“When mortals defy fate, gods sharpen their blades.”
Binondo Business District
On top of the towering Binondo Business District Arc, a crimson dimension tear opened. Agosto made an entrance. Kampilan ni Lam-ang beside him, its flame glyphs dimmed to a quiet ember. Below, the district exhaled—jeepneys, karaoke, the scent of grilled isaw. But up here, the air was thinner.
He remembered the fire. Not the one he summoned—but the one that took everything.
“You were forged in it,” Gregorio had once said. “But you don’t have to live inside it.”
Agosto disagreed.
He opened his palm, letting a flicker of flame dance across his skin. It didn’t hurt anymore. It just reminded him.
Of the house that collapsed.
Of the family that didn’t make it.
Of the promise he made to the gods: If I survive, I will burn for others.
The Kampilan pulsed once, sensing his resolve.
Agosto stood, flame spiraling around his boots. He didn’t need sleep. He needed purpose.
And tonight, the fire would walk.
Binondo Business District
Once a vibrant hub of commerce, Binondo now thrums with the undercurrents of illicit power. Skyscrapers that once housed merchants and financiers have been repurposed as nerve centers for Ahas ng mga Lakan—an empire built on fear, deceit, and the corruption of relics for criminal purposes.
Agosto Santos emerged from a dimensional rift atop a deserted high-rise, the Kampilan ni Lam-ang secured to his back, its flaming vortex glyphs glowing ominously red. He melted into the shadowy alleyways, exchanging silent nods and discreet bribes with hooded informants. Each whispered tip and untraceable cash slip guided him toward The Pit—an underground MMA arena where the elite of Ahas ng mga Lakan wager fortunes on bare-knuckle combat.
The Pit, Binondo Business District
Inside The Pit’s smoky interior, the crowd roared for violence and spectacle. Amid the swirling incense and gunmetal haze, Agosto’s gaze fixed upon a solitary figure: Kalawit. Dressed in a fitted black suit, with dark shades concealing ancient eyes and a snake tattoo writhing beneath his sleeves, Kalawit slipped through the heavy steel door marked Dimas’s Sanctum, flanked by rifle-wielding sentinels inscribed with archaic incantations.
Agosto withdrew to the restroom, seeking refuge within a cubicle before unlocking a dimensional rift. Beyond this portal lay a realm of fire and lava, evocative of hell itself—an expansive void unbounded by walls or the constraints of time. He floated like a spectral wraith, eventually hovering outside the Sanctum, undetected and silent.
Kalawit’s voice penetrated the void, cold and precise:
“Bakawans failed to capture Kamay in Clark.”
Dimas, the second-in-command of Ahas ng mga Lakan, responded, “Three additional units are currently en route to the Orphanage, and I have instructed him to intervene directly this time. Furthermore, we have additional support, which includes an individual whom even the legendary Sandata unit may find challenging to confront.”
A pulse quickened beneath Kalawit’s snake tattoo. He spun, summoning Dugong Itim to his hand: a black scythe dripping with void and blood, its mournful wails shattering the silence.
“I know you are here… I can taste your wrathful aura, Agosto.”
The air fractured. A rift tore open—not with light, but fury. Agosto emerged, and Kampilan flared to life in his hand, pulsing with a thunderous hum, the red aura bursting forth from its spiritual blade. Dimas drew his twin arcane pistols, their barrels aglow with runes.
Kalawit smirked.
“It’s been a while, Kampilan.”
“Kalawit,” Agosto replied, his voice calm yet resolute.
The Sanctum’s door erupted, sending the sentinels flying as the two wielders burst into the Octagon. The crowd roared in a frenzy. Kalawit lunged first, the scythe’s black blade howling as it cut a massive arc through the air. Agosto met it with a deafening clang, Kampilan’s red aura exploding on contact with the pitch black blade of Dugong Itim. The impact sent a shockwave that rippled through the stands, rattling the lights above.
Dimas dove behind a marble pillar, unleashing a spray of rune-charged rounds. Each bullet, etched with a glowing sigil, was a miniature explosive. Agosto’s fluid, deadly dance began. He parried a vertical slash from Kalawit, the two blades locked in a screeching standoff, as he shifted his weight, allowing the incoming bullets to zip past him, striking the concrete wall behind him with a series of concussive blasts.
“Your movements are predictable, Kampilan!” Kalawit snarled, twisting his scythe to disengage and then sweeping low. Agosto leaped, the scythe blade whistling inches below his boots. Mid-air, he spun, bringing Kampilan down in a wide, flaming arc. Kalawit sidestepped, the heat from the blow singeing his suit, and retaliated with a whirlwind of quick, precise slashes. Agosto deflected each one, his blade a blur of crimson light, before thrusting forward, his target the space between Kalawit’s ribs.
