Chapter 37
The barangay chairman did not file a report.
At least, not the kind that would reach beyond their town.
By the time the small crowd began to disperse, he had already made his decision. Incidents like this, whether old bombs or something worse, carried consequences beyond safety. Word spread quickly, and fear traveled faster than truth. Their town was quiet, slowly gaining attention from visitors and small investors looking for land, for opportunity, for something untouched.
A report like this,
Would ruin that.
So instead of escalating it, the chairman went directly to the mayor. The conversation was brief but deliberate. He explained what had happened, or at least, what they agreed to call it, and what it could mean if it reached outside ears.
Unexploded ordnance.
Aerial bombs, maybe a landmine, danger beneath the soil.
It was enough to turn curiosity into avoidance.
The mayor understood.
And agreed.
No formal report was filed beyond internal records. No police escalation. No outside attention. Instead, they organized a quiet clearing operation, limited, controlled, and kept within the barangay. A few trusted workers were sent to inspect the area, mark potential risks, and avoid unnecessary disturbance.
To anyone else,
Nothing had happened.
Just another quiet day in a quiet town.
By the time Nille returned to his routine life it has passed two days at the warehouse, the sun had begun to lean toward the afternoon again as Nille didn't waste time contemplating on uncertainty, his land and his tenants greeted him the same way it always did, still, grounded, unchanged on the surface despite what had occurred two days earlier.
He set the weights down, the familiar motion grounding him back into focus.
There was no need to dwell on what had happened earlier.
That part was already understood.
What mattered now was application.
Within a short span of time, Nille had reached a level of control that even surprised the beings observing him. He was no longer limited to a single cast or a single output. He could now produce multiple fire constructs at varying ranges and intensities, each one shaped with intent, each one carrying a different level of compression depending on what he required.
From a distance, Lakan watched in silence.
Even Apo Bagani, who rarely involved himself in anything beyond his mound, did not hide his reaction. What Nille was doing was not just unusual, it was structured in a way most Encantos did not approach. They used power as it came naturally to them. Nille, on the other hand, was refining it like a system.
And that made it unpredictable.
And dangerous.
Testing the destructive capability was no longer his priority.
He had already seen enough.
The crater. The heat. The force.
He knew what it could do.
Now, his focus shifted entirely to consistency and repetition.
He refined the process.
Instead of increasing the size of the flame, Nille kept it constant, no larger than a marble. That decision alone changed everything. By maintaining a fixed size, he eliminated one variable, allowing him to concentrate entirely on density, layering, and release timing.
Each orb became a controlled unit.
A standard.
A baseline.
From there, he worked on compression.
Layer by layer, he reinforced the internal structure, increasing pressure without altering the external form. What once took him nearly a minute, he began to reduce into seconds. Not perfect, but faster.
Much faster.
And more importantly,
Repeatable.
Within those two days, Nille pushed himself relentlessly. He did not waste energy on unnecessary displays. Every cast had a purpose, testing limits, measuring output, refining control.
How many could he sustain at once?
How fast could he form them?
At what point did instability begin to outweigh control?
He explored each question through practice.
At first, two orbs.
Then three.
Then more, each one hovering briefly before dissipating or being released in controlled bursts. Some failed. Some destabilized. But each attempt gave him data.
Each correction improved the next.
The results were clear.
Even at a marble's size, the level of compression he could now achieve had reached a point where each cast carried enough force to be decisive. Not exaggerated. Not wasteful.
Just enough to paralyze.
To injure.
To kill, if necessary.
That realization did not excite him.
It simply confirmed what he needed to know.
At the same time, Nille did not isolate himself completely.
During those two days, he continued to accept requests from those who sought his help. Minor cases. Lingering disturbances. Small encounters with unseen entities that ordinary people could not deal with on their own.
He handled them the same way he always had, efficiently, without drawing attention.
But now,
There was a difference.
Where before he relied on instinct and limited techniques, he now had options.
Control.
Range.
Precision.
The ability to end situations before they escalated.
And quietly, without announcement, his reputation continued to grow, not because he sought it, but because results spoke louder than anything else.
By the end of the second day, Nille stood once more in his training space, breathing steady, his energy reserves lower but not depleted.
He had not mastered it.
Not yet.
But he had reached something important.
A foundation.
One that was no longer based on raw power,
But on control, efficiency, and understanding.
And from that,
Everything else could be built.
By the fourth day, at around five in the afternoon, the disturbance caused by the supposed unearthed World War II artillery explosion had already faded into memory.
What remained was silence.
Not the uneasy kind, but the familiar, chosen quiet that defined the small, secluded town.
