"The world was quieter after great battles, not because the violence had faded, but because grief demanded silence."
The Grief of the Aftermath
A gray morning sky hung heavily over the "Libingan ng mga Bayani." Flags fluttered half-mast. Rows of white graves stretched endlessly across the field, each one draped with folded banners, dog tags, and flowers damp with early dew.
Gregorio Aguilar stood at the front of the Sandata Unit. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes unmoving, his breath shallow. Not even the Kamay ni Bathala could still the tremor in his chest.
Beside him stood Agosto Santos. His jaw, locked, fists clenched, staring at the line of caskets as though each one took something personal from him.
Renato Ramirez held his helmet against his heart, the Kalasag emblem reflecting the morning light.
Marian Dela Fuente stood one step behind Gregorio, hands clasped tightly, her breath leaving her in slow, controlled exhalations.
Behind them, the highest pillars of the Republic stood in complete stillness.
President Sinukuan.
Chief of Staff Emilio Valdez.
Joaquin Santillan.
The entire Myth-Tech Armed Forces.
All stood in salute.
Families filled the spaces between the rows. Mothers leaning over caskets, fathers clutching portraits, wives at the brink of losing their sanity, and children tracing names with trembling hands. The field felt like a heartbeat made of grief.
And then, another presence.
At the edge of the formation, soldiers parted as Raja approached with Natalia and Maximo beside him. The air tightened, though no weapon was raised.
Natalia leaned toward him, voice low.
"Are you certain you want this ceasefire honored, Raja? The city is yours. You owe them nothing."
Raja's gaze never left the graves.
"I will do the same for the people who followed me to war."
He stepped back respectfully, offering a silent salute of his own before turning to leave.
Maximo lingered for a moment, his eyes drifting toward Gregorio. A brief, sorrowed glance.
Then he followed his leader into the quiet.
The bell tolled.
Rifles fired in salute.
Caskets were lowered.
Manila mourned.
Across the sea, another mourning was taking shape.
The sky over the Wat Chai Kasem National Memorial Grounds. Thailand's sacred resting place for fallen soldiers. It was the same soft gray, as though grief had reached across borders to hold both nations in its shadow.
Prasert Rattanachai stood before a line of ceremonial gold-trimmed caskets. He was joined by the full Royal Guardian Corps.
They were well-dressed - formal uniforms pressed, capes fastened, insignias polished.
Some leaned on crutches. Some bore bandages along their arms and ribs.
Some had empty sleeves where arms once were. Yet all of them stood tall.
Behind them, families waited with incense sticks and lotus flowers with their hands trembling but resolute.
Prasert stood at the front.
In particular, he stood before the coffin of the young Royal Guardian Gregorio had saved - whose desperate cry had rallied the corps when retreat felt inevitable.
Incense rose upward in pale ribbons. Monks chanted a steady, sorrowed rhythm with each verse honoring those who had died defending the kingdom.
A senior Guardian stepped closer to Prasert.
"You led them well.", he whispered. "Do not carry this loss as a shame."
Prasert did not lift his head. His voice broke at the edges. "He followed me into the fire. I could not bring him back."
"You gave him more than orders," the man said quietly. "You gave him something to believe in. That is why he stood."
Prasert exhaled shakily. His fingers brushed the hilt of the sheathed Phra Saeng Khan Chaiyasi beside him - dimmed in mourning, its pulse low and steady.
Behind him, the Royal Guardians raised their salutes. Some with shaking arms, but all with unbroken resolve.
The rite concluded with a final bow from the monks. Incense smoke drifted toward the heavens. Families pressed hands together in tearful wai. And Thailand bowed its head.
Two nations. One silence. One grief. One promise.
In Manila, Gregorio whispered: "We'll make this mean something."
In Bangkok, Prasert placed his hand over the fallen Guardian's casket: "I will carry your honor with mine."
Sunlight finally pierced the heavy clouds -
weak, thin, but unwavering - falling on both burial grounds in the same instant.
A reminder that grief was shared.
A reminder that sacrifice binds nations.
A reminder that the war was far from over.
But the fallen would not be forgotten.
Their memory would walk with every survivor who remained.
The Quiet That Followed
The burial rites left a silence that clung to every survivor like a second skin. No speeches could fill it. No salute could break it.
