Volume 1: From Ashes and Ink
Chapter 8: The Unwritten Truth
Part 1: The Sundering
The war council shattered with the sound of screaming metal and splintering wood.
"They're attacking NOW?" Kalak roared, already shifting into his battle form. "But the consecration isn't complete!"
Through their magical connection, Luiso saw it—the entire Spanish force advancing in perfect formation, golden light blazing from Salazar's raised cross. They weren't waiting. They knew.
"He's forcing our hand," Luiso realized, cold dread washing through him. "He knows we have a plan, so he's not giving us time to execute it."
Anya grabbed his shoulders, her eyes wide with urgency. "You must go. Now. Alone. If we all go to Ulog, the village will be slaughtered before we return."
"But—"
"NO!" Kael's voice boomed across the clearing. "This is the battle, Sage! Your place is here!"
Luiso looked from face to face—Kael's grim determination, Kalak's battle-ready fury, Lilim's shadowy resolve, Sari's glowing concern. They were his family now. Leaving felt like tearing out his own heart.
Then he saw the first fire arrows arc toward the village. Heard the first screams.
"Go," Anya whispered, her voice breaking. "We will hold the line. You must reach the heart. It's our only hope."
With a final, agonizing look at his friends, Luiso turned and ran—not toward the battle, but away from it. The weight of their trust felt heavier than any Spanish armor.
Part 2: The Price of Holding the Line
The battlefield was chaos made manifest.
Kael and Kalak fought as living earthquakes, their hooves cracking the earth, sending Spanish soldiers tumbling into newly formed crevices. But Salazar's golden light was already countering them—the ground hardening, becoming sterile and unyielding.
"THE LAND FORGETS US!" Kael roared in frustration as his connection to the earth wavered.
Lilim's Aswang flowed through shadows, but Padre Mateo's holy symbols burned like miniature suns, forcing them back. "WE CANNOT TOUCH THEM!" she screamed, her form flickering under the holy light.
Sari tried to make the jungle fight back, but the consecrated ground rejected her magic. Vines withered before they could reach Spanish throats. Trees refused to bend to block paths.
Then came the moment that would haunt Luiso forever.
Kalak, seeing Salazar exposed for a split second, saw his chance. "FOR THE LAND!" he bellowed, and charged with everything he had.
Salazar didn't even turn. He simply raised a hand, and a lance of pure void-energy shot from the Inversarium. It didn't strike Kalak—it surrounded him. And then, it unmade him.
The great Tikbalang warrior didn't scream. He simply... came apart. First his form became transparent, then he fragmented into shimmering motes of light, then—nothing. As if he had never existed.
The silence where his battle cry had been was more terrible than any sound.
Kael's roar of agony was the sound of the mountains breaking. "BROTHER!"
Part 3: The Arrogance of Ages
Miles away, Luiso stumbled into the heart of Ulog, tears streaming down his face as he felt Kalak's death through their connection. Before him, the ancient guardians materialized—the Elder Tikbalang and Ancient Diwata, their forms radiating power that could shake mountains.
"Please," Luiso gasped, falling to his knees. "They're dying! Kalak is already gone! You have to help us!"
The Elder Tikbalang looked down, his expression one of mild curiosity. "The cycles of life and death are as they should be. The strong survive. The weak fall. This is the way of things since the first mountains rose."
"The mortals' squabbles are but heartbeats to us," the Ancient Diwata chimed, her voice like wind chimes. "We guard the eternal, not the ephemeral."
Luiso's grief turned to white-hot rage. He stood, his small body trembling not with fear, but with fury.
"ETERNAL?" he screamed, the word tearing from his throat. "You call yourselves guardians? Ancestors? You sit in your pristine garden while your children are being UNMADE!"
He pointed a shaking finger back toward the battlefield. "That's not some 'mortal squabble' out there! That's your legacy being erased! Your stories being burned! Your bloodlines being cut from existence!"
The Ancient Diwata's form flickered. "Child—"
"NO! Don't 'child' me! I may be in a child's body, but I've seen what happens when people like you stay 'above it all'! I come from a time where your names are barely remembered! Where your sacred groves are shopping malls and your holy springs are polluted rivers! This is how it starts!"
