Then a new storm came upon Luzon and it wasnt like any the people had ever seen.
Clouds churned like dark beasts in the heavens.
Winds screamed across the plains, tearing leaves from branches.
Rain hammered the soil with relentless fury.
Yet even as the tempest raged, the guardians stood firm.
Cordillera bore the brunt of the wind, letting it crash against his towering ridges.
Sierra Madre absorbed the powerful gusts, breaking them into softer breaths before they reached the villages.
Caraballo held the central lands steady, spreading his thick roots into the soil to keep the rivers from overflowing.
Their bodies cracked under the pressure, but their resolve did not.
They protected the people—
even those who had forgotten them.
---
When dawn finally broke, the storm fled like a wounded animal, leaving the world battered but alive.
The natives emerged from their shelters.
Some wept with gratitude.
Some told their children, "The mountains saved us."
But others—
the ones who had embraced the visitors' ways—
looked around with frustration, annoyance, even anger.
"What use are these mountains if the storm still damaged our homes?"
"We need stronger tools, stronger walls—more than what the land gives us."
"The visitors know how to protect us better."
These words were like daggers to the guardians.
Sierra Madre felt a deep ache in her heart.
Caraballo lowered his head in sorrow.
Cordillera's breath rumbled like distant thunder.
They saved everyone—
yet now, they were blamed for not saving enough.
---
Then visitors saw opportunity in the destruction.
With their voices coated in honey, they told the young natives:
"You must build stronger structures—cut more trees."
"You must mine deeper for stones and metals."
"You must clear more land for our settlements."
And the young ones—
still shaken from the storm—
listened.
They began cutting trees not with prayers, but with urgency and fear.
They began digging into the mountainside, looking for metals to forge stronger blades.
They started building fences, borders, dividing lines that never existed before.
Cordillera felt every blow of the pickaxe.
Caraballo felt every tree fall like a tooth ripped from a jaw.
Sierra Madre felt the forest's tears drip down her slopes.
Still, the guardians endured.
They hoped the humans would realize their mistake.
They hoped the elders' voices would be heard.
But the elders were growing old.
Their influence weakening.
And the young—drunk with new ways—were becoming blind.
---
Then people of Luzon began to split into two tribes:
The Lumalaban
—the ones who still honored the land.
The ones who taught their children to bow to the rivers,
to whisper thanks to the trees,
to offer rice and flowers to the mountains.
The Sumunod
—the ones who followed the visitors,
believing new ways were better, faster, richer.
And between these tribes,
a rift began to grow like a wound that refused to close.
Arguments erupted.
Old traditions were mocked.
Where once there had been unity, now stood pride, resentment, and doubt.
The guardians watched the pain spread among the people they loved the most.
Caraballo whispered as his voice cracked like splitting bark,
"Our people… they are breaking apart."
Sierra Madre placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
**"They are confused, brother.
Fear makes the heart desperate."**
Cordillera clenched his fists.
**"Fear I can understand.
But greed?
Greed is something darker."**
---
Among the young natives who embraced the visitors was a boy named Dayang.
The son of a hunter, brave and intelligent—
but restless.
He saw the iron tools.
He saw the clothes that did not tear in the rain.
He saw the coins the visitors carried—small, shiny, valuable.
He wanted them all.
His father taught him the old ways.
To hunt with respect,
to leave offerings for the spirits,
to treat every forest creature as kin.
But Dayang laughed softly.
"Father, your ways are beautiful…
but they do not give us power."
The moment he said that,
Sierra Madre felt something inside her crumble.
Cordillera shook his head.
Caraballo whispered,
**"Power…
That word will destroy him."**
Yet Dayang only ran deeper into the new ways.
He learned how to trade.
How to speak the visitors' language.
How to negotiate.
How to cut trees swiftly, without ritual.
How to mine metals without caution.
The visitors praised him.
They said he was smart.
Ambitious.
Different from the others.
And Dayang believed them.
---
One night, beneath a blanket of stars, the elders gathered the youth around a fire.
Amang Lakat, now frail, lifted his trembling hand and said:
**"Children…
we are losing ourselves."**
"I remember a time when the river sang.
When the mountains whispered blessings.
When harmony lived in our hearts."
"But now…
we chase things that glitter.
We follow voices that do not love this land."
"Listen to me—
if you hurt the mountains,
you hurt yourselves."
Some of the youth bowed their heads.
Others looked away.
Dayang stood up.
With a voice young but sharp, he said:
"Lolo, your stories are old.
The world is changing.
We must change with it.
If we cling to the past, we will be left behind."
Many of the young nodded.
The elders' shoulders fell.
Their eyes dimmed.
Sierra Madre felt their sadness echo inside her trees.
Caraballo felt their despair seep into his roots.
Cordillera's eyes turned cold, pained, worried.
---
For the first time in centuries, the guardians gathered under the night sky, their silhouettes towering like shadows of mountains yet to be born.
Caraballo spoke first, voice trembling:
"We are losing them."
Sierra Madre closed her eyes.
**"They are still children.
We must guide them—
but gently."**
Cordillera's jaw hardened.
**"Gentle guidance may no longer be enough.
If they tear too deeply…
the storms we hold back
will no longer spare them."**
Caraballo sank to one knee.
"Brother… what are you saying?"
Cordillera looked toward the horizon, where fires from the visitors' camp burned brightly.
**"I am saying that the more they hurt this land…
the more the land will hurt them back."**
A heavy silence fell across the three giants.
Not a threat.
Not anger.
Just truth.
Unavoidable truth.
Sierra Madre felt tears—dew on her trees—fall to the ground.
**"We must not give up on them.
Not yet."**
Caraballo whispered,
**"But if the storms grow stronger…
we may not be able to protect them forever."**
Cordillera bowed his head.
**"Then we must pray they remember us
before it is too late."**