Life had returned to its usual rhythm. No official reports spread beyond the area, and whatever questions had been raised were quietly settled among those who had witnessed it. Gossip, if there was any, never traveled far. The people here were not the kind to invite attention. They kept things to themselves, not out of fear, but out of habit, an unspoken agreement that whatever happened within their land stayed within it.
It was a small population.
Roughly one hundred fifty people in total.
But they were not clustered together like a typical community.
They were spread out, divided into three distinct locations, each separated by distance, terrain, and preference.
Closest to the main road, toward the west, lived Ernesto Dela Cruz and his family. His home stood as the nearest point of contact between the secluded settlement and the outside world. The structure itself was simple but well-maintained, wood reinforced with concrete, surrounded by a modest yard where a few livestock roamed freely. With seven family members under one roof, it was one of the more active households in the area. Travelers passing through would occasionally stop by his place first, whether for directions, small trade, or simply because it was the most accessible now after Nille save the Dela Cruz from ruin, as the place were cleaned and renovated the road without sacrificing nature itself
Further inward, at the center of the land, was where the majority resided.
The remaining families, scattered but loosely connected, formed a quiet cluster of homes spaced apart by patches of vegetation, narrow paths, and uneven terrain. There was no formal layout, no strict organization. Each household existed with enough distance to maintain privacy, yet close enough to remain part of the same community. Smoke from cooking fires would rise in different directions at dusk, subtle signs of life rather than noise. Conversations were kept low. Movements were unhurried. It was a place where people lived without needing to be seen.
And then,
At the farthest edge, separated by both distance and intent, was where Nille lived.
His land stood apart from everything else.
A wide, isolated stretch surrounded by dense vegetation, uneven ground, and natural barriers that made casual visits rare. The warehouse, his primary structure, sat quietly within it, solid, functional, and out of place in a way that only made sense once understood. Behind it stretched the backyard, thick with growth and carefully maintained patches of medicinal plants once tended by Granny Amparo. The kamagong tree stood at its center, unmoving and watchful, while the compost pit and soil mound rested nearby, quietly supporting the slow recovery of the Kinabalu, unseen my mortal eyes.
No one wandered there without reason.
And no one stayed longer than necessary.
It was not out of fear,
But respect.
Because while the rest of the town lived in quiet separation,
Nille lived in deliberate solitude.
And somehow, that distance kept everything in balance.
The message that reached Lakan Dalisay was not one of delight , but of urgency, edged with quiet desperation, It came in the form of a letter, carried through channels only their kind could trace, its origin unmistakable.
Maruha Dalisay.
His elder sister.
The contents were direct, but heavy with implication. Her clan, long settled near the Maramo River, had been drawn into a growing dispute—one that should have remained trivial, but had instead turned dangerous.
At the center of it was a Pilandok.
Not an ordinary one.
This particular being was known among the scattered Encantos of that region—clever, persistent, and deeply rooted in old customs that blurred the line between tradition and entitlement. What began as a proposal had quickly become something else entirely.
He had declared his intent to marry both of Maruha's daughters.
Lualhati.
And Tala.
What might have once been dismissed as arrogance had escalated into coercion. The Pilandok did not approach with respect or negotiation. Instead, he asserted his claim through pressure, invoking old, half-forgotten practices and twisting them into justification.
When Maruha refused
He responded with force.
Not open war, not yet, but enough to disturb the balance of the area. Small acts of aggression. Encroachment. Disruption of the land surrounding their dwelling. Warnings disguised as incidents. Each one measured, deliberate, and growing in frequency.
It was no longer a personal matter.
It had become a threat.
Maruha's letter did not beg, but it carried a clear request. She intended to move, to bring her daughters away from the Maramo River before the situation escalated further. But before doing so, she wished to seek audience with the one who now held influence over a land said to be stable, protected, and, more importantly, governed by someone they had begun to hear about.
A name had reached even their side.
Lingkod Kamatayan.
The Servant of Death.
Lakan read the letter in silence, his expression unreadable.
He understood what it meant.
They were not just asking for refuge.
They were asking for judgment.
Nille, however, had no intention of allowing his name to become something that instilled fear among those who simply wished to live in peace. He had built his reputation through necessity, not authority. The title was not something he carried with pride, it was something others had given him based on actions they only partially understood.
And he did not want it to become a threat.
Not to beings who meant no harm.
His decision remained unchanged.
Only those who understood his intent, those willing to coexist without disrupting balance, would be allowed within his land.
No exceptions.
Still,
As Lakan lowered the letter, he knew this was not a simple matter of granting entry.
Because if the Pilandok was willing to push this far,
Then it would not end with refusal alone.
