GENESIS
THE SECOND SEALING
1572
The night was moonless. Darkness devoured every corner of the archipelago—along with it, the very sanity of those they called 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘰. As if even the sky and the stars had hidden themselves, unwilling to witness an event that would shake the history of this land.
The surroundings were silent. But it was not the kind of peaceful quiet of the night—rather, a silence that waited: heavy, suffocating, and deafening. Not a whisper of wind. Not a rustle of leaves. Nature, the animals, and even mortals seemed to hold their breath all at once.
The birds, once deep in slumber on the tree branches, snapped awake. Their eyes darted frantically left and right, up and down—lost, as if trying to pinpoint the source of the night's suffocating weight. Every sense sharpened, straining against the sudden, unnatural silence.
Deep within the vast forest, the 𝘉𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘬𝘢́𝘯, the tribe of dreaded headhunters—stood in silence, their eyes fixed on their 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬, the tribe's ritual shaman.
Bow low to the ground, palms and ear pressed to the earth, he attuned himself to nature's pulse, whispering a 𝘐𝘯𝘢𝘺𝘶𝘯 incantation.
Behind the 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬, the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 stood in silence formation—the elite guardians of their blood and honor. They watched intently, waiting for the signal. Others were spread throughout the forest, ready to strike down any disciples of darkness who dared to disrupt the ritual. By their side, a 𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨-𝘨𝘶𝘣𝘢𝘵 glared into the shadows, eyes glinting in the dark.
The little ones clung tightly to their 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨, fear evident in their wide, innocent eyes. Some buried their faces against their 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨'𝘴 stomach, holding on for warmth while secretly peeking at the ritual unfolding from afar.
The 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬 straightened his posture. Still kneeling, he rested his hands upon his thighs. His back was rigid, his face hardened and his sharp eyes stared into the void.
"Chunotor do ongkh otingkh khotithud," 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥. The 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬 said, low but commanding.
The 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢 of nature flowed along the roots of the trees, stretching all the way from 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘈𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘸—and mingled with it was the 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢 of the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 from that land. At last, it had traced their location, awaiting their union.
"Nongkho podtoj-rowi, khojo pokho'j dokhokhojokh do wo otingkh thokhwowodip?" 𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘦? The 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬 said, voice sharp, gaze piercing.
Paid them no mind. His eyes stayed locked on the shadows.
Tall torches were driven into the earth around them, forming a great ring of fire. Beyond the flames stood the dancers, poised and ready for the signal.
The 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 rose to their feet. Some were chosen to descend into the roots and march on Manila. Others would be drawn toward Darahan, lending their strength to the conduit who would carry them through the earth. The rest remained beside the 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬 feeding the ritual with their 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢. Torchlight flickered in their eyes. Each of their 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘵 was ready while their blades were tucked between their 𝘣𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘨; and the thick bindings wrapped around their waists. The air slowly grew heavy.
They knew the weight of the moment and that they might never return. But this was the only way to preserve the honor of their lineage and the safety of the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘸𝘢.
They were ready to vanish.
One fleeting breath stirred the air. Together, they bowed to the 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬, in quiet acknowledgement of their fate.
"Dokhoodcho do khoni wo norovokhongkh thongkhongkhojov ot thokhthothodotokh," 𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘤. A sharp, commanding voice cut through the vastness.
𝘗𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘰. The word carried both honor and fear, a ritual passed down from ancestors long before the land was touched by the invaders.
They would sever the heads of those claimed by darkness, freeing the souls trapped within—as if the wind itself held its breath in reverence.
"Thothodorud dotid itu, nokhingkh odunod ongkh nodyoli," 𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘺, another shouted. "Ongkh rutho dotingkh itu ody wo otid ronongkh; vorongkh ipongkh nokhoolith unodit!" 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦—𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵!
He was prepared to lay down his life for the land, wrested by invaders—and now, for a primordial creature emerging from the shadows.
If they fail to halt this sacrilege today, the bloodline that holds the true right to these islands will be lost forever!
"Khud khodyud," 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯, the 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬 said firmly. "Nokhwithokh-odcho do khodyu, dyodyonongkh wiwinurod do dotid ongkh thokh-oditu!" 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘨-𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰!
After the command, shadows of the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 slipped into the roots, flowing with the 𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘢 of the Daráhan tribe. There, they would merge their 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢, fully aware that the enemy’s strength would test them beyond measure.
The three who remained pressed their right palms—marked with a skull, 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘸𝘪𝘵, and black flames—against the 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬'𝘴 back. Their emblem swelled, ready to channel their 𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘢 and strength.
