Chapter 29
Granny Amparo's voice cut through the calm like a warning bell.
"Apo! You have visitors!"
Nille didn't hesitate. His body moved before thought fully formed, instinct sharpened by countless encounters with the unseen. His right hand clenched into a guarded knuckle stance, while his left already drew the butterfly knife in one smooth, practiced motion.
The warehouse backdoor slid open fast.
Too fast.
The moment light spilled into the threshold, danger followed it.
A sharp whistle tore through the air, an arrow released with lethal precision, aimed directly at his vitals.
Nille twisted his torso sideways at the last possible instant.
WHOOSH!
The arrow grazed past his chest, close enough that he felt the pressure of its passage, and buried itself into the wooden frame behind him.
No hesitation. No shock.
Only movement.
Nille stepped forward into the open yard instead of retreating, denying them the advantage of confined space. His eyes locked onto the source, six figures emerging from the tall grass beyond the warehouse boundary.
Mahomanay.
Elf-like beings, that stands 6 feet and has a slender body physique, otherworldly handsome in a way that felt wrong under the weight of their intent. Pale skin like polished bone, long black hair flowing unnaturally still despite the wind. Their pointy ears twitched slightly as they adjusted their aim, bowstrings already drawn again.
Three more arrows fired at once.
Nille dropped low.
The first passed above his head. The second he deflected with the flat side of his blade—CLINK!—sending it spinning off course. The third forced him to pivot hard to the side, boots scraping concrete.
" Anak ng tipaklong! They're coordinated… military precision", he thought.
No time to analyze further.
He dashed forward.
Not backward. Not defensive. Forward.
The Mahomanay reacted instantly, two more arrows released in quick succession. Nille angled his shoulder, letting one tear past his sleeve without piercing, the other narrowly missing his neck as he ducked under it.
Now he was within range.
The first Mahomanay tried to retreat, but Nille was already there.
A sharp step-in.
His elbow struck first, clean, controlled, not wasted motion. The elf staggered back, surprised by the sheer physical force. Nille followed with a low kick to destabilize its stance, then rotated his wrist, the butterfly blade flashing once.
Not a kill strike.
A disable cut across the bow arm—clean, precise, and deliberate.
Nille didn't swing wildly. He stepped in just as the Mahomanay began to draw again, reading the tension in its shoulder, the slight lift of the elbow that always came before release. That was the opening.
His blade moved in a tight arc, short, efficient.
SHRK,
Steel met flesh with a controlled slice, not deep enough to sever completely, but angled perfectly along the muscle line of the forearm. The cut traced across the extensor tendons—the very ones responsible for grip and release.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then the fingers spasmed.
The bowstring slipped.
The arrow dropped uselessly to the ground.
The Mahomanay's hand trembled violently, unable to close properly, unable to hold tension. Blood welled along the cut, not spraying wildly, but flowing steadily, coating the pale skin in sharp contrast.
Pain came next.
A delayed, burning surge that twisted the elf's expression from focus into shock. Its grip failed entirely, the bow slipping from numb fingers and hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Nille didn't linger. He had already moved past the strike, already repositioning.
Because the goal wasn't to kill.
It was to take away their ability to fight.
"Five left," Nille muttered under his breath.
Behind him, more arrows sliced the air.
He twisted sideways, letting them pass dangerously close, then used the momentum to close distance again, entering the blind zone of another archer.
A second clash. Steel against bone-like armor.
The butterfly knife flickered, fast, precise, unpredictable angles. The Mahomanay tried to counter, but Nille's movement was already layered with intent. He wasn't just fighting bodies, he was reading rhythm.
Draw. Release. Step. Predict.
Two more were already repositioning.
The scarf inside him tightened slightly, feeding him micro-adjustments in timing, like a silent strategist whispering through instinct.
"Left flank," it warned.
Nille ducked just as another arrow grazed the air where his head had been. He pivoted, grabbing the attacking Mahomanay's wrist mid-draw and slamming it downward into the ground—disrupting the shot completely.
CRACK, bow snapped against concrete.
The sixth attacker hesitated for the first time.
That hesitation was all Nille needed.
