"In halls meant for memory, nations decide whether to preserve their scars or to carve new ones."
The Senate Hall, Bulakan - Night
The storm had yet to reach the capital, yet the air was thick with its portent. Rain lashed against the stained-glass dome of the Senate Hall, resembling unseen fingers that blurred the ancestral murals of Katipunan heroes adorning the chamber. Baybayin glyph-lamps illuminated the semicircle of desks where the nation's most influential figures congregated, their voices low murmurs in anticipation of the session's commencement.
The hall itself embodied a paradox of heritage and futurism: gleaming narra wood rostrums stood in contrast to suspended holo-screens that mapped the archipelago in real time. Islands pulsed with wards and glyph-markers; the northern coasts glowed blue, Mindoro smoldered amber, and Palawan's western ridges—still scorched from battle—burned red.
At the central podium, Senate President Esteban Villareal adjusted his bifocals, even though his desk had already projected his speech with crystal clarity. A product of compromise, his hair was silver, yet his voice remained resolute. The gavel in his hand appeared ceremonial, yet each strike could summon armies.
He raised it once. Bang. The session commenced.
Opening Proceedings
"Honorable senators," Villareal began, his baritone resonating beneath the dome, "we gather in emergency session not merely as legislators but as custodians of a nation at war with shadows. The incident in Palawan is no longer mere rumor—it is a blood-stained fact, undeniable. For the first time in decades, citizens have witnessed relic warfare broadcast live."
A ripple coursed through the chamber as senators leaned forward, their desk glyphs recording every word. Some averted their gaze from the hologram replaying the Palawan firefight: violet spirals erupting across jungle ridges, combatants moving with inhuman speed, the unmistakable resonance of relic energy cleaving the night.
Villareal continued, "We must determine the Republic's response. Silence breeds panic, and panic invites chaos. History teaches us that chaos is the soil where cults and warlords thrive."
He gestured. "The floor is open."
The Debate
Senator Nicanor Alonzo of Ilocos was the first to rise, his barong crisp, his tone martial. "Palawan has exposed our vulnerability. MID-Zeta insists the attackers were foreign-trained, yet the glyphs—those were native. Babaylan chants intermingled with paramilitary tactics. This is not an external threat; it is civil war in the making. I call for immediate martial law in Palawan and a preemptive military presence across Mindanao's sacred sites."
"Reactionary bluster," countered Senator Liza Marasigan of Manila, her voice sharp as steel. "You propose to place half the archipelago under garrison law because you cannot distinguish myth from insurgency?
The footage proves only one thing—that the government has concealed relic warfare from its citizens for decades. How long have we funded programs like Project Sandata without consent? How many orphans were lost in your laboratories?"
Gasps fluttered across the benches. Villareal rapped the gavel to quiet them.
Senator Paterno Lim of Cebu leaned forward, his tone oily yet persuasive. "Transparency, yes. But let us not deceive ourselves; the truth will not save us. Tell the people that spirits traverse breaches, and they will riot harder than any cult. Reveal the existence of relics, and half the barangays will crown their own warlords. I propose we maintain secrecy, erase what footage we can, and funnel resources through MID-Zeta to contain these... aberrations."
From the northern benches, Senator Rañada struck the air with her palm. "Containment? We already failed in Palawan. Our soldiers were slaughtered; our wards collapsed. Reports indicate unauthorized relic-bearers fighting on our soil. If the Unit you speak of truly exists, we should reactivate them. Better weapons for us than against us."
The chamber's murmur escalated into an argument:
"The Constitution forbids relic militarization."
"Then amend it!"
"The Church will not stand for it."
"The Church is silent when our people bleed!"
Villareal allowed the chaos to rise for a moment before striking the gavel twice. Bang. Bang!
The Presidential Emissary
The great doors at the back swung open. General Emilio Valdez, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces, entered clad in a white dress uniform, his chest adorned with medals. His presence silenced the hall as effectively as any ward.
"The President extends her apologies for her absence," Valdez declared, bowing slightly.
"However, she sends this message: unity above all. Palawan was not an isolated strike; it served as a probe. The enemy assesses our fracture lines—political, military, spiritual.
They will exploit our vulnerabilities. The Commander-in-Chief implores this chamber to remember that the Republic cannot afford division."
He paused. "As of this evening, the Office of the President authorizes MID-Zeta to reactivate dormant programs deemed essential for relic countermeasures."
The term relic ignited a spark. Senators surged in their seats; some clapped in support, while others shouted in outrage.
Senator Marasigan spat the word like venom: "So it is true. Project Sandata lives."
General Valdez remained unperturbed. "It never died; it merely slumbered. Now, the Republic requires its guardians once more."
