"When mortals defy fate, gods sharpen their blades."
Binondo Business District
Atop the towering arc of the Binondo Business District, a crimson tear in the fabric of reality opened, heralding the arrival of Agosto. Beside him was the Kampilan ni Lam-ang, its flame glyphs now reduced to mere embers. Below, the district exhaled vibrant life—jeepneys traversing the streets, the melodic strains of karaoke, and the enticing aroma of grilled isaw. Yet, at this height, the air was thin and charged with tension.
He recalled the fire, not the one he had conjured but the one that had consumed everything he held dear.
"You were forged in it," Gregorio had once remarked. "But you don't have to live inside it."
Agosto disagreed.
Opening his palm, he allowed a flicker of flame to dance across his skin. It no longer burned; it merely served as a reminder.
Of the house that had collapsed.
Of the family that had perished.
Of the vow he made to the gods: If I survive, I will burn for others.
The Kampilan pulsed, sensing his unwavering resolve.
Agosto stood, flame spiraling around his boots. He required no rest; he sought purpose.
And tonight, the fire would walk.
Binondo Business District
Once a vibrant center of commerce, Binondo now thrummed with the undercurrents of illicit power. Skyscrapers that once housed merchants and financiers had been repurposed into nerve centers for Ahas ng mga Lakan—an empire built on fear, deceit, and the corruption of relics for nefarious ends.
Emerging from a dimensional rift atop a deserted high-rise, Agosto Santos secured the Kampilan ni Lam-ang to his back, its glowing glyphs ominously red. He melted into the shadowy alleyways, exchanging silent nods and discreet bribes with hooded informants. Each whispered tip and untraceable cash slip guided him toward The Pit—an underground MMA arena where the elite of Ahas ng mga Lakan wagered fortunes on bare-knuckle combat.
The Pit, Binondo Business District
Inside The Pit's smoky interior, the crowd roared for violence and spectacle. Amid the swirling incense and gunmetal haze, Agosto's gaze fell upon a solitary figure: Kalawit. Dressed in a fitted black suit, dark shades obscured ancient eyes, and a snake tattoo writhed beneath his sleeves as he slipped through the heavy steel door marked Dimas's Sanctum, flanked by rifle-wielding sentinels inscribed with archaic incantations.
Seeking refuge, Agosto withdrew to the restroom, retreating into a cubicle before unlocking a dimensional rift. Beyond this portal lay an expanse of fire and lava, evocative of the inferno itself—a boundless void unconfined by walls or the constraints of time. He floated like a spectral wraith, eventually hovering outside the Sanctum, undetected and silent.
Kalawit's voice penetrated the void, cold and precise:
"Bakawans failed to capture Kamay in Clark."
Dimas, Ahas ng mga Lakan's second-in-command, responded, "Three additional units are en route to the Orphanage, and I have instructed him to intervene directly this time. Furthermore, we have additional support, including an individual whom even the legendary Sandata unit may find challenging to confront."
A pulse quickened beneath Kalawit's snake tattoo. He spun, summoning Dugong Itim to his hand: a black scythe dripping with void and blood, its mournful wails shattering the silence.
"I know you are here... I can taste your wrathful aura, Agosto."
The air fractured. A rift tore open—not with light, but fury. Agosto emerged, Kampilan flaring to life in his hand, pulsing with a thunderous hum, the red aura bursting forth from its spiritual blade. Dimas drew twin arcane pistols, their barrels aglow with runes.
Kalawit smirked.
"It's been a while, Kampilan."
"Kalawit," Agosto replied, his voice calm yet resolute.
The Sanctum's door erupted, sending the sentinels flying as the two combatants burst into the Octagon. The crowd roared in a frenzy. Kalawit lunged first, the scythe's black blade howling as it executed a massive arc through the air. Agosto met it with a deafening clang, Kampilan's red aura exploding upon contact with the pitch-black blade of Dugong Itim. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the stands, rattling the lights above.
Agosto pivoted low, blade trailing flame, and lunged toward Dimas with a brutal upward slash. Dimas parried with his twin pistols, their barrels glowing with runes, deflecting the blow with a concussive burst. Sparks flew as Agosto twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch just as Kalawit's scythe swept in from the flank.
Agosto rolled sideways, narrowly evading the black arc of Dugong Itim. He rose into a flash-step, reappearing behind Dimas and delivering a reverse elbow to the spine. Dimas staggered, but Kalawit was already closing in.
The scythe came down in a vertical arc—Agosto blocked with the flat of Kampilan, the clash sending a ripple of flame and void through the Octagon. Kalawit pressed harder, his blade shrieking against Agosto's, while Dimas fired a volley of glyph-charged rounds from the side.
Agosto spun, deflecting the bullets with a tight spiral slash, then kicked off the ground, launching himself between both attackers. His blade carved a flaming crescent mid-air, forcing Kalawit to retreat and Dimas to duck behind a pillar.
Kalawit snarled, "You're fast, but you're not untouchable."
Agosto replied, "Neither are you. Let's test your reflexes."
He flash-flickered behind Kalawit, delivering a downward strike that split the floor tiles. Kalawit blocked, but the force sent him skidding. Dimas re-emerged, firing rune bursts that Agosto batted away with a series of rapid blade rotations.
Agosto's breathing slowed. His stance shifted. Kampilan ni Lam-ang began to hum—not with rage, but with rhythm.
He was syncing.