He turned to the Elder Tikbalang, tears of rage and grief mixing on his face. "Kael is out there right now, screaming for his brother! The land you claim to love is being turned to stone and dust! And you stand here talking about CYCLES?"
Luiso's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "What's the point of being ancient if you won't protect what made you? What's the value of being powerful if you won't use it to save your own children? You're not guardians—you're relics. And relics get forgotten."
The silence that followed was deeper than any before. The very air in Ulog seemed to still, the ancient power holding its breath.
The Elder Tikbalang was the first to move. He lowered his massive head until he was eye-level with Luiso. "You speak... truths we have long ignored."
The Ancient Diwata's starlight dimmed. "We became so concerned with preserving what is... we forgot why we preserve it."
"Your courage shames us, little sage," the Elder rumbled. "You are willing to burn for a world that is not even yours. While we... we have been content to simply exist."
The Ancient Diwata extended her hand. "The heart is yours. Use it well. And remember us... when you tell the stories."
Part 4: The Heart's Answer
Luiso didn't walk into the nexus—he fell into it, and the ancient power of the Philippines caught him.
It wasn't gentle. It was a typhoon of green-gold energy that threatened to tear his soul from his body. He felt every mountain from Luzon to Mindanao, every river from Cagayan to Mindanao, every forest from Cordillera to Visayas—all pouring through him at once. The pain was excruciating, but the purpose was absolute.
Back on the battlefield, the world remembered its true nature.
For Kael, it was the earth roaring back to life. The sterile ground under his hooves erupted with vines of pure earth-energy that wrapped around his legs, not binding him, but armoring him. The golden light that had been severing his connection now shattered against this new, living armor. He grew, his form becoming more massive, more real, until he seemed less a creature standing on the land and more an extension of the land itself.
"For Kalak!" he roared, and when he stamped his hoof, the earth didn't just crack—it rose up, forming walls of stone and soil that shielded the villagers.
For Lilim and her Aswang, it was the shadows fighting back. The holy symbols that had burned them now flickered and died as living darkness poured from the jungle. Her form solidified, becoming less a shadow and more a creature of tangible night. When she moved, she didn't just flow through darkness—she commanded it. Shadows became claws, darkness became wings, and the Spanish soldiers found their holy protection melting away like morning mist.
For Sari, it was the jungle awakening with vengeance. Trees that had stood passive now moved with purpose, their branches becoming spears, their roots becoming snares. Her light, once gentle, now burned with the fury of a thousand suns. She didn't just heal—she weaponized life itself, turning the very air against the invaders with clouds of pollen that disoriented and vines that strangled.
The Spanish advance shattered against this sudden, overwhelming counter-attack. For one glorious moment, victory seemed possible.
Part 5: The Architect's Gambit
But Salazar had planned for this too.
As the coalition celebrated their newfound power, the Inquisitor smiled his thin, cold smile. "Perfect," he murmured. "The flow is at its peak. His guard is down."
He raised the Inversarium, and this time, he didn't fight the ley line energy—he tuned it. The relic found the specific frequency of the dormant corruption he'd planted in Lapu-Lapu weeks ago.
A beam of resonating void-energy lanced across the battlefield.
Lapu-Lapu froze mid-swing, his eyes flying wide. The vibrant green-gold energy that had been empowering him turned sickly yellow, then cold, hard gold. His body convulsed, back arching as the foreign magic rewrote his very soul.
"The truth has been revealed!" his voice echoed, distorted and wrong, layered with Salazar's cold tones. "These spirits are lies! This land is imperfection! PURIFICATION!"
He turned, and his eyes—once filled with fierce protection—now burned with cold, golden judgment. They fell upon his own people.
The first victim was Old Man Agorang, who had taught Lapu-Lapu to read the tides as a boy. The Datu moved with unnatural speed, his kampilan flashing. The old man didn't even raise his hands in defense, his face frozen in disbelief. "My... Datu?" he whispered, before the blade took his head.
Screams erupted, but they were screams of confusion, of shattered reality.
Then Lapu-Lapu turned toward the family huts.
