"In the heart of chaos, where the world teeters between myth and reality, the true power of a Sandata lies not in the relic itself, but in the resolve of those who dare to wield it."
The Whispering Wind
Maximo Imperial stood atop a windswept hill, the salt-laden air of the Palawan Channel stinging his skin. It was the calm before the storm, the moments leading up to the impending naval battle. Below him, the sea mirrored the night sky, tranquil and serene, yet Maximo understood that soon it would become a chaotic tableau of fire and turmoil. His mission was straightforward: eliminate the Bakawan Intelligence Scouts before they could relay their findings. He remained unaware of the information they possessed, only that their presence constituted a significant threat.
He had intercepted the Ahas's intelligence scouts, a discreet unit dispatched to monitor air traffic. Concealed in a camouflaged position, their advanced communications equipment was tailored to detect the subtle energy signatures of mystic-tech aircraft. Maximo, a specter in the shadows, observed them from his vantage point. He raised the Sumpit ni Dumaladap to his lips, unleashing a high, sustained note—a blade of pure energy that sliced through the air and severed the first scout's throat. A clean, glowing line marked his demise as he collapsed.
The second scout, his face set in grim determination, raised his rifle. Yet Maximo had already vanished, a puff of smoke marking his previous location. He reappeared behind the agent and, with a swift and silent movement, pressed the flute against the man's temple. The scout, eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance, felt the cold metal against his skin.
"Tell me what you know," Maximo whispered, his voice as chilling as the wind.
The scout, trained to endure torture, proved no match for the subtle influence of the Sandata. A single, low note from the flute resonated within his mind, unlocking the secrets he had sworn to guard. The information poured from him in a torrent: "Air... support... the Sandata... government... air... support..."
Maximo withdrew, his expression inscrutable. The air support for the Sandata Unit was a detail that needed safeguarding at all costs. With a gentle blow from his flute, the scout's head imploded. This act was not born of malice but necessity. Their deaths ensured that no information would reach the Ahas and the Babaylans. Their elimination secured the element of surprise for the Sandata Unit, a preemptive victory before the first ship had even set sail.
Maximo turned, seamlessly blending back into the shadows, the Sumpit ni Dumaladap a quiet, unholy promise amid the silence.
Palawan Channel, Mandirigma
The limestone cliffs of Puerto Princesa rose majestically, resembling the ribs of a slumbering giant, their shadows stretching across a narrow waterway churned by perilous cross-currents. A delicate mist hovered above the surface in pale ribbons. At the channel's mouth, the Mandirigma advanced, its black hull aglow with buried sigils, leading a tight trident wedge of twenty MID Zeta warships.
Trident Wedge Formation
There would be no retreat. "Lock shields," ordered Joaquin Santillan from the command canopy, his voice steady as tempered steel.
Eight Zeta vessels interlinked their prismatic wards into a singular, shimmering barrier. At the prow of the Mandirigma, Renato anchored Kalasag ni Bernardo Carpio to the deck, and the shield chorus deepened from a hum to a resonant thrum, reverberating through the formation and into the bones of every crew member aboard.
Beside him, Marian raised Sundang ni Makiling and exhaled. The blade sang with the stillness of mountains, and the mist thickened—folds upon folds of veils knitting themselves along the channel until the trident wedge became a diminishing silhouette. The sea consumed their presence, replacing it with uncertainty.
"Let them lean into the fog," she said, her eyes half-lidded. "The closer they come, the sharper we cut."
Beyond the mist, two armadas advanced—one crowned by faith, the other by ambition.
The mist thickened, not with weather but with intent. Glyphs shimmered faintly in the air, as if the sky itself had begun to listen. Far from the command decks and war chants, a lone patrol vessel drifted along the Palawan shoal. Ensign Rodel Marquez, a coastguard by rank and witness by fate, stood at the helm of ACG-412. Thirty-seven patrols had taught him the language of tides, but this was no ordinary swell. The sonar had gone silent. The horizon pulsed. And the sea—usually indifferent—felt as if it were holding its breath.
He saw them before the radar did.
The Balanghay emerged first, its hull carved with ancestral sigils that flickered like prayers. Then came the Karakoa, sleek and cruel, its serpent-banner slicing through the fog. Between them, a third silhouette—the Mandirigma—advanced like a myth reborn, its prow aglow with unspoken judgment.
Rodel reached for the comms. Static. Not interference—reverence.
To starboard, the Balanghay bore down, its decks a forest of runes and ritual pylons, with the Godslayer cannon poised to turn anything in its path to dust. Commodore Juan Luciano stood at the aft balcony, Habagat's stormlight swirling around his shoulders. He gave a slight nod, a silent signal of approval. Below deck, Magdalena Ramos caressed the Godslayer's glyph triggers with reverent care. "It's time," she murmured, feeling the power thrumming beneath her fingertips.
