The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, crushed herbs, and salt from the nearby sea. Smoke curled from cooking fires that dotted the village like whispers of a forgotten time. The sun, now a punishing orb overhead, beat down relentlessly on Jomarie's skin, leaving his scalp tingling and his breath shallow.
He stumbled slightly, his legs heavy with fatigue and confusion. Two warriors walked beside him, flanking him like guards—or executioners. Their expressions were unreadable, eyes hardened by lifetimes of survival. One of them wore a necklace made from animal teeth; the other bore scars across his chest, the kind earned through war, not ritual.
They passed through a dense line of palm trees, the leaves rustling like murmurs from ancient ancestors. And then the village opened up before him.
It was like stepping into a world untouched by time.
Huts made from tightly woven nipa palm and thick bamboo stood elevated on stilts, casting long shadows over the sandy ground. Chickens clucked and darted away from his path, and pigs snoozed under the shade. Women paused in their weaving and pounding of rice to gawk at the stranger being led through their midst. Their eyes weren't angry—but cautious, evaluating.
Children peeked from behind their mothers' woven skirts. Some gasped. Others whispered behind their fingers.
He could hear them even if he couldn't fully understand:
"That's him… the man from the sky."
"His clothes are strange. His hair… he smells funny."
Each step tightened the knot in Jomarie's stomach.
He felt alien. Not just in time or place—but in body, in soul. The weight of a hundred stares pushed against his shoulders. Every fiber of his being screamed that he didn't belong here. That he should've died on that rooftop. That he should've let gravity finish the job.
Instead… something—someone—had pulled him into this.
And now, he had to face it.
They stopped before a raised wooden platform adorned with carved posts bearing symbols of the sun, sea, and serpent. There, Lapu-Lapu sat cross-legged on a mat of woven pandan leaves. The chieftain's presence radiated command—not by force, but by sheer certainty. He didn't move like a man questioning his role. He moved like the earth itself bowed slightly when he passed.
In his hand was a gleaming kampilan blade, its edge reflecting the sunlight like fire. He ran a whetstone along its surface, slow and deliberate.
Behind him stood four elders—stooped, wise, and silent. Beside him, almost like a shadow of flame, stood a young woman.
She was tall for a woman here, and she did not flinch under the heat. Her eyes were narrow, sharp, like coals smoldering with distrust. Her hair was braided tightly and wrapped with tiny shells that clinked when she moved. A bone-hilted dagger sat snug at her hip.
She was not afraid of him.
"State your name," Lapu-Lapu said, his voice neither kind nor cruel. Just… solid.
"Jo… Jomarie," he stuttered. "Jomarie Estadilla. I—I'm not from here."
"We know," one of the elders said with a voice like wind through dead leaves. "Your face is soft like a child, your tongue twists around our words like it doesn't know which side to bite, and you smell of… soap and metal."
The crowd laughed. Not unkindly. Not kindly either.
Jomarie's face flushed with embarrassment. The shame was familiar. Familiar as poverty. Familiar as rejection.
Lapu-Lapu raised a hand, and the noise died like a snuffed flame.
"The sea brought you to us," he said, "and we do not trust the sea when it delivers gifts wrapped in storms."
He stood, placing the blade beside him. His frame was powerful—shoulders wide, arms carved with sun tattoos and raised scars.
"This morning," he said, "our scouts saw the horizon bleed. Ships. Spanish ships. Painted with greed, swollen with fire. They come to trade words—but their blades whisper betrayal."
Jomarie blinked. Spanish? Here? That means I'm in—
"Today," Lapu-Lapu went on, "a stranger falls from the sky. You look like us—but your soul speaks a different song."
He turned to him, eyes burning.
"Tell me, Jomarie. Can you fight?"
"I… no," Jomarie answered truthfully, swallowing hard. "I clean floors. I scrub toilets. I push a mop. I… I don't know how to fight."
Gasps. One warrior spat. Another rolled his eyes.
"He is useless," someone muttered.
Then the girl—Maira, as he would later learn—stepped forward, her voice cold. "Then let the jungle take him. Why feed someone who cannot even lift a stick?"
Something inside Jomarie cracked. He straightened.
"I didn't ask to be here," he said, louder than he meant. "I didn't want this. I was about to die. I wasn't saved—I was stolen."
His voice shook. But it kept going.
"But maybe… maybe that's the point. Maybe I wasn't supposed to die yet. Maybe there's still something I'm meant to do."
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of firewood.
Lapu-Lapu approached slowly. Jomarie stood still.
The chieftain placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was rough. Real.
"There is fight in your voice," he said. "But strength is not spoken. It must be earned."
He turned to the gathering.
"Let him stay. Let him sweat. Let him bleed. If he is weak, the jungle will break him. If he survives… perhaps the gods are not done with him yet."
And just like that, Jomarie Estadilla became part of something ancient.
---
The next days were merciless.
He awoke before the sun and trained until his legs buckled. They handed him a bamboo staff and watched him flail like a child swinging a stick at shadows.
The warriors laughed. Pula, his trainer, did not.
"Again," Pula would bark, eyes sharp. "Again until your hands break. Again until your mind stops asking for pity."
Jomarie learned how to fall. How to rise. How to fall again.
He bathed in the river, muscles screaming. Ate roasted root vegetables with warriors who still didn't trust him. Slept on dirt that smelled of crushed leaves and dried blood. Woke in the night from dreams of rooftops and glass and Yel's voice asking for milk.
But slowly—inch by inch—he began to change.
He could feel the strength creeping into his bones, like fire curling through cold steel. He began to block hits. Then return them. He stopped crying. Then he stopped apologizing. The shame didn't leave—but it quieted. Like a dog beaten one too many times finally raising its head.
And one night, when the others had gone quiet beneath the stars, Jomarie stared at his palms—bleeding, calloused, real.
"Maybe I was always strong," he whispered.
---
On the seventh day, Lapu-Lapu summoned him.
He stood before the village again, taller now, not just in body—but in breath.
"You have survived," the chief said. "Now… comes truth."
Two warriors unrolled a bundle of blackened cloth on a stone table. Inside: a curved needle carved from bone, and a bowl of thick, dark ink—mixed with charcoal, pig's blood, and ashes of warriors past.
Lapu-Lapu nodded. "The Burda ng Katapangan. The Mark of Courage. Not given. Not earned through birth. Only through fire."
Maira stepped forward, holding the needle.
"Lie down," she said simply.
Jomarie did.
The first tap of the bone into flesh burned like flame. But he didn't scream.
He clenched his fists. Grit his teeth. Took it all.
Each puncture was a story. Each drop of blood, a prayer. The pain was raw—but honest. Unlike the silent wounds of his past, this pain had purpose. This pain had shape.
When it was done, sweat clung to his back, but he did not collapse.
Maira leaned close. Her voice was low, almost warm. "You are one of us now, stranger."
He sat up.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jomarie Estadilla smiled—not because he had been saved from the world…
…but because he had begun to rise against it.