“Sometimes, the past is not meant to be forgotten. It has to be confronted to get the peace that it is meant to give”

The Orphanage – East Wing, Abandoned Garden

Mist coiled lazily over the cracked flagstones, but Marian knew it was not her own doing. The air here had always kept its own counsel, drawn from some older covenant with the mountain.

She walked between rows of half‑wild orchids and strangler figs reclaiming the garden walls. Every step brought her closer to the lone stone bench in the center, worn smooth by years of silence. It was here, long before the Unit, that the Goddess Makiling had tested her.

“The mountain does not choose lightly,” Makiling had told her then.

“You may borrow my blade, but you must bear my eyes.”

Eyes that could see the fracture in a person’s resolve.

Eyes that could tell when a friend would one day become an enemy.

Tonight, the bench was empty—yet Marian felt the weight of that gaze again. She sat, placing the Sundang ni Makiling across her knees. The steel’s cool breath fogged the air in slow spirals, threads of silver against the thickening mist.

She thought of the Archives—of the redacted files and the ritual meant to bend reality. She thought of Magda, once mentor, now a ghost wrapped in jealousy. And she thought of Gregorio, Renato, and Agosto—men who could be pulled into this storm as easily as a mountain draws the rain.

Her fingers traced the vine‑like glyphs along the Sundang’s fuller.

“You asked me to see,” she whispered to the absent goddess.

“Now I cannot stop.”

The mist tightened around the garden, muting the world beyond the crumbling walls. In that isolation, she admitted the truth only the mountain had ever heard: she feared the day when her sight would force her to choose between duty to the Unit and the oath she had sworn to Makiling.

A wind stirred—the first in hours. It smelled of wet stone and distant lightning. Somewhere in the Orphanage’s main hall, a door slammed.

Marian rose, the Sundang’s tip catching the light in a way that made it look wet, though no rain had fallen. The mist followed her out of the garden, obedient yet restless, as if it too sensed the next storm gathering.

---

The Orphanage, Data Center

The corridors of the Orphanage bore the weight of forgotten secrets. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light as Marian navigated the labyrinthine archives, her senses finely attuned to the wards safeguarding the sanctum’s darkest knowledge.

With each step, she ventured deeper into the heart of the archives, where the air crackled with static energy—a sign that long-buried truths awaited discovery. Her fingers glided over the glyph-etched keys, effortlessly bypassing layers of encryption as if performing a well-rehearsed melody. Each keystroke resonated like a note in the symphony of secrecy.

Suddenly, a faint hum reverberated through the chamber, and the screens flickered to life, revealing fragmented files cloaked in shadow. Marian’s eyes narrowed as she deciphered the intricate codes, her heart racing with the thrill of revelation. Data spirals twisted across the screen—fragmented military files cross-referenced with sigil warfare templates.

One name emerged repeatedly, highlighted in crimson: The Babaylans. “Militant spiritual faction. Glyph-trained operatives. Special classification: Unknown. Connection detected—Ahas ng mga Lakan Ritual alignment: acquisition and severance of relics bound to fate.”

Suddenly, her smartphone rang. It was Agosto, his voice crackling over the line. He informed Marian that he had obtained the coordinates for the other two pieces. Additionally, he expressed concern for Gregorio and Renato, as they were not responding to his calls. Agosto warned Marian that three hostile units were en route to their location, approaching from different insertion points: one by land, one underground, and one by sea. Two of these units were associated with a group that Kalawit feared to disclose, alongside members from Ahas ng mga Lakan. Just as he was about to provide more information, the line abruptly cut off.

A chill ran down Marian’s spine as the shadows in the room began to ripple unnaturally. From the veil behind her emerged Magdalena Ramos, the former Director of the Philippine Intelligence Agency and her former mentor. Her silhouette appeared distorted, each movement echoing like a specter refracted through glass, with the Tanikala ng Guniguni coiling around her like a serpent. “Marian, you dig too deep,” Magda intoned, her voice layered and resonant.

“And you’ve abandoned the rites of illusion,” Marian countered, her blade poised for confrontation.

Magda raised her phantom-forged whip, and reality fractured.

The data center distorted, its walls splintering into mirrored reflections that unveiled divergent histories. Marian found herself surrounded by a dozen false memories, each one alluring her with deceptive truths.

Tanikala struck. Marian lured Magda outside to prevent damage to the consoles.

Veils lashed forward, not with brute force, but with ruptured memories—alternate narratives of Gregorio’s fate, simulations of betrayal, and the phantom echoes of missions lost.

A vivid memory from her past resurfaced, transporting her to a familiar training ground nestled in the mountains of Makiling. There, she encountered the Goddess Makiling alongside Magda. However, what began as a nostalgic reminiscence quickly transformed into a haunting nightmare. It was the fateful night when Makiling was betrayed by Magda, a memory that replayed with unsettling clarity. On that same night, the entity whom Marian had revered as both Master and Mother was sealed away for eternity within a dimensional prison, the consequence of a forbidden curse cast by Magda, driven by jealousy over Marian’s designation as the heir to the Sundang ni Makiling.

Yet Marian, recognized as the true “Heir of Makiling,” was not easily deceived by such treachery. Even as she remained ensconced in the dream world, her physical self fought valiantly against Magda, her senses remarkably intact despite her closed eyes. Skillfully, she parried and evaded every assault Magda directed at her. Suddenly, Marian’s eyes opened, glowing with brilliant white light as mist escaped from them.

“Never underestimate me again, Magda,” Marian declared, her voice echoing with the formidable wrath of the Goddess Makiling.