Nille was at the far end of his backyard, working quietly beside a row of clay drums and sealed containers. The scent of crushed herbs and damp soil lingered in the air as he carefully filtered a batch of freshly brewed potions, restoring what had been used over the past few days. It was a steady, grounded task, one that kept his hands busy and his mind clear.
The land around him felt stable.
Alive.
Then Lakan approached.
He did not arrive with urgency, but there was weight in his presence—something Nille had already learned to recognize. Taking human form, Lakan moved across the yard with quiet familiarity, stopping just a few steps away from where Nille stood.
"There is something you need to see," Lakan said calmly.
Nille glanced up, wiping his hands lightly before turning to face him.
Without another word, Lakan extended a letter.
The material was unlike ordinary paper, thin, slightly textured, carrying a faint trace of spiritual energy. Nille took it carefully, his fingers brushing against the surface as he unfolded it.
What greeted him were characters he did not understand.
Baybayin.
Ancient.
Flowing.
Unfamiliar.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then,
The ink moved.
Not physically in the sense of dripping or smudging, but shifting—rearranging itself before his eyes. The symbols began to flow, their shapes subtly changing, transforming into forms his mind could recognize. What was once unreadable slowly restructured into modern letters, each line forming meaning as if the letter itself understood the reader.
Nille did not react outwardly.
But internally,
He recognized it immediately.
This was not new to him.
This was the third time he had encountered something like this.
The first time it happened was with Luna.
When she entered his dream for the second time, she did not teach him in the way humans usually understood teaching. There were no spoken explanations, no written instructions, no structured lessons. Instead, what Nille experienced was something far more direct.
She showed him.
Not just the words and symbols but also to movement.
Symbols formed in his mind like living constructs, unfolding one after another as if reality itself had been translated into motion. Each shape carried intent. Each transformation represented action, timing, and structure. They did not remain static; they evolved as he observed them, breaking apart and reforming into sequences that felt less like information and more like experience.
At that time, Nille did not understand what it was.
He simply absorbed it.
Only later did he recognize what had actually happened.
It was not language in the traditional sense.
It was transmission through visualization, knowledge encoded as shifting symbols that bypassed verbal explanation entirely and spoke directly to understanding itself.
Luna had not taught him words.
She had taught him process.
And those processes became the foundation of everything he would later refine, combat flow, movement timing, and the instinctive structuring of techniques he now associated with martial discipline.
Only after that experience did he realize a pattern forming across everything around him.
That knowledge did not always come through speech.
Sometimes, it came through direct imprint, systems of understanding embedded into perception itself, waiting to be interpreted by the mind that received them.
A translation of knowledge beyond language.
What was had given to him became the foundation of his system facing the unknown, something closely aligned with the structured flow of what he created, from learning combat martial arts like the Pekiti-Tirsia Kali, though adapted through his own understanding. It moved like instinct, but followed rules. Patterns. Precision.
The second time had been through the scarf, it was similar to what Luna did but it was anchored only in te human realm, as teh scarf did mention its was incomplete.
Within the Mirror Realm, the celestial cloth had gathered fragments of ancient spell structures—again written in Baybayin. But instead of remaining static, the symbols had moved within his mind, reshaping themselves into forms he could process. Fire. Healing. Control.
Not learned.
But understood.
And now,
This was the third.
Nille's eyes remained on the letter as the final lines settled into something readable. The movement stopped, the symbols stabilizing into modern script, as if the message had completed its translation.
"It's enchanted," Lakan said, observing him. "So that even those who do not know the language can understand its meaning."
Nille gave a slight nod, confirming what he saw, but still focused.
He understood now.
This was not just a method of communication.
It was a bridge.
A way for beings of different realms, different systems of understanding, to share knowledge without losing its essence. The old baybayin symbols did not simply translate words.
They translated intent.
Meaning.
Context.
And that was why it felt familiar.
Because everything he had encountered so far, Luna's teachings, the scarf's knowledge, and now this letter, followed the same principle.
The supernatural world did not rely on fixed language.
It relied on interpretation shaped by the mind.
Nille exhaled slowly, absorbing the message as it settled fully into his understanding.
Then he lowered the letter slightly and looked at Lakan.
"I see," he said quietly.
But what he truly meant was,
He understood more than just the words written on the page.
Lakan Dalisay watched Nille's expression carefully as the weight of understanding settled between them.
The silence did not last long.
"This is not just a request for shelter," Lakan said at last, his tone steady but heavier now. "It is a request for refuge because staying there will no longer hold the situation together."
His gaze shifted slightly, as if seeing the Maramo River in his mind.
"The conflict will not end on its own."
He paused.