He advanced again, controlled, relentless, but not reckless. Each movement was measured, each strike intentional. He was not overpowering them with brute force alone.
He was breaking their rhythm.
And in that moment, the Mahomanay realized something,
This human didn't fight like prey.
He fought like something that had already survived worse.
The hesitation didn't last.
The remaining Mahomanay moved as one again, whatever fear flickered in them was crushed under command. Their eyes hardened, and the formation shifted. Two dropped their bows entirely, drawing slender, curved blades from behind their backs, while the others adjusted their stance for closer engagement.
They weren't leaving without him.
Nille saw it instantly. Capture order.
"Alive… but broken," he muttered. "Figures."
The first blade came fast, too fast for a normal human to track.
But Nille wasn't moving like a normal human anymore.
He slipped just outside the arc of the strike, his body tilting at an unnatural angle as the blade sliced past his ribs, close enough to nick skin. A thin line of blood surfaced, but he didn't react. Instead, he stepped in.
His right fist drove forward,short, compact, brutal.
THUD.
The impact landed square into the Mahomanay's sternum. Not a wild swing,controlled force, compressed power. The kind that didn't just hurt… it shocked the body. The elf staggered, breath knocked out, balance shattered.
Nille followed immediately, no pause.
A knee rose sharply into the midsection, folding the attacker inward. Then his left hand snapped forward, blade flashing, cutting deep across the thigh muscle. Not fatal. But enough to cripple movement.
The Mahomanay collapsed with a strained gasp, unable to stand.
Behind him, danger.
A sharp pressure brushed against his senses.
He turned just as another blade came down toward his shoulder.
Too close to dodge clean.
Nille raised his arm,
SLASH.
The blade bit into his sleeve and grazed flesh beneath, drawing blood.
Pain flared, real, sharp, but he used it.
His body twisted into the strike instead of away from it, collapsing the distance. His forehead slammed forward,
CRACK.
Headbutt.
The Mahomanay reeled, stunned, nose crushed and bleeding. Nille didn't let it recover. His elbow followed immediately, smashing into the jaw, then a quick reverse grip slash across the forearm, forcing the weapon loose.
The blade clattered to the ground.
"Three left," Nille breathed, low and steady.
But they adapted.
The remaining Mahomanay no longer rushed blindly. Two circled wide, forcing Nille to divide his attention, while the last one, clearly more experienced, drew another arrow… but this time, held it like a dagger.
Close-quarters archery.
Smart.
They came at him together.
One from the front. feinting high. One from the side, low sweep. One directly behind, aiming for a disabling strike.
Nille moved,
A step forward, then pivot.
The front attacker's blade skimmed past his shoulder. Nille caught the wrist mid-motion, twisting sharply,
POP.
Joint displacement. Not fully broken, but useless for combat.
He shoved the body forward into the second attacker's path, collision breaking their rhythm,
Then he turned.
Too late to fully evade.
The third Mahomanay's strike landed,
A sharp slash across his back.
Cloth tore. Skin opened.
Nille's breath hitched, but he didn't fall.
Instead,
He stepped backward into the attacker.
Closing distance.
Denying space.
His hand shot back, grabbing the attacker's collar, pulling him forward,
Then his head snapped back again,
CRACK.
Another headbutt, this time with full commitment.
The Mahomanay staggered, grip loosening.
Nille spun, blade flashing,
A deep cut across the abdomen, not lethal, but enough to drop the elf to one knee, bleeding heavily.
The yard was no longer quiet.
Grass flattened. Soil torn. The scent of iron filled the air.
The remaining two stood frozen for a fraction of a second, breathing hard, eyes locked on him.
They understood now.
This was not a simple retrieval mission.
This was a fight against something that refused to break.
Nille wiped a streak of blood from his lip with the back of his hand, breathing steady despite the wounds forming across his body.
"You were ordered to bring me in," he said quietly. "But you didn't think about what that would cost."
The last two tightened their grip on their weapons.
The last two Mahomanay lunged, fast, desperate, fully committed.
Nille shifted his stance, weight low, ready to intercept
RRRRAAANG!
The sound exploded through the warehouse like thunder.
Metal screamed.
