"The deeper the scar, the louder it pulses in the silence."
The Basilan Spirit Breach — 2013 Flashback
Flames writhed along the edge of the crater, casting an eerie glow over a maelstrom of chaos. Unsettling chants reverberated through the night, a desperate hymn against the encroaching darkness. Above, a military drone captured a chaotic tapestry of Baybayin runes—flickering pleas from a realm beyond our comprehension. The breach represented a gaping wound in reality, hemorrhaging "echoes"—twisted spirits born from profound grief and seething rage.
At the center of the turmoil stood Gregorio Aguilar. The Kamay ni Bathala bracers on his wrists pulsed with a brilliant purple light. His punches were not mere strikes; it unleashed divine wrath, sending shockwaves across the battlefield and reducing echoes to spiritual dust. With a powerful fist slammed to the ground, the earth erupted in violet light, erasing all in its path.
Nearby, Marian Dela Fuente whispered to her Sundang ni Makiling. In an instant, she transformed into a chilling mist that silently enveloped the area. Every entity she touched was shredded and consumed by the goddess's blade, leaving no trace behind. On the far flank, a fiery spirit blade cleaved through their ranks.
Agosto Santos wielded the Kampilan ni Lam-ang, a vortex of raw fire swirling along its edge. With a thunderous sweep, he severed flesh and spirit alike.
A fresh swarm of echoes lunged for Agosto. Before they could reach him, Renato Ramirez descended from above, slamming his Kalasag ni Bernardo Carpio into the ground. A shockwave of blue arcane energy radiated outward, dissolving the surrounding echoes in a ripple of divine force.
Yet, the breach roared louder, feeding on their exhaustion. The protective barrier they had constructed finally cracked, revealing the maw of shadow at its core.
It was at this moment that Maximo Imperial stepped forward, raising the Sumpit ni Dumalapdap to his lips. He blew a haunting, ethereal melody that echoed across dimensions. The notes transformed into whispers, then intricate, swirling patterns that coalesced into a sealing gust, constricting the breach like a python. However, the maw began to act as a vacuum, pulling everything toward it. Maximo held his ground, his symphony a final, desperate prayer.
For a fleeting moment, a ghostly image of Maximo appeared at the edge of the breach, his lips forming a silent, heart-wrenching plea: "Forgive me." A soft flute melody, half-remembered, followed by a blinding flash of light.
Teknos BPO, Clark Freeport Zone — Present Day
A dull buzz roused Gregorio from the corridors of the past. Beneath his shirt, the relic pulsed—a familiar rhythm that sent faint purple spirals across his phone's lock screen with each incoming call. "Are you alright, Goyo?" his team lead inquired, peering over the cubicle wall. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Don't tell me you're dozing off before we even hit our targets."
Gregorio forced a smile. "Just bad reception."
"I swear, the network's been glitching all week," muttered Jomar, a fellow agent two cubicles down, fiddling with his crackling headset. The Baybayin glyphs on his screen flickered like distressed Morse code. He cast a glance at Gregorio, who appeared too calm. "Do you ever feel like something's watching us through these runes?"
Gregorio remained silent, his fingers hovering over the glyphs—a quiet preparation for a confrontation Jomar couldn't perceive.
At 7 PM, Gregorio clocked out, driven by an overwhelming urge to be alone. In the washroom, he splashed cold water on his face and changed into a hoodie and jeans. His team lead offered him a knowing nod as he exited. "Enjoy your vacation leave, Goyo."
"I'll try," Gregorio replied, the warmth of his smile failing to reach his eyes. "My instincts suggest something is on the horizon."
His team lead chuckled. "Let's hope it's not a better offer from another company!"
Gregorio laughed lightly and stepped into the crisp evening air. Instead of heading home, he chose a detour to the Clark Shrine, a small, unassuming place where he sometimes found clarity.
Clark Shrine
For thirty years, Lola Sabel tended to the Clark Shrine, her days measured by the trickle of visitors and the slow drip of melting wax. The shrine granted no wishes; it served as a ward against what lingered beyond the veil. She could discern her visitors by the burdens they bore: hope, grief, or the steely resolve of war.
As dusk fell, the air grew heavy and still. Gregorio arrived with the first flickers of streetlights, his hood drawn low and his gaze intent, ignoring the low murmurs of others. He reached into a wicker basket and selected a black candle, a hue as deep and final as sorrow itself. A scarred hand hovered over the wick, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, a single purple spark ignited.
"Kamay ni Bathala," Lola Sabel whispered, clutching her beads. Shadows writhed around him, held at bay by the flame. The air chilled, sharp with ozone. His gaze was fixed on the pooling wax.
