The smoke from the funeral pyres curled high into the sky, black tendrils against a bruised dusk. The scent of burning wood and sweet-smelling ylang-ylang blossoms mingled with the stench of blood and ash. The villagers stood in stoic rows—men, women, children, all cloaked in silence. No tears were shed. No wails echoed. Grief was carried inward, the way warriors carried their blades—close to the skin.
Jomarie stood among them, kampilan strapped across his back, his body still aching from battle. His hands, stained with blood he'd spilled for the first time, trembled. He wasn't sure if it was from pride, or shame, or the weight of understanding what he'd done to survive.
He glanced at the others. Some met his eyes with silent approval. Others with unease.
Because though he had fought bravely…
He was still the man who fell from the sky.
---
As the last ember of fire dimmed, the warriors dispersed. But before Jomarie could return to his hut, a warrior called him aside.
"You're summoned," he said, eyes unreadable. "By the chieftain."
Jomarie followed without a word.
The council hut was darker than he remembered—walls lined with skulls, vines, and ancestral blades. Lapu-Lapu sat cross-legged at its center, bathed in firelight. Beside him were the elders, their faces hard, unreadable. And seated in the shadows was someone new—or rather, ancient.
Baba Datu.
The village mystic was thin as driftwood, his skin weathered like bark. His eyes were pale white, clouded with blindness, yet Jomarie felt as if they saw into his soul.
"You carry the Burda ng Katapangan," the old man rasped, his voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "But do you know what you truly bear on your skin, anak ng kawalan?"
Jomarie stepped forward, unsure if he should kneel or speak. "A symbol," he said softly. "Of courage."
Baba Datu smiled—but not kindly. "Symbols are for shallow waters. What burns inside you is deeper. That mark was made with more than ink. The blood of a warrior-priest. The ash of the dead. And something else…"
He reached into a cloth pouch and pulled out a shard of blackened stone—barely larger than a finger. It pulsed faintly, like embers trying to wake.
"…a fragment of the Tanikalang Apoy—the Flame Binding Chain."
---
Lapu-Lapu's voice cut through the thick silence.
"There is a tale. Older than our shores. Older than the first fire. In a time when darkness was not just in the night, men learned to forge chains from sacred flame—not to bind men, but to imprison devourers—creatures born of despair and war. But the last piece of that chain was buried here, with the final guardian."
Jomarie stared at the shard. "And you… put it in my tattoo?"
Baba Datu leaned forward. "We did not place it. It chose. It stirred when you touched the Hangin ng Kamatayan—when you danced with death on that rooftop. The chain responds to souls on the edge."
The air in the hut grew hot. Heavy. Ancient.
Lapu-Lapu's gaze bored into him. "You asked to be more than a survivor. Then carry this burden. Train not your arms—but your spirit. Learn to hold fire in your chest and not be consumed."
And so began a new kind of trial.
---
Baba Datu took Jomarie deep into the jungle—through brambles and waterfalls, into a hidden cave carved into a mountain's spine. Inside, the walls shimmered with etchings that glowed like burning coals: warriors with flaming eyes, beasts devouring villages, and chains looping around shadows too dark to name.
"You fast for three days," said the mystic. "No food. No water. No voice. Let silence feed your flame."
Jomarie obeyed.
The first day, he wrestled with hunger. The second, he fought thirst and heat. The third… he lost the battle with time and fell into a fevered sleep.
And that's when the dreams began.
---
He saw a battlefield blackened by ash. He stood ankle-deep in blood. Chains of fire stretched across the horizon, crackling like thunder. A warrior appeared—his body bound by flaming links, his face blurred by heat. But his voice was clear.
> "The flame is not power.
The flame is pain remembered.
Control it—or be eaten alive."
The voice reverberated through Jomarie's bones. It wasn't a threat.
It was a truth.
---
He woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding like war drums.
His back ached—burned.
He tore off his tunic and turned to the cave wall, gasping.
The tattoo had changed.
Where once were clean lines and tribal curves, there were now jagged strokes, twisting like wild fire, wrapping over his shoulders, licking toward his chest. It wasn't just art anymore. It was alive.
It throbbed with power—and danger.
---
When Jomarie returned to the village, dusk was falling. The air was tense, too quiet. Something was wrong.
He passed warriors whispering to each other. Villagers glanced at him and quickly looked away. He found Maira and Pula sharpening blades near the training ring.
"What happened?" he asked.
Pula looked up grimly. "One of the elders is gone. No body. No tracks. Just vanished."
"Some of our food stores too," Maira added. "And someone carved a message on the outer fence. In Spanish."
Jomarie's heart sank. "A traitor?"
Pula's eyes darkened. "Someone who knew where we were weakest. Someone who led the Castilians right to our door."
Jomarie clenched his fists. The new fire in his chest pulsed, angry, hungry.
He had been marked by a force older than time.
Now, the village was at risk again—not just from outside…but from within.
That night, as he sat by the fire, Maira joined him.
"You feel it too," she said.
He nodded.
"The village is breaking," she whispered. "And we need your fire soon."
Jomarie stared into the flames, his hand resting over the changing tattoo on his back. He was no longer just a stranger. No longer just a warrior-in-training.
He was a vessel.
A fuse.
And if he could not master the flame that lived inside him—
Then it would burn everything.