"Not with this kind of Pilandok involved."
The name alone carried a familiar meaning in their world—creatures known for cleverness, deception, and unpredictable behavior. Tricksters by nature, yes, but usually harmless in intent. Mischief over destruction. Wit over violence.
But this one,
Lakan's expression darkened slightly.
"This Pilandok is not like the others."
He exhaled slowly, as if choosing his words carefully.
"It is vile."
Not chaotic in a playful sense.
Not mischievous in the old stories.
But corrupted.
Driven.
The kind that no longer followed the balance of its own kind.
"It has taken something beyond its nature," Lakan continued. "Greed. Lust. Possession. These are not instincts of its kind—they are distortions. And when something like that takes root in a being like a Pilandok…"
He shook his head faintly.
"It becomes dangerous in ways even older clans cannot easily manage."
A brief silence followed before he added more directly.
"The attempt to claim Maruha's daughters is not tradition. It is not culture. It is escalation."
His eyes met Nille's again.
"And when a being like that escalates, it does not stop at rejection."
The implication hung in the air.
This was no longer a simple territorial dispute along the Maramo River.
It was turning into something unstable.
Unpredictable.
And potentially destructive for anyone still living within its reach.
Lakan's voice lowered slightly.
"That is why my sister is seeking refuge here," he said. "Not only for safety—but because staying there means the situation will eventually spread beyond her control."
He paused again, then added more firmly.
"A Pilandok that has lost balance will not respect boundaries. Not land. Not clans. Not agreements."
His expression remained calm, but his words carried certainty.
"If we do nothing, it will not remain confined to Maramo River."
Then he looked directly at Nille.
"And if it reaches here later instead of now…"
He did not finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Because both of them already understood what that meant.
Meanwhile, far from Nille's land and the quiet stability of the warehouse estate, the Pilandok was no longer acting alone.
It had begun to gather others.
Not loyal followers—but kindred corruption. Beings of the unseen world who had once remained scattered, each with their own instincts and territories, now drawn together by something darker than curiosity. Greed had taken root in them as well, feeding on the increasing attention the Maramo River was receiving from human visitors each summer. Where there was tourism, there was noise. Where there was noise, there was opportunity. And where there was opportunity, these entities saw only one thing—control.
Among them, the Pilandok stood out even before it revealed its true form.
In its human guise, it appeared deceptively ordinary at first glance. A slender young man of average height, with slightly sharp, fox-like features that became more noticeable the longer one looked at him. His skin had a faint, unnatural smoothness—too even, too unweathered by time. His eyes, though dark and calm, carried a reflective sheen that sometimes caught light at strange angles, like something beneath them was not entirely human. He often wore loose, traveler's clothing, blending easily into crowds if ever he chose to appear near human settlements. His smile, however, rarely reached his eyes. When it did appear, it lingered just a moment too long, as if practiced rather than felt.
But that was only the surface.
In its true Encanto form, the Pilandok was far less restrained.
Its body became leaner, elongated in a way that broke human proportion without fully abandoning it. The limbs extended slightly, giving it an unsettling agility—light on its feet, always balanced as if it never fully touched the ground. Its skin took on a muted, earthen tone with faint, shifting markings that resembled patterns of cracked soil or dry riverbeds, as though its very body reflected the land it sought to claim.
Its ears sharpened into elongated, almost antler-like ridges that flicked subtly when sensing movement or energy nearby. The eyes lost their human disguise entirely—becoming reflective, almost glassy, with a depth that suggested constant calculation rather than emotion. In low light, they seemed to shimmer faintly, like something watching through it rather than belonging to it.
Its presence was not loud.
It was invasive.
A quiet pressure that made the surrounding air feel slightly "off," as though reality itself hesitated around its form.
Around it gathered the maligno it had recruited, entities that had once been independent but were now willingly aligning themselves under its influence. Their forms varied: some shadowed, some distorted, others barely maintaining physical coherence. What unified them was not appearance, but intent. Each had begun to rot inwardly under the same force that had changed the Pilandok, desire twisted into hunger for dominion over the Maramo River.
The Pilandok stood at the center of them, calm, composed, almost patient.
But beneath that stillness was direction.
A plan forming.
"The humans return every summer," it said softly, its voice smooth but layered with something unsettling beneath it, like two tones speaking at once. "They walk our land, touch our river, take without understanding."
Its gaze drifted toward the unseen direction of the Maramo valley.
"They think it belongs to no one."
A faint smile formed.
"Then we will teach them otherwise."
The maligno around it did not speak.
They did not need to.
Because the intention had already spread among them, amplified by shared corruption.