Maya—Luiso's mother—stood frozen, clutching a toddler who had been separated from his parents during the fighting. Her eyes, still vacant from her own trauma, somehow widened further as she saw her Datu, the man she had followed since childhood, advancing with murder in his eyes.
"No," she whispered, pulling the child closer. "Not you... anyone but you..."
Lapu-Lapu raised his bloody kampilan.
It was then that Bayan, a young mother who had lost her husband to Spanish steel moments before, threw herself between them. "Datu! Please! It's us! Your people!"
The golden eyes didn't even register her. The kampilan swung.
Bayan fell, her body collapsing as she tried to shield the child with her own. "Run..." she gasped to Maya, blood bubbling from her lips.
Chaos erupted completely. This wasn't Spanish violence—this was the earth opening up beneath their feet. The very foundation of their world had turned against them.
Anya screamed, "LAPU-LAPU! FIGHT IT!" But her voice was lost in the pandemonium.
Mothers scrambled, not toward safety, but toward their children, creating human shields with their bodies. Fathers stood trembling, weapons lowered, unable to raise arms against the man they had sworn to follow unto death.
Kael roared in anguish, "THEY'VE BROKEN HIM! THEY'VE BROKEN LAPU-LAPU!"
Lapu-Lapu moved through his people like a farmer harvesting grain. Methodical. Detached. Each swing of his kampilan didn't just cut flesh—it severed generations of trust, it murdered the very idea of leadership and protection.
A young girl, no more than six, stood crying over her mother's body. "Datu... you promised to protect us..."
The golden eyes didn't waver. The blade rose.
The shock was physical. Luiso, still connected through the nexus, felt each death like a knife twisting in his own heart. He felt the spiritual bonds between Lapu-Lapu and his people snapping one by one, each break sending psychic shockwaves through the ley lines. The betrayal wasn't just personal—it was cosmic. A fundamental law of the universe had been violated.
The psychic backlash threatened to tear Luiso apart. But in that moment of absolute despair, something shifted. The world flickered. For one shattering heartbeat, Luiso saw through it all—the cosmic architects, the infinite tapestry, his own soul as a deliberately placed thread. The panic burned away, replaced by terrifying clarity.
He emerged from the jungle not as a child, but as something else entirely.
Part 6: The First Martyr
"LAPU-LAPU!" Luiso's voice carried across the battlefield, and everything stopped.
The corrupted Datu turned from a cowering family, his golden eyes burning. "The final imperfection."
What followed wasn't a battle—it was a dance of inevitabilities. Luiso moved with the precision of one reading from a history book that hadn't been written yet. Silver-gray energy—the color of remembered truth—flared around him, deflecting the corrupted golden light.
"You are a lie!" Luiso shouted. "The man who taught children to swim! Who swore to protect every life! THAT is the truth!"
"I AM PERFECTION!" Lapu-Lapu roared back, but a crack appeared in the golden zeal.
Their duel carried them toward the Spanish command group, where Magellan watched with triumphant eyes.
Then it happened.
Lapu-Lapu froze mid-swing, his body trembling violently. The golden light in his eyes flickered like a dying torch. For one glorious second, his eyes were clear—filled with pain, horror, and defiant love for his people.
He turned his back to Luiso, completely exposing himself. A warrior's ultimate act of trust.
"L-LUISO... THE SILVER LIGHT! BURN THIS POISON FROM ME!"
Understanding flashed through Luiso. He didn't hesitate.
His hands came together, and silver energy—the power of absolute historical truth—coalesced between them. It wasn't a weapon to throw, but a cleansing fire that could burn away falsehoods. The problem was clear: the silver energy that could destroy Salazar's corruption would also destroy the vessel it inhabited.
"FOR YOUR PEOPLE!" Luiso screamed, making the only choice he could.
A wave of pure silver energy erupted from his hands, enveloping Lapu-Lapu completely. The effect was instantaneous and devastating. The golden corruption shattered like glass, but the Datu's body convulsed as the silver light burned through him. It was purifying him, but at the cost of his own life force.
Yet in that final, clear moment, Lapu-Lapu used the last of his strength. The silver energy wasn't just destroying him—it was fueling his final act. With the corruption gone and his true will restored, he became a silver comet shooting across the battlefield.
