“Some meetings transcend mere scheduling; they leave an indelible mark on the very fabric of history.”
Steel and Cinder Between Worlds
The tear opened like a wound in the air—no light spilling through, only a blast of oppressive heat. Agosto stepped through first, the Kampilan ni Lam-ang resting across his shoulder, its flame glyphs dulling to a watchful ember. The world behind them—the last stretch of coastal asphalt—folded into nothing as the rift sealed. The salt wind was instantly replaced by the searing breath of a furnace.
Renato followed, the Kalasag ni Bernardo Carpio slung across his back. The moment he passed through, the shield’s prismatic lattice dimmed, its colors suppressed by the oppressive crimson glare of the new realm.
Agosto’s hell was not fire alone—it was strata. Sky-plates of black, scorched stone floated in molten rivers that did not flow, suspended mid-roar. Chains thicker than mast timber hung from nowhere, some dragging shards of upside-down fortresses across the void. The air tasted of iron, every inhalation edged with ash and a pressure that was almost physical.
“You call this a shortcut,” Renato muttered, scanning the horizon as his shield’s wards reacted to unseen pressure. “Feels more like punishment.”
Agosto’s reply was flat but certain. “It is both. The Orphanage is three folds ahead. In here, we’re ghosts—unless you make noise.”
From far below, something massive shifted in the magma—too slow to be a wave, too deliberate to be an accident. Its movement sent heat-gusts spiraling upward, rattling the chains that disappeared into the void.
They crossed the first sky-plate in silence, save for the faint scrape of Agosto’s boots on the scorched stone. At the gap to the second, he swung the Kampilan in a horizontal arc. The blade tore open a crimson bridge—not solid, but a vortex-span of compressed flame. The heat shivered around them as they stepped across the unstable expanse.
Midway, Renato spoke again, his voice low: “This place… it remembers you.”
Agosto didn’t look back. “I left pieces of myself here. Enough that it still tries to take the rest.”
On the third plate, the air began to press inward—a siege without armies. Renato planted the Kalasag firmly on the ground, its prism lines straining as if holding back an invisible tide of dread.
“What is that?” he asked.
“The part of me that would rather stay,” Agosto answered, opening another rift, its vortex-edge bright as a molten dawn. “Ignore it.”
The final span narrowed into a single glyph-beam across a chasm with no bottom. As they crossed, whispers rose from beneath—not in any language, but in the cadence of memory: burning timber, breaking vows, the weight of shields failing. Both men kept their eyes forward.
When they stepped through the last fold, the world snapped into night air and the scent of wet earth. Far ahead, high on the Bataan ridgeline, the Orphanage gates caught the moonlight like a challenge.
Agosto let the vortex die from his blade and finally glanced at Renato. “You kept the tide out. That’s all that matters.”
Renato adjusted the Kalasag onto his arm, its colors returning in slow pulses. “And you kept the road open. Let’s finish it.”
They moved in tandem toward the looming gates, the silence between them forged from respect rather than absence.
The Orphanage, Somewhere in Bataan
The imposing gates of The Orphanage stood sentinel, dormant yet acutely aware. Vines had failed to reclaim their hold; glyphs etched into the iron seemed to repel the passage of time. A heavy silence, broken only by the distant roar of the sea, hung in the mist-laden air.
Gregorio placed his hand upon the central seal, a familiar act that felt both sacred and routine. He felt the pulse of the Kamay ni Bathala respond, a violet thrum beneath his touch. The gate reacted not with a creak, but with a deep hum that resonated through bone and spirit.
Beside him, Marian remained a phantom in the moonlight, her eyes scanning the perimeter. The Sundang ni Makiling glimmered faintly, its protective mist absorbing the lunar glow.
With a groaning sweep, the gates swung open, granting them passage onto the sacred, yet terrible, ground of their past.
From a tear in the courtyard’s air—a wound in reality—two figures emerged. Agosto Santos and Renato Ramirez. Their Sandatas activated in unison. Lam-ang’s Kampilan was adorned with fiery clouds, the weapon a beacon of pyromantic power, while Bernardo’s Kalasag shimmered like a shield of prismatic thunder, its colors suppressing the oppressive air of their dimensional transit.
”Captain Kamay,” Agosto began, a smirk playing on his lips.
