CHAPTER 125: OVERPERFORMING

The last of the gunshots had been fired by the time I reached the compound.

When I got there, the battle was already over.

The enemy had attacked from the same direction Vicente had launched his charge earlier that day. The only difference was that this time, my soldiers were ready to meet them head-on. More than twenty rifles waited behind windows and alleyways, watching for the moment the enemy would emerge from the treeline and step into the open field.

It was nothing short of a massacre.

The fallen torches scattered across the field cast a flickering glow over the otherwise dark meadows. White uniforms littered the grass, their color stark against the night. The attackers had fancied themselves an army, it seemed. Each of them wore a white jacket modeled after the revolutionary uniform, and carried a kit—Remington rifle, ammunition pouch, and bolo knife.

Only to fall within minutes of the engagement.

Peering out from the compound, I counted more than twenty enemy bodies sprawled across the field.

The recruits I had sent to the church returned with a full crate of ammunition. As it turned out, they had confiscated ten crates of rolling block ammunition from the pulajanes defenders earlier—enough to have prolonged the battle for hours if it had come to that.

But it never did. The rounds inside the enemy soldiers’ pouches had been more than sufficient for an engagement that lasted no more than thirty minutes.

"We would have given chase, Heneral, if you had ordered it," Cristobal Madrigal said, a smug look on his face.

He had earned the right to boast. Back during training in Landi, his platoon had been one of the least promising. And yet here they were—exceeding expectations, with no KIA yet recorded.

Vicente reached out and tousled the cadet’s curly hair with rough affection. "You really didn’t listen to your lessons in Landi, did you? You never pursue at night, no matter how favorable the odds. We risk ambushes, getting lost, or worse—friendly fire."

"I knew that, Teniente," Cristobal grumbled, swatting his hand away. "I was just jesting."

"Of course!" Vicente chuckled.

I nodded approvingly. Vicente’s leadership likely played a large part in Cristobal’s platoon overperforming. He was daring but calculated—he knew when to push forward and when to hold back. All signs of a capable officer. And to think I once pinned him as just a bookworm. Maybe all he really needed was the opportunity to prove himself.

Ironically, for someone so studious, he didn’t fight by the book.

That role belonged to Dimalanta. His reliability no longer surprised me. You could always count on him to do things exactly as instructed. He never went anywhere without his notebook, where he had written every lesson from Landi, and he consulted it often. Methodical. Precise. By the book. Mistakes were rare with him.

He had taken command of Roque and Lorenzo’s platoons and laid out a long defensive perimeter to face the main thrust of the attack from the river. It was well-planned, with no exploitable gaps.

That part of the terrain was far harder to defend, filled with boulders, clumps of trees, and tall grass—perfect cover for any approaching enemy. The same terrain we had used earlier to infiltrate the town ourselves.

But this time, the enemy lacked the one advantage we had possessed: surprise.

Dimalanta had established an extensive cordon around the town, just like we’d practiced in Landi. Even before the enemy could land, our scouts had already spotted their boats and sprinted back to raise the alarm.

When the enemy launched their attack, they were met with a storm of coordinated volleys—fire coming from every direction.

The slope was bright with scattered flames, the torches igniting patches of dry straw. Littered throughout the cogon grass were enemy casualties, gunned down the moment they emerged from cover.

By the time I arrived, most of the surviving fighters were already fleeing back toward their landing point. The only gunfire still echoing came from a group of my soldiers surrounding a large boulder that sheltered two stubborn enemies. But even that skirmish ended quickly—before long, the soldiers had secured a surrender.

"Heneral!"

I turned at the familiar voice. Lorenzo, who had manned the center of the perimeter at the road leading into town, was approaching with a grin.

I hadn’t spoken to him since we’d scattered along the riverbank earlier that day.

He reached for my reins and steadied my horse as I dismounted.

With a grunt, I hopped down from the stirrups. "This looks like good news."

Lorenzo glanced back at the field and the soldiers scattered across it, then turned to me, his smile widening. "It is good news, Heneral. What a pathetic excuse for an attack that was. If it weren’t for the killing, I’d be laughing."

"Well, I hope this makes you grateful I put you through all that training," I chuckled.

He nodded eagerly. "I never complained, Heneral. I’d take more of your training if you’ve got any left to give."

I smiled. I wanted nothing more than to teach them more. But there was still so much to do, and never enough time to do it. Maybe when this war was over. Maybe once the Philippines had survived this American trial and we could finally standardize our armed forces.

"I think you’ll be pleased to know your brother and Teniente Vicente fended off the attack on the presidencia just as impressively."

"Ah!" he laughed. "I don’t trust Cristobal, but if he’s under Teniente Triviño, then I don’t worry."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well... back to your post, kadete. I’ll go find Teniente Dimalanta."

"He’s off to the left, Heneral. I think he’s handling the surrenderers," Lorenzo said as he saluted.

Then, from the distance, the unmistakable sound of cannons erupted—sharp, thunderous blasts coming from the river. Lorenzo turned toward the noise, and murmurs of excitement rippled through the ranks.

"Is that..." I looked to the cadet.

He nodded. "Yes... the alférez de navío, I think. The fleeing enemies are in for a lot of pain."