Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes
Chapter 130: Final Ace

Chapter 130: Final Ace

Just like before, when I concocted our plans to assault the town of Buenavista in Boac, I waited for the scouts to return with their report before finalizing our battle plan for Torrijos.

I sat in the conference room of the presidencia, along with the officers and cadets. The lamps above flickered gently, casting long shadows across the table. The mood was heavy with fatigue.

Señor Alcántara had managed to return before sundown, and with him was Capitan Roque. The latter was understandably overjoyed when he learned that his son had not only survived the battle but had performed admirably in the assault. As I had ordered, Roque had brought with him a hundred recruits—half of the newly trained batch of 200 from Boac.

Also seated among the audience were Teniente Medina and Sargento Ortega. I had requested the Cazadores to join us in tomorrow’s planned attack, owing to their prior knowledge of the terrain and defenses around Torrijos. They had agreed without hesitation.

Despite their earlier imprisonment by Guzman—done without my authorization—they showed no bitterness. If anything, they carried themselves with a sort of heavy remorse. All throughout the day, especially when we were digging up the corpses, they had remained quiet and solemn—heartbroken, guilty, and ashamed.

After all, they had been there. They had watched it all unfold and done nothing.

The noble thing would have been to intervene—to risk their lives to help the victims. At the very least, they should have dared abandoning the Pulajanes. But noble men were ever rare. More often than not, it is human nature to preserve one’s own skin.

The rest of the long table was filled with familiar faces—the officers and cadets of my main force. None of them had had a proper rest. I had thought today would be uneventful, a day to catch our breath. But like the days before, it had turned out to be another exhausting stretch of work. The men were either slouched in their seats, dozing off, yawning with reddened eyes, or gazing into nothingness.

I pitied the soldiers even more. Few had gotten more than a few hours of sleep. They had worked twice as hard as the officers, most of it spent clearing debris, assisting the wounded, or burying the dead. Yesternight, their rest had been disrupted by Sadiwa’s surprise attack. Tonight, it would be cut short again for another assault at dawn.

Torrijos would likely be a harder town to take. The terrain was more rugged, with narrow approaches and uneven roads, and I expect desperate defenders.

Perhaps I should delay the attack by another day. I wasn’t sure if waiting one more day would make any real difference. If I were to lead them back into hell, then the least I could do was allow them a little rest.

Let them have the entire day tomorrow to recover. In their place, Capitan Roque’s fresh recruits could handle the routine tasks—guard shifts, sentry rotations, and watch duty.

I couldn’t help but yawn myself. The stillness of the presidencia did little to keep me awake. I had ordered a curfew to begin at 6:00 p.m., and after today’s executions, it was being obeyed without question. Not a soul walked the streets save for our patrols.

It was even quieter inside the presidencia compound.

Candles had been lit in the plaza where we had unearthed the corpses earlier. The night breeze blew gently across the flames, making them dance and flicker. Through the open windows, the cold wind carried whispers—faint, mournful. I could almost hear the voices of the dead, rustling through the halls and tickling the back of my neck.

When the first scout finally arrived, we heard his footsteps echo through the compound the moment he stepped onto packed dirt of the plaza. He wasted no time, heading straight into the presidencia.

I recognized him at once—one of Roque’s men. He was the surviving half of the pair that had taken out the Pulajanes sentries during our assault on Buenavista.

"Alright! Eyes to the front! We have our first scout!" I called, tapping my knuckles on the table. The sharp sound jolted Cristobal and Mario awake. Both men groggily sat up straight, blinking at me with red, watery eyes.I picked up my stick from the table and pointed it toward the map—both the cane and map had been brought by Señor Alcántara from Boac’s conference room earlier that evening.

"The scout will brief us on the terrain and the positioning of sentries in Torrijos. Listen closely," I said, poking at the southernmost part of the island, where the town was situated.

"Soldado... you may make your report."

The scout’s eyes flicked around the room before settling on me. He paused until he had caught his breath fully, then finally spoke.

"The thing is, Heneral... I don’t think you’ll need a strategy this time," he said, and an unexpected smile crept across his face.

I looked at the others in the room, then turned back to him with a raised eyebrow.

"Explain."

"Señor Paras has fled the town," he said, standing a little taller now. "The cultists fled as well when word of Capitan—of Sadiwa’s defeat reached them."