To port, the Karakoa sliced through the water with imperial contempt, the serpent-banner of the Ahas ng mga Lakans snapping in the wind. Raja observed from the prow, his expression unreadable. "They're underestimating us," he said quietly, a hint of anticipation in his voice.
Maximo Imperial paced, Sumpit ni Dumalapdap humming with eagerness at his hip, Kalawit poised like an executioner's hour. "Let them come," he muttered, fierce determination burning in his eyes.
They misinterpreted the veiled formation as a sign of weakness. Both fleets surged toward the narrows, shoulder-to-shoulder, a hundred hungry mouths closing around a single throat.
"Steady," Gregorio murmured, rolling his wrists as Kamay ni Bathala absorbed the air and the pulse of the sea. Violet spirals flared beneath his skin. "On my mark, we make the sky forget their names."
The first volleys erupted like a choir of thunder. Babaylan destroyers hurled runic shells that screamed with flashes of light, while Bakawan war vessels stitched the fog with demon-red tracers. The shield wall met the onslaught with an aurora bloom.
The water recoiled. Rodel's vessel staggered as the shockwave rolled across the channel, and as he maneuvered the vessel to safety, he swore the sea whispered a name: Bathala.
Impacts cascaded across Renato's forearms in a brutal rhythm; he gritted his teeth and infused more of himself into the Kalasag's lattice. Cracks spread like frost but sealed as the eight-ship phalanx responded, each ward absorbing the damage and passing the remainder along.
"Now," Joaquin commanded.
The trident wedge lunged. Agosto stepped to the rail, Kampilan ni Lam-ang warming to a predatory glow. He carved a vortex slash wide enough to force two Bakawan ships into one another; their masts tangled and snapped like brittle bones. He continued to carve, cutting through enemy lines, widening the wedge's corridor with sheer will.
Misty Advantage
Gregorio vanished.
A heartbeat later, he reappeared on a Babaylan destroyer's bridge, violet glyphs coiling around his fists. He moved with purpose, unmaking the world in increments.
A targeting array dissolved into glowing sand.
A command console unraveled into glyph smoke.
He met an officer's terrified gaze and said gently, "Rest," causing the man's rifle to dissolve into the memory of iron.
Gregorio flickered away before the first scream.
On the Mandirigma, Marian extended her hand. Three ghost-ships materialized within the mist—perfect silhouettes of the Mandirigma, each emanating false aura signatures that drew enemy fire like lodestones. She smiled, not cruelly but with the satisfaction of a puzzle piece fitting into place. "Follow the wrong moon," she whispered. "Drown on the right tide."
Zeta fast-attack craft surged from the wedge's flanks, bombarding two Babaylan destroyers with arcane torpedoes, detonations rolling along the cliff faces like drums.
The channel narrowed. The enemy compressed. The terrain that could save them now held their throats.
Arrival of Adarna
Maximo halted at the Karakoa's rail, head tilted, sensing a melody beyond the cacophony.
He stayed silent.
The Adarna, the government's legendary airship, emerged from a seam in the clouds, its brass feathers reflecting the sunlight and its eyes resembling twin storms.
For a fleeting moment, it hovered in silence—an ominous portent—before its belly opened, releasing depth charges in a shimmering line ahead of the Karakoa. The sea erupted, white fountains reaching skyward, while the Karakoa shuddered and veered into a side current that grasped at its momentum like greedy hands.
Paratroopers dove from the Adarna's talons, striking the Balanghay's upper decks like falling stars. Rune Sabers flashed; cables screamed; Godslayer umbilicals spat sparks and went dark. Magdalena's eyes widened as her hands met lifeless glyphs.
Then the Adarna sang.
Sonic glyph arrays unleashed a chorus that transcended human voices. Sound warped the air, making water remember mountains.
The Babaylan chanters staggered as if struck from within their lungs. Ritual weaves unraveled into limp threads. In the sudden vacuum of magic, it was only voidsteel, rope, and terror.
"Chorus broken," came the Adarna's hail across all friendly decks. "Now."
The world inhaled, and the Mandirigma exhaled.
Divine Finisher
Relic light spiraled up from the Sandata Unit in a helix, binding Gregorio, Marian, Renato, and Agosto in a shared rhythm. Their breaths synchronized, their heartbeats intertwined with the drum of the sea. In that moment, they were not four.
Punishment of the Gods! - Divine Synchrony! Bathala Incarnate!
The Omni Judgement Glyph surged. Its bright arcane light beamed up to the heavens and erupted thereafter, sending out a signal of terror among the Sandata Unit's adversaries.
Bathala Incarnate rose from the prow—a towering figure of mist and flame, armor and blade, crowned with the memory of a sun older than maps. In its left hand, the Sundang gleamed like moonlight on a thousand rivers; in its right, the Kampilan expanded as wide as a storm front. Across its breast flickered the lattice of Kalasag; along its veins pulsed the unmaking rhythm of Kamay.
It moved.
From the Balanghay, Juan gazed in awe at the towering apparition of a deity. "Such power resides in the hands of humanity, yet it appears to be missing a piece," Juan remarked.
