Four years later, September 19, 1809.
Andres was walking down with his mother along the cobblestone streets of Intramuros, wandering around to take in the sight of a centuries old city. He had been in Intramuros in his previous life and there were definitely differences from the future and today.
But what is Intramuros? The literal translation of the word was "within the walls." It was the heart of Spanish Manila, a city inside a city. High stone walls surrounded it, built to keep enemies out and to remind everyone who held power within. At its gates, guards watched every person who entered or left. Inside, cobbled streets stretched between churches, schools, plazas, and government houses. This was where the Governor-General ruled, where the clergy preached, and where merchants and nobles displayed their wealth.
Life inside Intramuros was very different from life outside. Beyond the walls, in places like Tondo or Binondo, the streets were crowded with Indios, mestizos, and Chinese merchants trying to earn their living. But inside? This was Spain's little kingdom in Asia. The bells of grand cathedrals rang daily, criollo and peninsular families strolled in fine clothes, and soldiers patrolled in polished boots.
Social classes defined everything here. At the very top were the Peninsulares—Spaniards born in Spain. They held the highest offices, the richest lands, and the greatest privileges. Below them were the Criollos—Spaniards born in the colonies, like Andres himself. Though wealthy and respected, they were often looked down upon by Peninsulares as "less pure." Beneath them were the Mestizos, children of mixed blood—Spanish and native, or sometimes Chinese and native. Many became skilled merchants, priests, or landowners, but they were still limited by prejudice. At the bottom were the Indios, the native Filipinos, who carried the burden of taxes and labor.
Andres understood all this even as a boy. He could already see how unfair the system was. The Indios built the city, worked the fields, and manned the galleons, yet they were treated as if they had no worth. Meanwhile, the Spaniards, whether Peninsulares or Criollos, enjoyed power simply by birthright. It was a chain, and everyone was bound to their place. But Andres knew chains could be broken.
Today, however, his thoughts were not only on the future of the nation, but on himself. It was his first day at the military academy. His mother had used her family's connections to secure him a place. She believed it was the best path for her son, a way to honor his absent father's career as a military general of Spain, who is probably fighting in the frontline against Napoleon.
The military academy was drawing near. Its tall stone walls stood firm like a fortress within the fortress. Unlike the ornate churches or the bustling plazas of Intramuros, this place had a colder utilitarian look. A flag of Spain fluttered above the main gate, and two guards stood straight at attention, muskets resting against their shoulders.
Andres could already hear the sounds from inside—boots marching in rhythm, shouts of commands, and the sharp clash of steel from practice drills.
His mother stopped and faced him. "This is as far as I go," she said gently, adjusting the collar of his cadet uniform. Her hands lingered for a moment, almost reluctant to let go.
"You'll do well, Andres. Remember your father's blood runs in you. Make our family proud."
Andres gave a small nod, his young face calm. "I will, Mother."
But in his heart, his vow was far greater than family pride. He wasn't here to be another loyal officer of Spain. He was here to learn how armies worked—how to command, how to fight, how to build the power needed for his dream.
He looked past the gates and saw older cadets jogging across the yard, wooden rifles in hand. Some looked exhausted, others determined.
Andres stepped through the gates, the guards letting him pass with only a glance at the letter of admission in his hand.
A soldier led him across the yard, past lines of cadets drilling with rifles, toward the main building. It was a two-story structure of stone and wood, plain but sturdy. Inside, the noise of training faded.
He was brought to a large office. Behind a heavy desk sat a man in his fifties, dressed in a decorated uniform with medals pinned neatly across his chest. His hair was graying at the temples, his mustache trimmed exquisitely.
This was Colonel Don Rafael de Ortega, the head of the academy.
The man looked up from his papers, his sharp eyes studying Andres carefully. "So, you are young Novales," he said in Spanish, his voice carrying a tone of authority that filled the room. "Your mother has spoken highly of you. A bright boy, they say. We shall see if that brightness shines here, or fades."
Andres bowed slightly, keeping his expression calm. "I will not disappoint, Señor."
"Good." Don Rafael leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together. "Here, we produce not children, but officers. Your days will be divided between lessons and drills. In the mornings, you will rise at dawn for marching, formations, and weapons practice. In the afternoons, you will study mathematics, strategy, geography, and the histories of war. You will learn not only to fight, but to think like a commander. Discipline is everything. Obedience is expected. Defiance is not tolerated."
Andres listened carefully, though his thoughts wandered. Marching, drills, obedience... yes, necessary. But strategy, logistics, leadership—that is what I came for.
The colonel continued.
"Our best cadets may one day serve the Crown directly. Some will be sent to campaigns abroad, others will remain here to maintain order in the islands. In time, you will be judged worthy—or unworthy—of carrying Spain's banner."
Andres's eyes did not waver. "Then I shall prove myself worthy."
Don Rafael studied him for another long moment before giving a small nod. "We will see. For now, report to the quartermaster. You will be issued your standard kit—a wooden rifle for drills, uniform pieces, and bedding. Your training begins tomorrow."
"Yes, Señor."