The sliding main door, thick, reinforced, was ripped clean off its rails as if it were nothing more than paper. It twisted midair, slammed into the concrete wall, and crumpled with a deafening crash.
The ground trembled. Dust rose.
Everything paused.
Even the Mahomanay faltered mid-charge.
Nille's head snapped toward the noise, and what he saw forced even him to react instantly.
A towering figure stepped through the torn entrance.
Ten feet tall.
Long, unnatural limbs. Muscles stretched tight beneath dark, coarse skin. Its legs bent wrong—like a beast's, ending in hooves that cracked against the concrete floor with each step. Its head… elongated, horse-like, with flared nostrils exhaling hot breath into the cold air.
A Tikbalang.
And it was angry.
The air shifted violently as it entered, bringing with it a suffocating presence—wild, territorial, dominant. Its eyes scanned the area with primal intelligence before locking onto movement.
On Nille.
But Nille wasn't looking at it.
Not yet.
His eyes went to Granny Amparo.
She was still there, calm, seated on her tumba-tumba, gently rocking back and forth as if nothing had happened.
"Lola!"
Without thinking, Nille broke position.
He dashed toward her, fast, ignoring the Mahomanay completely. One of them tried to capitalize, slashing toward his side,
The blade connected,
SHHK!
A deeper cut this time across his ribs, but Nille didn't stop.
Pain registered, but it wasn't priority.
He reached Granny Amparo in a blur, stepping in front of her protectively, body angled, knife raised, breathing steady but sharp.
"Are you okay?" he asked quickly.
She looked up at him… and laughed softly.
"Ay, apo… you're still treating me like I can get hurt."
Nille froze for half a second.
Right.
She was a spirit.
The realization hit him mid-breath, just as the Tikbalang took another heavy step forward, its hoof cracking the concrete beneath it.
The Mahomanay regrouped instantly, now shifting their focus, not just on Nille, but on the new arrival. Tension filled the air as two different kinds of predators shared the same space.
The Tikbalang snorted violently, its gaze sweeping across the wounded elves before settling again on Nille.
Territory breached.
Conflict sensed.
It didn't care about sides.
Only dominance.
Nille straightened slowly, stepping away from Granny Amparo, blade still in hand, shoulders squared despite the blood soaking into his shirt.
"…Great," he muttered under his breath.
The scarf tightened around him, voice sharp and alert.
"New variable detected. Hostile. Extremely volatile. Suggest immediate recalibration of strategy."
Nille exhaled once, eyes narrowing as he shifted his stance again—now facing both threats.
Mahomanay in front.
Tikbalang behind.
Cornered.
Outnumbered.
Bleeding.
And yet,
He didn't step back.
The Tikbalang suddenly moved.
Fast.
Too fast for its size.
It lunged forward, one massive arm swinging downward, aimed not just to strike… but to crush.
Nille reacted instantly
He grabbed the edge of the broken metal door beside him and pulled, using it as a makeshift shield,
BOOM!
The impact was monstrous.
Metal bent inward violently, the force sending vibrations straight through his arms and into his chest. His feet slid backward across the concrete, boots scraping hard as he absorbed what he could and redirected the rest.
Not enough to stop it completely,
But enough to survive it.
He twisted to the side, letting the momentum carry the force away—then dropped the metal slab and moved.
Fast.
The Mahomanay saw their chance.
Two arrows fired again from close range.
Nille ducked one, but the other struck,
THUNK.
It embedded into his shoulder.
His body jerked,but he didn't fall.
Instead
He grabbed the arrow shaft, snapped it clean, and stepped forward again.
Now his breathing was heavier.
Now the fight had changed.
This was no longer a controlled engagement.
This was chaos.
And in that chaos
Nille stood his ground.
But something changed.
Nille's breathing grew heavier, ragged, uneven, not from exhaustion alone, but from something deeper rising within him. His stare sharpened, no longer just focused… but cutting.
The pain from his wounds was still there, the arrow lodged in his shoulder, the torn flesh across his ribs and back, but it no longer slowed him. If anything, it fed whatever was building inside him.
The Tikbalang stepped forward again, now clearly aligned with the Mahomanay. It wasn't a wild intruder.
It was an enforcer.