He let that sink in before continuing.

"I believe Sadiwa’s men which we crushed last night were their last proper fighting force. They’ve got no more men left. No more rifles."

Vicente was the first to react. He let out a huff, then broke into loud, rolling laughter. Cristobal followed suit, and soon everyone at the table was either cheering or thumping their fists on the table.

"You mean our soldiers won’t face any resistance?" Capitan Roque asked, glancing briefly at his son beside him. "Not a single bullet will need to be fired?"

"I believe so, Capitan," the scout said, nodding.

"When I left, the townsmen who stayed—those who refused to join the cult—were openly cursing the Pulajanes in the streets. They were invoking the Heneral’s name." He looked straight at me. "They know you’re coming. They’re waiting for you to bring justice."

Another round of cheering followed. Lorenzo—who had been taking after Dimalanta more and more—started a chant. "Mabuhay si Heneral Lardizabal!"

"Mabuhay!" the others joined in, followed by laughter.

"Alright, alright... keep it down," I said, waving my hand. "People are trying to sleep."

We had neutralized nearly two hundred men from both battles and captured a similar number of rifles. In hindsight, Sadiwa’s defeat was more decisive than I had initially thought. It seemed he had been Paras’ final ace—sacrificing the defense of Torrijos in a desperate gamble to catch me off guard.

Still, I wasn’t ready to believe the report outright. It could be a trap. Good soldiers don’t rush headfirst into good news.

More scouts arrived throughout the night, one by one. Each of them confirmed what the first had reported.

Torrijos was open.

---

Before dismissing the officers, I told the four platoon leaders not to wake the men early. Let them sleep in until mid-morning. Skip the drills.

They obeyed without question.

The next day, the soldiers were summoned to the plaza at around ten in the morning. They stood groggily, scratching their eyes and yawning, their usually sharp posture absent. They had heard the news, and it lifted the invisible weight that had hung heavy over their backs for the past few days.

We left for Torrijos shortly after, boarding the gunship and sailing out of Buenavista’s pier. The sea was calm, the skies clear. We arrived in under an hour and docked at the port of Torrijos.

From the deck, we peered at the town from a distance, studying it for signs of resistance—smoke, barricades, enemy flags—but saw nothing suspicious.

An advance party disembarked first. They returned not long after, bringing with them a member of the town’s principalia. He confirmed that the town was indeed under no hostile control.

Then came a loud cheer from the men, followed by an emotional reception from the townspeople—likely the survivors of the atrocities. They lined the streets as we marched in, showering us with petals, palm fronds, and cries of "Mabuhay!"

We waved and smiled, but we did not celebrate. This town once had 5,000 souls. Fewer than a thousand greeted us. The rest had either been slaughtered or had fled with the Pulajanes, being cultists themselves.

Bloodstains still marred the stone walls of bahay-na-batos. Doors hung ajar, windows smashed in the houses of the principalia. The same horror that had taken Buenavista had also taken Torrijos.

Señor Mercado, the principalia who had greeted us, hosted me and the officers for lunch in his home.

At the table, he recounted what had happened.

He and his family had been at their hacienda during the chaos. His plantation workers had protected them from the cult’s reach.

His father, however—an elderly man who served as the town’s juez—had been in town when the takeover occurred.

"He died with a gunshot to the head," Mercado said, holding back tears. "Spared from the torture others suffered."

"Nearly half the principalia were killed, Gobernador," he continued, his lips trembling. "Even those who tried to convert."

"They said... my father begged for mercy. He kissed the hand of their false pope and offered to join them. Florentino Paras stood there... said nothing as the cultist aimed the gun and pulled the trigger."

He bit his lip hard, then reached for water to force down the emotion.

I had not known Paras capable of such cruelty. I had once called him a friend—firm, outspoken, and driven, yes—but I never thought that his righteousness would twist into something so evil.

"And... do you have any idea where Señor Paras fled?" I asked gently. "We’ll pursue him—and his minions—wherever they’ve gone."

"I’m sorry, Heneral," he replied, offering a faint smile. "I don’t know exactly. But I don’t think ’fled’ would be the right word."

My brow rose. "What do you mean?"

He swallowed, voice dropping. "I don’t know if it’s true... but... yesterday, very early in the morning, someone saw him being dragged away by several men."

"Bound and gagged."

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