The Sundang severed the Balanghay at the mast root, cutting through ritual pylons with surgical precision. Glyphs faded from blazing to blind. The Godslayer's spine arched, hissed, and fell silent. Magdalena snarled, flinging Tanikala ng Guniguni into the mist—whips of fractured memory seeking purchase—but Marian breathed, transforming the mist into a mirror; the whips found only reflections and lashed empty air until they strangled themselves in their own illusions.
The Kampilan descended upon the Karakoa's forward keel. Voidsteel buckled in a scream. The proud prow plunged; water roared into the wound.
Renato raised Kalasag within the god-form and released a prismatic flare, a cone of violet-white that rolled like a breaking wave. Every rune-cannon within its reach flickered out. For twelve holy seconds, the Balanghay and Karakoa lay vulnerable in the water.
"Concentrate fire," Joaquin commanded, and the Zeta guns responded—no drift fire, no waste. Broadside after broadside hammered the immobilized silhouettes, shredding guardrails, snapping yards, and breaking wills.
Strategic Retreat
On the Karakoa, Raja's gaze was sharp and resolute, reflecting an acceptance of the inevitable. Rather than cursing or panicking, he measured the situation with calm precision. "Deploy smoke buoys," he instructed quietly. "All ships: turn eastward on my mark."
"Damn it!" Kalawit exclaimed as he ordered the retreat. Maximo's eyes met those of the Mandirigma, conveying a thousand unspoken conversations in a single heartbeat, where grief and determination clashed within his expression. He raised the Sumpit and exhaled a note that resonated like an apology before vanishing into a plume of smoke.
On the Balanghay, Juan steadied himself with a hand on the rail. The deck pitched around him, the Godslayer lay muted, and the crew looked to him as if he could bend the sea to obedience. He lifted Habagat slightly, not to strike but to pledge. Juan reflected that many of his men would lose their lives if he chose to confront the Sandata unit. "This is not our day," he stated, and the truth tasted not of defeat but of discipline. "Retreat under escort."
Magdalena's teeth flashed white in the dark. "Cowardice."
"Command," he replied, turning eastward.
The sea concurred. Smoke glyph buoys blossomed behind both flagships, veils upon veils, as the remnants of two proud fleets retreated from the narrows, limping toward the expansive slate of the Palawan Sea. Zeta gunners targeted rudders and prop glyphs, punishing the fleeing vessels, then held their fire at Joaquin's curt gesture.
"We finish what's in front of us," he asserted. "Not what wishes to die farther away."
Silence enveloped the scene in stages: first as the guns fell silent, then as the cliffs mirrored the tranquility, and finally as the gulls resumed their flight. The Adarna soared high above, its sensors meticulously scanning the water for any lingering treachery.
Below, the Mandirigma navigated into a steady patrol. Broken hulks floated aimlessly, reminiscent of exhausted debates. In the haze, smoke buoys transformed into faint stains on the horizon—testaments to survival that remained resolute.
On the prow, the Sandata Unit relinquished their divinity and embraced their humanity once more. Marian's breath shuddered as the mist unwound itself from her being.
Agosto rolled his shoulders, momentarily appearing like a boy who had outrun his ghosts. Renato shook out his fingers, knuckles bleeding where the Kalasag had demanded too much of him. Gregorio's eyes sparkled with stormlight and tenderness all at once.
Joaquin joined them, the wind tugging at his coat, the day's weight settling along his face in a manner that made him appear younger, not older.
"We didn't sink them," he observed.
Gregorio gazed eastward, where the two wounded beasts of the sea were already becoming mere rumors. "No," he replied. "We unmoored their pride. Next time, they will bleed before they reach our gates."
Marian slid her Sundang back into the mist. "There will be a next time."
"There always is," Joaquin agreed, and for a fleeting moment, it sounded like a blessing.
Zeta crews roped survivors from shattered decks, binding those unwilling to surrender their weapons, gathering relic shards in oilcloth and prayer.
The Mandirigma pivoted toward the bay where Puerto Princesa awaited—its roofs resembling a field of scales, smoke rising in thin, domestic braids, life either unaware or pretending to be.
The Adarna dipped a wing in salute and drifted toward the anchorage, its feathers folding, its voice falling silent.
At the stern, Gregorio felt the familiar tug—the one that promised that if he reached just a little further, he could mend everything, even the parts of the world that were not broken but merely complicated. He allowed it to pass through him. He recalled a promise, the taste of silence, the burdensome miracle of choosing not to be a god when the world demanded one.
"Set repairs," Joaquin called. "Resupply. Rotate watches. We take the tide at dusk."
"Where?" Renato inquired, already smiling.
Gregorio's reply was resolute. "Where the left eye opens."
The cliffs observed their departure, solemn and unchanged. The narrows lay behind them like a scar that would remember. And far to the east, behind smoke, pride, and vows spoken to empty decks, two flagships assessed their wounds and chances, promising the sea they would return.