Fractures and Shadows
Hours passed. Proposals mounted: martial law, secrecy, reactivation of black operations, investigation of cult networks in Mindanao. The chamber transformed into a crucible of ideology.
Yet beneath the uproar, a darker current flowed. An aide whispered to Senator Lim, passing a glyph-sealed folder. Lim's eyes flicked across the page, and a controlled smile ghosted his lips. Across the chamber, Alonzo caught the look and frowned.
Marasigan also noticed. Her instincts screamed: Anino ng mga Anitos. Their influence was evident, sowing division in plain sight. She rose to speak again, but before she could—
The Interruption
The Senate Hall's holo-screens flared. Glyphs scrambled, and signal interference swept the chamber. Senators cursed, assuming a hack. Then the static resolved into live footage.
Location: Davao City. Temple of Lakapati.
The chamber fell silent. Onscreen, the temple's alabaster steps blazed under torchlight, smoke spiraling into the night. Babaylan Acolytes in blue shawls encircled the entrance, their chants twisting into spirals of fire that licked at invisible wards. Behind them, armored soldiers marked with the serpent crest of Ahas ng mga Lakan advanced in formation, their rifles unleashing rune-fire that shattered the temple's protective barrier.
Inside, civilians screamed. Pilgrims fled down side corridors, only to be dragged back by chains of glyph-light. A young novitiate clutched a statue of the Goddess Lakapati as a relic round struck her down.
The senators gasped. Some crossed themselves; others froze in horror.
The feed panned upward. From the temple roof, a colossal ward sigil cracked, its golden lines splintering into smoke. The siege was not merely an attack; it was a desecration.
The chamber erupted into chaos.
The Collapse of Order
Villareal pounded the gavel until the wood split, but the chamber had ceased to obey. Senators shouted over one another:
"Deploy troops now!"
"Evacuate the civilians!"
"We cannot spare divisions—the south will fall!"
"This is orchestrated!"
General Valdez's voice cut through the tension: "The Sandata Unit has already been mobilized. The Kabalyero is en route to the Temple. However, the wards surrounding the Temple of Lakapati were never designed to withstand a relic siege. Unless reinforced, the temple will fall within the hour."
Senator Rañada turned pale. "If Lakapati falls… the Mindanao faith blocs will ignite the nation."
Marasigan's whisper carried louder than any shout: "They wanted this broadcast. They wanted us to witness our own helplessness."
The Closing Note
The feed jolted again. Black flames engulfed the frame. For an instant, a lone figure in an obsidian cloak appeared on the temple's roof, arms spread wide, glyphs spiraling like wings of smoke. The image abruptly cut to black.
The chamber in Bulakan froze. For once, not a single senator spoke. Only the relentless rain against the dome remained, as if the heavens themselves bore witness.
Villareal's broken gavel slipped from his hand. His voice, hoarse, uttered the last words of the session:
"Tonight, in the capital of our ancestors, we have witnessed the Republic's soul come under siege."
The session dissolved into silence, the fate of the nation bleeding into the storm.
The Flagbearer
Meanwhile, Agent Isidro Talampas of the Office of National Protocol stood alone atop the Capitol dome in Bulakan Capital City, the wind clawing at his uniform as if seeking to halt him. Below, the Council chamber had fallen silent. Above, the mast loomed—its halyard taut, its flag still blue-over-red.
He had rehearsed the motion a dozen times in the mirror—not for precision, but for resolve.
He checked the timestamp. 18:00:00.
The order was clear.
Flip the Republic.
His gloved hands moved with ritual care. Unclip. Rotate. Refasten. The red triangle surged upward, overtaking the blue. The sun and stars remained, yet the meaning had transformed.
A drone hovered nearby, its lens focused on him. He offered no salute, no speech—just a nod.
The broadcast cut across every screen in the archipelago.
TV Broadcast Overlay
LIVE: Capitol Dome, Bulakan Capital City
BREAKING: Republic Flag Flipped — State of War Declared
In homes, barangay halls, and roadside eateries, Filipinos paused mid-bite, mid-scroll, mid-sentence. The image of the red-over-blue flag filled every screen. No music. No voiceover. Just the wind and the flag.
On a crowded street in Malolos, two vendors had been locked in a shouting match—one accusing the other of hoarding glyph batteries, while the other defended his right to ration. Their voices rose, fists clenched, curses flying.
Then the broadcast hit the public screen above the pharmacy.
They turned.
The flag, red over blue, rippled in silence. Their mouths closed. Their hands lowered. Their faces shifted—not to fear, but to something more primal: a shared instinct.
A warlike calm.
Around them, others paused mid-stride. A tricycle driver removed his cap. A child clutched her mother's hand tighter. A street preacher fell silent. The quarrel faded into the background.
The Republic had spoken. Across the islands, the nation did not mourn; it braced.