“In the labyrinth of shadows, every revelation becomes a beacon, guiding the lost toward the truth.”
Present Day — Bataan Coastline
Gregorio and Renato stood resolutely at the coastline, their Sandatas poised for confrontation. Behind Juan, the warship cast an ominous shadow, its runic cannons silent yet emanating a palpable menace. Meanwhile, Maximo, attuned to the swirling tension, discreetly melded into the shadows, his figure merging seamlessly with the mist.
“Focus on me,” Juan commanded, his voice bearing the weight of authority. The air around him shimmered with the anticipation of the impending clash.
The Orphanage — Duel of Illusions
Within the labyrinthine corridors of the Orphanage, Marian and Magdalena engaged in an intense confrontation, embroiled in a battle of wits and will. The air crackled with tension as Tanikala ng Guniguni unleashed a torrent of fractured memories and deceptive truths.
Marian moved with fluid grace, wielding her Sundang ni Makiling to slice through the illusory veils with precision. Each strike resonated like a note in a symphony of defiance, her blade singing a melody of clarity amidst the chaos. In her stance, there was the unmistakable echo of Makiling’s tutelage—the low, grounded pivot, the upward sweep that caught light like a falling leaf, the breath timed to the rhythm of the earth itself.
Magda’s eyes narrowed at the sight. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and the Tanikala’s links rattled harder, as if agitated by her pulse. She adjusted her footing, striking faster, sharper—each chain crack a punctuation of irritation.
Explosions erupted outside the orphanage, instilling a deep sense of concern and urgency in Marian, diverting her attention from the duel. Seizing the opportunity, Magda maneuvered to close the distance.
“You dare to turn your attention away from me, Marian!?”, growled Magda.
She lunged, chains spiraling in a net of false memories. Marian twisted mid‑air, her Sundang cleaving through the first wave in a burst of golden pollen. The chamber warped—walls folding into staircases, corridors melting into ancestral grief. Magda summoned three versions of herself: rage, sorrow, ecstasy.
When Marian cut through the first illusion, her blade’s arc mirrored Makiling’s signature “falling leaf” strike. Magda’s jaw clenched. She drove the next illusion harder, faster, as if to smother that resemblance beneath sheer force.
The real Magda emerged, chains swirling like a storm. She hurled them forward, aiming to entrap Marian in a prison of forgotten truths. Marian leapt, her blade detonating the net in radiant clarity. Dozens of dormant illusions activated—each whispering a different truth, each wielding a different weapon. Marian moved like water, slashing, parrying, evading. Her blade sang louder now, a hymn of defiance against the cacophony of deceit, each note carrying the cadence of Makiling’s lessons.
Magda’s irritation sharpened into recklessness. She summoned the core illusion—the towering form of the Goddess Makiling, her presence radiant yet shadowed by sorrow. The air thickened with the scent of rain‑kissed earth and blooming anahaw, the same aura that had once wrapped Marian in guidance and protection. Makiling’s eyes, usually warm, now glimmered with an unfamiliar hollowness, her voice trembling like wind through ancient bamboo.
“Child of my teaching,” the illusion intoned, “lay down your blade.”
For a heartbeat, Marian faltered—memories of training beneath Makiling’s canopy flooding her senses: the weight of the Sundang in her young hands, the patient corrections, the quiet pride in her master’s gaze. But the falseness in this apparition’s cadence rang louder than nostalgia.
With a sharp exhale, Marian cut through the illusion’s heart. Golden leaves scattered into the ether.
“I am starting to get tired of parlor tricks Magda!” Marian taunted.
Magda’s chains lashed out instantly, wrapping around Marian’s arms and waist. She yanked her prey close, the Tanikala’s jagged links poised for the killing strike. For the first time in the duel, Marian was fully cornered—no space to pivot, no room to evade.
Magda’s eyes burned—not just with triumph, but with the lingering sting of having seen Makiling’s ghost in every one of Marian’s movements.
She drew back for the final blow…
“You will never escape your fate, Marian!” Magda snarled.
Marian responded in a calm and serene voice, “I already did”.
Marian smiled and her form shimmered, her body unraveling into a swirl of silver mist that slipped through the chains and dissipated into the air.
Magda froze, her strike lashing only emptiness. The realization hit like a cold tide.
