Centuries passed, and human villages grew into settlements, and settlements grew into towns. The people multiplied. Their needs expanded.
At first, they took only what they required-wood, fish, fruit, stone.
But Greed Slowly Entered the Land
---
It began with a strange boat floating along the coast—larger than anything the natives had ever seen. From it stepped men wearing unfamiliar clothes, carrying tools made of iron that glinted sharply under the sun.
The natives approached with curiosity.
The guardians watched in silence.
At first, the visitors smiled.
They traded ornaments for rice.
Glass beads for woven cloth.
Metal knives for fruit and fresh water.
The natives welcomed them with open hands and pure hearts.
But the visitors…
Their eyes glittered differently—searching the forests, studying the mountains, measuring the rivers.
They were looking at the land like it was something to own.
Sierra Madre felt the first sting in her heart.
Cordillera narrowed his eyes.
Caraballo whispered,
"Do you feel it? Something new… something cold."
His siblings nodded silently.
---
The natives had always believed the land belonged to everyone.
But the visitors believed something else—
that the land could belong to only a few.
They began to cut trees deeper than the natives ever dared.
They dug in the soil, saying gold lived there.
They hunted animals not for food, but for pleasure.
The elders of Luzon shook their heads.
They warned their children:
**"Do not forget the old ways.
Do not let greed poison the land."**
But the young ones…
They looked at the glass beads.
The iron tools.
The bright fabrics.
And something new sparked in their hearts—
wanting.
Caraballo watched as a young native boy reached for an iron knife offered by a visitor.
The boy's father tried to pull him back.
"Anak, you don't need that," he pleaded.
"Our wooden blades have always been enough."
But the boy shook his head.
"Why use wood when iron is sharper?
Why plant for a month when we can buy what we need with gold?
Why follow the old ways when the new ways are easier?"
His words cut deeper than any blade.
Sierra Madre felt her roots tremble.
Cordillera tightened his fists.
"They are forgetting," he whispered.
"For the first time… they are forgetting."
---
Greed is a slow poison, the kind that hides in bright objects and tempting promises.
The young natives began to follow the visitors into the forests.
They learned to cut trees without blessing them.
To hunt animals without thanking their spirits.
To dig into the mountains without asking permission.
Cordillera felt the first deep wound on his side as the soil was torn open by unfamiliar tools.
It was a pain he had never known.
Caraballo felt patches of his forests thinning, the rivers running differently.
Sierra Madre felt the cries of birds who flew away from their fallen homes.
The guardians did not bleed like humans.
But they felt grief in the cracks forming quietly within them.
Still—they remained patient.
Hopeful.
Loving.
They whispered to the winds, hoping to reach the young people's hearts.
"Remember who you are."
"Remember the land that feeds you."
"Remember us."
But the wind carried their voices only faintly.
And the young ones—busy, dazzled, hungry for what was new—did not listen.
---
But not all natives were swayed.
The elders fought desperately to preserve the old ways.
They taught stories by firelight:
of the mountains,
of the rivers,
of the guardians.
They reminded the people that every tree was a home,
Every river a lifeline,
Every mountain a protector.
But for the first time…
They were ignored.
A respected elder named Amang Lakat stood before his tribe and begged:
"My children, the land is not something we own.
We are merely its caretakers.
If we take too much…
It will one day collapse under our own hands."
Some listened.
Some bowed their heads.
But many—especially the young—looked away.
Their eyes were already captured by the glitter of the visitors' promises.
Sierra Madre watched the elders try.
She admired their courage.
She loved them deeply.
But she could also see their fear.
Their helplessness.
Their heartbreak.
---
Soon, two paths formed among the natives.
Those who kept the old ways—
who prayed to the rivers,
who danced with the wind,
who honored the guardians.
And those who embraced the new ways—
who cut trees recklessly,
who hunted endlessly,
who dug greedily into the earth.
The guardians watched this divide like a storm forming in slow motion.
Caraballo whispered, voice trembling:
"This is how destruction begins… not with a single act,
but with forgetting."
Sierra Madre closed her eyes, feeling a hollow ache.
"They once walked in harmony.
Now they walk apart."
Cordillera clenched his jaw.
"If they continue…
the storms will hurt them more than ever before."
The three mountains stood powerless—for they were protectors, not rulers.
They could not command.
They could only shield.
But the more the young ones followed the visitors,
the more the guardians felt themselves breaking.
---
Then that the sky darkened—
not from human hands,
but from a storm so massive,
so ancient,
that even the guardians felt its force.
A storm meant to test them.
A storm meant to remind humanity.
As the winds howled and the rains threatened to drown the land,
the guardians rose.
Cordillera braced his peaks.
Sierra Madre spread her forests.
Caraballo locked his roots.
They held back the fury—
even as parts of them cracked,
even as the young people who had turned away now ran for shelter,
frightened, unprepared.
The guardians saw everything:
The elders praying.
The young ones trembling.
The visitors hiding behind stone walls,
unaware of the gift being sacrificed for their survival.
And as the storm raged,
one truth echoed through the mountains' hearts:
**"We still love them.
Even when they forget us…
we will protect them."**
The guardians did everything to shield the storm and won. But the natives felt some changes during the battle of nature. They told the people of what they saw but inspite of it after the storm the young natives just laugh saying, "its only a storm."
The guardians watched with worry as trees were taken faster than they could grow back...
As rivers became clouded with mud...
As land was cut open for wealth hidden underneath.
Sierra Madre wept as her forests thinned.
Cordillera roared as mountainsides were carved away, leaving scars.
Caraballo trembled, struggling to mend the growing wounds.
The balance began to falter.
And far across the ocean, Tag-Hangin sensed weakness.
He awakened with a grin carved from lightning.
"If the guardians fall," he whispered to the sky,
"Luzon will be mine."
The ancient war was about to begin again-stronger than ever.
And the people, once protectors, had become part of the danger.
But deep in the foothills of Sierra Madre, a child was soon to be born-one who would hear the voices of the mountains again, like Dalisay once did.
Her name would be Amihan.
And she would be the key.