The years passed. The scars upon the slopes had grown deep; the wounds in stone blended with cracks in roots and rivers stretched thin.
The forests, once lush and humming with life, now whispered only in hollow sighs. The people's songs — once prayers of gratitude — had become the roar of saws and the clink of iron on rock.
And then came Sarim.
It began quietly — almost imperceptibly.
Fishermen off the eastern coast murmured of strange tides. The sea, once generous and gentle, pulled back as though in fear. Whales surfaced where none had been seen for a century. Birds fled inland, squawking in panic. On the horizon, a gray wall rose — cold, implacable — blotting out the sun.
Among the guardians, anxiety stirred.
Sierra Madre felt the shift first. The eastern slopes that once breathed with wind now felt stale, lifeless. Her oldest trees drooped as if in mourning; streams trickled thinner than before. She whispered to the wind: "Why do you hide?" but no breeze replied.
Caraballo sensed tremors deep underground: soil loosening, roots unraveling, earth sighing like a wounded beast.
Cordillera, standing tall against the northern sky, closed his eyes. His peaks darkened with gathering clouds. He tasted salt in the air — though the sea was far. He knew.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, something stirred — an ancient hunger.
Tag-Hangin's Return — Sarim is Born
The Pacific roared in pain, as if the world itself screamed.
Waves rose, monstrous and furious, slamming against cliffs, smashing coastal villages before alarm bells could ring. The sea reclaimed land it had never touched, swallowing huts and boats whole. Water sprayed like molten glass. The salt stung the eyes, then the lungs.
Up above, the sky warped. Clouds swirled in a grotesque spiral — black as tar, alive with rumbling rage. Lightning cracked across the firmament like the bones of the heavens breaking. Thunder roared, shaking earth and hearts alike.
And from the eye of that maelstrom came a voice. Cold. Cruel. Endless.
"I am Tag-Hangin — reborn.
I am the hunger of imbalance.
I claim you, Luzon."
The voice was everywhere and nowhere — in the howl of wind, in the crash of waves, in the tearing of trees.
This was Superstorm Sarim — a Typhoon unlike any before. A storm born of corrupted earth and wounded sky.
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The First Clash — Forest Against Fury
Sierra Madre rose first.
Her ancient crown of forests stretched high into the lowering clouds. Her roots sank deep into the soil; her bones were earth and stone, her heart sap and green life. She drew a breath so deep it echoed in every valley.
"Halika," she whispered into the wind.
"Subukan mo ako."
Tag-Hangin roared.
The first gust hit — a thousand razor-blades of wind tearing at leaves and branches. Trees older than memory groaned. Entire ridges trembled, as if waking from a nightmare.
Sierra Madre held firm. Her roots coiled, her spine of mountains braced. She caught the wind — breaking its teeth, softening its edges. The first wave of destruction flattened against her mighty shield and crumbled.
But Tag-Hangin was not content. He hurled rain. Sheets upon sheets of heavy, pounding rain fell like liquid arrows. Water saturated the soil, the weight of it cracking roots, pulling sap from wood like blood from wounds.
Sierra Madre shuddered.
---
Cordillera's Wrath — Stone Versus Storm
From the north, Cordillera advanced.
Lightning crowned his peaks; thunder was his battle cry.
He raised his massive fists and struck the ground — once, twice, again — and each blow sent shockwaves through the valley. Hills trembled, rivers surged downward, and the land itself answered his call.
The floodwaters, redirected by his power, flowed into channels meant for rain, sparing some villages — but not all. The great waterfalls of his slopes thundered like drums of war, washing away debris, narrowing the storm's path, protecting as much as possible.
But Tag-Hangin laughed. The waters rose like beasts — surging upward — crashing into Cordillera's cliffs, peeling away stone like peeling bark from a tree. Boulder by boulder, the mountain bled rock. Dust turned the air into choking cloud.
Even Cordillera staggered under the assault.
---
Caraballo's Tears — The Earth Cries Out
In the valley between shield and spine, Caraballo wept.
He knelt, placing his hands on the pounding earth, whispering incantations older than any human memory.
Roots unraveled; rivers shifted; broken soil convulsed, knitting itself back together. Where landslides threatened to bury hamlets — Caraballo sent up walls of living earth. Where torrents threatened to drown fields — he carved rivulets to carry the water harmlessly to the sea.
He bound mountain, forest, river, valley — weaving their strength together in a fragile tapestry of protection. Energy surged from him like golden veins under the soil; his roots glowed, healing cracks in stone and earth alike.
But every healing stole energy. He glowed dimmer with each breath. His roots cracked under stress. His voice, once steady and calm, began to tremble.
Above, Tag-Hangin bellowed in fury.
"Enough!" the storm raged.
"You steal my chaos!
You think you can bind me with earth and water?
I am fury! I am hunger!
I am the wrath of imbalance!"
The wind roared again. The rain turned heavier — almost solid, slamming into earth like walls of liquid steel. Bolts of lightning struck the mountains, chipping stone, splitting earth, cleaving forests.
Caraballo cried out in pain.
He staggered. His arms shook. The golden light flickered.
---
The Guardians' Weakening — The Land's Memory Surfaces
As the storm peaked, mountains themselves began to remember. Not only the battles won, but the scars.
Ravines carved by long-gone floods reopened. Cliffs previously healed by time split again under pressure. Ancient riverbeds rose, rivers changed course. Valleys collapsed into sinkholes. Forests uprooted, swallowed by mud.
The lands remembered every wound ever given — war, flood, logging, cutting, neglect.
And now they bled again.
Sierra Madre's mighty ridges fractured; entire slopes slid into valleys, burying forests and villages alike. Steam rose as wet earth met drowning sun, giving off the scent of sorrow and decay.
Cordillera's peaks lost whole spines; stone monuments crumbled like sand under relentless pressure. Waterfalls roared downward, dragging boulders, trees, cottages — the detritus of human life — into whirlpools of death.
Caraballo's rivers swelled beyond bounds; old springs burst, drowning lowland farms; new swamp-lands formed where villages once stood.
The guardians themselves felt every fracture, every drop of lost forest, every shattered rock: pain not of flesh, but of memory — memory of every time humankind forgot to love the land.
Sierra Madre sobbed, her voice like thunder turned to mourning.
Cordillera's roar turned to rumble, cracked with grief.
Caraballo's healing light faded; his hands trembled; his roots wept sap.