After we manage securing bullets for the Krags, we decide to take some time to walk around Malolos. Since we are always in the mud; now, we enjoyed the capital. With Anya and Pasco as my close aides, the rest remained at the barracks to recover. Honestly, the scenery of the city—the vibrant center of the young Republic is a rare occasion.
Then, I saw a massive stone building, a Bahay na Bato with intricate floral carvings and wide capiz windows. It was a fortress of wealth.
"Hey! Isn't that Anya?!" a voice called out.
Anya stunned. "Isabel? Is that you?!" She rushed toward her. I think she is her childhood friend. They descended into "girls' talk" about whereabouts and old times. I didn't mind the distraction.
Later, the girls return to us, while Isabel are looking at me and Pasco.
"Your friend, Anya?" Isabel asked, eyeing Pasco and me.
"Oh yes. Valerian, this is Isabel, my friend since we were children. Her family always looked the other way whenever I escaped my father's expectations," Anya introduced us.
"Milady, Valerian Osmeriana, but you can call me Valerian," I said, offering a polite nod.
"Pasco, at your service," Pasco bowed like a practiced gentleman. I raised an eyebrow—since when did Pasco have manners?
"Osmeriana....never heard of that name.." Isabel wondered, but just proceed with a polite smile, nod the notion.
"We're having a banquet. Come, Anya, they will be love if you come, my family misses you soo much. Oh, and you both too," Isabel invited us into the estate.
I leaned toward Anya as we entered. "Not bad, Anya. She seems to have quite an influence here."
"Actually, its her family, Val," Anya said, her voice dropping to a professional, guarded tone as we approached the heavy mahogany doors. "The Santos family doesn't just live in Malolos; they own the flow of it. They owned most of tobacco warehouses, rice granaries and the rail manifest are also hold by them."
I looked up at the intricate stone carvings on the façade. This wasn't just a normal haciendas, it's one of the influential base here.
I looked up at the stone façade. "They were part of the crucial faction when it comes to funding the Malolos Congress," Anya continued, leaning in closer. "They control the local landholdings across the central plains. They've turned their haciendas into the logistical backbone for the Republic. And, half the rations that reaches to us armies is likely passed through their mills first."
"And the business side?" I asked, eyeing a carriage with silver-trimmed wheels.
"Well, if Im not mistaken, they handle the logistics businesses." Anya explained. "They made their fortune in through sugar and indigo dye productions. Now, they've pivoted. I heard that it was them who fund the local 'Maestransas'—the workshops where blacksmiths try to replicate Mauser parts. When the government can't pay the battalions, families like Isabel's provide the 'loans' to prevent desertion. They aren't just donors, Val; they are technically the bread winner of the Revolution."
"It seems you know a lot about them." I added.
Pasco whistled low, smoothing his civilian shirt. "So, we aren't just going to a banquet. We are technically walking into the bank."
"Exactly," Anya warned. "And please, not to disrespect but keep your 'five bottles' stories to yourself, Sarhento. In there, every word is a political maneuver."
~~
The atmosphere inside the estate was a jarring shift from the mud-caked reality of the front lines. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over polished narra floors. Men in crisp white ilustrado suits and women in embroidered piña fiber dresses moved with a grace that felt kind of disconnected from the whistling of American Krag rounds. Quite enjoyable as I look around, even I'm originally not from here in my past life, its enjoyable.
We were led to a long table groaning under Bulacan lechon, Spanish olives, and fresh river prawns. While we taking our parts to eat, Pasco's plate was already piled high. Anya remained stiff—a soldier among her former social peers. The friction in her posture is indeed palpable.
I was reaching for a glass of water, trying to maintain my "professional" mask, when a shadow fell across the table.
I was reaching for a glass of water when a shadow fell across the table.
"The water in this house is safe, Sarhento, but the lambanog is far more honest."
I turned. Standing there was a man who looked like he was carved from the same hard stone as the house. He wore a dark, western-style vest—the look of an industrialist godfather. The room seemed to tilt toward him. This was the Don of the Santos branch—Isabel's father.
"Don Teodoro," Anya whispered, bowing her head with a grace that felt out of place in a smoke-filled ballroom.
"Oh, Anya. It has been a long time. I am truly sorry about your grandfather," the Don acknowledged with a sharp, perceptive nod.
Then, his eyes—like polished volcanic glass—shifted to me. "And you must be Anya's friend? A friend of hers is a friend of mine. Come, enjoy."
As he stepped closer, the smell of expensive tobacco and aged cedar followed him. He leaned in slightly, a conspiratorial glint in his eye.
He leaned in, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "Ah, you must be the boy. I am quite impressed with your... indulgences regarding 'drinks.'"
My heart skipped. It must be the 'five bottles' incident.
"A moment of personal miscalculation, Don Teodoro," I said steadily.
The Don laughed. "A man who can survive five bottles of Isabela's strongest and still stand for morning roll call deserves a drink in a room where people aren't screaming. Come, Valerian. Walk with me."