Sent to ensure the capture.
The moment that realization settled,
The Kaunakes cloth reacted.
It moved on its own.
The scarf unraveled from his shoulders in a fluid, serpentine motion before snapping back into place, tight, controlled, covering half of Nille's face like a living mask. Its threads darkened, pulsing faintly as if responding not just to danger… but to emotion.
His aura shifted.
The air around him grew dense, almost suffocating. The ground beneath his feet seemed to tighten, like the land itself was bracing.
And then
"You dare attack my grandmother!"
His voice cut through the space, not loud, but heavy.
Different.
This wasn't the calm, measured Nille who calculated every move. This was something raw. Unfiltered.
For the first time,
His balance… wavered.
Not broken.
But shaken.
Inside his enclave, the change was undeniable.
The metaphysical space that represented his power reacted violently.
At the center floated his core, once steady, controlled, but now it had grown.
It was no longer small and contained.
It had expanded,
Now the size of a basketball.
It pulsed with life, each beat releasing waves of energy that rippled outward like shockwaves through the enclave. Its surface shimmered with layered hues, earth tones mixed with faint streaks of green, like fertile land infused with life.
Beneath it, the sapling, once fragile, responded immediately.
Leaves sprouted rapidly, unfurling with unnatural speed, their veins glowing faintly as if drinking directly from the core's sudden surge. Roots extended deeper into nothingness, searching, anchoring, stabilizing.
But something else moved.
Something new.
Orbiting the primary core,
A second sphere.
Small.
No larger than a ping pong ball.
Yet it moved rapidly, erratic, unstable, circling the main core like a charged particle caught in a magnetic storm.
It wasn't solid.
It was luminous.
A shifting mass of blue-violet plasma, discharging faint arcs of energy as it spun faster and faster. Sparks snapped outward, dissolving into the air before they could stabilize.
It didn't feel… natural.
Not like the main core.
Not like the sapling.
It felt foreign.
Or perhaps,
Dormant… until now.
Was it a fragment of something inherited?
A remnant of Nille's ancestral lineage, something left behind, waiting for the right emotional trigger to awaken?
Or was it something entirely different,
A byproduct of the scarf's evolution?
A reaction to the ancient spell he once cast?
Or worse…
A manifestation of something Nille himself had yet to understand?
Unlike the primary core, which radiated stability, balance, and life, the second core pulsed with volatility. Movement. Change.
It didn't anchor.
It reacted.
Back in the physical world,
Nille stepped forward.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The scarf-mask concealed half his face, but his eyes,
His eyes burned with something new.
Not just resolve.
Not just control.
Something deeper.
Something that even the Mahomanay, and the Tikbalang, instinctively recognized.
For the first time since the fight began,
They hesitated.
The wounded Mahomanay, those still conscious, felt it first, fear, slow and invasive, crawling beneath their skin like something alive. Their breathing faltered. Their grip weakened. Whatever confidence they had brought into this fight… cracked.
Nille moved.
No warning. No buildup.
Just motion.
He closed the distance in a single burst, faster than before, sharper, more direct. The nearest Mahomanay barely raised his blade before Nille's fist crashed into his face.
CRACK.
The sound was sickening—bone giving way under controlled, brutal force. The elf's body lifted slightly off the ground before collapsing backward, blood spraying across the grass.
Nille didn't stop.
He pivoted mid-step, driving his elbow downward into another attacker's collarbone,
SNAP.
The limb went limp instantly. The Mahomanay screamed, but the sound was cut short as Nille's knee drove into his jaw, snapping his head back with violent precision. Teeth scattered onto the dirt.
The scarf tightened, its threads pulsing, feeding him timing, feeding him alignment, but it wasn't controlling him.
This was all Nille.
Raw, Primal, pure savagery
The third Mahomanay lunged in desperation, slashing wildly.
Nille didn't dodge.
He stepped into the attack.
The blade cut across his side, but shallow, misaligned. His hand shot forward, gripping the attacker's throat.
Hard.
He lifted him slightly, just enough to break balance, then slammed him into the ground with crushing force.
BOOM.
The impact knocked the air out of the elf's lungs. Before he could recover, Nille's fist came down, once, twice, each strike deliberate, each one breaking resistance.
