Location: Barrio Silab northern cebu
The wind dragged smoke like a whisper through the dead barrio of Silab. It rolled low and slow across the cracked dirt roads, curling around abandoned tricycles and half-burnt huts. Ash drifted like lazy snowflakes. The air was thick with the smell of burned wood, rusted iron, and something fouler—something that stank of old blood and swallowed screams.
Miguel Leonardo crouched at the edge of the main road, one hand pressed against the warm soil. His fingers sifted through dust and dried leaves, feeling for tremors most men had forgotten how to notice. The ground vibrated faintly, like it had just stopped breathing.
He stood slowly, scanning the empty village. No chickens. No dogs. No human sound. Just the hiss of wind through broken windows and the distant creak of something wooden swinging. A slipper floated in a murky puddle, circling slowly.
There were no bodies. No blood. Just silence so thick, it suffocated thought.
The Kampilan on his back—his father's blade—vibrated faintly. A weapon reborn in fire, in prayer, in blood. Bathala's Eye was etched near the hilt, and sometimes the blade pulsed when it sensed something unnatural. It pulsed now.
Miguel's eyes narrowed. "This isn't right."
He moved with purpose, steps measured and quiet. His agimat necklace—a triangle of old brass and shark tooth—swung gently against his chest. He walked past pots still sitting on stone stoves, food inside blackened but untouched. Doors left open. Furniture overturned but not smashed. It wasn't a raid.
It was an extraction.
Something had come through Silab and taken everything. Clean.
He made his way to the chapel ruins. Its bell tower had crumbled, the cross snapped in two. Charred prayer candles lay melted into the floor. Miguel's boots crunched glass. Then he saw it: a glint of metal near the altar.
He moved fast.
Underneath a fallen statue of Saint Michael was a latch. Hidden. Old.
He opened it.
The darkness beneath hissed like it exhaled. Then came the eyes—eighteen pairs of them, blinking back.
The survivors.
The hidden basement was cramped and heavy with sweat. Eighteen people—young, old, wounded, armed with nothing but sticks and fear. At the center sat an old woman with silver hair and a broken brass pendant. Her eyes widened.
"Corazon's boy?" she asked, voice trembling.
Miguel nodded. "She taught me to heal. He taught me to fight."
The crowd parted slightly. A broad-shouldered man stepped forward with a hunting bow slung across his chest. His eyes were hard. "Ka Ingo," he said. "Tracker. You bring that smoke with you?"
Miguel met his gaze. "No. I'm here to clear it."
Ka Ingo grunted, not convinced.
Another figure moved—young, wide-eyed, silent. A boy held a bundle of paper and charcoal. His name was Teban, and his hands were stained black from drawing.
"Let me guess," Miguel said, kneeling to the boy. "You see things."
Teban nodded and offered a drawing. It showed a creature made of smoke with limbs like tree branches and a hook in its hand. Another showed toad-like monsters crouched in the village square. Another—a face split down the middle, with a second mouth on its chest.
Miguel's jaw tightened.
He stood and looked at the villagers. "You all need to leave this place. Tonight."
Aling Mirasol—the old woman—shook her head. "We can't. It watches us. If we leave, it will follow. At least here, the church protects."
Miguel didn't argue. Not yet.
That night, he sat by the chapel steps sharpening his blade. He stared at the reflection in the steel and thought about his father.
Jose Leonardo always said, "Faith alone don't stop monsters. But faith forged into iron, spoken in breath, etched into flesh—that's power."
Miguel tapped the agimat on his chest. These weren't decorations. They were keys—each one bound to an old law of nature.
"Tell me something, son," Ka Ingo said from behind him, his voice rough like old leather. "What's your weapon? I see your blade, but we know that's not the only thing you carry."
Miguel didn't turn. "It's the weapon that matters most," he muttered. "But it's not the only one I have."
Aling Mirasol limped closer, her old bones creaking. "You don't just carry weapons, child. You carry power. These things you wear—they're agimat. Charms. Protection."
Miguel turned to face her. "They keep the monsters away?"
Her eyes softened. "Not exactly. They're keys—things that unlock power, but they come with a cost." She raised her fingers, showing a series of worn, silver rings, each one holding a different symbol. "Each agimat comes from the spirit world—passed down by the old gods, created in the fires of forgotten rituals. Some of them are blood-bound, others drawn from nature itself. But they all come with a price, Miguel. Just like everything in this world. You wear them, they wear you."
