The tide had shifted.
Waves crashed harder than before, their thunder echoing across the beach like an omen. It was as if the sea itself had awakened in fury—raging not at the island, but at the foreign steel that now scarred its surface.
From the sands of Mactan, villagers stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Mothers clutched their children. Fathers gripped their spears, jaws clenched. Elders murmured prayers to the old gods of wind and fire.
And from the belly of the sea, they came.
Six towering Spanish galleons, monstrous and cold, dropped their anchors like spears into the coral. Rowboats spilled over, and with them came the storm—two hundred Castilian soldiers, armored in chainmail and iron breastplates, boots crushing the sand like the bones of a forgotten people. Each bore muskets, sabers, and painted shields. Over their heads, the red cross on white—an empire's banner, soaked with the blood of continents.
The drums of war began to beat.
But the island did not tremble.
It burned.
---
"They Bleed Like We Bleed"
At the front of the defenders stood Lapu-Lapu, towering like the cliffs behind him. His voice carved through the thickening silence.
> "STEADY!
They are not gods.
They bleed like we bleed!"
The warriors roared.
Spears were pounded to the ground. Shields locked into place. Hidden trenches and bamboo traps lined the shore, each one carved and placed by trembling hands now turned firm with resolve.
Behind the warriors, the village evacuated—women, children, and the elderly retreating into jungle caves guided by firelight and whispered prayers.
But nothing could veil the truth.
They were outnumbered.
Outgunned.
Outmatched.
And still, they stood.
Because at the very front… stood a man who did not belong to time.
---
The Firebound Warrior
Jomarie Estadilla, barefoot on the sand, kampilan at his side, closed his eyes.
The world slowed.
He felt the breath of the wind on his skin. The thrum of drums. The fear in the hearts of men who refused to run. Maira's breath—tight and sharp. Pula's grip on his spear—white-knuckled. Baba Datu's energy—flickering like a candle in his final hour.
And then came the voice—gentle, ancient, from somewhere beyond the veil of now.
> "Now you burn—not for revenge.
But for the ones still breathing."
He opened his eyes.
They glowed gold.
He slammed his foot into the earth.
The Burda ng Katapangan on his back ignited like the rising sun. From his shoulders erupted coils of flame—tattoo-serpents made of living fire, wrapping around his chest, arms, and kampilan. His sword burned brighter than any forge-born blade. Its edge shimmered like molten lightning.
From the hilltop, Captain Rodrigo del Fierro watched, cape flapping in the salty breeze.
And still, he raised his hand.
> "MARCH!"
Drums thundered.
The Spaniards advanced.
---
The Clash of Two Worlds
"NOW!" Pula roared.
The warriors of Mactan surged forward like a tidal wave of ash and blood.
Jomarie led them.
A flaming tempest.
A man born from sorrow, now lit by purpose.
Bullets flew.
Some found flesh. Some shattered bones. But those that met Jomarie were burned midair, his aura consuming them in sparks before they could touch skin. He moved like lightning—his kampilan slicing through steel, his flame disarming weapons with mere contact.
Spanish lines crumbled in confusion.
Behind him, Maira danced with twin blades, cutting through invaders with unmatched speed and precision. She flipped over attackers, striking with calculated fury. Pula hurled fire-spears, each one crashing like thunder into enemy ranks. The traps were sprung—spikes pierced boots, trenches swallowed men whole.
But the Spanish were not easily broken.
From the ships, cannons fired.
One blast struck near the jungle. Trees erupted. Smoke engulfed the skies. Screams rose from where villagers had hidden. The sea became black with ash. The sky burned orange.
Still, Jomarie pushed forward, through blood and fire—
Until he saw him.
---
The Hammer of Visayas
Atop the obsidian rocks stood Captain Rodrigo del Fierro.
He was larger than most men—towering, clad in dark steel, his red cape stained with dried blood. Rumors called him "The Hammer of Visayas," the one who had torched ten villages and left their names unspoken.
He drew his saber.
In his other hand—a pistol.
"So," Rodrigo growled, stepping down the rocks, "you're the flame they whispered about. The heretic. The phantom. The lie."
Jomarie stepped forward, each footstep burning the ground.
"I'm not a lie," he said. "I'm the reason this land remembers what it is."
Rodrigo fired.
Jomarie didn't move. The bullet came—and the flame moved for him. It wrapped around his body and devoured the shot in a puff of sparks.
And then they clashed.
Steel struck flame.
Rodrigo fought like a demon—trained in a dozen wars, his blade a blur. He landed a slash across Jomarie's ribs—blood flew, pain screamed—but instead of falling, Jomarie roared. His flame howled with him, flaring brighter.
He struck back—a wave of fire that cracked the very rock beneath them.
Rodrigo staggered. But didn't fall.
He swung wildly—Jomarie caught the saber in his flaming hand. Heat surged. Metal melted.
With his other fist, Jomarie struck Rodrigo's chest—a burning punch, empowered by every ancestor behind him.
Rodrigo's armor cracked.
Jomarie lifted his kampilan—
> "This land is not yours to burn."
—and drove it into Rodrigo's heart.
The captain screamed—not in pain of flesh, but soul.
The ancestral fire lit within him, and like cursed oil on dry wood, he burned from the inside out—his body turned to golden ash, his scream echoing into silence as the flames took him whole.
---
Smoke and Silence
Hours passed.
The beach was quiet.
Corpses littered the sand.
Smoke drifted into the sea.
The Spanish retreat was chaotic—those who survived fled back to their ships, their formation shattered.
Mactan had stood.
Not untouched.
Not without loss.
But it had endured.
Jomarie stood at the cliff, his body trembling, blood-soaked, flame flickering gently around his shoulders.
Maira joined him, face streaked with ash.
"It's over," she whispered.
Jomarie didn't look away from the horizon.
"No," he replied. "It's beginning."
---
A Prophecy in Dying Breath
That night, the stars wept silver across the jungle sky.
Baba Datu lay beneath the shrine tree, wrapped in ceremonial cloth. His skin was pale. His breath slow. The fire in his eyes now a dim flicker.
Jomarie knelt beside him.
And the old man smiled.
> "The flame was never meant to stay here," he whispered.
"It will follow you…
even across time."
Then, like smoke in the wind—
he was gone.
---
11:59 PM
In another time. Another place.
Modern-day Philippines. Rooftop.
Same city. Same moment.
A boy fell through the dark sky.
Gravity screamed.
Streetlights blurred.
Time was running out.
But just before impact—
He opened his eyes.
And in them—flames.
He did not crash.
He rose.