By the third hit,
The Mahomanay stopped moving.
The remaining two faltered completely now.
This wasn't a fight anymore.
It was a violent suppression.
One tried to retreat, instinct overriding orders.
Nille appeared in front of him before he could take a second step.
A low kick shattered his stance, followed by a spinning backfist that slammed into the side of his head.
THUD.
The body dropped instantly, twitching once before going still.
The last Mahomanay stood frozen, weapon trembling in his grip. His breathing was erratic, eyes wide, not with anger… but fear.
Nille walked toward him.
Slow.
Each step heavy.
Measured.
The elf raised his blade in desperation,but his arms shook too much to hold it steady.
Nille didn't rush.
He stepped in, grabbed the weapon wrist, tight, then twisted.
CRACK.
The blade fell.
A single strike followed, clean, direct, into the solar plexus.
The Mahomanay collapsed to his knees, gasping, unable to breathe.
Nille stood over him, chest rising and falling, blood trailing down his arm and dripping from his fingers.
Around him,
Six Mahomanay lay broken across the ground.
Not dead.
But no longer a threat.
And yet,
The fight wasn't over.
Behind him,
The Tikbalang still stood.
The Tikbalang roared—deep, guttural, shaking the very air inside the warehouse.
Its massive fist clenched, muscles tightening like coiled steel—
Then it lunged.
Like a rabid beast.
No weapon. No restraint.
Just raw force.
The first punch came down like a falling pillar.
Nille raised both arms—
BOOM!
The impact slammed into him, driving him backward across the concrete. His boots scraped violently, leaving streaks as his body absorbed the shock. Pain surged through his forearms, bones rattling under the force.
Too strong.
The Tikbalang didn't stop.
A second swing—horizontal this time—aimed to crush his ribs.
Nille ducked late—
WHAM!
The fist clipped his shoulder, sending him spinning sideways. He hit the ground hard, rolling once before forcing himself back up.
The beast was already on him again.
Relentless.
A barrage of blows followed—wild, heavy, overwhelming. Each strike carried enough force to break bone, shatter concrete. Nille blocked what he could, evaded what he couldn't—but he was being pushed back.
Forced.
Overpowered.
A direct hit landed—
THUD!
A fist slammed into his abdomen, lifting him slightly off the ground. The air left his lungs in a violent gasp as he staggered backward, vision shaking.
For a moment—
The Tikbalang was winning.
It pressed forward, sensing dominance, its movements becoming even more aggressive—less controlled, more savage.
But that was its mistake.
Nille's breathing steadied.
His eyes narrowed.
He stopped reacting blindly.
He started watching.
The Tikbalang swung again—high, wide, powerful.
This time—
Nille didn't block.
He stepped inside the arc.
The fist passed behind him.
Too slow. Too wide.
He drove his own punch forward—short, precise—into the Tikbalang's exposed ribs.
THUD.
Not enough to hurt deeply—
But enough to feel.
The beast paused for half a second.
That was all Nille needed.
He moved again.
The next incoming strike—he slipped to the side, guiding the massive arm past him instead of stopping it. His hand brushed against the limb—not resisting, but redirecting.
Flow.
Not force.
Another counter—
A sharp punch to the same spot.
THUD.
Then another.
And another.
Each strike landing with increasing precision.
The Tikbalang growled, frustrated, swinging faster now—but sloppier. Its attacks became predictable. Repetitive.
Nille adapted.
He read the shoulders. The hips. The rhythm.
Every movement telegraphed.
A heavy downward punch came—
Nille sidestepped—
Then drove an uppercut straight into the Tikbalang's jaw.
CRACK.
The beast's head snapped upward slightly—not broken, but shaken.
Nille didn't stop.
He followed through—stepping forward, rotating his body—
A hook slammed into the side of its torso.
Then a straight punch to the center mass.
Then another.
Each one faster. Sharper. More efficient.
His movements were no longer reactive.
They were controlled.
The Tikbalang staggered a step back.
For the first time,
It was the one adjusting.
Breathing heavier.
Uncertain.
