The heavy mahogany doors of the Santos estate closed behind us with a resonant thud, cutting off the golden light and the delicate trill of the string quartet. Outside, the night had come to its early time. The transition back to reality was jarring. The polished narra floors were replaced by the uneven, rain-slicked stones of the Pariancillo, and the safety of the elite was replaced by the cold, calculated silence of a city under the shadow of war.
Pasco was still humming a tune from the banquet, his gait slightly wider than usual as he patted his stomach with profound fulfillment.
"Sarhento, I have seen the face of God," Pasco whispered. "And He is made of roasted pork and garlic rice. If the Americans knew we were eating like this in Malolos, they would have surrendered weeks ago out of sheer jealousy."
Anya, who had already transitioned back into her role as Kabo, adjusted the invisible weight of a rifle at her shoulder. She gave Pasco a dry, sidelong glance. "I'm surprised you can even walk, Pasco. I saw the kitchen maids looking at you. I couldn't tell if they were impressed by your appetite or concerned for the Republic's reserves."
Pasco laughed, a bright sound that he quickly muffled as we passed a pair of sentries standing at a street corner. "A scout must maintain his energy! Besides, those maids were very interested in the 'Giant Americans' of the north. I might have mentioned that I personally wrestled a Kansan corporal to the ground with one hand while eating a mango with the other."
I walked a pace ahead, my mind processing the cold weight of the brass key in my pocket. The interaction with the Kapitan on the balcony was still simmering in my head—not because of the man, but because of the rot he represented.
"That Kapitan," I began, my voice low. "His uniform was too clean, even if he's indeed from the capital."
Anya's expression darkened. "He is a Politico. Generally, a son of a wealthy family who bought his commission to avoid the actual trenches. There are more of them in Malolos than there are bullets in some of our battalions. Some didnt even know how to command the army well."
"If this cannot be controlled, I'm afraid it will become poison in the republic itself," I noted. I chose my words carefully, keeping my modern insights masked behind soldierly pragmatism. "If the Republic continues to hand out stripes based on who a man's father is, rather than how competent the individual, then we aren't building an army. We're building a social club with guns. A man like that wouldn't know how to lead a retreat, let alone a flanking maneuver. When the pressure mounts, those are the men who will break first, and they'll take good soldiers down with them."
Pasco nodded, his levity fading. "I've heard the talk in the markets, Sarge. The regular soldiers—the ones who haven't seen a new pair of boots in months—they see these 'Civic Officers' riding around in carriages. It breeds a certain kind of bitterness. They think they can win this by being more 'civilized' than the Americans."
"The Americans don't care about being civilized," I countered, looking up at the dark silhouette of the Barasoain Church. "What they care right now, is to curb the filipino forces until we are none. If our leadership treats this like a Spanish court, they'll find themselves in a prison cell before the year is out. Independence isn't a gift; it's a reality you enforce by making the cost of occupation too high for the enemy to pay. And the wisdom, starting the independence is easier than maintaining the independence."
Anya looked at me, her eyes sharp in the moonlight. "That's quite some heavy sentences you put there boss. Sometimes it's like you're reading the clouds and seeing the storm before we even hear the thunder."
I forced a small, tired smile. "I know the the gist of it, Anya. War is just a different kind of politics. You need pawns to move and your 'politicians' need to act swift. Yet as of now, not all 'politicians' are act on the progress."
We walked in silence for a while. The laughter of the banquet felt like a fever dream, a temporary hallucination of peace in a world that was rapidly turning to iron and lead.
~~
The barracks were quiet, the air thick with the smell of old wood, gun oil, and the heavy sleep of exhausted men. A single oil lamp flickered on a low crate in the center of our section's area. I didn't wake the whole camp—only my squad. One by one, they sat up, their shadows dancing long and jagged against the weathered walls.
I entered the barracks, and as usual, the boys are minding their own business.
"Gather up boys, we having emergency meetup".
