Urgh… where am I?
Everything is a blur—smoke, fire, and the deafening roar of chaos. The ground trembles under the relentless pounding of artillery, each blast rattling my skull. Gunshots crack through the air like angry whips, mingling with the screams and shouts of men locked in desperate combat.
"BOY!!! WAKE UP!!! BOY!!!"
A harsh voice cuts through the haze. My eyes flutter open just in time to feel a stinging slap across my cheek. The man's face twists into a look of relief—no time for pleasantries.
"Take this rifle and hold the line!" the NCO barks, thrusting a weapon into my hands.
I glance at it. Roughly carved, patched together, yet sturdy enough to kill—a handmade Philippine rifle. Crude craftsmanship, but the weight tells me it works.
I clutch it tight, adrenaline flooding my veins, and sprint toward the trench ahead. I flick the bolt, check the magazine—five rounds. My fingers fumble at the pouch on my belt. Inside, sixty more bullets, each one a tiny promise of survival… or death.
I slam the five bullets into the chamber, each click echoing like a countdown to death.
KRINGG!
The rifle's bolt snaps forward—it's cocked and ready. My breath steadies, eyes narrowing over the iron sights. Through the smoke, I spot them—blue uniforms. Americans.
I squeeze the trigger.
PAM!
The rifle kicks against my shoulder, and the shot finds its mark—straight through the enemy's head. He collapses like a marionette with its strings cut.
"Yes…" I hiss under my breath.
Another shot. Then another. Each round tears through the chaos, each target crumpling into the mud. The stench of gunpowder and blood hangs heavy in the air, but I keep firing, driven by instinct and survival.
Yet no matter how many I drop, it's never enough. They keep coming—wave after wave—blotting out the trench ahead with sheer numbers.
Suddenly, movement catches my eye—a man in an officer's uniform, his face twisted with rage and desperation. For a heartbeat, he stands frozen amidst the chaos, then without hesitation he spins on his heel, grabs the reins of a nearby horse, and mounts in one swift motion.
"GENERAL!!! DON'T—GENERAL!!!" voices cry out in alarm.
"OII!!!" someone else shouts, but it's too late.
My breath hitches as I recognize him—the commanding general himself. For a moment, I can only stare, half in awe, half in disbelief. So there's indeed a madman in the army, I mutter under my breath.
The horse surges forward, its hooves pounding through mud and smoke. The general grips an old revolver, firing wildly into the fray, each shot more reckless than the last. He rides like a man possessed, a living banner of defiance.
From behind, a desperate voice bellows, "COVER THE GENERAL! FORWARD!!!"
It's Colonel Rusca, rallying the men with sheer urgency. Soldiers surge ahead, bayonets gleaming, their shouts blending with the thunder of hooves and gunfire.
Orders crack like whips across the din of battle, one after another, each shouted command swallowed and echoed by the thunder of gunfire.
From every direction, swarms of men surge forward, bayonets fixed, charging into the teeth of enemy fire to shield the lone general on his galloping horse. The ground shakes beneath their boots as they hurl themselves toward the battlefield.
The enemy falters at the sight—hundreds of soldiers breaking from cover in a reckless, full-speed assault. It's madness, a suicidal charge that no strategist would ever write into the books of war.
"Focus the fire on that man!" the enemy leader snarls, lips curling into a cruel grin. "Looks like we're having a general for dinner."
Muzzles flare. Bullets tear through the smoke, their song a chorus of death.
The general leans low, still firing his revolver as his horse races forward—but fate strikes fast. A single shot finds its mark, and the animal collapses mid-stride with a sickening thud, throwing the general to the ground.
He scrambles up, dazed but alive, and bolts toward the cover of an abandoned wagon as lead rains down all around him.
It was chaos I hadn't planned for. I ran with the others, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the general crouched behind the splintered frame of an abandoned wagon. The enemy fire was relentless, bullets chewing through wood and dirt around him.
I broke from the group, dashing forward in a low crouch. My rifle rose to my shoulder, and I took aim—one enemy fell, then another, each shot ringing in my ears.
Then came the roar.
A machine gun spat death in our direction, tearing into the ground with sprays of dirt and blood. I dove for cover behind a jagged boulder, breath ragged, ears ringing.
Peering around the rock, I found my mark—the enemy machine gunner, hunched over his weapon. I steadied my aim, squeezed the trigger.
PAM!
The man's head snapped back, and he slumped lifeless.
Shouts erupted from the enemy lines. "Gunner down! Get a replacement!"
I spotted the officer barking orders—and fired. He dropped instantly.
A heartbeat later, the enemy commander's voice boomed above the gunfire. "Retreat! Back to our position!"
As the call went out, their lines wavered and began to fall back, the field littered with their dead and dying.
Enemy POV.
It had been a perfect day. A simple sweep, just another small operation to wipe out the Philippine "monkeys." Easy work—until he showed up.
That damned general… Luna, I think they call him. General Antonio Luna. Out of nowhere, the lunatic launched a suicidal charge straight into our lines. Any sane man would have stayed behind his barricades—but this one? This one rode like a devil on horseback. And worst of all… their defenses held.
Compared to the usual weak, clueless commanders they throw at us, this one was different. Seasoned. Calculated. Almost like he'd studied our own manuals, learned our own tactics.
But it wasn't just him.
There was someone else among their ranks—one man—deadly and precise. He dropped our men like they were nothing, and then… then he had the gall to take out our machine gunner too. That single shot shattered our momentum.
I was furious, but not stupid. With the gun silent and morale cracking, I knew staying would only mean throwing away more lives.
"Retreat!" I barked, the word burning in my throat. Better to pull back now than feed more bodies to that madman and his cursed marksman.
Original POV
As the enemy line crumbled and their retreating figures faded into the smoke, a cry erupted from our ranks—raw, powerful, unstoppable.
"MABUHAY ANG PILIPINAS!!!"
"YEAHHH! MABUHAY!!!"
The roar of independence rose into the sky, drowning out the last echoes of gunfire. Men gripped each other's shoulders, some laughing, some crying, all bound by the same fire in their hearts. Bayonets waved in the air, flags fluttered through the haze, and for a moment, the battlefield was no longer a place of death—but of hope.
I stood among them, breathless, my rifle still warm in my hands. Around me were faces etched with sweat, dirt, and victory. And in that moment, I knew the truth.
I had been reborn—here, in 1899—as a soldier of the Philippine Revolutionary Army.
And this time… I would fight until the dream of freedom was no longer a dream.