Nille rolled his shoulders once, blood still trailing down his arm, chest rising and falling—but his stance now solid, grounded.
"You're strong," he said quietly.
The Tikbalang snarled.
"But you're predictable."
It charged again, furious, throwing everything into one massive punch meant to end it.
Nille stepped forward to meet it.
Not away.
Forward.
At the last second,
He slipped to the side,
Letting the punch pass,
Then drove his fist upward with everything aligned, body, breath, energy,
BOOM.
A clean, precise counter.
The Tikbalang's body jerked from the impact.
Not from strength alone,
But from timing.
From understanding.
Nille lowered his arm slowly.
The fight had shifted.
The six Mahomanay lay scattered across the warehouse and the backyard, bodies twisted against broken concrete, half-buried in flattened grass, blood soaking into the soil they once moved across with silent grace. None of them were dead.
But none of them could stand.
Their chests rose in uneven breaths, each inhale sharp with pain, each exhale heavier with something far worse, fear.
They had come prepared. Trained. Armed. Backed by an enforcer.
And yet,
They were broken.
Not by spells.
Not by ancient incantations or unseen forces.
But by him.
By raw, physical force.
Their eyes tracked the center of the yard, where the fight still raged.
The Tikbalang,an entity feared even among their kind, a creature known for overwhelming strength, was now locked in brutal close combat with a human barely half its size.
And it was losing.
The Tikbalang roared again, swinging with everything it had left. Its massive fist tore through the air and connected cleanly with Nille's side,
THUD!
The impact echoed, strong enough to shatter bone in any ordinary man.
Nille's body shifted from the blow,
But he didn't fall.
He absorbed it.
Redirected it.
And struck back.
Two punches.
Fast. Precise.
THUD...THUD.
Each one landed into the same weakened area along the Tikbalang's ribs, compounding damage, breaking rhythm.
The Mahomanay saw it clearly now.
Every time the Tikbalang landed one hit,
Nille answered with two.
Not wild. Not desperate.
Calculated.
Efficient.
The Tikbalang grew more aggressive, its movements devolving into raw instinct. It charged forward, swinging in rapid succession, left, right, downward smash, each blow meant to overwhelm through sheer force.
Nille weaved through it.
Not perfectly, he still took hits. A grazing strike to his shoulder. A glancing blow to his back. Each one drawing more blood, each one heavy enough to remind him of the difference in strength.
But he adapted.
Every movement became tighter.
Smaller.
More precise.
He no longer met strength with resistance,
He slipped through it.
A wide swing came.
Nille stepped inside again, his shoulder brushing past the Tikbalang's torso as he drove a compact punch upward into its midsection.
THUD.
Then another.
THUD.
The beast staggered half a step.
Nille followed.
A sharp pivot,
A hook slammed into its side.
A straight punch snapped its head slightly back.
Then a low body shot again, targeting the same damaged area.
The pattern was relentless.
Repeat.
Exploit.
Break.
The Tikbalang roared in frustration, grabbing at Nille with both arms, trying to overpower him directly,
But Nille dropped low, slipping under the grab, his body moving like it had memorized the creature's intent before it even acted.
He rose on the other side,
And struck again.
Faster now.
Stronger.
Aligned.
Each punch carried not just physical force, but intent.
The ground beneath them cracked slightly with the repeated impacts. Dust lifted into the air, swirling around them like a storm caught in place.
The Mahomanay watched in disbelief.
This wasn't luck.
This wasn't chance.
They were witnessing something they could not understand.
The Lingkod Kamatayan,
And he wasn't even using spells.
Not because he couldn't,
But because he didn't need to.
To them, it felt like something worse.
Like he had looked at them…
And decided they were not worth the effort.
The Tikbalang swung again, slower now. Sloppier.
Nille saw it.
He stepped forward.
Slipped the strike.
And drove one final, perfectly timed counter,
BOOM.
His fist connected cleanly with the Tikbalang's jaw, the force snapping its head back as its entire body froze for a fraction of a second.
Silence followed.
Then,
The massive creature staggered backward.
Once.
Twice.
And collapsed.
The ground shook under its weight.
Dust settled slowly around the fallen body.