~~
The men quickly shoved chairs into a tight circle, transforming the barracks into a makeshift war room. When the shuffling stopped, they took their places, leaving only Pasco, Anya, and me standing.
I held up the key, catching the dim light. It was heavy, worn by years of handling. I let them look at it for a moment, letting the silence settle.
"You thinking what I am thinking?" I asked.
The squad stared, blank-faced. Julian was the first to break. "It's a key, Boss."
"Yeah, stupid," Miguel retorted, rolling his eyes. "But to where? That's the question. What's it for?"
I allowed myself a thin, sharp smile. "About an hour from now, we're heading to the Malolos train warehouse. There's a 'package' waiting for us there. It's part of a supply shipment that got left behind in the retreat. The records are buried, the paper trail is long dead, and the crates have been gathering dust for months. Nobody is looking for them—except us."
Anya stiffened, her brow furrowing. "Wait, Sarhento... you don't mean—"
"Yes. It comes from the Don himself. Don Teodoro." I let the name hang in the air like smoke. "Now, listen close. What is said in this room, stays in this room. If I hear even a whisper of this mission circulating the barracks, I'll find the leak, and I'll deal with it personally. We aren't just soldiers; we're a unit. And we keep our secrets. Got it?"
The room went still. The weight of the Don's involvement settled over them, replacing their earlier confusion with a mix of thrill and professional dread.
"Yes, Boss," they chorused, voices low and unanimous.
~~
As we finished gearing up, we rush to the warehouse. The walk to the Malolos rail depot was short, but the humidity of the night made every step feel heavy. We moved in a staggered file, hugging the shadows of the rusted tracks. As we approached the structure, it didn't loom like a fortress—it was a standard railway storage depot, corrugated iron walls framed by sturdy, darkened timber. It was smaller than a modern logistics hub in my opinion, but in 1899, it was a colossal beast capable of holding enough supplies to equip a battalion.
"Secure the perimeter," I whispered, barely audible over the distant whistle of a night engine. Anya signaled few of it to secure the surroundings.
Since there will be 10 of us, I asked the Julian's team to watch outside while the rest will proceed to warehouse.
The main bay doors were barred, but the side office—the one Don Teodoro had alluded to—was tucked away behind a loading platform, obscured by a stack of rotted wooden pallets. I produced the key. It was cold, biting into my palm, but the fit was perfect. With a heavy, metallic thunk that echoed through the silence of the warehouse, the rusted tumbler turned.
We pushed the door inside. The air surrounding the room was thick, stagnant, and smelled of creosote, mildew, and the dry, metallic tang of dormant iron. Honestly, that explains a lot on why its been long without anyone coming down.
"Light," I commanded. Pasco flicked the lantern, the beam cutting a jagged cone through the darkness. The interior was massive, cavernous really, with high rafters that seemed to swallow the light. We navigated the narrow aisles between crates until we reached the inner sanctum the key unlocked.
There are four large, reinforced chests. They weren't the cheap, splintered crates we were used to; these were bound in dark mahogany and secured with brass.
"Open them," I ordered.
Sanchez and Roberto pried the first lid open. The smell of cedar and wax hit us instantly.
"Mother of God," Sanchez breathed.
Inside sat rows of uniforms, I take one of it, to check. The embroideries, fabrics used. Yep, it's the current issued filipino uniforms, well since the old ones is kind of old. Changing new ones definitely makes the difference.
"This uniforms, it must have been here since the first issuance day by General Luna" Anya added.
As Andre pried the lid from the first chest, we didn't see the long, familiar barrels of rifles. Instead, the lantern light glinted off rows of compact, strangely shaped steel frames nestled in form-fitting wooden blocks.
"These aren't rifles," Sanchez whispered, his hand hovering over a weapon with a distinctive "broomhandle" grip and a box magazine in front of the trigger.
"Mauser C96s," I said, my heart skipping a beat. I reached in and pulled one out. It was heavy, balanced perfectly, and still slick with factory oil. I slid the wooden holster-stock out from the crate and clicked it into the slot at the base of the grip. In seconds, I wasn't holding a pistol; I was holding a carbine.
