Prologue

Sa pamamagitan ng Bathala ay ibinigay form. Magtuon sa kaluluwa, sa buhay, tame ito. Sa pamamagitan ng Bathala ay ibinigay form. Magtuon sa kaluluwa, sa buhay, tame ito. Again and again I chanted one of the many mantras I had been taught since I could first speak. I could feel my gi, the vital essence that made up every single child of the creator deity Bathala. From a young age, I had been raised by the Stormfangs Sect, a group situated atop the tallest of the lightning beset Kidlat Peaks. Travelers from the north-east nation of Qin had reported of similar individuals to us, those who had nurtured their gi, or qi as they called it, to gain power, Cultivators they were known as, and that term became an accepted nickname of sorts for people like me. Beats saying, for instance a person’s name then attaching the “Of so and so Sect.”

I felt a wave wash over me, as my gi surged around me, crackling like the storms that even now struck the stone edifice of the mountain our monastery was perched on. As I broke from the fifth rank of the Initiate’s Realm, where all those who had learned the basics of the Stormfangs and who had cultivated enough gi and were ready to learn the inner secrets of the Sect. However, as I rose, my barong, the gray thin tunic all men of the sect wore, a realization came over me. The new insight as I had entered Wandering Soul, the realm wherein a member of the Sect had achieved official rank as a member of the Stormfangs, rather than a mere novice who spent most days gathering their gi, practicing the basics of escrima, and often doing menial labor, came to me.

We Cultivators are, save for a scant minority, little more than power-hungry bastards and carrion feeders. We would hoard knowledge and power like the greedy western wyrm, or slay a fellow to prove our superiority. We had tainted the gift Bathala, Father of All, had bestowed upon us.

Or, to put it in more colloquial language, aside from a handful of us, we are all complete assholes who would kill another Cultivator in an attempt to steal their gi or knowledge of some technique and pass it off as our own. I had even heard tales of many slaying the innocent, such as a beggar who had the misfortune of stumbling into the path of a wandering Cultivator. It was then I, Lobo-Kidlat Avelino, made a choice. 

Steeling my resolve, I made my way to the Inner Consultation Chamber, where the seven elders, who had achieved Gold Core or above rank, wherein they would live for centuries past the natural human lifespan. The eldest, Lolo Kudarat, though he was not really my grandfather, or the grandfather of any of the other initiates, was the first to notice me, and eventually bade me enter.

I did the Pagmamano, placing the back of each elder’s hand against my forehead as was customary when greeting an elder. The last I did was to Lolo Agbayani, who was akin to a grandfather to me. He had been close friends with my paternal and maternal grandparents, and when I had shown the potential of Cultivation, had taken me under his wing. He was the second youngest of the elders, being in his mid-50’s, but he possessed the soldier’s body he had acquired fighting off the Valuan conquistadors. 

“Honored elders, I have channeled by gi, and can say I have achieved the first rank on the path of Wandering Soul rank.” I said, a sense of pride swelling in my heart as Lolo Agbayani clapped his strong, bronzed hand on my shoulder. “However, I have come to a realization. Even among our Stormfangs Sect, there is rot, have you not seen how Initiates clash and often slay one another. Surely this is not-”

“ENOUGH!” A deep, baritone voice echoed around the room like a clap of thunder. The second eldest of the council, Lolo Lizardo, stood up. He was built like a brick, his dark gray long coat swaying as he smashed his palms against the table. His trim beard and ponytailed hail had gone white, but his Cultivation of the gifts of Bathala had left him, albeit not the level of the quasi-immortality of Lolo Kudarat, but with a longer lifespan than many. His gi flared up, like a smoldering flame that was steadily growing. “You arrogant little shit!” He ignored the cries of his fellow elders as he leaped from the elevated table, his landing cracking the floor a smidge as he stood before me. “You dare come in here and tell us how,” he lifted me up by my shirt, and fear flooded me. This was how I was going to die, incinerated by the enraged fist of one of the elders, one who had reached the Void realm. “to live? These are our ancient ways. Do you expect us to-guugh!” he dropped me on my ass, using his gi to shield himself as a whip of water slapped him. 

The liquid retreated back towards Lola Lee. She was the Blademistress of the Sect, she instructed us the ways of the blade, from the Valuan rapier, to our native swords such as the kampilan. She was the third eldest of the council, a sharp, rebuking frown on her face. “That is enough, Kuya Lizardo. Young Lobo-Kidlat speaks the truth. Too many of us have gone astray in the ever tempting path to power.” she hissed. “What is it you would ask of this council, young one?”

I bowed my head in respect, “Thank you for the assistance, Lola.” I said softly. “I have come to realize that, perhaps, the Stormfangs sect isn’t right for me anymore. While I do greatly respect you all, or well,” I spared a quick glance at the fuming form of Lolo Lizardo. “Anyway, I would like to….leave. Perhaps time away may help me see what has blinded many of my fellow Cultivators to the outside world.”

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Elder Kudarat chuckled softly, “Wise words indeed, young man.” he stood up. Though he appeared to be a frail old man at first glance, he could easily kill a man with one strike. His tanned skin only had the slightest of wrinkles. “It is true that, especially the younger generations, have become selfish in their desire to reach the heavens. Even I am not so prideful to admit that my hands are not pure.” he sighed. “Very well, young Lightning Wolf,” I had been given that name due to the fact that my Spirit Beast, a gi infused sentient animal, is a wolf. As for lightning? Well, it had been storming when I was born. Cultivators apparently liked thematic naming. “But know this, should you ever need us, know that you will always be welcome here. Ading Agbayani, will see you off.” I bowed my head, and went to go pack the few things I had.

