On the far side of the camp, Kalayo sat cross-legged with the others, his muscular frame hunched over something in his hands. His calloused fingers worked deftly, shaping a lump of river mud into smooth curves.
Dayang, about to approach Kalayo, noticed his gaze repeatedly drifting towards the shore, where Abo and Rayo were conversing.
"What are you shaping?" Dayang asked, crouching beside him.
The firelight caught the water slicking his palms as he turned the form – something between a fish and a child's pudgy fist.
"Keeps the hands from forgetting how to kill," he muttered.
Dayang studied his work with quiet surprise.
"I never imagined you as a potter." Her eyes flicked to his scarred knuckles. "Your hands seem better suited to breaking necks than shaping earth."
Kalayo's mouth curved without humor. He smoothed a thumb along the figurine's belly, the motion surprisingly gentle.
"Used to make these for my little brother," he said. "He'd cry unless he had something to hold."
His thumb pressed too hard—the tiny form collapsed.
"Always fell apart before they dried proper."
The clay smelled of riverbanks and rainy seasons past. Kalayo's gaze drifted back to Abo's direction, his fingers unconsciously reshaping the clay into a form that might have been a child's clutching hand.
Dayang watched the way his hands moved — not with a warrior's precision, but with the clumsy care of someone remembering a different life.
"If the rains had come that year," Kalayo said softly, "maybe we all would have turned out different."
Her eyes followed his to Abo's figure.
"Did you mean what you said on the boat? I know it's not my place, but... Abo isn't just dangerous. There's something wrong with him. I've seen the way he fights —"
Kalayo's hands froze, grip tightening until his knuckles bleached white against the dark carved wood.
"That spineless bastard killed my brother."
A lone firefly drifted too close to the flames. Its light winked out as it burned.
"I've known him for years—watched him flinch at his own shadow, seen the way his hands shake when he thinks no one's looking."
[The Swamp - Night Raid]
Under the cover of a moonless sky, the Pintados' war canoes cut through the labyrinthine mangrove swamps, their hulls whispering against the murky water. The air hung thick with the stench of rot and salt, the tangled roots casting jagged shadows in the dim glow of scattered torchlight from the distant village.
Datu Rayo's main force had taken the wider river route, their larger boats laden with warriors. Meanwhile, Kalayo led a handpicked team through the narrowest channels, where only the most skilled could navigate without alerting sentries.
As they emerged into the river delta, the Moro village materialized—a cluster of stilted huts perched above the water, connected by swaying bamboo walkways. Torchlight flickered across the inky surface, but the village's defenses were thin, its people unaware of the death creeping toward them.
Datu Rayo's signal came — a closed fist raised in the dark.
Stillness.
The warriors froze, paddles halted mid-stroke. The plan: feign an assault at the front, draw defenders into chaos, while Kalayo's team slipped in from the rear.
The attack began with fire.
Arrows tipped with burning pitch arced over the water. Thatch roofs ignited.
War cries erupted as Rayo's warriors beat their shields, hurling spears. But they never committed to a full charge—only sowed confusion.
The Moro defenders scrambled, shouting orders as they rushed toward the flames. Their mistake? Turning their backs to the swamp.
[The Rear Assault]
Kalayo moved first, his body slicked with mud, silhouette dulled. He waded through waist-deep water, each step deliberate, feet testing ground before shifting weight. His men followed: silent, blades sheathed.
They reached the village's underbelly — a maze of pylons beneath the huts. Kalayo pointed, and his team split, scaling the wooden supports like shadows.
The first sentry died without a sound, throat slit before he could turn.
The second gasped — just enough to alert a nearby warrior. But too late.
Kalayo's bolo flashed — a single strike.. The man crumpled.
Then… chaos.
A woman screamed, clutching a child as she fled. One of Kalayo's men lunged.
"Leave them! Stick to the plan!"
The warrior hesitated—then cut her down anyway.
Kalayo's stomach twisted. But there was no time.
[Abo in the Fray]
On the other side of the village, Abo moved through the fray like a ghost.
A Moro warrior thrust a spear—SWISH—Abo tilted his head, sidestepped.
His bolo flicked out, opened the man's forearm. Spear fell. Second strike — heart.
More attackers. Blades swung wildly.
But Abo was never there when they struck.
He flowed between them. Blind eyes seeing nothing. Yet knowing everything.
A club whooshed past his ear — he ducked, slashed a tendon, moved on.
A spear jabbed — he twisted, grabbed the shaft, pulled its owner onto his waiting blade.
[Dawn]
As dawn broke, Kalayo found himself face to face with a young Moro boy, no older than ten, clutching a small knife with trembling hands.
For a moment, Kalayo saw his brother's face in the boy's terrified eyes.
Before he could move, a shadow flitted past.
Abo.
Blade already in motion.
The arc of his bolo caught the dim light.
SILVER FLASH.
The child crumpled silently, like a puppet with cut strings.