The jungle had grown silent.
Too silent.
Even the insects had gone mute. The rustling of leaves—a constant background lullaby—was absent, like the very trees held their breath. The warriors of Mactan stood in tight formation at the edge of the village, muscles coiled, eyes darting toward every shadow. Bows were strung, spears tipped with poison, blades sharpened to a gleam beneath the moonlight.
Jomarie stood among them.
His heart thudded against his ribs like a war drum. The kampilan across his back felt heavier than usual, as though it, too, sensed the dread in the air. The tattoo on his back—the Burda ng Katapangan—pulsed with a dull heat, rhythmically, like a second heartbeat that wasn't quite his own.
Something was wrong.
Not coming. Here.
---
Earlier That Morning…
The forest spat Pula back into the village like a wounded animal.
He limped into the gathering hall, blood soaking the bottom of his tunic, his knuckles bruised and dried with soil. In his fist, he carried a shattered Spanish insignia.
"They were waiting for us," he barked, slamming the broken crest onto Lapu-Lapu's table. "Waiting. In formation. Perfect angle. They knew our every turn."
A silence fell over the elders. Only the fire in the center of the hall crackled.
"It wasn't a guess," Pula continued, jaw tight. "It was a signal."
Lapu-Lapu's eyes turned to steel. "A traitor, then."
The word settled like ash in their mouths.
He turned to his circle—Maira, Pula, Jomarie, Baba Datu.
"It ends tonight."
---
The Trap
That night, the village played its part.
Dozens of warriors marched north with great clamor, making a spectacle of their departure. Campfires were snuffed, noise kept low, and the ceremonial torches dimmed to dying embers. The air was thick with deception.
Hidden in the dark, Jomarie lay beside Maira above the ceremonial cave, concealed behind thick fern leaves. The cool earth pressed against his cheek, and every heartbeat thudded in his ears. Even his breath felt too loud.
Maira didn't move. Her eyes never blinked. She was a blade waiting to be drawn.
Then—movement.
A lone figure slipped between the trees. Cloaked, hunched, careful. In his hand, he carried a bundle of palm leaves tied with a red thread.
"Now," Maira whispered.
They watched him kneel before a buried stone marker near the forest trail—an old wartime method of silent communication. He began digging at the dirt, revealing the carved plate used by ancient traitors to signal to foreign invaders.
"Stop!" Jomarie shouted, leaping from cover.
The traitor froze, eyes wide in horror, then bolted.
But Maira was already in motion.
She struck like lightning, slamming the figure to the ground. His hood flew back—revealing Elder Manuq.
The gasp that followed wasn't from Jomarie alone.
Lapu-Lapu, Pula, and warriors emerged from the woods in grim silence, like shadows made flesh.
Jomarie's voice cracked. "Elder Manuq? No… You? Why?"
Manuq coughed blood but stared up with defiance. "Do you truly think we can win? Spears against muskets? Wood against steel ships? They offered me protection. A way to preserve what I could."
"You gave them our children," Maira hissed.
"You think they would have spared you?" Manuq growled. "I bargained for time. For survival. I gave them names. I gave them maps. What would you have done—died for a cause already lost?"
Jomarie's stomach churned. "I'd rather die with honor than live on my knees."
Manuq spat at his feet.
And then—silence.
Lapu-Lapu raised his blade. "You chose the chain of betrayal."
A single stroke.
The night accepted its judgment without a sound.
---
The Storm
Rain poured down in torrents.
Thunder rolled like drums of the gods.
Jomarie sat at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. He didn't flinch from the lightning or the cold water that drenched his skin. His fists clenched on his knees, jaw locked.
He wasn't angry just at Manuq.
He was angry at the world.
At the cruelty of betrayal.
At the pain of knowing even the kindest eyes could hide poison.
At the burden of carrying a power he didn't understand.
He screamed—not words, but rage itself. A cry deep from the marrow, primal and raw.
And the flame answered.
---
It started in his chest.
A heat that spread to his veins like wildfire.
The tattoo on his back ignited—not metaphorically, but literally—golden-orange flames snaking across his skin, erupting outward in a blaze of light. His body lifted slightly from the cliff, suspended in the air as the ground around him smoldered and cracked.
The wind circled him, bending around the fire. Leaves charred midair. The flame formed wings—curved like phoenix feathers, alive and flickering with ethereal heat.
The kampilan on his back glowed white-hot, the carved glyphs pulsing like a heartbeat.
Behind him, Maira and Baba Datu arrived, frozen in awe.
"He's awakening," Baba Datu whispered, barely audible beneath the storm.
Maira's voice trembled. "His flame… it's not just spirit. It's ancestral."
Jomarie fell to one knee.
The fire vanished.
Smoke curled from his back. Steam rose from his skin. The earth hissed beneath him.
"I saw him…" he gasped. "The flame-bound warrior. He said… I've been chosen. That the chain is broken. That I'm the last link."
Baba Datu's eyes widened, truly afraid for the first time.
"The chain is broken?"
Jomarie nodded. "He said… it begins now."
A terrifying silence followed.
Then Baba Datu looked to the horizon, where black clouds swirled in unnatural patterns.
"Then the war ahead," he whispered, "is not just for land or freedom…"
"It is a war for the soul of this world."