The wind howled like the cries of a thousand forgotten souls.
It was 11:59 PM.
High above the sleeping city of Manila, Jomarie Estadilla stood at the edge of the twenty-seventh floor of a glass-paneled corporate tower. The concrete beneath his worn-out shoes felt cold, even through the thin rubber soles. His uniform—faded gray with dark sweat marks on the collar—flapped weakly against his thin frame. He smelled faintly of disinfectant and rust. His hands were cracked and red from chemical burns, his fingers trembling, not from the cold—but from everything.
Below him, the city buzzed on—oblivious. Jeepneys groaned through narrow streets. Dogs barked in the distance. Neon signs flickered over corner stores. It all looked... peaceful. Beautiful, even. Like a painting he was never meant to touch.
But inside Jomarie?
There was a war.
His stomach growled from missing dinner—again. He remembered Yel's tiny voice from earlier that night, asking if there was milk. His mother had only looked at the empty can, eyes heavy, lungs wheezing from untreated asthma. She hadn't said anything. She didn't need to.
Her silence screamed louder than any hunger ever could.
And then there were the debt collectors. Their words still echoed in his head like blunt weapons to the skull.
> "Pay your debt, you piece of trash!"
"You're worthless!"
"If you can't pay, we'll come to you ourselves."
He had tried—tried so hard to keep everything together. But nothing ever worked. Every promotion went to someone louder. Every raise passed over him. Every insult at work carved itself deeper than any blade. Just this morning, someone had scrawled "Trash" in red marker across his locker door.
The third time this week.
He had scrubbed it clean in silence. Just like he always did.
Now he stood on this rooftop, the city's polluted air filling his lungs one last time. His fingers clutched the rusted railing. He had thought about this moment a hundred times before—but this was the first time he had ever come up here.
The first time he had taken that final step.
He looked up. The stars barely peeked through the Manila haze. A plane blinked in the distance—someone, somewhere, escaping. He smiled bitterly.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered into the wind. "I'm sorry, Yel. Kuya's the real problem."
He closed his eyes. He imagined what it might feel like to fall. Quick? Or slow? Would he hear the wind or only the silence after?
Maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, they'd get something. SSS. Some insurance. Enough to pay off a little debt. Enough for Yel to buy milk. For Mom to breathe easier.
He let his right foot drift over the ledge.
The wind pushed back, stronger now. Manila always smelled like smoke and sweat—but here, it smelled like endings.
His heart raced.
Then—
A sound.
No. A rupture.
It wasn't the wind anymore.
It was… like the sky cracked.
The air turned golden, humming with energy. Below him—just inches from where the concrete street should have caught his body—light burst open like the eye of an ancient god. The world tilted.
Time didn't just slow.
Time shattered.
Jomarie was no longer falling.
He was floating—suspended in a pillar of golden light. Around him, the rooftop vanished into a kaleidoscope of scenes: fire-drenched coastlines, warriors screaming on bloodied shores, drums echoing in rhythm with his heartbeat, and faces—faces he didn't know but somehow remembered.
A woman smiling through tears.
A warrior with burning tattoos.
A blade slicing through rain.
A scream.
A storm.
A child.
A name—"Baba Datu."
Then it all collapsed.
Darkness.
---
When he woke, heat greeted him like a punch to the lungs.
Jomarie gasped, blinking hard as sunlight slammed into his face. He lay on rough sand—grainy, burning. The scent of salt filled his nose. The cries of seagulls, unfamiliar dialects, and the distant pounding of drums all swirled around him.
His heart raced. Where was he?
He sat up slowly, his body aching as if he'd fallen through time itself. His clothes—his janitor uniform—were still on him, though scorched and torn. His palms were bleeding. A gash burned on his brow.
Then the voices came.
"Is that a god?" one man whispered.
"No… that's a man. But look at him—he fell from the sky!"
"He speaks," another muttered in an old Visayan dialect. "He breathes. He bleeds. Yet he came from nowhere."
A circle of half-naked warriors surrounded him—bodies painted with red clay and adorned with bone necklaces and gold bands. Their eyes were wary, hands gripping spears and swords. Some had feathered headdresses. Others bore scars so deep they looked carved by gods.
At the center of them all stood a man with fire in his veins.
Tall. Broad. Eyes sharp as obsidian. He wore twin kampilan blades across his back, and on his chest—tattoos that looked like suns, waves, and ancient runes.
He stepped forward.
"I am Lapu-Lapu," he declared.
The name struck Jomarie like thunder.
That name. From textbooks. From legends. From… memories he shouldn't have.
"You fell from the sky," Lapu-Lapu continued. "Maybe a sign. Maybe a curse. Are you a spirit? A demon? A spy?"
Jomarie's lips trembled. "I… I was on a building… and then light… and now…"
He stopped.
He couldn't explain. Not when even his voice cracked under fear.
Lapu-Lapu squinted. "You wear strange armor. Cloth that glows. Your tongue… is ours, but not ours."
Jomarie suddenly noticed—he could understand them. Every word. As if the portal had translated the world into his soul.
The other warriors looked to Lapu-Lapu, waiting.
He approached Jomarie, slowly. His presence commanded silence.
"Then we shall find out what fate you bring," he said. "We will test you. If your blood runs red, you are no god. If you scream, you are no spirit. If you beg, then the gods have sent us a coward."
Jomarie swallowed hard.
He wanted to run. He wanted to wake up in the janitor's closet at work. He wanted to be anywhere but here.
But none of this was a dream.
This was pain. Heat. Breath. Fear.
This was real.
And before he could move, two men grabbed his arms roughly and lifted him to his feet. Sand crunched under his shoes. The blades at their waists glinted in the sun. The waves crashed louder.
He was being taken.
Dragged into something ancient. Violent. Bigger than his misery.
And yet—somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the panic, a whisper stirred:
> "You are not broken, son. You are meant for more."
His mother's voice?
No.
Something older.
As they led him away from the beach and into the heart of the jungle beyond, the drums grew louder. Smoke curled above the trees. And Jomarie Estadilla—janitor, brother, almost-suicide—took his first steps not just into the past…
…but into legend.