Gregorio returned the look. “Kampilan and Kalasag, still fond of your theatrical entrances?”
Renato let out a half-laugh, his eyes darting across the eerie courtyard. “Some things you can never shake. I can never shake the nerves that accompany these gatherings.”
Agosto adjusted his grip on his blade, the heat from it a familiar comfort. “A casual meeting at a bar or a beach would be a refreshing change.”
Marian stepped forward, her form dissolving into a faint mist. “It seems fate has a way of binding us to these occasions. Or perhaps, our enemies simply know our habits.”
Gregorio’s tone shifted to one of authority, the professional soldier taking command. “Let’s focus on business, team.”
The Feathered Eye
Meanwhile, a single crow with its silhouette a cut-out against the moonlight, circled high above the Bataan ridgeline. Its wings beat with a rhythmic grace, but its obsidian eyes, sharp and unblinking, were not its own. Its gaze was fixed on The Orphanage below, following the four figures as they moved with a familiar weight of purpose. It saw the flash of the Kampilan, the shimmer of the Kalasag, the faint mist of the Sundang, and the thrum of the Kamay ni Bathala,
Miles away, in a chamber carved from solid obsidian somewhere in the heart of Manila, five figures of shadow and smoke stood motionless. The room was cold, quiet, and devoid of light save for the low, sickly-green glow of a scrying pool at its center.
On the polished surface of the pool, the image from the crow’s eye played out in perfect clarity, a silent, all-seeing record of the reunion at the gates. The shadows shifted, imperceptibly, in response to their every move—Agosto’s smirk, Renato’s watchful stance, Marian’s silent grace, Gregorio’s commanding presence.
The crow soared onward, its silent flight mirrored in the slow, circular descent of the camera view in the scrying pool. The eyes of the five shadow figures were fixed on the screen, their collective focus a tangible weight in the obsidian chamber, their silence more potent than any spoken word.
Orphanage, Central Chamber
Gregorio stood before the central chamber, under the watchful gaze of an ancient sigil wheel carved into obsidian.
“Our primary objective remains unchanged: we must prevent the pieces of Kamay ni Bathala from reuniting. We have reason to believe the person who orchestrated the ambush on Clark Highway is directly involved. They are hunting the same thing we are.”
He paused as shadows began to stir in the corners of the cavernous room.
“Sub-objective one: identify who is tracking us. Marian, it’s your turn. Hack into the central Archives and conduct a thorough sweep. Look for anything tagged as Code: Black—Top Secret. We need to find puzzle fragments that will illuminate the identity of those hunting for the pieces of Kamay ni Bathala.”
Marian nodded, the mist that enveloped her form condensing back into her physical shape. “Back into the encrypted abyss, then.”
Gregorio continued, his voice echoing in the chamber. “Only a handful of factions possess the capability to execute this. We need concrete proof.”
“Sub-objective two: trace the other two pieces of Kamay ni Bathala.”
He turned his gaze to Agosto. “Locate Kalawit, one of the rogue Sandata wielders. He trades in spells and secrets within the Binondo criminal underworld. Possessing the ‘Dugong Itim,’ he poses a significant risk. Exercise extreme caution—capture him and conduct an interrogation, but please, keep it discreet.”
“Yes, Captain!” Agosto affirmed with a smirk. “The fun part.”
Marian raised an eyebrow, a hint of unease in her tone. “How can we be certain he possesses the information we need?”
Gregorio met her gaze. “Because he once attempted to tempt me into reuniting the pieces. He claimed to know their whereabouts. While I do not trust him, he represents our only lead at present, and I am willing to take that chance.”
Marian’s voice dripped with disdain. “I have always had an aversion to that man. There’s something inherently off about him.”
Gregorio concurred. “Your instincts are accurate.”
He then turned to Renato. “Remain here with me, Kalasag. The mist and runed walls of the Orphanage will not shield us this time. Our enemies have been trained as we have.”
A moment of silence ensued, the weight of the mission settling upon them. “Let’s accomplish these tasks. Once completed, we will reconvene here and initiate the next phase of our plan.”
Agosto opened a new dimensional rift—a swirling spiral of fiery light in the air. Marian transformed back into mist.
Renato remained silent, a silent, unmoving sentinel, as Gregorio gazed toward the inner sanctum, where the last known relics once stirred to life.
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