"Tholo wo otingkh nongkho dudu, wo otingkh rowi, ot wo rowot ngkh nongkho thuru!" 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴!
He picked up the 𝘥𝘶𝘨𝘵𝘢𝘴 from the ground—a 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘩𝘢 that had long been waiting.
It was an elongated oval, shaped from what had once been the bark of a long-dead Almaciga tree. Its surface was rough, cold to the touch. Slits were carved for the eyes and mouth, with a horizontal groove across the nose for breathing, and around it, black flame markings etched as if they had never been extinguished. This was the 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘩𝘢, waiting patiently for the one who would wear it.
He held the 𝘥𝘶𝘨𝘵𝘢𝘴, the 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘩𝘢, before his face, then let it go. It hovered in the air as his hands traced the air slowly, his lips quietly chanting the ritual.
At first, the 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘩𝘢 remained whole—until it slowly began to soften, seeming to melt and crawl across the 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬'𝘴 skin.
It molded itself to the shape of his face, tracing the lines of his bones, following the curve of his cheeks, until it fully adhered—blurring the boundary between flesh and 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘶𝘬𝘩𝘢.
The 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬 tilted his head toward the darkened sky.He felt the 𝘥𝘶𝘨𝘵𝘢𝘴 clinging tightly to his entire face—as if it were slowly drawing heat from his skin. A faint creak echoed, like wood bending from within. His eyes flashed. Veins appeared on his face and arms, while the shadow beneath his feet stretched slowly.
In an instant, he could no longer tell where his own face ended and where the borrowed one began.
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From the sky, a living painting seemed to move across the islands. Energies flowed—green like moss; red and black intertwined; ash, white, and turquoise—emanations from the five tribes.
Traveling together, they flowed through the roots of trees, beneath the sea, and into the clouds.
Nature seemed to breathe, and with every pulse of the world, the 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢 converged at a single point:
Manila.
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Meanwhile, beneath the dark sky of Bagumbayan, it was not a prayer that escaped the lips of the hermano lego. A chilling smile slowly traced across his mouth as he heard the chaos unfolding outside the fort—a distant and eerie rhythm—cries, the clash of steel, and faint groans blending into the darkness of the night.
The only thing the wind carried was the dry scent of powder and ash. There was no sweetness of blood, no stench of flesh—only the acrid smoke of the arquebus blending with the dust of collapsing bodies could be inhaled.
The hermano lego’s grin widened even more as the appearances of the natives and soldiers played in his pupils—sunken and like skulls wrapped in dry skin.
His black habit swallowed the shadows of the night, a short cape draped over his head, concealing his face from any who might stray into the Bagumbayan woods. Fingers brushed the beads at his waist, a quiet rhythm of rituals older than memory—rituals the church would never approve of.The soft clatter of his cuentas echoed each time they struck the cordon. With every whispered praise to 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥, he rolled a wooden bead between his fingers, as though counting not prayers, but steps toward his goal.
The smile on the hermano lego’s face vanished. He turned sharply to the left, eyes hard and alert.
Someone was coming.
"¡No se puede!" 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦! His voice trembled, each word heavy in his chest. The earth groaned and shifted—an echo of the ritual awakening across the five tribes.
In the middle of the town, the ground cracked, breathing as if alive. The smell of rotting swamp rose from the fissures, carrying whispers of rituals yet to come.
The Tagalog natives, soldiers, and arquebusiers were gripped by fear, fleeing in chaos. Screams and panic echoed through the entire town. What mysterious force lurked around every corner, no one could tell.
"¡Abaddon! ¡Demanda de Dios!" 𝘈𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘰𝘯! 𝘎𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩! The Spaniards screamed as they fled, stumbling over the scattered dead rising once more. The air reeked of rot and smoke, and the ground shook beneath their feet, each pulse a warning of the horrors yet to come.
For days and nights, countless lives had been lost for no reason—yet, shockingly, they rose again.
A few natives and Spaniards walked among them, but not as before; caught between life and death, their faces marked with exhaustion, their eyes sunken, and faint moans slipping from their lips, as if cursed by a power not yet fully understood.
Behind a nipa hut, a native woman and her family peered out, their faces etched with horror as they watched the chaos unfolding in the town center. Fear gripped them.
Black smoke, merciless and relentless, spread terror, while the ground cracked beneath their feet. Faint moans and whispers drifted on the air, almost imperceptible—but enough to set their nerves on edge.
The dread that had haunted them for days showed no sign of abating—it felt endless, as if the nightmare would never end.
The woman whispered, "𝘚𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯’s emissary is here to reclaim our 𝘎𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢."
