Two weeks of planning. Two weeks of watching, charting guard rotations, supply routes, and patrol habits. Elijah and Isa had worked in the shadows, coordinating with loyal scouts and townsfolk who still supported the revolution. Word spread in whispers through Malolos—of an imminent strike. Of hope.
Luna had remained quiet but supportive, sending a small squad of trusted men to assist, including Lieutenant Remo, a demolition expert with a love for chaos. The plan was simple, in theory: infiltrate the town during the festival of Saint Anne, blend in with the crowds, and strike the prison convoy at dusk. In execution, it would require precision, speed, and no small measure of luck.
Malolos was celebrating its feast day. Lanterns swayed overhead. Drums pounded in the plaza. The streets were flooded with people, even under occupation. The Americans, confident in their dominance, allowed the festivities in hopes of pacifying the locals. That overconfidence would cost them.
Elijah, dressed in a laborer's tunic and with soot on his face, moved through the crowd unnoticed. Isa was already in position near the station, disguised as a street performer. She balanced on a low cart, pretending to juggle small stones while scanning the entrance to the barracks. Beneath the cart lay crates filled with powder—Remo's touch.
Lieutenant Remo met Elijah near the church steps.
"Explosives are set," he whispered. "Fuse runs beneath the gutter. Should give us twenty seconds after the fireworks start. Then boom. Chaos."
Elijah nodded. "Signal Isa. Wait until the prisoners are halfway between the station and the old churchyard. We strike there."
Remo chuckled. "I do love a good resurrection."
The Procession
At sundown, the bells rang and the holy procession began. Priests marched solemnly. Behind them, the American guards came—with the prisoners in tow. There were about twenty of them, wrists chained, heads bowed. Some limped. Others bore the marks of torture.
Among them: General San Miguel, gaunt but proud. His uniform hung loosely on his starved frame, but his eyes burned with defiance.
Elijah signaled. Isa caught it, her juggling stones vanishing into a pouch. She stepped off the cart and lit the fuse casually with a prayer candle.
The fireworks began overhead—colorful, dazzling bursts. The crowd cheered.
Then the world shook.
An explosion ripped through the alley by the barracks. Fire surged, smoke billowed, and soldiers screamed. The crowd panicked, trampling each other to flee. In the chaos, Remo and two others burst from the crowd, rifles drawn.
Elijah charged toward the prison guards.
"Now!" he shouted.
Isa was already moving. She took out the lead guard with a precise shot. Elijah tackled another, knocking him unconscious. The revolutionaries overwhelmed the dazed escorts.
Keys were found, chains unlocked. Prisoners scattered into alleys and buildings where safehouses awaited. Elijah reached San Miguel.
"General," he said. "You're free."
San Miguel stared at him, dazed. "You're the one they said was... from the future."
"Does it matter?" Elijah said. "Come on!"
Gunfire broke out behind them. Reinforcements had arrived. American marines poured out from the plaza.
"We're out of time!" Isa shouted.
Remo tossed a grenade into the street, forcing the soldiers to scatter.
The escapees vanished down narrow corridors, slipping through pre-dug tunnels and into waiting carriages hidden in the outskirts. Flames still danced in the heart of Malolos as the rebels melted away into the darkness.
The retreat was anything but smooth. They were pursued halfway to the outskirts by a detachment of cavalry. Elijah, Isa, and a wounded rebel named Mando were nearly caught at a river crossing, forcing Elijah to rig a fallen bridge with a powder satchel.
They barely made it across. Elijah lit the fuse just in time. The bridge exploded behind them, throwing two horses into the ravine and scattering the rest.
"Damn," Mando coughed, "you're really from the future?"
Elijah grinned as they helped him onto a cart. "Not officially. Let's get moving."
In the Jungle Camp
The next morning, the survivors regrouped in a forest clearing northeast of San Miguel.
San Miguel stood before Luna, weakened but alive. "You saved more than me," he said. "You saved what was left of the Nueva Ecija command. My men will follow you now."
The prisoners they had rescued numbered nearly thirty—leaders, scouts, saboteurs. Men and women who had been broken and now found their cause reborn.
Luna turned to Elijah. "This changes everything. You've not only humiliated the Americans—you've reignited the people's belief that we can still win."
But Elijah's eyes were hard. "They'll hit back. Harder than ever."
Isa stepped beside him. "Then we hit them first."
He nodded. "We burn their supply lines. We cripple their railroads. We make every town a graveyard. We teach them that the Filipino spirit does not kneel."
Luna raised his hand. "Then let this be known: from this moment, Elijah delos Reyes will serve as my Chief Strategist."
There was silence.
Then cheers.
But in the shadows, someone watched. A courier slipped away from the camp, heading north. He carried word of Elijah's rise—to men who had not forgotten their grudges.
And as Elijah looked at the fires in the distance, he knew the war had only just begun.