Nille stood there, breathing heavy, blood trailing down his arms, his chest rising and falling in controlled bursts. The scarf still covered half his face, its threads pulsing faintly—like it was still ready for more.
The Mahomanay didn't move.
Didn't speak.
They only watched.
Because now they understood.
They had not been spared by luck.
They had been allowed to live.
Nille took one step forward,
Then stopped.
Behind him,
The soft creak of the tumba-tumba echoed gently.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Granny Amparo's voice followed, calm and steady, cutting through the tension like something familiar… something grounding.
"Apo…"
Nille's shoulders stiffened slightly.
"You've done enough."
The words weren't loud.
They didn't need to be.
Nille stood still for a moment, breathing slowly as the tension in his body began to loosen, though not fully leaving him. His gaze shifted toward the scattered Mahomanay—wounded, silent, watching him from the edges of the yard like cornered animals trying to understand what they had just survived.
"They are now scared of you," Granny Amparo said gently.
Nille didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on them for a long moment, reading their fear, their disbelief, their fractured pride.
"I didn't do this to make them afraid," he said quietly.
Granny Amparo's tumba-tumba creaked softly as she leaned back, watching him with that calm, familiar gaze.
"But that is what they carry home. Fear remembers more than pain."
Nille lowered his hands fully. The scarf loosened slightly from his face but remained like a silent mask, still attentive, still watching. His breathing slowed, returning to control as the last of the fight's intensity faded from his body.
"They came and attacked you," he said, voice low and steady. "That is unwanted… and unforgivable."
A pause hung between them, heavy but no longer violent.
"And yet," he continued, "they are the ones leaving broken."
Granny Amparo sighed softly. "Apo… power does not always choose how it is seen. And I am fine."
Nille's expression shifted slightly. The words hit differently now, not as strategy or logic, but as something more personal. He turned his head toward her.
"Sorry, Lola," he said quietly, "but I still can't accept that you're no longer here with me."
Granny Amparo blinked slowly, then tilted her head. "What are you saying, Apo? I am always with you."
"No," Nille replied, firmer this time, though his voice softened at the end. "I mean physically here. With me. Alive."
Silence followed. The wind moved gently through the grass, brushing against the damaged ground where the fight had ended.
Granny Amparo smiled. Not sad. Not heavy. Just… understanding.
"Nothing lasts forever, Apo," she said gently. "The fact that you can still see me is already cheating the rules."
Nille's eyes lowered slightly.
"But I took a risk in being here… until my task is done."
That line lingered.
Nille looked at her more closely now, not as a fighter, not as a babaylan, but as someone trying to hold onto something slipping between worlds.
"So when your task is done…" he asked quietly, "you'll disappear?"
Granny Amparo didn't answer immediately. The tumba-tumba creaked again, slow and steady, like time itself rocking gently in place.
"I don't disappear," she finally said. "I return."
Nille frowned slightly. "Return to where?"
She tapped her chest lightly, right over where her heart would have been in life.
"Where I was always meant to be."
A soft silence followed.
Then she smiled again, warmer this time.
"But until then, Apo… I'm here. So don't look at me like I'm already gone."
Nille didn't respond right away.
Instead, he slowly exhaled, the tension in his shoulders finally settling, not gone, but softened.
And for the first time after the battle, he allowed himself to simply stand there… with her still beside him.
"Apo, tend to those who came here… and let me help you talk to them."
Granny Amparo's voice was gentle, but it carried a weight that made even the air feel still. The tumba-tumba creaked once as she rose, her faint, semi-transparent form drifting forward like a memory given shape.
Nille hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside.
Not out of weakness,
But trust.
The six Mahomanay and the collapsed Tikbalang lay scattered across the yard, some trying to sit up, others barely conscious. Their pride was gone now, replaced with something far more uncomfortable. Awareness.
Fear.
Granny Amparo floated toward them slowly, her gaze calm but unyielding. She did not appear angry. She did not appear vengeful. That made it worse.
She knelt slightly beside the nearest Mahomanay, studying him like someone assessing a broken tool, not with cruelty, but with understanding.
"You came here thinking you were hunters," she said softly. "But you forgot what kind of place you entered."
The Mahomanay flinched but did not speak.