It was her last word before she followed her husband’s urging, fleeing into the woods with their two children.
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At that very moment, a soldier tried repeatedly to light the fuse of his arquebus, yet, his quivering hands betrayed him, and at last he cast it aside to draw his blade.
He drove the blade into the chest of the approaching native, whose eyes glowed white and were devoid of life.
No blood flowed.
Only a faint cracking sound echoed, like dry earth splitting beneath steel.
For a moment, the battlefield seemed to fall silent around them, the distant clash of chaos muffled by an unnatural stillness.
The soldier trembled.The man before him did not fall.
Instead, the native slowly reached out.
Their eyes met.
And something began to drain from him.
His 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢—the breath of his life.
Slowly.
Inexorably.
The soldier’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the strength left his limbs.
And the man with the white eyes only watched.
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The brave alguaciles were soon forced to abandon their staffs, fleeing toward the fort—or anywhere far enough away—when the dead were seen breathing once more.
The mystery deepened as the ground continued to crack before their eyes, shadows writhing in the darkness of night. Nothing they had ever witnessed came close to this horror.
“¡Dios mío! ¡Este es el momento de liberar a Abaddon desde las profundidades!” 𝘔𝘺 𝘎𝘰𝘥! 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘈𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩𝘴!
The friar’s voice quivered, each word trembling with terror. Eyes wide, he scrambled toward the convent, clutching his rosary as his knees buckled.
To him, the horrors unfolding—the breathing dead, the cracking earth, the writhing shadows—could only signify one thing: that the destroyer from the abyss, as written in the Scriptures, had been unleashed.
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Elsewhere, in the depths of Luluyuan Lake in Bancuang, the 𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘢-𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢́𝘤 of the Suliya tribe summoned the spirit of 𝘉𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘯, seated in a ritual boat. Alongside him sat their 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪, silent and watchful.
The small boat bore a carving of a person at the front, hands slightly raised as if offering a gesture to the sky, while at the other end someone rowed quietly.
The right palm of the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 pressed firmly against the back of the 𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘢-𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢́𝘤. A raised emblem on the palm glowed faintly, channeling power into the ritual. Tonight, he would become an instrument of his tribe, sending their ritual through the roots of nearby trees and the waters flowing toward Manila—with the aid of the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 and the 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘋’𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘰 from 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘈𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘸.
"𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘸𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘰 𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘣! 𝘏𝘶𝘸𝘢𝘨 𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘶́𝘮𝘶́𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘱𝘶𝘺 𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘨-𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰!" the 𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘢-𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢́𝘤 commanded, his voice carrying the authority of the tribe.
They needed to remain steadfast, while the rising smoke—with eyes red and sharp—seemed to claw at them, the boat was being forced to tip over, relentlessly disrupting the ritual—but they must not falter.
In their every motion and breath lay the fate of the battle. They were the ones destined to channel the essence between man and nature. They had to tame and direct the essence of the tribe no matter how strong the resistance of the 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥. They were the architects of a prison without bars, the final bastion that would set the seal in the depths.
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Beneath Manila’s soil, the roots throbbed like a beating heart.
With each pulse of the world, a voice whispered from the depths, and water surged from a massive fissure, carrying the stench of rotting sea.
Heavy thuds echoed as something massive struck the earth and water with its tail. Then it rose—towering, monstrous—a 𝘉𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘯, its silver teeth flashing like knives in the darkness.
Its scales were like iron, glinting faintly in the darkness. Its eyes—red as burning embers—watched from the depths.
Not far from it drifted a shape made of smoke and shadow. Its hollow eyes were empty, and its jagged teeth formed rows of inverted triangles.
But the moment the creature sensed the surge of power rising through the earth, it jerked violently and twisted around. The energy was overwhelming—ancient, primal.
The shadowed being writhed in agitation before fleeing into the night sky, desperate to escape the force awakening below.
"Narakeen baare neinaa!" 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘥𝘶𝘦𝘥! It screamed in an unfamiliar tongue, trembling with rage. The sound did not come from a throat, but seemed to rustle through the trees and whisper across the dry leaves, as if the forest itself were crying out.
It would not allow itself to be subdued again by these defilers. It had only tasted freedom for a few nights after thousands of years of imprisonment.
But the air suddenly tightened around it—like jaws closing in.
The 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥 screamed, struggling violently.
“Tikis ang iyong kawakasan,” 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥, hissed the Habayan tribe’s 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪 in a voice both terrifying and unnatural. His right palm pressed firmly against the back of the 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯—their tribe’s ritual shaman, the emblem glowing faintly as it channeled the tribe’s power. With the left hand, he seemed to strangle the very air, twisting the gusts and energy that stretched from Ranao all the way to Manila.
