Four days later, the fleet finally arrived at its destination—Mindanao.
Zamboanga!
As the ship approached the ruined city, the officers and soldiers wore complicated expressions. A month ago, bombing and shelling had left Zamboanga in ruins. Now, citizens were slowly returning.
A few hours later, the troops began to disembark. Lin Mingshan's family lived near the port. As the security forces ca ashore, he spotted them, eyes widening in disbelief. Suddenly, he ran over, shouting excitedly,
"You're here! You're really here!"
Even without seeing a flag, the language and appearance of the soldiers could not be faked.
Soon, the area near the port was packed with civilians who had rushed from the city, bringing their children and surrounding the soldiers. Though the troops were strangers, the people treated them like long-lost kin.
Many of the refugees, who had lost everything in the war, brought what little food they had left to welco the newcors. Faced with such warmth, the soldiers were deeply moved. This touching scene of reunion between soldiers and civilians was faithfully recorded by photographers.
In the days that followed, the troops helped clear ruins, raised money to support reconstruction, and even built simple wooden houses for displaced families. The presence of ard forces gave locals who once cowered in fear a new sense of courage.
"Guns give cowards courage," one soldier muttered grimly, watching them stand taller than before.
Deep in the dense rainforest, Zhang Xueze read an intelligence report from Semarang, hardly able to believe his eyes.
"Are you sure?"
"The reinforcents have co to Zamboanga," Li Cunyi, the ssenger, confird. His voice trembled with excitent. "They're well-equipped—artillery, armored vehicles, airplanes. Every soldier carries an automatic rifle. And they've been helping rebuild hos, donating money, even cutting timber alongside the people."
Everyone listened, their faces lighting up with joy.
"So, what do you all think, brothers…" Zhang Xueze asked, looking at the comrades who had fought beside him in the jungle for three years.
"Should we head into the city, or…?"
"Into the city!" the deputy captain said without hesitation.
"We should join forces and fight the Japanese together!"
No one disagreed. The decision felt natural. Their days of struggling alone were finally over.
In April 1945, Zamboanga was still scarred by war.
When the security forces arrived, word spread quickly, and refugees and guerrilla fighters erged from the mountains to join them.
Among the new arrivals were ragged bands of resistance fighters who had fought the Japanese during the occupation. Teachers, farrs, shop assistants, and students—ordinary people who had abandoned their hos and livelihoods to resist the invaders.
Their captain, Zhang Xueze, stepped forward. His face was weathered, his voice steady:
"Sir, the Japanese have retreated into the rainforest. If your troops plan to go in and clear them out, we can act as guides—we know the terrain better than anyone."
His n stood behind him, their eyes burning with anticipation. They had fought and bled for years, and revenge was long overdue.
But Pierre shook his head.
"Revenge can wait. The Aricans will deal with the Japanese in the mountains. For now, our priority is here—protecting the city, protecting the people. There are collaborators in these streets who grew fat during the occupation. It's ti to settle accounts."
The guerrillas fell silent, then slowly began to smile. Settling scores with collaborators ant justice, and justice was long overdue.
At Pierre's order, the guerrilla force was reorganized as the Zamboanga Resistance Army, and a Provisional Committee was established to give their actions legitimacy. The Aricans, happy to have a local authority to work with, did not interfere.
The committee wasted no ti. By the end of the first day, an investigative team had drawn up a list of more than 500 collaborators. Arrests began imdiately.
"Sir, please don't kill ! I'll give up everything I own!" cried Mahathir, a wealthy landowner, as he was dragged from his mansion. His house and estates were imdiately seized as "assets pending liquidation."
Special tribunals were convened—swift and unforgiving. Each panel had four judges. There would be only one trial, with no appeal.
The verdicts were simple: death or acquittal. And acquittals were rare.
"Mahathir, you are charged with collaborating with the Japanese, resulting in countless deaths. Do you admit these charges?" asked Zhao Chenggang, a lawyer-turned-judge.
"I—I admit it, Your Honor. But I was forced! The Japanese would have killed if I refused!"
A photographer snapped pictures as Mahathir wept and begged.
The prosecutor rose. "The defendant confesses to treason and aiding the enemy. I request the death penalty."
Mahathir froze. "What?! But I confessed! You promised leniency!"
Zhao Chenggang ignored the protests. "Confession spares us deliberation, nothing more. Treason and aiding murder are unforgivable cris. You are sentenced to death, effective imdiately. All assets are confiscated."
Mahathir scread as guards dragged him away.
Monts later, a gunshot echoed in the courtyard. His body was tossed onto a truck already piled with corpses. Blood dripped from the bed, soaking the dirt beneath.
Zhao Chenggang opened the next file.
"Next."
As the anthem played, a flag slowly rose.
Unlike his younger brother, Pierre wasn't much concerned with the symbolism. What mattered to him was the school itself.
The Zamboanga Primary School reopened amidst the ruins of war. Though it was just an elentary school, it was the first public facility rebuilt in the city. To Pierre, nothing was more important than giving the children a future.
Engineers had labored for days to repair the classrooms. Now, over 1,100 students filled the courtyard, clutching the schoolbags, pencils, and exercise books he had arranged as gifts. In his speech, Pierre told them simply:
"Study hard, grow strong, and build a better future than the one we inherited."
After the ceremony, Pierre sat down with Zhang Xueze in the principal's office.
"How's the situation?" he asked.
"Stable for now," Zhang replied, "but the Aricans seem unhappy. They say our council isn't a legitimate institution and has no authority to execute those people. I worry they'll interfere."
Pierre waved the concern away. "If they object, tell them we're acting under the principles of Roosevelt's Four Freedoms. If they want to argue, let them argue with the White House. Until then, we control the ground here."
To Pierre, Zamboanga was an experint. He couldn't annex territory outright, but by backing a provisional council, he could cent authority that might survive the postwar chaos.
"In short," he said, "don't worry about outsiders. What matters is making sure our community is the backbone of this city."
Zhang hesitated. "We don't have many people, but we have guns. If things get rough, we won't be at a disadvantage."
"Force is the last resort," Pierre cut him off. He lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. "A gentleman wins with words, not fists. Rember that."
He continued: "This purge of collaborators—it wasn't only revenge. It was about redistribution. Assets decide everything."
Zhang nodded. "Our current process is simple: we arrest the collaborators, put them on trial, and execute them. Afterwards, their assets are auctioned. Most buyers are our own people."
Pierre smiled faintly. He had designed the procedure himself. Loans from the Eurasian Developnt Bank gave their allies the ans to buy cheaply. Paynts were required in US dollars, limiting who could compete. And the auction proceeds were redirected into a compensation fund, officially earmarked for victims of the occupation—but in practice, the money circled right back to their own.
"Now that the land and businesses are ours," Pierre explained, "raise the rents, control the wages, and give hiring preference to our people. Do it gradually—soft pressure. Over ti, those who oppose us will leave on their own."
Zhang's eyes glead with admiration. Pierre clapped him on the shoulder.
"We've sacrificed too much to let it all slip away. Be firm. Outsiders will talk, but if we hold steady, they'll be forced to respect our interests."
Outside, the schoolyard buzzed with children's laughter. In the streets, shops reopened, signs went up, and Zamboanga slowly clawed back life from the wreckage.
Pierre gazed from the car window as his convoy rolled toward the military camp. Gunfire echoed from the rainforest as soldiers drilled in jungle warfare, every spare mont spent preparing for the battles still to co.
The motorcade halted. Sun Delin ca running, shouting breathlessly:
"Boss, sothing big has happened!"
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