"And these?" Roberto asked, opening the second, smaller chest. It was filled with top-break revolvers, their blued steel dark and menacing.
"Orbea Hermanos," I noted, recognizing the Spanish-made Smith & Wesson clones. "Heavy .44 caliber. They'll stop a man in his tracks even if he's charging with a bolo."
"Are they... loaded, Boss?" Miguel asked, glancing at the final crate which was packed with stripper clips for the Mausers and heavy lead rounds for the Orbeas.
"No, obviously," I replied, but I was already looking at the stripper clips. Ten rounds of 7.63mm high-velocity lead. In a war where most men were lucky to fire three aimed shots a minute with a single-shot Remington, this was like finding a piece of the future.
I leaned in, my eyes scanning the final chest. This was what I was looking for.
As we open the final chests, the design is quite rustic and old from the previous ones, we looked the inside of the chest.
They are not weapons, but it is indeed the game-changers for the squad. There were leather bandoliers—not the loose pouches we were using, but structured, multi-compartment webbing that would keep ammunition secure and accessible during a sprint. There were also several vacuum-sealed tin canisters containing field surgical supplies: morphine, clean gauze, and high-grade antiseptic.
"This is the crucial ones, boys," I said, holding up a heavy, well-oiled leather canteen holder. "We spend half our time fighting the terrain because our gear is falling apart. We've been using rags and string to hold our lives together. This..." I gestured to the organized, rugged equipment, "...this is how we turn a militia into a professional unit."
Pasco picked up a tunic, holding it against his chest. His eyes were wide. "Boss, if we show up in these, the other squads won't just respect. It will raise suspicions among soldiers. Wondering where we got this equipment.
I looked at Pasco, whose concern was valid. In a revolutionary army held together by rumors and scrap metal, appearing suddenly in pristine gear could look like theft or desertion to the wrong eyes.
"The suspicions of others are a small price to pay for survival, Pasco," I said, my voice low but firm. "Besides, look at the cut. These aren't foreign imports; they're the standard patterns commissioned by the Republic. Every battalion is supposed to look like this. The only difference is that we're getting ours an hour after midnight in a dusty warehouse instead of six months from now at a formal parade."
Anya nodded, her fingers tracing the silver buttons on one of the tunics. "He's right. General Luna has been pushing for total standardization since he took command. Most of the Manila battalions are already receiving these, or will be soon. To anyone who asks, we simply got our issuance early. In a war this chaotic, a fortunate moment is just called 'logistics.'"
"See?" I added, patting Pasco on the shoulder. "We aren't thieves; we're just ahead of the curve. Now, enough talk. The sun won't wait for us."
I turned to the rest of the men, who were still staring at the rows of Mauser C96s and the dark, heavy cylinders of the Orbea revolvers.
"Sanchez, Roberto—take the weapon chests. I want those sidearms handled like they're made of glass. One accidental discharge of these 'broomhandles' and the whole station will be on us. Andre, Miguel, you're on the ammunition and the medical tins. The lead for those .44s is heavy, so use your legs."
I watched as the men sprang into action, the "discussion vibes" of the barracks now replaced by the silent, rhythmic efficiency of a working party. They moved in pairs, hoisting the mahogany chests onto their shoulders. The brass fittings groaned under the weight of the "jackpot" we had discovered. These chests were smaller than rifle crates, but denser, packed with the kind of concentrated firepower usually reserved for the high command.
"Anya, take the lead with the scouts," I commanded. "Clear the path back to the barracks. If we run into any late-night patrols, keep the lanterns low. We're just a fatigue party moving 'authorized' officer sidearms for the new graduates. No need for anyone to look too closely at the manifests."
"Understood, Sarhento," she replied, her eyes lingering on the wooden holster-stocks of the Mausers before she signaled to Julian's team outside. We began the slow, heavy trek out of the cavernous dark.