The flame cast elongated, dancing shadows that twisted across the concrete. In their movement, the shadows seemed to coalesce into a familiar, translucent face, its lips forming a solitary, heartbreaking plea: "Forgive me."
"I promised him peace," Gregorio murmured. "I will finish what we started."
The wind carried whispers of battles fought and friendships forged. The Sandata unit had been more than a team; they were family, and their loss was a wound that never healed.
The world teetered on a precarious balance between myth and reality, and his instincts warned of an impending shift. With renewed purpose, he extinguished the candle. The shadows parted, revealing a sliver of moonlight to illuminate his path.
Return Route — Clark Highway
The road stretched ahead as an empty ribbon of asphalt, yet Gregorio sensed an unseen presence. The streetlamps pulsed in sync with his relic. Instinctively, he sank into the Kisap Mata stance, his bracers flaring with violet light and shimmering glyphs.
A figure emerged from the mist beside a traffic cone, solidifying with an almost audible pop. It was Marian, her Sundang ni Makiling held loosely in her hand.
"Relax, Goyo," she said, a wry smile gracing her lips. "Good to see you haven't gone soft."
He lowered his guard, though the violet pulse at his wrists remained. They stood in charged silence, their relics humming, a shared, intuitive understanding passing between them. The wind swept through the concrete arteries of the highway, rustling leaves etched with fading glyphs. Against Gregorio's chest, the relic pulsed with a restless energy. Faint violet spirals shimmered across his wrists before vanishing as Marian approached, her Sundang ni Makiling held low, its energy dim yet alert.
She lowered her voice. "They're still watching, Kamay. Every satellite, every sigil snare—they're listening."
"I know," Gregorio murmured, the word nearly a silent incantation.
Marian scanned the shadows where the streetlights could not reach. "I breached the forbidden layer of the central archives. It wasn't merely redacted intelligence. I discovered what they buried beneath the wards and quantum encryption."
Unease coiled in Gregorio's gut. "And?"
"There's a convergence rite," she whispered, her words heavy in the humid air. "It requires your Kamay ni Bathala and the other two pieces. The ritual... it doesn't merely manipulate time or space; it unwrites reality."
He scowled. "The search was discontinued. No one is meant to unite them. I have no intention of trying."
"That's the issue," Marian's expression hardened. "I wasn't the first to access the archives. Someone else got there first, their digital footprints obscured by chaos glyphs."
A cold dread settled over Gregorio. "Then I'm a target."
"And a lure," Marian confirmed. "They won't wait for you to locate the other pieces; they'll hunt you down for the one you possess. I'm getting you out. You're heading back to the Orphanage."
Gregorio's gaze drifted toward the mountains, to the sprawling training facility hidden beneath Bataan's spine. "What about Agosto and Renato?"
"Already embedded. You were the last piece of the puzzle. Stealth was never their style." A faint smirk touched her lips.
He exhaled, watching a moth flutter against a hot streetlight. "So this is it. The façades are crumbling."
Before Marian could respond, a jarring hiss tore through the night. A chemical flare erupted overhead, painting the highway in a sickly green glow. The air ripped apart as rounds imbued with arcane fire spiraled toward them. Instinctively, they broke apart, the bullets tearing through the asphalt where they had just stood.
Figures emerged from the darkness like echoes made flesh. Their tactical gear shimmered, a hybrid of ballistic weaves and mystical filaments. Gregorio dove behind a fractured concrete divider, the bracelets on his wrists unfolding into the full bracers of the Kamay ni Bathala. A low hum vibrated up his arms. Marian sought cover behind an abandoned jeepney, her Sundang now glowing with a soft, ethereal mist.
"They're not amateurs," she growled over the din of gunfire. "Military training and arcane knowledge."
"Then we respond in kind," Gregorio replied. He rose from his cover, his body sinking into the fluid, lethal grace of the Kisap Mata stance. Instantly, the world seemed to slow. Power, ancient and immense, surged from the bracers, and his mind raced to control it—a martial science designed for this singular purpose. Light warped around his fists as glyphs sprang to life across the bracers. The first attacker raised his rifle, but Gregorio was already moving.
He and Marian exploded from cover in a blur of motion, a dance of impenetrable defense where blade and bracer formed a shield against bullets and fire. They left shimmering afterimages in their wake, closing the distance to their assailants with terrifying speed. With a single glance, they understood the plan.
The hum in Gregorio's arms crescendoed into a clear, resonant tone. The glyphs on his bracers burned with the light of a new star. Power, raw and divine, enveloped him—not as a weapon, but as an extension of his very being. The synchronization was complete.