His long hair danced in the swirling wind, adding to the terrifying presence of his figure. The gusts lifted the folds of his traditional vest, making it flutter like dark flames, while his eyes—completely black, without pupils—stared unblinkingly, a void of sheer menace.
The 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥 thrashed against the invisible grip, but from afar, a bolt of lightning tinged indigo—summoned by the Suliya tribe riding the ceremonial boat—ripped through the sky. Its glow pulsed like liquid energy, crackling with raw power as it streaked toward him, illuminating the swirling ritual winds and casting deep shadows across the twisting trees.
The great fissure in the ground widened, stretching all the way to where the ancient creature of darkness hovered above.
From the waters pooling within the crack, the Bamban rose, sending ripples and mist swirling into the night air.
Its massive jaws opened, sharp teeth gleaming, eyes glowing like molten coals. The ground trembled beneath its weight, and a faint hum thrummed through the air, vibrating through every root and stone nearby.
With the combined power of the five tribes, a surge of natural energy flowed into its maw, glowing like liquid fire and amplifying its strength beyond reckoning. Sparks of indigo lightning danced along its scales, wrapping its form in a crackling aura of power—a prelude to the sealing ritual.
Faint threads of energy stretched from the Suliya tribe on the ceremonial boat, the Habayan 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪, and the other tribes, connecting them all to the Bamban. Each pulse of lightning traced these invisible lines, a synchronized current of ritual power. The wind twisted around the ritual site, carrying streaks of indigo light and the scent of brine and earth, as if the world itself were aware of the ritual’s immense force.
The ancient creature of darkness screamed in agony, thrashing violently, yet the wind and lightning only sharpened around it, their origin impossible to discern.
Through the force of the black entity, the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪, 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬, 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘢-𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢́𝘤, 𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘢𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘋'𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘸 felt its crushing energy surge through their veins, threatening to tear them apart from within.
From the shadows, the 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥 shrieked, its smoke-like form swirling violently. Empty eyes darted toward the converging lightning threads, teeth gnashing like inverted triangles. The creature lashed against the energy currents, but each pulse drove it further back, its struggle growing frantic. The air around it sizzled, carrying a scent of scorched earth and ash, while its wails echoed through the night like dry leaves scraping over stone.
Their hands shook violently, each heartbeat merging with the surging waves of power rising from the earth.
The 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥'𝘴 oppressive energy tore at their bodies, too strong for them to withstand. Blood began to well from their eyes, and a crimson tide erupted from their mouths, spilling like molten streams over the ground. Threads of indigo lightning danced through the air, weaving around the red liquid as if channeling the tribes’ strength into every drop. Each pulse of light amplified the ritual, binding their suffering into the power flowing toward the Bamban.
In the distance, their tribesmen watched, children clinging to parents, kneeling, and beseeching their 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 for guidance, hearts pounding as waves of energy radiated from the ritualists battling the creature of darkness.
But the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪, 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬, 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘢-𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢́𝘤, 𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘢𝘯, and 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘋'𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘰 would not yield, each movement of theirs amplifying the surge of power, refusing to succumb until the creature of darkness was brought low.
They all screamed in unison, their voices torn apart by the howling wind.
"Hindi namin ipadadampás ang bisa nang aming mga bantay-lahi!" 𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪! Bellowed the babaylan of the Alúnáw in their native tongue, blood spewing from their mouth in thick, red torrents with every word, dripping onto the ground like liquid fire.
The thunderous crashes of saltwater pounded against the shores—and even against their bodies—melding with their fiery resolve, as if the very waves themselves lent their strength to drive back the plunderer of the island.
The Alúnáw 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪’𝘴 body began to tremble violently, strange, raw energy coursing through his veins, intertwining with the power of the ferocious creature they faced.
The veins in his eyes began to bulge, until they burst, and he also began to weep blood. The white of his eyes completely turned red. The bantay-lahi breathed harshly—the only thing he could now see was the oppressive 𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘢 from the 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘥 slowly devouring him.
He coughed, and like his babaylan, a red liquid flowed from their mouths along with black clotted masses.
His trembling continued, his right eye was completely ruined while the left was already growing dim.
He raised his left hand and pressed it against his left eye that throbbed intensely. He felt the stickiness of blood on his palm and its iron scent. The taste of rusted iron also traced across his tongue. Every breath he took was filled with the metallic vapor of death.
It was unlike any foe they had faced fifty years ago—the aged 𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘢𝘯, long since passed. Yet the same terrifying strength and raw energy pulsed through the air, entwining with the ritual’s power, lingering like a shadow from the past. It whispered of forces they had not yet fully grasped, and of a darkness that refused to be contained.
