Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 112: Lunatic

The rest of the recruits streamed inside, clearing every nook and cranny of the church. I half-expected a few more pulajanes to spring out from the dark corners—shouting, blades raised—but no more fighters revealed themselves.

Mario’s men began dragging the corpses from the altar to the side aisles, clearing the way. The recruits carrying the ammunition crates finally arrived, grateful for the shelter offered by the church’s thick stone walls. They dropped the crates behind the pews, some of them sitting down to catch their breath, their faces streaked with sweat and soot.

The battle inside the church was over.

Outside, it was just beginning. The noise was getting worse—shouting and scattered gunfire. Chaos echoed from every direction, like the town itself was crying out.

It seemed Vicente and Dimalanta had also engaged the enemy. The gunfire was now everywhere.

But some of the noise was closer than the rest.

Then I remembered—I had tasked Roque with clearing the convent.

I quickly scanned the wall behind the altar. The sacristy door was right where it usually was—tucked off to the side. If we moved quickly, we could coordinate a pincer maneuver: Roque from the front, and us through the corridor that connected the church to the convent via the sacristy.

"Mario," I said sharply. "Set up a perimeter outside. I want men watching the approaches from the residential areas—especially to the southwest, and to the east, toward the presidencia."

The cadet gave a sharp salute and immediately set about the task, barking orders as he moved.

The scouts had reported about a hundred pulajanes fighters scattered across the town. We’d only accounted for about twenty so far. Reinforcements would arrive soon—maybe already had.

"Sargento Guzman," I called, "and the Bulakeño troops—you’re with me. We’ll breach the convent from the sacristy."

Guzman nodded, and the escolta fell in behind him. Their Mausers gleamed faintly in the flickering candlelight as we crossed the marble tiles toward the door.

The door was locked.

Guzman glanced at me, then stepped back. He knew what came next. He took a short run-up and launched a solid kick at the door. I raised my rifle and aimed center-mass. Last time someone kicked open a door, it cost him his life. There would be no repeat of that.

The wooden door burst inward with a groan.

We were greeted by a dimly lit sacristy. A single candle flickered atop the vestment drawers, casting long shadows on the walls. In the glow, we saw a man seated on a bench. His silhouette flinched violently, nearly standing up in shock.

"Hands up! I’ll shoot if you run!" I barked, stepping forward and training my rifle on the man.

He hesitated, then slowly stood. Loose fabric rustled as he rose—he was wearing a robe.

I tilted my head. It might’ve been the parish priest... but I was fairly certain the priest had been reported killed.

The man stepped closer to the candle, and the light revealed more. He wore priestly vestments—long and white, like what Padre Trinidad wore during mass. In his hand was a silver crucifix—large, but not large enough to use as a weapon.

Still, I didn’t lower my rifle. Something was off.

"Why should I run?" the man asked with a smirk.

His beard was the first giveaway. Not just a beard—an unkempt, tangled mass of hair clinging to a face that hadn’t seen a blade in months. I never saw Catholic priests with beards back when I was John in the 21st century—and especially not in 19th-century Philippines. Beards on clergy were rare, and none as filthy as his.

His bare feet were caked with dirt, his nails thick and yellow. His hands were the same—rough, with blackened cuticles and scars like those of a laborer. The vestments clung awkwardly to him, like a pig in a borrowed robe.

I saw the stole—the strip of cloth around his neck. It had been vandalized with strange symbols and Latin inscriptions, not prayers, but sigils. Around his neck hung a copper amulet—the same kind worn by the fighters we killed earlier.

"None can harm a servant of God," he said, raising the crucifix high. "In the name of San Miguel, the Santo Niño, and the Blessed Mother—your bullets will turn to wind, your blades to leaves!"

Sargento Guzman curled his lip. "Stop... or we’ll really shoot. And you’ll find that God will not be mocked!"

The man laughed—loud and mad. "Then shoot, soldado! And heaven will strike you down!"

Guzman looked to me, asking for permission without a word.

I smiled and shook my head, lowering my rifle.

He followed suit, albeit reluctantly, and the rest of the escolta mirrored us. There was no need to waste a bullet on a lunatic.

I handed my rifle to one of the soldiers behind me and rolled up my sleeves. Tilting my head from side to side, I cracked my knuckles as I approached the self-proclaimed prophet.

He raised his arms and voice in unison.

"Saint Michael... oh, captain of the angels of heaven, use your sword and strike him do—"

I cut him off with a haymaker.

My fist crashed into his jaw with a satisfying crack. His head snapped sideways like a doll’s, and he dropped to the ground in a heap, his crucifix clattering beside him.

"You should’ve prayed for protection from fists," I said, grinning. "Rookie mistake."

Laughter erupted behind me. The escolta and even some of Mario’s men clapped and whooped. Guzman gave the man a nudge with his boot. No response.

Out cold.

But the fanfare didn’t last.

We heard footsteps—fast, multiple—from deeper inside the convent.

At once, the room filled with the sound of bolts chambering and metal clinking. The soldiers raised their rifles in unison.

From the shadows emerged Roque, his men following behind him. His uniform was streaked with blood, and his bayonet still glistened red.

He raised both hands in peace when he saw us, and we lowered our rifles.

Roque’s eyes shifted to the crumpled man on the floor.

"That... might be Papa Hilario," he muttered.