Without further thinking, I tag along, following Don Teodoro afterwards.
~~
He led me into a his room. As we entered, the room consist of small living sets, must be for his guests, also a his desk, with its table and drinks on the tops, the table, I think where he do his work, messy, it was full of documents, and also a map strectch on the walls.The walls were lined with maps—not just military ones, but hand-drawn charts of the Manila-Dagupan Railway, hidden supply trails, and river depths.
He poured two glasses of dark, amber spirit. And put in on the desk.
"So, Valerian," he began, settling into a leather chair that looked like a throne. "From what I have seen, you are quite the disciplined man."
I took a slow sip, the liquid burning a trail of fire down my throat. "What do you mean, Don Teodoro? I'm just a friendly villager. I only met Anya because we work in the same... circles."
Don laughs, as he sip, put the glass. "Please, Valerian, or should I say Sarhento Valerian, from the moment you boys came here, I know about you, Anya, and especially your men. You have a disciplined unit. My people tell me your men don't harass vendors compare to most armies. Quite rare behavior. Also, I heard that someone are looking for ammunitions, the american ones I presumed."
The moment I heard his words. I looked around, and smile at him while putting my glass down. "As expected from the patriarch itself. You've quite a great network here. I hope that it does not offend you in some way."
Don Teodoro took a slow, deliberate sip of the amber liquid. "Honestly, boy, I don't care about your black market dealings. I respect the initiative. But what I truly want to know is about you."
He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking in the quiet study. "From the moment you stepped into this house, you did not act like the other men. Most come here to forget the war in a bottle or a dance. But you? You are on guard. Even now, while the others let their defenses crumble under the weight of my hospitality, you remain vigilant. It seems to me that you carry yourself like a man who knows he is being watched, even in a house of friends."
"I've grown used to looking over my shoulder," I explained, meeting his gaze steadily. "In my experience, being ready for anything is the only way to ensure there is a tomorrow."
"That is a rare quality, boy," Teodoro mused. He reached for a cedar box on his desk and pulled out a long, dark cigar. "And to know that you are also the man who manage to make americans felt 'scare'... that is another matter entirely. I understand well enough that a man of your talents remains a Sarhento only because of his background. It is a hard reality of our Republic—sometimes blood and titles matter more than the dirt on one's boots."
Don Teodoro took a long draw from his cigar, the tip glowing a fierce orange. "As long as you bring results, Sarhento, the rest is just wind passing through the reeds. But tell me... what is your honest assessment of the Americans?"
The air in the study grew heavy. I took a slow sip of the brandy, letting the burn settle before I spoke. "It is obvious they have an agenda. They are a rising power, and they are the only major nation without a colonial foothold in this part of the globe. They aren't here for friendship; they're here for a port."
Teodoro waved his hand, cutting me off with a sharp puff of smoke. "Politics is for the men in the Congress, boy. Let me rephrase: what do you think of their current situation? Their military capabilities."
"I would say, they are quite overconfident," I said, leaning forward. "They rely on their industry and their navy. With individuals like General Luna and our more competent officers holding the line, we can make every inch of mud cost them a company of men. But..." I paused, eyeing the maps on his wall. "If those advantages are not properly utilized by our government—if we spend more time arguing in this city than reinforcing the trenches—then I'm afraid we are merely preparing the country to be handed over to them on a silver platter."
"So you believe General Antonio Luna is the only solution?" Teodoro asked, his eyes narrowing.
"What I am saying, Don Teodoro, is that if the Malolos Congress recognized the reality of the situation earlier, they could have bought us a buffer. Time to recover. Time to establish a real administration. Fighting for independence is a matter of courage, but maintaining independence is a matter of logistics and cold calculation. They are in two different leagues entirely."
Don Teodoro took a final, long drag of his cigar before crushing it into a crystal ashtray. "Now, you speak more like a Minister of the Congress than a simple Sergeant." He chuckled, a dry, rhythmic sound that lacked any real mirth. "Alright, back to business."
He stood up and walked toward a heavy iron safe in the corner of the study, but he didn't open it. Instead, he simply rested a hand on its cold surface.
"The Republic is a young bird, Valerian. It has many heads, and they all want to pull the wings in different directions. Because of this, certain... assets... often fall through the cracks of the administration. They become 'constraints' on a ledger. Forgotten."
He turned back to me, his expression unreadable. "For instance, I have a warehouse near the Malolos railway station. It was a Spanish import firm before the uprising. Inside, there are several crates of 'administrative errors.' Uniforms that were never issued, old Spanish equipment, and a the most important, ammunitions, and 'commodities'. They are too busy arguing over who gets the credit to actually count the crates."
I watched him closely. "That sounds like a waste of good resources, Don Teodoro."
"A terrible waste," he agreed, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hum. "But because of these 'constraints,' those items have sat there for months. They are essentially ghosts. If someone were to... let's say, relieve the warehouse of its burden, the Republic wouldn't even know they were missing. There would be no paperwork to trail, because officially, those crates don't exist."