As cabo in charge of four soldiers, our mission was simple—patrol and the usual odds and ends. Not gonna lie, discipline in the Revolutionary Army wasn't exactly ironclad. If there was no war to fight or battle to prepare for, most men would drift back to their daily trades—farming, fishing, hauling goods—like the army was just another hat they wore.
During introductions, I learned their names and faces:
Recruit Sergio Pasco, 22 – a wiry fellow with quick hands and quicker eyes, probably used to hard labor.
Recruit Andre Julian, 20 – lean, with a restless energy that suggested trouble if left idle.
Recruit Benito Sanchez, 24 – broad-shouldered, steady, the kind of man you'd want beside you in a fight.
Recruit Pablo Roberto, 19 – barely a man, still with the awkwardness of youth, but eager enough to prove himself.
Four men under my command. A small squad. Not much by modern standards, but here, it meant I was responsible for their food, their discipline, and, when the bullets started flying, their lives.
Most of my boys were peasants—simple folk who joined the army more out of desperation than patriotism. For them, the uniform wasn't a badge of honor; it was a lifeline. But reality hit hard—promises of pay and proper rations were more smoke than substance. Compensation was inconsistent at best, nonexistent at worst.
As for me, I only had 50 pesos to my name—barely enough to feed myself for two weeks. Forget buying weapons or covering other expenses; that was already a stretch. If I wanted my squad to function like an actual fighting unit, I needed to find a way to make money… fast.
So, with discipline being as relaxed as it was, I decided to get creative. I led my boys into odd jobs between patrols—hauling crates at the docks, guarding merchant stalls, delivering supplies for shopkeepers. Nothing glamorous, but work was work, and pesos were pesos.
A week later, we had managed to scrape together 200 pesos—a small fortune compared to where we started. First order of business: ammunition. If we were going to survive what was coming, bullets mattered more than bread.
With a pouch bag slung at my side, I slipped out of the barracks and headed toward the market district of Bulacan. Where of course, the merchants, businessmens, sold their wares. But thats not what I'm looking for.
The farther I walked, the thinner the crowd became. Stalls grew scarce, and the usual clamor of the market faded into silence. At the end of a narrow path stood a man in plain clothing, leaning against a post, whistling as if he had all the time in the world.
He caught sight of me."Hmmm… you're not from around here, are you? New face."
"Yeah," I answered cautiously, adjusting the strap of my pouch.
"Shhh." He raised a finger before I could say more. "I already know what you're looking for. Come."
Without waiting for my reply, he turned and led me through a side alley to a small, weathered building. Inside, the air was thick with gunpowder and oil. A few workers moved briskly, stacking crates, repacking cartridges, and moving covered bundles. One look, and I knew—I had stepped into a black market.
The man stopped in front of a battered wooden table."So… what are you offering?"
I set 50 pesos on the surface.
He glanced at the coins, unimpressed, then smirked. "That's all?"
I sighed, fished out another 50, and pushed it forward."Hmm," he muttered, tapping his chin. "Now we're talking."
He gestured to a pair of goons, who brought over three small sacks. One by one, they dropped them on the table with a dull thud.
"Here you go," he said, pushing them toward me. Then he studied me with a faint grin. "Most men come asking for something else—rum, women, knives. But you… you only want these?" He pointed to the bags.
I untied one and peeked inside. Two of them brimmed with rifle cartridges. The third held a pistol—six chambers, with a box of matching rounds.
I couldn't help the faint smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah. This is exactly what I want."
The man's grin lingered, though there was something sly behind it. He gave the faintest tilt of his chin—and suddenly, two goons moved.
One slipped behind me, looping a thick cord around my neck. Another lunged for my arms.
Instinct kicked in. I twisted hard, slamming my elbow into the stomach of the one with the cord. He gasped, loosening his grip just enough. My hand darted into the sack, fingers closing around the cold iron of the pistol.
Crack!The first shot went wild, punching into the wooden wall. But the second… Crack! It dropped the man rushing for my arms.
The cord tightened again. Black spots danced at the edge of my vision. I jammed the pistol backward, pressed cold steel into a ribcage, and pulled the trigger. The man behind me collapsed in a heap.
I snapped open the chamber—empty. With trembling fingers, I loaded a single bullet, spun the cylinder, and cocked the hammer.
When I turned, the barrel was already kissing the forehead of the last goon, who froze mid-step. My breath came ragged, but my hand was steady.
The room had gone silent.
The man in plain clothes hadn't moved. He studied me with sharp, appraising eyes, then—slowly—he raised both hands and gave a small nod.
"Well," he said evenly, his smirk returning, "looks like you're not just another fool with pesos. You've got iron in you."
He leaned back, relaxed, as if nothing had happened. "Keep the pistol. You've earned it."
I didn't lower my aim. Not yet. My pulse thundered in my ears, and my finger rested heavy on the trigger.
I needed them for my men. If I could train Sergio, Andre, Benito, and Pablo into seasoned marksmen, then we wouldn't just be another ragtag squad scraping by. We'd become something sharper, something dangerous.
The truth was, the Revolutionary Army wasn't half as solid as it looked on paper. Support was patchy, supplies uncertain, and discipline varied from camp to camp. Worse still, the generals themselves were divided—each with their own circle of loyalists, their own ambitions. If a general had money, influence, or foreign backers, his men were equipped and fed. If not, they were left to rot.
So yes—I would buy bullets. I would teach these boys to hit their mark. If the rest of the army fractured under the weight of factionalism, at least my squad would stand firm.
Because in this war, strength wasn't given. It had to be built, one round at a time.
Later, I return to the outpost, arriving to camp where I was posted. "Benito, how's everyone going?" I asked Recruit Benito.
"Andre and Pablo was just finish the patrol duties just like you ordered."
"What about Sergio?" I asked, "Well since you chose him as our quartermaster for this squad, I can say he do it pretty well.
In my 4-men squad, I appoint Benito to be my adjutant while Andre and Pablo are muscles since they have strong constitution when it comes to labour, while Sergio is good in numbers, though just basic ones, but still a good prospect.
"Also Kabo, we received orders." He give me the letter and read. I closed it back.
"Good, prepare the men, it seems there will be skirmishes."