Magellan's triumphant smile vanished, replaced by shock as the silver streak closed the distance faster than any arrow.
The impact was thunderous. Lapu-Lapu's kampilan drove deep into Magellan's chest, the silver energy ensuring the blow was fatal. But the Datu didn't survive the impact. The very power that had freed him from corruption had burned away his life along with the falsehood.
Silence. Then chaos.
Luiso reached the Datu's side as he lay draped over Magellan's body. Lapu-Lapu's eyes were clear, the silver energy still flickering around his form like dying embers.
"The... poison... is gone..." he whispered, blood trickling from his lips. "I die... as myself..."
"I will remember," Luiso vowed, his voice now that of the Nameless Sage. "The silver light cleansed you, but I couldn't save you from its price."
"The price... was worth it..." Lapu-Lapu's final breath was a sigh of peace.
As the Spanish line broke in panic, Luiso looked from the two fallen leaders to the grieving Kael, to the stunned Anya. The silver energy had done its work—it had purged the corruption and killed Magellan, but it had demanded the ultimate price.
Part 7: The Price of Truth
The battle was over. The cost was unimaginable.
But as the cold, timeless power settled in his soul, Luiso knew this wasn't the end. The silver energy that had cleansed Lapu-Lapu still coursed through him—the power of absolute historical truth that burned both lies and liars.
From across the battlefield, a voice cut through the chaos like shattering glass. "A fascinating display."
Inquisitor Salazar stood calmly, his black robes untouched by the battle's filth. He held the Inversarium, the obsidian relic glowing with stolen power. "You purified the vessel but broke the container. Such is the problem with absolute truths—they leave no room for compromise."
Luiso faced him, the silver energy swirling around his small form. "Your corruption ends today."
"Does it?" Salazar smiled that thin, academic smile. "You think this battle matters? Magellan was a fool—a rich man's son playing explorer, funded by merchants who wanted cheaper spices. His death is an accounting error, not a strategic loss."
He gestured toward the retreating Spanish ships. "They will write that he died heroically against savage natives. They will never mention your Datu's sacrifice. History belongs to those who control the narrative."
Part 8: The Duel of Truth and Dogma
The air crackled as their powers collided. Salazar's golden light—rigid, structured, demanding obedience—clashed against Luiso's silver energy—fluid, truthful, demanding acknowledgment.
"You see the world as it should be!" Salazar roared, creating cages of golden light. "I see it as it IS! Chaotic, imperfect, needing order!"
Luiso's silver energy dissolved the cages like morning mist. "You see people as flaws to be corrected! I see them as stories to be preserved!"
Salazar unleashed waves of nullification, but Luiso had learned. He didn't counter with force—he countered with context. When Salazar tried to erase the memory of the land, Luiso showed it the truth of its own history. When Salazar tried to impose his rigid structure, Luiso revealed the beautiful chaos of natural growth.
"You cannot win!" Salazar screamed, his composure finally breaking. "We have the ships! The guns! The Pope's blessing!"
"We have the truth," Luiso said quietly. "And truth always finds a way to be remembered."
With a final surge of silver energy, Luiso didn't attack Salazar—he attacked the Inversarium. The relic, built on stolen power and twisted logic, couldn't withstand the purity of absolute truth. It shattered, and the backlash of corrupted magic threw Salazar to the ground, his connection to the Santo Magic severed forever.
He scrambled backward, not from pain, but from the horrifying silence in his own soul. The constant, reassuring hum of divine power that had been his anchor since his first prayer was gone. All that remained was the empty echo of his own heartbeat.
Luiso stood over him, the silver light fading from his hands. "You are not a holy warrior," Luiso said, his voice cold and sharp as obsidian. "You are a grave robber. You don't bring salvation; you bring a shovel. You saw a living, breathing civilization and all you could think to do was bury it under your own dogma, then build a tombstone with your name on it."
Salazar tried to summon a prayer, a curse, anything—but his faith was a dry well. "We... we came to bring them into the light..."