"Nárkentii baareni ro-taarne!" 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘦! the creature of darkness bellowed, its voice swallowed by the roar of the waters and the biting, tooth-edged gusts of wind.
The savage looked up. His empty eye sockets widened, and for a moment, it seemed as if the world had stopped turning.
The air became an iron wall, and the waters swirled violently, churning with a power older than memory. Above him appeared five emblems: burning red and black, green like moss, turquoise of the deep, gray of the seal, and white of Habayan. They spun in a circle, crackling with energy, their ends gradually stretching and intertwining. Sparks of indigo lightning arced along the emblems, while gusts of wind howled like unseen teeth. He was completely encircled, trapped within the ritual’s rising tide of power.
"Ne-i-naa! Nárkentii-ro!" 𝘕𝘰! 𝘊𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶! the Ganid screamed, his voice cracking with fear.
It was the first time he had ever witnessed such a ritual—winds rose like iron walls, waters churned violently around him, and sparks of indigo lightning danced across the five emblems above. The very air seemed alive, pressing down on him, binding him. This was designed to imprison him once more—and he could feel its power searing into his being.
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The Spaniards and the natives stared at the unexplainable radiance that emerged in the heights. Some fell to their knees—the Spaniards clutching their crosses and murmuring prayers at this terrifying judgment from the other world, while the natives gazed upward at the symbols that seemed like burning carvings amidst the darkness.
In the middle of the forest, the hermano lego’s eyes widened at the glimmer of the five symbols. He quickly traversed the thick mire, lifting the hem of his habit as each step sank into the sludge. His sandals of tanned hide slipped, but he did not stop. Amid his gasps and the splatter of black earth, his mouth opened in a desperate shout: “¡Indios blasfemos! ¡Esa oscuridad me pertenece! ¡Los maldeciré!”
His sandals slipped in the thick mire, sending black mud spattering across his face, yet his eyes remained fixed on the blazing sky.
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𝘉𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘢𝘸𝘢, 𝘪-𝘶𝘬𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘨!𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘢̂ 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰̂, 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢̂ 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘺—𝘶𝘩𝘢𝘸 𝘯𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘬 𝘴𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘺𝘢́𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘭!
At the command, the mouth of 𝘉𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘯 opened wide, rising from the salt water in a violent surge. From the churning waves the great maw emerged, vast and devouring. In a single brutal instant, the black smoke was swallowed whole.Its jaws slammed shut as the five emblems descended after it, drawn as though by the creature’s ancient pull. Then Bamban dragged its immense body back beneath the waters, the sea closing over it as it sank once more into its long, waiting sleep.The great fissure in the ground in Manila sealed itself, as if the earth had never been torn.Silence settled over the land. A gentle breeze stirred the air, and the soft chirping of crickets returned, carrying a fragile sense of calm.The Spaniards and natives seemed to have awoken from a terrible dream. They walked cautiously, eyes scanning the shadows around them.Suddenly, their fear sharpened—heads of the dead loomed before them, mounted on the sagan itself, a towering structure made entirely of bamboo, seven feet tall. Some eyes stared wide and white, others were closed. Their mouths hung open, releasing thin tendrils of smoke that curled and drifted into the night mist, carrying a faint, acrid scent.For the bantay-lahi who had journeyed to Manila, these were no mere trophies. They were the souls the Ganid had claimed, trapped and waiting—souls they had come to release.The wind whispered through the bamboo, and even the crickets fell silent, as if holding their breath for what was to come.The hermano lego trembled with rage, jaw set, fists clenched, gripping the thick mire."¡Indios! ¡Herejes! ¡Hijos del demonio!” 𝘐𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘴! 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘴! 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭! he bellowed, rage searing through him, unable to accept that his dream of ruling the empire he planned to build in the so-called Las Islas Filipinas had slipped away.Alone in the forest, he shouted, rage boiling, his words sharp and foreign: “¡Aún no hemos terminado! ¡Nos enfrentaremos de nuevo!”The words hung in the night like a curse, swallowed by the restless wind and the distant crash of waves, promising that this was far from the end.Under the same dark sky, the 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘺-𝘭𝘢𝘩𝘪, 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬, 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘢-𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢́𝘤, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘢𝘯, and 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘋’𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘰 all collapsed to the ground. The boat capsized, and its two passengers sank into the dark depths of the lake, their breaths stolen in unison. Some eyes stayed wide open, still weeping blood, as if their minds continued to chant endlessly, over and over, while death tore at the edges of their consciousness, piece by piece.
