firing from minutes earlier. They covered two directions, trading fire with the cultists entrenched inside the ground floor of the presidencia and few shooters along the southern flank who had noticed the breach.

It took a while for me to spot Vicente. When I did, I almost cursed again.

I saw him as he sprinted out of the door of a nearby house, cutting across the open ground toward the presidencia, a squad trailing behind. Cristobal remained in the house, leading his men to provide suppressive fire—successive volleys erupting from the windows and doorway like thunderclaps.

It was a risky tactic. We had tried something similar earlier, but now the defenders were more prepared, and Vicente’s men only had single-shot Remingtons.

I was holding my breath as I watched them make a run for it. They disappeared, having reached the building below, without anyone falling. I was not relieved at all. Now, the next part was for them to storm the ground floor, which I doubt would be a bloodless deed.

"Dimalanta’s broken through as well," muttered Sargento Guzman from nearby.

I followed his gaze. In the south, our recruits had taken control of the nearest houses. Bloodied alleys and fallen cultists told of the price they paid—fanatics who had fought to the last man.

Then, from the alley where we had first launched our charge, I spotted movement. Reinforcements were arriving—our reserves—taking positions in the western flank’s buildings and opening fire. Lead poured into the presidencia’s lower floor from every direction.

This battle had been won. But I felt no pride in that.

We had expected resistance. We had expected suicidal devotion. What we hadn’t expected was organization. Fire discipline. Coordination. I had half-expected the cultists to charge blindly into our rifles, throwing their lives away. But what we encountered was a street-by-street slog—an urban brawl against disciplined zealots, and snipers waiting behind every hidden corner.

"Surrender or we’ll slaughter all of you!" I heard Vicente yell from below.

There was no response from the cultists. At least to him. For a moment, I thought the defenders had fled. Having exited through the back door, perhaps towards the northern flanks, which might still be holding against Roque and Nepomuceno’s forces.

But when were my assumptions ever correct?

"Enemigos!" Medina shouted. His warning came just before he and the barricade team unleashed a volley down the stairs. A scream followed, then the sound of a body tumbling back down step after step—thump, thump, thud.

They had fired in unison. Medina swore as he pulled the bolt back on his Mauser, only to find the chamber empty. The other soldiers cursed too, scrambling to reload.

Another cultist rushed up the stairs in that moment of vulnerability. The barricade buckled slightly under the weight of the charge. One soldier stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a machete blow. Another fired at point-blank range and missed entirely. A third shot the attacker in the shoulder, but it wasn’t enough. The fanatic pushed forward, eyes blazing.

I didn’t hesitate. I reached for my holster and immediately put the newly looted revolver to use. The bullet struck just left of the nose, snapping the head back violently. The cultist collapsed mid-swing.

"Mama! They’re charging us! We’re all going to die!" Estrada wailed. The boy had lost all control. His voice cracked, high-pitched and unbearable, the sound of raw panic.

"Can someone shoot Estrada for me?" I growled, stalking toward the barricade.

Guzman moved quickly, yanking the rifle from Estrada’s hands and dragging the trembling soldier toward the archive room, where Señor Nieva still hid behind a filing cabinet.

"I think... that was the last one," Medina murmured beside me, rifle now reloaded and at the ready.

Two bodies lay at the base of the stairs, tangled together. We waited, tense. Another pair of footsteps echoed, quick and light. A flash of red—a sash—appeared at the corner of the landing. A third cultist made a dash for the storeroom.

Before any of us could shoot, a single gunshot rang out. The man collapsed beside the others.

The shot didn’t come from our side.

"Vicente? Is that you?" I called.

"Yes, Don Martín!" came the familiar reply, cutting through the thick smoke and gunpowder air.

Relief made my knees wobble slightly. I allowed myself to exhale. "Clear the conference table and the storeroom," I ordered.

Soon, the heavy sound of boots echoed in the halls. Two recruits stepped into view, rifles raised. They carefully sidestepped the corpses at the landing and entered the storeroom. A few seconds passed before they called out that the room was clear.

We began removing the barricade. Shell casings clattered to the floor, the furniture groaning as we pushed it aside. Smoke and dust filled the air, stinging our eyes.

Before I could descend, Vicente appeared at the base of the stairs. His uniform was streaked with blood, and his bayonet was red to the hilt. He muttered instructions to the men behind him, then looked up. He smiled when he saw me. The same smile faded slightly when he spotted Medina.

I gave him a weak smile of my own. "Haven’t I told you not to charge out of the treeline without my order?"

Triviño shrugged. "Which I always thought was a stupid order... Heneral

."

---

105 Pulajanes killed, and 13 captured, at the cost of 15 soldiers killed and 5 wounded. The battle to retake Buenavista, which took more than two hours, ended with those numbers.

Vicente’s intervention marked the beginning of the end of the battle inside the presidencia compound. When he saw that most of the defenders in the eastern flank had disengaged, he ordered a sudden charge and overwhelmed the remaining defenders. This and his direct assault on the presidencia building itself only inflicted on Cristobal’s platoon a single casualty- a soldier who took minor wounds.

After Vicente’s assault, the other flanks collapsed as well. The southern flank swiftly followed while the northern flank held for a few more minutes, until elements from Cristobal’s platoon and the reserves surrounded them.

Unfortunately, only Cristobal’s platoon would not have any dead. Roque’s platoon would have in total five dead, Mario’s and Lorenzo’s platoons each with three dead, and the escolta four dead. More than half of this was incurred in our five-pronged assault on the presidencia compound, after I had promised we would not take any more casualties.

Despite this, the soldiers celebrated in the plaza. They raised their rifles and voices in victory.

"Mabuhay si Heneral Lardizabal!" Dimalanta cried.

"Mabuhay!" the troops echoed.

"Mabuhay ang Republika!"

"Mabuhay!"

The battle ended late in the morning.

We spent the rest of the day sweeping through the town. Cautiously at first, then with more confidence as it became clear the enemy had truly broken. The townspeople emerged slowly from hiding. A few sobbed over the corpses of loved ones—men who had fired on us hours earlier. Some hurled stones or curses. A widow spat at my horse.

A fresh mount had been prepared for me. I rode slowly back to the church, my body aching, spirit heavier still.

I had come to liberate Buenavista. But it didn’t feel like liberation. The town reeked of blood and gunpowder. Cries of mourning echoed down every street. Bullet holes marked the walls, and the roads ran red in places.

By the time I arrived at the convent, the officers insisted I rest. I didn’t argue.

The bodies were dragged aside. Blood scrubbed off the tiles. They prepared a room—the same where the slain priest had once slept.

I collapsed into the clean white sheets. My arms and legs throbbed with fatigue, and my back screamed from the strain. I had fought harder than men half my age.

Sleep claimed me the moment I closed my eyes.

I woke up when it was dark already... to an urgent rapping at the door, and to the gunshots and shouts of yet another battle raging.