February 4, 1899 — Near San Juan Bridge
The night was humid and unnaturally still. Moonlight filtered through the palm trees, casting long, skeletal shadows over the muddy road near San Juan Bridge. A Filipino sentry, Private Andrés Kalibo stood at his post, nervously clutching his rifle. Across the shallow river, barely visible in the mist, patrolled a detachment of American soldiers.
For weeks, tensions had grown. The invisible line that separated Filipino and American zones around Manila was becoming thinner, almost illusory. One step too far, one misunderstanding—and the tenuous peace would rupture.
A twig snapped in the distance.
Andrés froze, raising his rifle. A shadow moved in the darkness. He shouted in Tagalog, "STOP! WHO ARE YOU?!
The shadow didn't respond.
He shouted again—louder, more urgent.
And then the shape moved forward.
A shot rang out.
The sound tore through the silence like lightning through a dry sky. Then came another. And another.
It had begun.
Elijah's Camp, Hours Later
Elijah was already on his feet by the time the second volley echoed across the plains. Talon's proximity sensors flared to life, and Eli-Ah burst into the command tent with urgency in her eyes.
"It's happened," she said. "Shots fired near Santa Mesa. The Americans have returned fire. The lines are collapsing."
Elijah gritted his teeth. "No declaration. No warning. Just fire and blood."
Isa rushed in, rifle slung across her back, adjusting her boots as she walked. "Orders?"
Elijah grabbed his coat, the one with the stitched Phoenix insignia now worn proudly by his closest fighters. "We move. Mobilize the units. If they want war, we'll give them something to remember."
Malolos Headquarters, 3 AM
President Emilio Aguinaldo was in his chambers when Luna stormed in, sword at his side.
"War is upon us," Luna snapped. "Otis claims we fired the first shot. His men are advancing toward our lines across every front."
Aguinaldo nodded grimly. "Mobilize our forces. I will issue a formal declaration at dawn. We must not be seen as the aggressors."
From the shadows, Mabini stepped forward. "It won't matter what we say. Washington has already made up its mind."
A courier entered. "General Arcilla has requested full command of the central front."
Aguinaldo blinked. "He anticipated this?"
Mabini met the president's gaze. "He always does."
Battle of Manila Outskirts
By sunrise, Filipino forces had fully engaged American lines across the suburbs—Caloocan, Santa Ana, Pandacan. The revolutionaries fought with muskets and Mausers, but under Elijah's units, something new surged through the battlefield.
His special forces—equipped with salvaged future tech—deployed lightning communication, coordinated flanking maneuvers in real-time, and used adaptive tactics that stunned American field officers.
Elijah stood atop a ridge near La Loma Cemetery, directing troops with the aid of a translucent tactical map projected by a small wrist-mounted device. Eli-Ah crouched beside him, relaying commands through a modified headset.
"The Americans are reinforcing from the bay. Otis is bringing in artillery."
"Then we outmaneuver him," Elijah said. "Isa, take the aerial scouts west. I want eyes on their supply lines."
"Yes, Commander," Isa replied, disappearing into the trees.
Cannon fire thundered in the distance. The earth trembled beneath their boots.
The American Camp
General Elwell Otis watched the battle unfold through his binoculars, his brow furrowed. His officers were shouting, scrambling to keep order.
"These insurgents aren't fighting like peasants," one said. "They're using some kind of… communication system we can't intercept. They're coordinated—like a modern army."
Otis muttered, "No… not just modern."
He looked eastward, toward the heart of the Republic.
"Something's wrong here."
Back at the Front
As the sun dipped low again, Elijah's forces held their ground. Though outgunned and outnumbered, their tactics—blending Filipino resistance with future insight—kept the Americans from breaching deeper territory.
But Elijah knew the worst was still ahead. He gathered his officers in the command tent that night.
"This war will not be quick," he said. "And it will not be just. The Americans will paint us as rebels. The world will believe them."
"But we will show them," he added, voice firm. "That we are more than a colony. More than history expected. We are the future."
Eli-Ah met his gaze across the flickering lamplight.
And something passed between them—unspoken, but growing.