Her mist spiraled outward, Sundang ni Makiling harmonizing in soundless pulses. One by one, the false visions dissolved as she advanced through the vapor, her blade humming like moonlight.

“You serve shadows, Magda. I serve truth.”

Magda laughed, her visage fracturing into six personas, one adorned with the insignia of the Babaylans, eyes ablaze with fervor.

Their Sandatas clashed—not merely in steel, but in sheer will. Memory versus illusion. Mist versus dream fracture.

The chamber roared with the feedback of spirits.

---

Meanwhile – Bataan Coastline

Gregorio and Renato stood at the rugged edge of the coastline, the salty breeze tugging at their clothes. The sea roared beneath them, its waves crashing against the rocks like the heartbeat of an ancient beast. Renato’s Kalasag shimmered as he scanned the horizon, its prismatic grid reflecting the storm gathering above.

“We’re not alone,” Renato murmured, his eyes narrowing as shadows shifted in the distance.

Gregorio nodded, his Kamay ni Bathala pulsing with eager energy. “Then let’s discover who dares to trespass on sacred ground.”

As they prepared to confront the looming threat, a figure emerged from the mist—cloaked in shadows yet strangely familiar. The air thickened with tension as the veils between allies and enemies began to blur, threatening to shatter the fragile peace they had fought so hard to maintain.

---

Bataan Coastline — Maximo Returns

The atmosphere thickened as Gregorio and Renato stepped beyond the sacred shore, spirit winds curling unnaturally in response to the disruption of ancient glyphs.

A solitary figure stood beneath a fractured shrine, where Adarna feathers swirled around ritualistic clay.

“I almost forgot how silence tastes,” Maximo Imperial murmured, turning to face them.

His tactical suit, emblazoned with the crest of Ahas ng mga Lakan, was crafted from voidsteel and intricately woven sigil filaments.

Gregorio’s relic stirred restlessly, while Renato narrowed his gaze.

“Maximo… what are you wearing?”

“This?” Maximo replied with a smirk. “A gift from those who still believe in reuniting what was scattered.”

“You joined them?” Gregorio demanded, disbelief morphing into sorrow.

“They offered me what you would not,” Maximo retorted. “Purpose. Power. And the opportunity to shape destiny rather than remain shackled to it.”

“What do you want?” Renato inquired, his grip on Kalasag tightening.

Maximo’s eyes flickered with intensity.

“Kamay ni Bathala. I was instructed to retrieve Gregorio. Yet, I came because I still care.”

Activating his flute, he twisted the wind into glyph-staves.

“Forgive me. Or don’t. Regardless, I must heed the whisper.”

With that, Maximo struck.

Kamay ni Bathala surged into action, violet spirals slicing through the air as Gregorio skillfully evaded the spectral notes emanating from Sumpit ni Dumalapdap.

Renato stood resolute against a barrage of dimensional pulses, wielding Kalasag ni Bernardo. Each ricochet sent cascades of rainbow flares cascading into the sea mist.

With intention, Renato raised Kalasag ni Bernardo Carpio and pointed it to the heavens, its prismatic runes humming with latent energy. Gregorio inhaled deeply and executed a flawless backward flip, landing feet-first atop the curved surface of Renato’s shield. In that instant, their relics seemed to share a profound understanding.

The violet spirals of Kamay ni Bathala and the azure aura of Kalasag ignited simultaneously, drawing upon a shared pulse of spiritual energy. They synchronized their rhythms, counting a solitary heartbeat before unleashing their combined power. Renato directed his shield toward Maximo, as if launching a cannon with Gregorio serving as its formidable projectile.

A blinding eruption of mystic energy detonated from both shield and bracer in perfect synchronicity. The shockwave surged up the cliff face like liquid light, propelling Gregorio forward in one fluid motion. He soared through the air, his cloak trailing violet flames, closing the distance to Maximo in the blink of an eye.

Maximo moved with the grace of a shadow intertwined with melody; every twist of his body resonated like a musical note, while each strike composed a tone of sorrow. With a deliberate flourish, he propelled Sumpit ni Dumalapdap into the air, its flute-carved glyphs resonating with the opening bars of a protective motif. A translucent dome of vibrating sound glyphs—the Sonic Sphere of Protection—expanded outward just in time to absorb Gregorio’s impact.

The collision shattered rock and resonated like thunder within a cathedral of water. Gregorio’s ribs jolted, his vision swirling as Maximo’s counter-melody unleashed the Sonic Curse. A low, twisting frequency struck him in the chest, resonating with each heartbeat and flooding his mind with memories: shadows of the orphanage, the carnage of Basilan, and the haunting note of Maximo’s final plea.

Pain surged, yet it did not diminish his resolve. Kamay ni Bathala’s runes blazed brighter than ever, emitting a single, resonant pulse that shattered the sonic dome from within. The sphere fractured into vibrating glyph shards, and Gregorio rose through the breach, his bracer ignited with raw determination.

Amidst the clamor of clashing weapons, Gregorio’s voice rang out clearly above the tumult.

“This is not who you were!”

Maximo’s response was a mere whisper, carried on the wind glyphs: “No. This is who I became.” The shoreline began to crumble as sigils ignited around them.

Meanwhile, behind Maximo, the horizon fractured.

A surge of glyph energy pulsed through the air, and a warship emblazoned with Babaylan seals materialized from the mist. This was the legendary vessel of the Philippine Navy known as the “Balanghay.”

The battle had awakened more than just ghosts.