The rest of the recruits stread inside, clearing every nook and cranny of the church. I half-expected a few more pulajanes to spring out from the dark corners—shouting, blades raised—but no more fighters revealed themselves.
Mario’s n began dragging the corpses from the altar to the side aisles, clearing the way. The recruits carrying the ammunition crates finally arrived, grateful for the shelter offered by the church’s thick stone walls. They dropped the crates behind the pews, so of them sitting down to catch their breath, their faces streaked with sweat and soot.
The battle inside the church was over.
Outside, it was just beginning. The noise was getting worse—shouting and scattered gunfire. Chaos echoed from every direction, like the town itself was crying out.
It seed Vicente and Dimalanta had also engaged the enemy. The gunfire was now everywhere.
But so of the noise was closer than the rest.
Then I rembered—I had tasked Roque with clearing the convent.
I quickly scanned the wall behind the altar. The sacristy door was right where it usually was—tucked off to the side. If we moved quickly, we could coordinate a pincer maneuver: Roque from the front, and us through the corridor that connected the church to the convent via the sacristy.
"Mario," I said sharply. "Set up a periter outside. I want n watching the approaches from the residential areas—especially to the southwest, and to the east, toward the presidencia."
The cadet gave a sharp salute and imdiately set about the task, barking orders as he moved.
The scouts had reported about a hundred pulajanes fighters scattered across the town. We’d only accounted for about twenty so far. Reinforcents would arrive soon—maybe already had.
"Sargento Guzman," I called, "and the Bulakeño troops—you’re with . We’ll breach the convent from the sacristy."
Guzman nodded, and the escolta fell in behind him. Their Mausers glead faintly in the flickering candlelight as we crossed the marble tiles toward the door.
The door was locked.
Guzman glanced at , then stepped back. He knew what ca next. He took a short run-up and launched a solid kick at the door. I raised my rifle and aid center-mass. Last ti soone kicked open a door, it cost him his life. There would be no repeat of that.
The wooden door burst inward with a groan.
We were greeted by a dimly lit sacristy. A single candle flickered atop the vestnt drawers, casting long shadows on the walls. In the glow, we saw a man seated on a bench. His silhouette flinched violently, nearly standing up in shock.
"Hands up! I’ll shoot if you run!" I barked, stepping forward and training my rifle on the man.
He hesitated, then slowly stood. Loose fabric rustled as he rose—he was wearing a robe.
I tilted my head. It might’ve been the parish priest... but I was fairly certain the priest had been reported killed.
The man stepped closer to the candle, and the light revealed more. He wore priestly vestnts—long and white, like what Padre Trinidad wore during mass. In his hand was a silver crucifix—large, but not large enough to use as a weapon.
Still, I didn’t lower my rifle. Sothing was off.
"Why should I run?" the man asked with a smirk.
His beard was the first giveaway. Not just a beard—an unkempt, tangled mass of hair clinging to a face that hadn’t seen a blade in months. I never saw Catholic priests with beards back when I was John in the 21st century—and especially not in 19th-century Philippines. Beards on clergy were rare, and none as filthy as his.
His bare feet were caked with dirt, his nails thick and yellow. His hands were the sa—rough, with blackened cuticles and scars like those of a laborer. The vestnts clung awkwardly to him, like a pig in a borrowed robe.
I saw the stole—the strip of cloth around his neck. It had been vandalized with strange symbols and Latin inscriptions, not prayers, but sigils. Around his neck hung a copper amulet—the sa kind worn by the fighters we killed earlier.
"None can harm a servant of God," he said, raising the crucifix high. "In the na of San Miguel, the Santo Niño, and the Blessed Mother—your bullets will turn to wind, your blades to leaves!"
Sargento Guzman curled his lip. "Stop... or we’ll really shoot. And you’ll find that God will not be mocked!"
The man laughed—loud and mad. "Then shoot, soldado! And heaven will strike you down!"
Guzman looked to , asking for permission without a word.
I smiled and shook my head, lowering my rifle.
He followed suit, albeit reluctantly, and the rest of the escolta mirrored us. There was no need to waste a bullet on a lunatic.
I handed my rifle to one of the soldiers behind and rolled up my sleeves. Tilting my head from side to side, I cracked my knuckles as I approached the self-proclaid prophet.
He raised his arms and voice in unison.
"Saint Michael... oh, captain of the angels of heaven, use your sword and strike him do—"
I cut him off with a haymaker.
My fist crashed into his jaw with a satisfying crack. His head snapped sideways like a doll’s, and he dropped to the ground in a heap, his crucifix clattering beside him.
"You should’ve prayed for protection from fists," I said, grinning. "Rookie mistake."
Laughter erupted behind . The escolta and even so of Mario’s n clapped and whooped. Guzman gave the man a nudge with his boot. No response.
Out cold.
But the fanfare didn’t last.
We heard footsteps—fast, multiple—from deeper inside the convent.
At once, the room filled with the sound of bolts chambering and tal clinking. The soldiers raised their rifles in unison.
From the shadows erged Roque, his n following behind him. His uniform was streaked with blood, and his bayonet still glistened red.
He raised both hands in peace when he saw us, and we lowered our rifles.
Roque’s eyes shifted to the crumpled man on the floor.
"That... might be Papa Hilario," he muttered.
Reviews
All reviews (0)