When the final casket was lowered and the crowds dispersed, the world did not
move forward. It only shifted into a quieter grief.
In that quiet, lives continued in fragments.
When The Luggage Is Too Heavy
Night fell gently over Laguna.
Gregorio Aguilar walked up the familiar steps of the Biñan safehouse, the echo of gun salutes still ringing faintly in his ears. The lights inside were dim, soft, almost hesitant, as though the room itself was afraid to disturb him.
Kristel looked up the moment the door opened.
For a long moment, they said nothing. The weight of everything Gregorio carried followed him inside like a shadow.
Kristel's voice broke the silence, fragile but steady.
"Welcome back."
Gregorio gave no answer, only the smallest shift in his breath.
The scene faded, leaving the unspoken hanging between them.
The Temporary Senate Hall
Subic Myth-Tech Command Annex
Morning light cut sharp lines across the steel corridors of the Senate Annex.
President Sinukuan walked with measured steps, each one echoing with the burden
of the decisions she had made... and the ones she would have to make next. The
hallway stretched long and cold, lined with silent guards who watched but did
not speak.
From the opposite end came Vice President Crisostomo Andres.
They approached each other without changing pace, the silence sharpening with
every step.
As they passed...
"You carry the blood of everyone who died in Bangkok."
Sinukuan did not turn. She did not reply. She continued down the corridor toward the Senate Hall, her expression controlled, her shoulders squared.
Behind her, Crisostomo walked on, leaving the sting of his words drifting in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate.
Outside, storm clouds gathered over Subic.
Another kind of battle was coming.
The High Council Convenes - Floating Fortress of New Malacañang
Far from Subic, far from Bangkok, far from any known map, the High Council gathered.
A chamber lit only by rotating glyph-lamps shimmered into view. The air thrummed
with layered power. Every shadow here belonged to someone dangerous.
Datu Alon stood with calm vigilance, Dahong Palay whispering faintly. General Ramon Dimagiba remained composed but coiled, the aftershock of battle still radiating from him.
Governor Lakambini Reyes held her Abaniko loosely, though her eyes missed nothing.
Ambassador Tala Martinez reviewed floating glyph-screens.
Congresswoman Aura Medina observed in silence.
And a sixth figure, tall, veiled in distortion, identity concealed by deliberate design - completed the circle.
The shadowed figure addressed Lakambini first.
"Your preparations in Japan. The Kusanagi. Report."
Lakambini inclined her head with poised confidence. "Nearly complete. Our intelligence confirms Ahas and Babaylan activity moving toward the same target. They will attempt interference."
Datu Alon smirked. "Let them try."
Lakambini continued smoothly.
"Our agents are already in position. The moment the shrine's veil weakens, we
strike."
General Dimagiba's voice rumbled low.
"And the Crown of the Naga?"
Ambassador Tala answered without looking up.
"Secured. Transition to the next phase is underway."
The chamber dimmed as the shadowed figure leaned forward slightly, distortion
tightening around him.
"Then proceed. The world races toward relics it does not understand.
Let the others rush blindly."
A pause.
"We will claim the Kusanagi in our time."
The glyph lights flickered once, then faded.
One by one, the High Council dissolved into the darkness, leaving the chamber
empty - but the echo of their intentions lingered like a coming storm.
The Report No One Was Supposed To Hear
Joaquin Santillan waited alone in the dim briefing chamber beneath the Subic Myth-Tech Command Annex. A single holo-table glowed between him and the empty chairs opposite.
When the door finally opened, Ricardo Magno and Sybill Lucero stepped inside—uniforms torn, bandages fresh, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
Joaquin didn't speak. He only nodded once.
Ricardo delivered the report first, voice steady: "Sir… we were not able to trace the Vice President. His movements were covered too well. Trails erased before we even arrived. Whoever planned his route expected pursuit."
Sybill continued: "The convoy trail led to a flood-control building in Manila. No signs of struggle. Everything was too clean. That alone was already a red flag."
Ricardo's jaw tightened.
"Then Senator Datu Alon confronted us. He tested us, pressed our limits—and then stopped. No killing blow. No attempt to silence us outright."
Sybill added quietly:
"He let us walk away. That was deliberate."
Joaquin folded his arms, gaze narrowing.
"Continue."
Ricardo took a breath.