When I finally made my way to the entrance, I found Lolo Agbayani standing there. He wore a somber smile on his grizzled face. In his hands he held a rectangular bundle, and by him, stood Kimat, my faithful wolf. While these canines were not native to my archipelagic home of Maniolas, the land of over seven-thousand islands, they had been carefully integrated several centuries ago by Cultivators and settlers from Qin that had settled here. He had come to me, like all Spirit Beasts, when I had become an initiate at the age of seven, the usual age for the Stormfangs Sect. “Ah, Lobo, there you are.”

“Master Lobo.” Kimat bowed his head. He had, like some of the other Spirit Beasts of the Sect, consumed some Lesser Spirit Herbs, which granted him both human-like intelligence, but also the ability to channel gi. He had in some ways been my disciple. “I have been told we will be leaving the Stormfangs, and returning to your hometown of Sugbu? Master Agbayani has been telling me about it while we waited.”

I smiled, scritching my loyal hound behind the ears. “That we are Kimat.” I said, and bowed to Lolo Agbayani. “Greetings, Lolo.” I touched the back of his outstretched hand to my forehead.

“Greetings, young one.” He first handed me the small purse. I looked inside. Fourteen bronze, five silver, and three gold cowries, plus a handful of Piloncitos, the lumpy coinage issued by the fledgling democratic government. It wasn’t too much, but it would help me get settled. A good portion of the Maniolian people wanted a system of government much like the United States of Pacifico utilized after it threw off the Valuans that had oppressed them, and the Republic of Svearike, after its king had technically abolished the monarchy and instead became its first Chancellor. OK, it's technically a constitutional monarchy, but still, they’re a very democratic monarchy, as oxymoronic as that could be. However the traditionalists wanted a society still run by datus, village chiefs. But I’m rambling.

“Thank you, lolo.” I stowed the coin pouch into the rucksack I had slung over my back, my eyes falling upon the other package he held. “Is that…” 

Lolo Agbayani gave me a small smirk, and swiftly tossed the pack into the air, unfurling it. In his hands he now held a sheathed kalis. It was a traditional Maniolian weapon, a double-edged sword, with a wave-like blade and a slightly curved handle. I, like many of the initiates, had forged my own weapon. Granted, I was never any good at using it as transport. At best I could fly for a few miles before I ended up losing altitude. Thank the gods I’m not scared of heights, at least not more than your average person. 

”Storm Ruler!” I grinned, as did Lolo Agbayani, who tossed me the blade. Despite fumbling a bit, I caught it. I could feel the gi, both mine and that of the Spirit Forge I had crafted the sword in, pulsating as I held it. I had, I will admit, named the sword after one I had read about in a novel one summer. While the ability wasn’t too flashy, being able to conjure a miniature cyclone to restrain an enemy while summoning bolts of lightning when swung after I channel my gi through it, unlike some of the legendary abilities weapons of the old masters, it was serviceable in duels or for slaying lesser Spirit Beasts. I ran a finger along the blade, forged like many of our weapons, from iron that fell from the heavens, and inlaid with the natural gold of the land, an excellent conductor for gi. 

“May she serve you well.” Lolo nodded as I sheathed the blade, hooking it to my hip. Once we attuned our energy to that of the gi within our weapons, some of them gained a will of their own. I sensed a presence in my blade, one that Spiritweaver Yabing of the B’laan people, one of the tribes surrounding the area, had identified as female. I would wait for her to reveal herself. He then drew me into a hug, the scent of Narra tree bark and mangos ever present. “May Bathala guide you, apo.” he said softly, and I tried to stem my tears. This wasn’t goodbye, I would still come and visit.

“May Haik bear you good seas, lolo.” I said. Lolo Agbayani was, and still is, an excellent sailor, and often Cultivated best whenever he took his small boat out to the nearby lake, so I figured asking the Crocodile God to watch over him. I slowly broke the hug, as he clapped me on the shoulders. Taking one last look around, I exited through the titanic bronze doors of our compound, the sun shining upon me.

One foot in front of the other, Kimat nipping at my heels, as we descended the spiraling staircase. Above us, the ever present rumbling of thunder clouds hung over the mountains. Legends has it that the near eternal storms that hang over the Kidlat Peaks occurred long ago when the Lawu, the sun and moon eating serpent-bird daemon of the Kapaympangan people tried to swallow the sun as it passed over the hills.The Stormfangs founder, a holy woman, prayed to the gods for aid, as she sought to try and stall the beast. Kidlat, the Taygalog god of Lightning answered her, sheltering the sun with storm clouds, as he and the founder battled the beast, eventually driving it away. Kidlat then kept the storm clouds in the sky over the mountains, for eternal protection should Lawu, or any other beast, try such a thing again. Its why the mountains were named such, to honor the deity.

Eventually the jagged stone and ringing thunder gave way to birdsong and the sweet smell of foliage. I hummed to myself, as Kimat’s ears were perked for any sign of danger, be it Spirit Beast, bandit, or otherwise, The warm mid-morning sun blazed above. While Maniola is a tropical nation, where we may not possess the compacted chilled water known as snow like northern lands, the long warm periods are good for growing crops. Well, except when it starts raining, cause then the water is hot and sticky, and the air becomes humid. Oh, and there’s the monsoons, hurricanes, and other oceanic hazards. Even with the stormwalls built to try and withstand them, it still often left a path of destruction and death.

After two days of trekking, of which both Kimat and I hunted for game and foraged for fruits and such, eventually we came within sight of Sugbu, the premier port of Maniola. 

With my heart beating and tears of joy threatening to spill out, I quickened my pace into a sprint. Kimat close behind. I headed for the town.

I headed for home.