The Slumber of the Creator
Long before the Philippines bore names like "Luzon," "Visayas," or "Mindanao," when the sky hung low and the earth still sang with new breath, there was only one name that mattered—Bathala.
He was not born. He was the breath before creation, the silence before the first lightning strike. From the vast emptiness, Bathala reached into the void and shaped the seas with his exhale, carved the mountains with his hands, and strung stars across the sky like glowing beads in a goddess's necklace. From his thoughts came islands, each one unique—some proud and tall like giants, others soft and cradled like infants in the womb of the ocean.
Bathala watched over them with a heart full of love and a will forged from fire. He gave the winds to Amihan, the tides to Lakapati, the heavens to Apolaki, the moon's glow to Mayari, and the scattered stars to Tala, his starborn child. Together, these divine children danced across the land, whispering life into every rock, tree, and river.
But where light blooms, shadow stirs.
From the forgotten corners of the world came creatures that Bathala himself once turned away—beings of primal hunger and ancient resentment. They were not born of evil but shaped by neglect, cast aside and malformed by the passage of time. They were the Aswang: beings who drank the blood of memory and fed on fear. With them came their kin—the winged Manananggal, the deceiving Tiyanak, the stalking Sigbin, the prideful Tikbalang, and the silent hunters known as Wakwak. Not monsters, no—at least, not in the beginning. They were exiled spirits, corrupted by being forgotten.
As mankind grew bolder—clearing forests, ignoring rituals, mocking the spirits—these creatures found strength in silence. With every forgotten offering, with every sacred mountain turned to gravel, they clawed their way back from the dark.
Bathala, sensing the shift, did what no god should ever do.
He fragmented himself.
With solemn hands, he tore his soul into eleven agimat—sacred relics infused with his blood, his flame, his breath. Each one a piece of creation. Each one a promise.
And then, as the last echoes of the old hymns faded from human lips, Bathala descended.
He passed through layers of earth, deeper than roots, deeper than bones, and laid himself to rest beneath the ancient balete tree—the first and the last of its kind. There, cradled between worlds, the Creator entered a sleep so deep that time itself dared not disturb it.
He sleeps still.
But the world has grown restless.
The Aswang stir beneath the mountains. The Manananggal feel the winds shifting in their wings. Something in the sea—old, scaled, and starless—has begun to rise.
And across the archipelago, scattered from forest to shoreline, the eleven agimat shimmer faintly in the hands of the chosen.
Among them is one boy, just seventeen, marked not by destiny—but by blood.
He does not yet know that in his chest beats a spark of divinity.
He does not yet understand that he is not simply a bearer of an agimat—
He is the last vessel of Bathala's will.