"Right after Alon vanished, we found something hidden beneath broken concrete near the river. A datapoint capsule, damaged, but clearly MID-Zeta issue. Embedded by one of ours who went deep under Anino operations."
Sybill nodded. "It wasn't dropped. It was placed. Left there in case someone loyal found it."
"We viewed it," Ricardo said. "Only for a moment."
The holo-table dimmed as both operatives lowered their voices.
"It showed a chamber with crimson sigils. Anino High Council members kneeling. And at the center - standing, giving orders."
Ricardo didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Joaquin's expression hardened, but his voice remained calm.
"What you saw… aligns with our deepest concerns."
Sybill swallowed. "Before we could recover the datapoint, it disintegrated in our hands."
"And then," Ricardo continued, "we were hunted."
Joaquin raised an eyebrow. "By who?"
Ricardo answered: "Congresswoman Aura Medina. And Ambassador Tala Martinez."
Sybill added: "They captured us. The instant they secured us, they left. Engineered Anino operatives transported us afterward."
A breath of silence settled between the three.
Ricardo continued, tone dropping: "We were taken to Bilibid. Now confirmed as a blacksite of the Anino ng mga Anito. A full myth-tech conversion. They interrogated us about the datapoint. Nothing else."
"They wanted to know where it was," Sybill said.
"Not what it contained. They already knew that."
Ricardo nodded.
"We held out. When the interrogation cycle shifted, we escaped. Neutralized the guards. Recovered our Sandata relics. Then… the Warden came."
Joaquin's head lifted at that.
"You defeated him?"
Sybill's tone was flat.
"He's not an issue anymore."
Ricardo added, "We left no viable trace of our route out. No intel they can use."
Joaquin finally exhaled, leaning both hands on the table.
"You two just stepped into a circle people don't walk out of."
Sybill met his gaze without blinking.
"So did the Vice President."
Ricardo added quietly:
"He wasn't taken. He went willingly."
Joaquin shut his eyes for a moment as if accepting a truth he already suspected.
When he opened them, his voice was firm, controlled: "This report stays between the three of us. No one else. Not the President. Not the Council. Not even the Sandata Unit."
Ricardo and Sybill nodded.
Joaquin tapped the console, sealing the chamber's records under triple-lock clearance.
"We move carefully from here. You two are now the only witnesses to something that should never have been seen."
The lights dimmed further.
Outside, thunder rumbled over Subic.
Inside, the war had just shifted direction,
quietly, decisively, and with only three people aware of the truth that could fracture the Republic.
Meditation before Facing the Storm
Nara Prefecture
Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi Inner Shrine
1500H
Deep within the ancient forest, far from neon lights and syndicate wars, Tsubame Hayashi-hime knelt in the inner chamber of the Kusanagi Shrine. A sanctum untouched by centuries, lit only by lantern-fire and drifting motes of dust.
Before her floated the Kusanagi.
Suspended in air.
Silent as a held breath.
A blade older than empires, its edge shimmering between wind and lightning.
Tsubame lowered her head.
Tombo Giri rested across her lap. Even the legendary spear bowed faintly in the presence of the ancient sword.
Tsubame (whispering, Japanese):
「草薙の剣…あなたはまだ眠っている.」
(Kusanagi… you are still asleep.)
A faint breeze rippled through the shrine though no door had opened, no window existed, and the forest outside held no wind.
Not a breeze.
A breath.
The sword answered.
Patterns of ancient glyphs shimmered briefly across its surface. Three strokes of storm-script, two curves of divine mandate,
and a final line of judgment.
Tsubame felt its meaning in her bones.
Her fingers curled tighter around Tombo Giri.
She thought of Osaka's burning corridors.
Of Gregorio fighting with a heart that refused to yield.
Of the Anino circling the Kusanagi like wolves waiting for a weakened stag.
And she thought of Shinken, the empire of serpents ready to coil again.
Tsubame inhaled deeply.
「守ります.」
(I will protect it.)
She rose.
Lantern light reflected off Tombo Giri and Kusanagi. Two relics aligned for a moment in shared purpose.
Behind the shrine walls, thunder rolled across Nara's sacred mountains,
as if the heavens themselves acknowledged her vow.
Tsubame stepped forward, eyes calm with the resolve of a warrior who had already chosen her battlefield.
The storm was coming.
And she would meet it with steel older than gods and a promise carved into her very soul.