Kalawit and Dimas charged together—scythe and pistols in perfect tandem. Agosto met them head-on, blade dancing between angles, intercepting Kalawit's sweeping arcs while redirecting Dimas's bullets into the walls. The crowd roared as Agosto spun into a low sweep, knocking Kalawit off balance, then vaulted upward, delivering a flaming overhead slash that shattered Dimas's pistol grip.
The Octagon pulsed with heat and fury.
Agosto stood at the center, blade raised, eyes locked on both adversaries.
"You're not fighting a man," he declared. "You're fighting a storm."
Dimas dove behind a marble pillar, unleashing a spray of rune-charged rounds. Each bullet, etched with a glowing sigil, was a miniature explosive. Agosto's fluid, deadly dance commenced. He parried a vertical slash from Kalawit, the two blades locked in a screeching standoff, as he shifted his weight, allowing the incoming bullets to zip past him, striking the concrete wall behind him with a series of concussive blasts.
"Your movements are predictable, Kampilan!" Kalawit snarled, twisting his scythe to disengage, then sweeping low. Agosto leaped, the scythe blade whistling inches below his boots. Mid-air, he spun, bringing Kampilan down in a wide, flaming arc. Kalawit sidestepped, the heat from the blow singeing his suit, and retaliated with a whirlwind of quick, precise slashes. Agosto deflected each one, his blade a blur of crimson light, before thrusting forward, targeting the space between Kalawit's ribs.
Kalawit parried the thrust just in time, but the force of the blow staggered him. He skidded back a few feet, his grip on Dugong Itim tightening as the runes on the scythe began to glow, one by one. Dimas took the opportunity to fire a final volley of rounds, but Agosto, his senses sharpened, batted them away with a flicker of his blade, each bullet sliced cleanly in two.
"If Renato were here, you'd be hearing hell's doors creak," Agosto taunted as their spiritual blades collided once more.
The runes on Dugong Itim ignited, one by one, flaring with power. The arena's roar subsided as the final glyph illuminated. Kalawit bellowed,
"It's over, Kampilan!"
Then whispered, "Punishment of the Gods!—Orb of Corruption."
The Black Stroke of Corruption glyph emerged in the silence, jagged and ravenous, its edges fraying into reality like charcoal dissolving in water. It did not shine; it consumed. A jet-black aura spiraled upward, ensnaring the Octagon in a pulsating globe of void.
From beyond the barrier, Dimas murmured in awe, "Everything inside dissolves to nothingness… except the caster."
Kalawit emerged from the orb, clad in a black cloak and body armor that lent him an air of ominous authority, as if he had become a manifestation of death itself.
"I once held a deep fondness for you," he declared.
Flashbacks and Escalation
Inside the orb, Kampilan ni Lam-Ang murmured, "Just say the word…"
Flashbacks of Agosto's trauma consumed him with vivid intensity. The anguished cries of his family intertwined with the crackle of burning timber, an everlasting reminder of the night when everything he cherished was reduced to ash. He remembered the smell of smoke, the taste of grief, and the promise he made to the gods.
Agosto's eyes blazed with determination, his rage a palpable force thrumming through the air. He gripped Kampilan ni Lam-ang, its power resonating with his newfound resolve. A pulse of energy surged from the blade, pushing against the encroaching void of the orb.
"You're mistaken, Kalawit," he growled, voice low and fierce. "It's not over. It's just beginning."
"Punishment of the Gods—Lam-Ang's Wrath."
The Flame Spiral Vortex Glyph erupted. Concentric flame rings collapsed inward to a spearpoint of blinding gold. Outer arcs bore the fractured sunburst sigil of the pre-colonial war-datu.
Thousands of crimson slashes erupted, shattering the orb into fragments resembling shadowy glass. A storm of scarlet flames engulfed The Pit as Agosto emerged, cloaked in a wraith-like crimson aura. His divine cloth, reminiscent of a Datu's garb, draped around his waist, while upper body armor befitting the gods of war adorned him. In that moment, he embodied the very essence of Lam-Ang's wrath.
Dimas reloaded with trembling hands, but he never got the chance to fire. Agosto waved a hand—and the twin pistols were sliced as if made of paper. Dimas crumpled, his upper body collapsing in a spray of blood.
Only Kalawit remained, his Dugong Itim trembling, its dark crimson aura flickering. Agosto advanced, leveling his gaze at him, his voice as cold as ice:
"Provide the information I require—free of charge—or I will reduce you to a million fragments."
Silence enveloped the space. Kalawit stared, fear concealed behind his shades, as fate sealed its verdict.
"I will not beg," Kalawit whispered, his defiance a fragile shield.
With a silent command, Agosto's will reshaped the fractured air, pulling Kalawit into the Hellish Dimension of Kampilan ni Lam-ang. Kalawit's sophisticated armor melted from his body, his flesh screaming as it was seared by the perpetual heat, his every nerve ending alight with unbearable agony. He fell to his knees, his spirit flaring in a silent, agonizing roar. "The Coron Temple… in Davao… Lakapati," he choked out, his words torn from him, each syllable an excruciating effort.
Agosto stood unharmed, a ghost in the inferno, his voice cutting through the wails of pain. "The eyes... of Bathala… they're the keys," Kalawit gasped, his vision blurring from torment, his defiance crumbling. Agosto watched, his expression impassive, as the information was finally extracted. Securing the two vital locations, Agosto turned away from the kneeling figure, his form fading from the hellscape.
Kalawit was left to writhe in the fiery abyss, his spirit a testament to the punishment of a vengeful god, a new permanent resident in the dimension of pain. He would remain in the Hellish Dimension of Kampilan ni Lam-ang until the end of time, forgotten and alone.