The ocean was no longer calm.
Far across the turquoise horizon, the sky had darkened—not with clouds, but with sails.
Six massive Spanish warships tore through the waters like sea beasts unleashed from iron cages. Their hulls were lined with rows of cannons, their decks swarming with armored conquistadors. Black sails bore the blood-red crest of the empire—two golden lions entwined in a crown of spears. The wind carried no music, no mercy—only the distant beat of war drums and the crackle of torches held aloft by foreign hands.
To the island of Mactan, conquest was coming again.
But this time…
fire waited for them.
---
In the Heart of the Flame
Deep beneath the jungle, the cave of Baba Datu had transformed into a crucible of awakening.
Inside, the scent of burnt herbs and sacred oils clung to the air. Carvings of forgotten gods and flame-born spirits glowed faintly along the walls. Charred bones from ancient offerings lay in arranged spirals, each one representing a warrior who had once burned too brightly—or not enough.
At the center knelt Jomarie, stripped to the waist, his skin slick with sweat, steam rising off his shoulders like smoke from molten rock. The Burda ng Katapangan across his back shimmered with its new form—no longer just a tattoo, but a living glyph, its lines twisting with every breath, feeding on emotion, memory… and pain.
Each inhale scorched his lungs.
Each exhale summoned embers from the stones beneath him.
His very blood had become fuel.
"You must learn control," Baba Datu said, walking the circle slowly, his gnarled staff tapping the stones with sacred rhythm. "The flame is not a beast you ride. It is a god you host. And gods are not kind."
Jomarie gritted his teeth. "What if I need it to protect them?"
Baba Datu paused and turned. He motioned toward the wall—a mural drawn in soot and blood.
It showed a man, naked and ablaze, screaming in agony as he burned his own people alive—his fire out of control, his village reduced to ash.
"Protection without discipline is destruction in disguise," the mystic said, voice cold. "You must become more than fire. You must become its master."
---
Days of Training, Nights of Trial
Training began at dawn and ended only when the moon reclaimed the sky.
Maira, wielding twin wooden blades, drilled Jomarie in the footwork and breathing patterns of ancestral fighting arts. She struck like a viper—low, fast, and merciless. Pula joined them, throwing stones from hidden angles, forcing Jomarie to react without thought, to listen not with ears, but with his flame.
Under Baba Datu's watchful eye, Jomarie learned to ignite his arms in flame without burning cloth. To shape fire into a searing dagger, then a shield, then a spear. He fought blindfolded, fasted for days, and stood beneath waterfalls while meditating on pain and peace.
But it was not without failure.
One afternoon, the line snapped.
Pula, frustrated with a missed block, shouted a word he didn't mean to land so deeply:
"Useless."
Jomarie's past erupted.
His parents' disappointed faces. His boss screaming in a kitchen. That night on the rooftop, alone.
And in a blink, the flame exploded outward.
A shockwave of heat surged from his core—scorching the grass, warping the air, and hurling Maira through the air. She crashed hard, her shoulder armor half-melted, her body skidding to a halt at Baba Datu's feet.
"STOP!" Maira roared, staggering to her feet. "We're not your enemies!"
Jomarie dropped to his knees, horror in his eyes. His hands trembled. Ash fluttered in the air like cursed snowflakes.
"I… I didn't mean to…"
"You're not ready," Pula growled.
But Baba Datu remained silent, eyes sharp. Watching. Measuring.
The flame had responded. But had Jomarie?
---
The Night Fire
That night, Jomarie sat by the edge of the lake, the water like black glass under the stars.
He held a burning branch in his hand and watched it curl into nothing. His reflection trembled on the surface—half-man, half-something else.
Maira approached with a cloth tied around her arm, bruised but upright. She sat beside him in silence.
"You're strong," she said finally. "Stronger than most warriors I've fought. But you're burning both ways."
He didn't answer.
"I thought I had to hate who I was," he whispered. "To fuel the flame."
Maira placed a hand on his chest. "Hate burns fast. But love endures longer."
He looked at her, broken and unsure. "How can I love someone I used to be ashamed of?"
"Because he's still you," she said. "Even broken men can carry fire, Jomarie. What matters is where they burn it."
---
The Drums of War
At sunrise, the warning horns blared.
Scouts burst from the tree line, faces drenched in sweat and panic.
"They've docked," one cried. "Six ships. Hundreds of them. Muskets. Cannons. Drums. They march at noon!"
Panic rippled like a fever. Children were herded to safe zones. Hunters gathered every blade, every spear. Traps were laid in the jungle. Coconut oil was poured on slopes for ambushes. The warriors painted their faces in ochre and charcoal, preparing to die for the land beneath their feet.
Lapu-Lapu climbed the village platform, his armor gleaming, his chest bare, tattoos black and proud across his skin. His voice rang like a storm:
> "They come with chains. They come with bullets. But we are not just people. We are fire. We are stone. We are ancestors still breathing!"
The village erupted in a deafening roar.
And then—
Jomarie stepped forward.
Bare-chested. Kampilan in one hand. Flames danced around his shoulders, licking his skin but never harming him. His tattoo blazed, alive, golden-red like a newborn sun.
"I am Jomarie Estadilla," he said. "Born of the future. Forged by the past. I carry the fire of the forgotten."
He planted his kampilan into the earth. The grass around it sizzled.
"Let them come."
---
The warriors fell silent, then pounded their chests in unison. The drums beat faster. The fire grew stronger.
And as the Spanish army advanced across the open fields—banners raised, steel gleaming, muskets loaded—
Jomarie stood at the front line.
No longer the boy from the rooftop.
But the bearer of the flame.
The last link of the Chain.
And the war for the soul of the islands…
had just begun.