Kalawit parried the thrust just in time, but the force of the blow staggered him. He skidded back a few feet, his grip on Dugong Itim tightening as the runes on the scythe began to glow, one by one. Dimas took the opportunity to fire off a final volley of rounds, but Agosto, his senses sharpened, batted them away with a flicker of his blade, each bullet sliced neatly in two.
“If Renato is here, you’d be hearing hell’s doors creak,” Agosto taunted as their spiritual blades collided again.
The runes on Dugong Itim ignited, one by one, flaring with power. The arena’s roar subsided as the final glyph illuminated. Kalawit bellowed,
“It’s over, Kampilan!”
Then whispered,
“Punishment of the gods!—Orb of Corruption.”
The Black Stroke of Corruption glyph appeared in the silence, jagged and hungry, its edges fraying into reality like charcoal dissolving in water. It did not shine; it consumed. A jet-black aura spiraled upward, ensnaring the Octagon in a pulsating globe of void.
From beyond the barrier, Dimas murmured in awe, “Everything inside dissolves to nothingness… except the caster.”
Kalawit emerged from the orb, clad in a black cloak and body armor that lent him an air of ominous authority, as if he had become a manifestation of death itself.
“I once held a deep fondness for you,” he declared.
Flashbacks and Escalation
Inside the orb, Kampilan ni Lam-Ang murmured,
“Just say the word…”
Flashbacks of Agosto’s trauma consumed him with vivid intensity. The anguished cries of his family intertwined with the crackle of burning timber, an everlasting reminder of the night when everything he cherished was reduced to ash. He remembered the smell of smoke, the taste of grief, and the promise he made to the gods.
Agosto’s eyes blazed with determination, his rage a tangible thing that thrummed through the air. He gripped Kampilan ni Lam-ang, its power thrumming with his newfound resolve. A pulse of energy surged from the blade, pushing against the encroaching void of the orb.
“You’re wrong, Kalawit,” he said, his voice a low growl. “It’s not over. It’s just beginning.”
“Punishment of the gods—Lam-Ang’s Wrath.”
The Flame Spiral Vortex Glyph erupted. Concentric flame-rings collapsed inward to a spearpoint of blinding gold. Outer arcs bore the fractured sunburst sigil of the pre-colonial war-datu.
Thousands of crimson slashes erupted, shattering the orb into fragments that resembled shadowy glass. A storm of scarlet flames engulfed The Pit as Agosto emerged, cloaked in a wraith-like crimson aura. His divine cloth, reminiscent of a Datu’s, draped around his waist, while an upper body armor befitting the gods of war adorned him. In that moment, he embodied the very essence of Lam-Ang’s wrath.
Dimas reloaded with trembling hands, but he never got the chance to fire. Agosto waved a hand—and the twin pistols were sliced as if made of paper. Dimas crumpled, his upper body collapsing in a spray of blood.
Only Kalawit remained, his Dugong Itim trembling, its dark crimson aura flickering. Agosto advanced, leveling his gaze at him, his voice as cold as ice:
“Provide the information I require—free of charge—or I will reduce you to a million fragments.”
Silence enveloped the space. Kalawit stared, fear concealed behind his shades, as fate sealed its verdict.
”I will not beg,” Kalawit whispered, his defiance a fragile shield.
With a silent command, Agosto’s will reshaped the fractured air, pulling Kalawit into the Hellish Dimension of Kampilan ni Lam-ang. Kalawit’s sophisticated armor melted from his body, his flesh screaming as it was seared by the perpetual heat, his every nerve ending alight with unbearable agony. He fell to his knees, his spirit flaring in a silent, agonizing roar. “The Coron Temple… in Davao… Lakapati,” he choked out, his words torn from him, each syllable an excruciating effort.
Agosto stood unharmed, a ghost in the inferno, his voice cutting through the wails of pain. “The eyes… of Bathala… they’re the keys,” Kalawit gasped, his vision blurring from the torment, his defiance crumbling. Agosto watched, his face impassive, as the information was finally given. With the two vital locations secured, Agosto turned away from the kneeling figure, his form fading from the hellscape.
Kalawit was left to writhe in the fiery abyss, his spirit a testament to the punishment of a vengeful god, a new permanent resident in the dimension of pain. He would remain in the Hellish Dimension of Kampilan ni Lam-ang until the end of time, forgotten and alone.
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