February 10, 1899 — Caloocan
Smoke curled like black serpents into the gray morning sky.
Caloocan, a town once alive with merchants and farmers, now stood deserted—its train station turned into a fort, its narrow streets booby-trapped, its churches converted into field hospitals. Trenches dug overnight lined the outskirts. It was here that the Americans would strike next, aiming to seize control of the rail line and crush the northern defenses.
Elijah stood atop the shell-pocked hill overlooking the town. With him were Isa, Luna, and Eli-Ah—his core strategists.
"The scouts confirm it," Isa said. "Otis is deploying over 3,000 men, supported by naval artillery from the Pasig River and armored Gatling emplacements. They'll hit us with everything they have."
"They think we'll run," Luna spat, his arms crossed. "That we'll scatter like dogs."
"They're wrong," Elijah said. "We're not running. We're holding. If they take Caloocan, they'll sever the line to Malolos and divide our forces."
He turned to his captains. "Today we bleed—but we do not break."
The Opening Salvo
At midday, the first shell screamed through the air and slammed into the western wall of the Caloocan church, blowing the bell tower to rubble. Minutes later, American forces emerged from the tree line—disciplined, armored in blue, advancing with cold precision.
Gatling guns on carts sprayed the trenches with suppressive fire. Artillery fire rained down like thunder.
But the defenders were ready.
Elijah's lines fired in volleys. Guerrilla sharpshooters, trained by Isa, picked off American officers. Explosive traps hidden under carts and debris slowed their advance. Molotovs rained from rooftops. Smoke bombs erupted at strategic points, cloaking Filipino fighters as they shifted positions through hidden tunnels.
And at the center of it all was Elijah—coordinating from a concealed command post beneath the Caloocan train station, where a repurposed holographic map glowed faintly, tracking American troop movements with pinched precision.
"Redirect Alpha Squad to the north flank," he ordered. "They're breaking through Sector Three."
"Yes, Commander," Eli-Ah said, relaying orders through her headset.
Turning the Tide
By afternoon, the town was ablaze.
Street by street, the Americans pushed forward, but every gain cost them dearly. Filipino fighters refused to retreat, laying down overlapping fields of fire and launching daring counterattacks.
In one alleyway, a unit led by Isa ambushed a squad of U.S. Marines, striking from balconies with grenades made from salvaged Spanish munitions. Above them, a captured American repeater rifle clattered to life—manned by a teenage rebel barely old enough to shave.
Elijah moved constantly, his cloak dusty and torn, his once-hidden tech now openly visible—a glowing bracer on his wrist, a modified rifle slung across his back. His legend had spread through the trenches like wildfire: the man who defied time itself, the ghost general of the revolution.
But even he could feel the pressure mounting.
"They're not breaking," Luna growled beside him, nursing a grazed shoulder. "We've given them everything we have."
"They don't need to break," Elijah replied. "They just need to bleed. This war will be won in weeks—or in attrition. And if they want this town, they'll pay in blood."
The Final Stand at the Rail Depot
As night fell, the Americans surged one final time, breaching the outer trench lines and pushing toward the train depot—the last strategic point in Caloocan.
Elijah gathered the remnants of his core forces—less than two hundred men and women—and prepared to make a stand.
Bullets raked the ground as machine guns lit the shadows. Men screamed, buildings burned, and the air stank of ash and death.
But the defenders held.
In a brutal hand-to-hand melee, Luna led a bayonet charge from the depot gates, driving back an entire column. Isa sniped from the station rooftop, her shots steady even as flames licked the sky.
Elijah fought with a saber in one hand and his sidearm in the other, rallying those who were about to fall. Beside him, Eli-Ah fought with almost supernatural precision, covering his flank with an old but modified M1900 pistol and her body as a shield when needed.
A shell exploded nearby, knocking Elijah to the ground. Dust blinded him. His ears rang.
But he rose.
Bloodied. Bruised. Burning with purpose.
And when the final wave of Americans withdrew, leaving behind hundreds of dead, the flag of the First Philippine Republic still flew from the train station's shattered spire.
Aftermath
The cost was staggering.
Over 300 Filipino fighters dead. Hundreds wounded. Civilians killed. Buildings leveled.
But they had held.
Elijah stood atop the depot at dawn, overlooking the smoking ruins of Caloocan. Soldiers gathered around him—those who had fought, bled, and somehow survived.
"This is only the beginning," he said, voice hoarse. "But they now know our name. They now know we will not die quietly. We are not forgotten. We are not lost. We are the Republic."
The crowd roared, fists raised.
Eli-Ah stood beside him, her expression unreadable.
"They'll come back," she whispered.
"I know," Elijah replied. "But now… we fight on our terms."