She had been fighting a doppelgänger all along.
The Orphanage, Data Center — Extraction
In the shadowy corners of the data center, Marian worked with impressive efficiency while keeping a close watch on Magda through another screen. She downloaded the classified files onto a USB drive, and after completing her task, Marian transformed into a wisp of mist, skillfully navigating through the corridors. The haunting echoes of Magda’s desperate cries lingered as she approached the entrance of the Orphanage. Upon her exit, she found herself instantaneously surrounded by the overwhelming presence of power radiating from the Babaylan’s warship.
Bataan Coastline — Convergence
Back at the cliff’s edge, the tension reached a breaking point. Juan stood ready, his trident a beacon of power and resolve. Gregorio and Renato prepared to face him, their Sandatas pulsing with shared determination.
As Marian approached, the first light caught the edge of her Sundang ni Makiling. She settled into a low, grounded guard—left heel anchored, right toes feathering the ledge, blade tilted in a quiet crescent that seemed to drink the dawn. Her breath rode a steady two‑count inhale, three‑count release; the rhythm gathered in her hips, unspooled through her shoulders, and fell through the blade like a leaf following its own gravity.
Juan’s gaze narrowed—a flicker of déjà vu tightening his grip on the trident. Without naming it, his stance shifted a half‑pace lower, as if answering a pattern he’d drilled long ago and forgotten. Gregorio’s weight found the earth before his mind did, boots rooting deeper into the rock. Renato’s fingers tapped against his pommel—two, then three—before he stilled them, eyes tracking the subtle turn of Marian’s lead foot as if it were a tell meant only for those who listened.
The air thickened with the echo of forests after rain. It was nothing anyone would name aloud, but the rhythm threaded through the four of them all the same.
The stage was set for a confrontation that would test their limits and redefine their paths. In the distance, the horizon cracked with the promise of dawn, the first light of a new chapter casting long shadows over the battlefield. In the heart of the storm, the Sandata wielders prepared to meet fate head‑on, their spirits unyielding against the gathering tempest.
The Orphanage — Roof of the West Wing
Tanikala ng Guniguni hung slack from Magda’s hands, each link a pane of fractured glass‑steel whispering with all the memories it had stolen tonight. The duel with Marian still prickled along her nerves—not in pain, but in the irritation of a riddle left unsolved.
What gnawed at her most was not the doppelgänger’s trick, but the way Marian had moved—every pivot, every measured breath, every upward sweep of the Sundang ni Makiling carrying the unmistakable cadence of her master. Makiling’s masterwork footwork, the grounded stance that drank strength from the earth, the blade arcs that caught light like falling leaves… all of it lived in Marian’s body as if the goddess herself had carved those motions into her bones.
Magda’s jaw tightened at the memory. Each echo of Makiling’s style had been a needle under her skin, a reminder of the one figure she could never fully read, never fully chain. That resemblance had made every exchange in the duel feel like she was fighting two opponents at once—the woman before her, and the shadow of the goddess behind her.
From up here, the Bataan coastline was a charcoal sketch. Warship silhouettes idled on the horizon, their navigation glyphs winking like patient predators. Magda inhaled the salt‑cut air and felt the night answer back.
“You learned too much in the Archives, hija,” she murmured to the absent Marian.
> “And still, you never learned to look away.”
Her reflection stared back from the nearest Tanikala link, but it was not quite her face: six variations blinked in unison, each wearing a different ending to the same life. In one, she still sat in the Director’s chair; in another, she stood with Hermano’s saints, sunlight slashing through cathedral glass. In the darkest one, she was already dust, scattered over the Spirit Forge.
She turned the link over and the visions bled away.
On the rooftop ledge lay a Babaylan comm‑rune, silent since her departure. She pressed a chain‑link to its surface. It woke with a tremor, painting the air between her and the sea with faint coordinates.
- Coron.
- Davao.
- The Eyes.
Magda smiled—not the kind that warmed—but the kind that knew the curtain was about to rise on the second act.
She coiled the Tanikala back over her shoulders, each loop draping her in the phantom weight of other people’s truths. Below, the Orphanage lights flickered as the wards shifted, reacting to whatever tide was pushing in from the coast. She felt the pull, the inevitability of the moment to come.