What had begun as a territorial dispute had shifted into something far more dangerous:
Not protection of land.
But domination of it.
And the Pilandok, once merely a trickster by nature, now stood as something else entirely—
a catalyst for invasion disguised as intent.
Nille folded the enchanted letter carefully and returned it to Lakan without further comment. His expression remained calm, but his mind was already turning over the implications—Maruha's request, the Pilandok's escalation, and the growing instability along the Maramo River.
Without saying much more, he stepped away and went inside the warehouse.
The familiar stillness of the place greeted him. The quiet hum of life—animals settling, air moving through open spaces, the faint scent of herbs still drying—was grounding in a way nothing else was.
But Nille did not settle.
He walked toward the inner space where Granny Amparo usually manifested when she chose to. Not always visible, not always active, but always present in some lingering sense tied to the land she had once tended.
He stopped.
"Lola Amparo," he called softly. "I need advice."
A brief silence followed.
Then—
The faint creak of wood.
The old rocking chair appeared near the corner, as if it had always been there. Slowly, Granny Amparo's presence formed within it, her manifestation settling into a familiar, almost theatrical slowness. She gave one lazy sway in the chair, eyes half-lidded, as though she had been interrupted from something far more important than reality itself.
And then she spoke.
"Hay naku, Apo…" she said, voice dry with exhaustion and affection mixed together. "Are you really going to disturb my rest again?"
Nille blinked slightly.
She continued before he could respond.
"I know you well enough," Granny Amparo added, waving a hand dismissively as the chair creaked back and forth. "You don't actually need my advice. You just want confirmation that what you already decided is right."
Her eyes opened just a little more, sharp beneath the laziness.
"And don't pretend otherwise."
Nille paused.
For once, he didn't immediately respond.
Because she was right.
Granny Amparo leaned back in the chair, letting it rock slowly again, her tone softening but still firm.
"You already saw the situation clearly," she continued. "You just want someone old enough to tell you that your instincts aren't wrong."
A faint pause.
Then, with a tired sigh, she added—
"But if you insist on hearing it from me…"
Her gaze shifted slightly, more serious now.
"Be careful, Apo."
"This is not just about land or people anymore."
Her voice lowered just a fraction.
"This is about things that grow when left unchecked."
Granny Amparo's rocking chair slowed for a moment.
Not stopped.
Just… hesitated.
Her eyes, which had been half-lidded with her usual tired amusement, shifted slightly as Nille watched her. There was something different in her expression now—not confusion, not fear, but restraint. Like she had stepped close to a door she knew better than to open.
She let out a soft sigh.
"Apo…" she muttered, almost to herself.
The air in the room felt heavier, though nothing visible had changed.
Nille noticed.
He always noticed.
Granny Amparo adjusted herself in the chair, her tone returning to its usual lazy cadence, but it carried a thin layer of caution underneath.
"You're thinking this Pilandok is just another greedy creature," she said slowly. "Another Encanto that lost its balance."
She tapped the armrest once.
"Maybe it is."
Then she paused again.
Longer this time.
The rocking chair creaked softly in the silence.
"But there are things," she continued, voice lower now, "that don't belong to Encantos alone."
Her gaze drifted away from Nille for a moment, as if looking through the walls of the warehouse, past the land, past the visible world itself.
"Things humans carry without knowing," she said carefully. "Things that cling… and spread."
Nille didn't interrupt.
He waited.
Granny Amparo exhaled slowly, as if deciding how far she was willing to speak.
"There are old imbalances," she said at last, more grounded in tone but still careful. "Feelings. Desires. Excess. They don't stay in one place anymore."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the chair.
"And when Encantos stay too close to human influence for too long…"
She stopped.
Not because she didn't know what to say,
but because she couldn't say it directly.
Instead, she shook her head faintly.
"Let's just say," she continued, softer again, "that not everything growing inside beings is natural anymore."
A pause.
Then she forced a small, tired smile.
"But you don't need to worry about old stories like that right now."
Nille narrowed his eyes slightly.
Because that wasn't an answer.
It was avoidance.
And Granny Amparo rarely avoided anything unless it mattered.
She leaned back again, letting the rocking chair move slowly, trying to return to her usual dismissive tone.
"Focus on what's in front of you, Apo," she said lightly. "That Pilandok, the river clan, your training, those are real problems."
But her eyes didn't fully return to their usual calm.
Not yet.
And when Nille turned slightly, as if accepting her advice, she added one last thing—almost too quiet to be called a warning.
"Just remember…"
A brief pause.
"…some influences don't show themselves until they've already taken root."
The rocking chair creaked again.
And this time,
she let the silence finish the sentence she refused to say aloud.