Ka Ingo nodded, crossing his arms. "And what about those oracions you speak? I've heard it's not just words... that it's the breath itself."
Miguel's eyes narrowed, his fingers brushing the handle of the Kampilan. He drew a deep breath. "An oracion... is not just a prayer. It's a pact. A binding between worlds. When spoken, the words become a law—an agreement between the speaker and the spirits that guide them. When said right, it can banish darkness, summon strength, break curses... But there's always a price. The spirits demand something. Your blood. Your soul. Your life in the next world."
Aling Mirasol nodded gravely. "We use oracions like breathing, child. They give us the power to keep the monsters at bay. But they can also awaken them."
Teban looked up, his wide eyes filled with something darker than fear. "And sometimes... the things we summon don't go back."
Miguel exhaled slowly. "That's why we fight."
The wind began to pick up, swirling through the broken windows of the chapel, carrying the scent of death with it. He looked to the villagers. "We can talk later. But tonight... we fight."
As dusk fell, the world grew quiet. Too quiet.
The wind stopped.
The smoke thickened.
It was coming.
First came the skittering. Not one sound—but dozens. A flood of tiny claws scraping against stone and wood.
Then they broke through the treeline.
The Crawlers—small, humanoid creatures with grey skin and too many joints. Their mouths opened vertically, eyes bulging and pupil-less. They charged on all fours, shrieking. Fast.
Miguel drew the Kampilan and met them mid-charge.
Steel sang through flesh. His blade glowed red where it drank corrupted blood. The Crawlers fell, some sliced clean in half, others staggering as their limbs gave out.
But more came.
Behind them, flapping through the air, were the Torchwings—insect-like monsters with translucent wings that exploded in heat bursts. Every flap scorched the air. Miguel dodged one and brought the Kampilan up through its gut, the blade searing through its thorax.
Then came the Howlers—thin, fast creatures with elongated faces that screamed psychic waves. The noise drove some villagers to their knees. Miguel felt blood trickle from his nose.
He roared and charged.
Ka Ingo fired arrows tipped in blessed ginger. Aling Mirasol stood atop the chapel stairs, her voice rising in an oracion that twisted the wind:
> "Spirit of earth and bone, by the blade of Bathala, return the breath you've stolen!"
A white glyph spun in the air and shattered, knocking three Crawlers into smoke.
The villagers fought with bolos, machetes, rusted axes—anything. Some died. Most held the line.
The battle spread through the village like wildfire. Teban hid behind the altar, eyes shut, drawing frantically.
Then everything stopped.
The air dropped ten degrees.
Smoke began crawling from the ground upward. It swirled into the chapel, spiraling toward the center.
A hook dropped from the rafters.
Then a leg. Then a chest.
It stood twelve feet tall. Its body was made of ash, bark, and bone. A second face was embedded in its torso, lips stitched shut. It dragged a smoke-hook behind it, each swing cutting silence into the world.
The Ash Warden.
Miguel stepped forward. Everyone else backed away.
The creature spoke—not with words, but with voices stolen from the villagers. It mimicked mothers, lovers, fathers. It whispered Miguel's name in his mother's voice.
He gritted his teeth and activated Tagabulag, slicing his palm and smearing blood across the charm. Instantly, his body faded from sight. The Warden turned, confused.
Miguel struck.
He leapt from the broken chapel wall, landing with both feet and the Kampilan descending like divine judgment.
The first slash severed one leg. The creature screamed through its stomach mouth.
Miguel rolled, dodged the smoke hook, and went for the second face.
He drove the blade through its chest.
The creature howled. Smoke poured from its body like boiling blood. Aling Mirasol screamed a closing oracion. The old church sigil—worn and broken—glowed once more.
The ground split.
Miguel dragged the creature into the center and kicked it into the seal.
It fell. Screaming. Clawing. And then...
Gone.
---
Silence.
Miguel stood over the seal, breath heavy. The Kampilan hummed, drinking the last of the creature's corrupted essence.
The villagers stared.
Ka Ingo approached first. Didn't speak. Just nodded.
Lira—a scholar of forgotten relics—offered Miguel a glowing feather. She said nothing. Just placed it in his hand and stepped back.
Teban gave him one last drawing. A woman in fire, holding Miguel's sword.
Miguel looked at the picture, then at the horizon.
He didn't ask questions.
He walked into the smoke.
And behind him, the wind whispered:
"Apolaki... awaken."