"You didn't bring light," Luiso snarled, his words striking with the force of physical blows. "You brought a flood, drowning our songs, our stories, our gods in your holy water, and you called it 'baptism.' You thought we were primitive apes screaming at the jungle. But the jungle was always talking back. You just weren't smart enough to listen."
He leaned in, his silver eyes boring into the broken Inquisitor. "You came to conquer a world of myth and magic with a book of rules. You failed. Remember this feeling, Inquisitor. This is the weight of the history you tried to erase. It's heavier than your cross, and it will crush you."
A raw, guttural scream of pure, unadulterated fury tore from Salazar's throat. It was not the cry of a defeated soldier, but of a man whose entire purpose for existence had just been unmasked as a pathetic, violent farce. The physical defeat was nothing. This was damnation.
Part 9: The Unwritten Truth
As the Spanish ships retreated, Antonio Pigafetta, Magellan's chronicler, made a choice. He watched the natives tending their wounded, saw the grief-stricken Tikbalang mourning their fallen brother, witnessed the silver-eyed child standing guard over his people.
He looked at his journal, then at the surviving Spanish officers.
"We will say Magellan died bravely," one officer declared. "But we cannot mention that native chief turning against us—it would make him a martyr. We cannot mention the child with silver eyes—they would call us mad. And we certainly cannot mention the... creatures."
Pigafetta's pen hesitated. He thought of Lapu-Lapu's final, defiant act. The truth deserved to be remembered.
But when he looked up, he saw the silver-eyed child watching him. Their eyes met, and Pigafetta understood—some truths were too dangerous to write. Some stories had to be preserved in other ways.
He wrote of Magellan's death. He wrote of Lapu-Lapu's resistance. But he left out the corruption, the silver light, the true sacrifice. He created the silence that would haunt history for centuries.
Part 10: The Sea's Silence Revealed
As the Spanish ships disappeared over the horizon, a lone figure emerged from the waves. Dayang stood on the shore, her opalescent scales dulled, her head bowed in shame. She didn't approach the mourning coalition, but waited at the water's edge.
Luiso walked to meet her, his silver eyes seeing more than just her form—he saw the weight of her choice.
"They have my daughter," Dayang whispered, her voice raw. "And twenty of our youngest. Held in enchanted tanks below their flagship. Salazar promised... he promised they would be released if we remained neutral."
She finally looked up, tears mixing with seawater on her cheeks. "When Kalak fell... when Lapu-Lapu turned... I watched from the reefs. Every scream tore at me. But what was I to do? Sacrifice my entire bloodline for this battle?"
Luiso's voice was gentle but carried the weight of his new power. "Salazar lied, Dayang. The Spanish don't negotiate; they conquer. Your daughter is already on her way to Spain as a curiosity for their king."
The Sirena matriarch collapsed to her knees, a wail of pure anguish tearing from her throat. "I traded our honor for nothing! I let friends die for an empty promise!"
Kael approached, his massive form casting a shadow over her. "You made a mother's choice. A terrible one, but understandable." His voice rumbled with grief. "But know this: your silence cost us our brother. That debt will not be forgotten."
Luiso helped Dayang to her feet. "The Spanish have taught us both a lesson today. They don't just conquer with swords—they conquer by turning our love against us. Your daughter will be rescued, but trust must be earned again."
Part 11: The First Page
That night, as the coalition gathered to mourn their dead, Luiso made his vow.
"Kalak's sacrifice will be remembered," he told Kael, placing a hand on the grieving Tikbalang's shoulder. "Lapu-Lapu's true story will be told."
Anya looked at the child who was no longer a child. "What will you do, little sage?"
Luiso watched the stars, his silver eyes seeing not just the present, but all the battles yet to come. The Blood Compact that would be magically sabotaged. The Tondo Conspiracy that needed guidance. The British Invasion that would serve as cover for a deeper war.
"I will become what history needs," he said. "A keeper of truths. A rememberer of sacrifices. I will work in the shadows for 300 years if that's what it takes."
As the moon rose over Mactan, the Nameless Sage began his long watch. He had lost his second family, but gained his eternal purpose. The truth would be preserved, no matter the cost.
The Spanish would write their version of history. But Luiso would remember everything.