Granny Amparo continued, turning slightly so all of them could hear.
"This land… is not just soil and concrete. It remembers. It listens. And the one you tried to take does not hesitate when he decides you are a threat."
Her eyes shifted toward Nille for a brief second.
"And yet…"
A faint smile.
"He still didn't kill you."
That line landed heavier than any strike Nille had given them.
The Mahomanay's breathing tightened. The Tikbalang, still half-conscious, shifted slightly as if trying to understand what that meant.
Granny Amparo stepped between them all, her voice softening but becoming sharper in meaning.
"Do you know why?"
Silence.
She answered herself.
"Because even in violence… he is still thinking."
Her gaze turned toward Nille again.
"He is still anchored to his task."
The air shifted slightly as she continued.
"The Kinabalu worm. The poisoned soil beneath this land. The imbalance spreading under your feet."
She gestured lightly toward the ground.
"You think you are important here. You think your elders' laws matter above everything else."
Her eyes narrowed slightly now, not cruel, but disappointed.
"But you are standing on land that is already suffering."
The Mahomanay stirred uneasily.
Granny Amparo's voice lowered.
"And the foolishness of your elders… is that they are trying to rule over something they never understood. A living system. A sleeping body beneath all of this."
She paused, letting it sink in.
"This place already has a claim."
A quiet breath.
"And you all are living inside it."
The Tikbalang finally shifted its head slightly, as if the words were heavier than Nille's fists.
Granny Amparo turned partially toward them again.
"If I had not stopped him…" she said calmly, "you would not be breathing right now."
Her gaze softened slightly, but the truth in her voice did not.
"Nille is not kind because he is weak."
A pause.
"He is kind because he chooses to be."
She looked back at them fully now.
"And when he stops choosing…"
Silence stretched.
Even the wind seemed hesitant.
"…there is nothing in this place that can stop him."
The Mahomanay swallowed hard.
Granny Amparo stepped back slowly, her tone returning to calm.
"So listen carefully."
"You were not defeated because you were unlucky."
"You were spared because he still has a task."
Her eyes softened slightly as she glanced at Nille again.
"And that task… is far more important than your pride and your so called leaders foolish pride."
"Go back and tell your elders what I just told you all."
Granny Amparo's voice was calm, but it carried finality. Not anger, authority shaped by time.
The seven intruders, the six Mahomanay, and one Tikbalang that are wounded and shaken, and the remaining presence of the Tikbalang, slowly lowered their heads. None of them spoke. Pride had already been stripped away in the yard. What remained was survival instinct and the heavy weight of failure.
They stayed on the warehouse floor for a moment longer, not because they were resisting, but because something in them refused to accept how completely they had been overpowered by a single human.
Nille didn't say anything.
Instead, he crouched near a small table and quietly placed seven cups down in a straight line. Warm herbal tea steamed gently from each one, medicinal, carefully brewed, the kind that carried both healing and grounding properties. The scarf shifted slightly as if approving the gesture, its threads relaxing from combat readiness into a calmer state.
"Drink," Nille said simply.
No threat. No command. Just instruction.
One by one, the Mahomanay hesitated… then obeyed.
The first sip changed everything.
Their shoulders loosened slightly. The sharp pain in their wounds dulled, not erased, but softened. Their breathing steadied. The herbal infusion carried something beyond physical healing; it settled their nerves, quieted the fear still crawling under their skin, and anchored their scattered energy.
Even the Tikbalang, after a long pause, lowered itself enough to drink.
None of them spoke while drinking.
Because they understood now, this wasn't mercy born from weakness. It was mercy given after dominance had already been proven.
Across the yard, Granny Amparo had already returned to her tumba-tumba. She moved back into her usual place as if the chaos moments ago had been nothing more than passing wind. The rocking chair creaked softly as she settled in, her form glowing faintly in the dimming light.
"It's about past seven," she said casually, as if commenting on dinner time. "Aren't you hungry, Apo?"
Nille glanced at her briefly, the tension in his body finally loosening further.
"Later," he replied.
The seven intruders finished their tea in silence. Within minutes, the effects became clearer, their posture stabilizing, their energy no longer chaotic. They slowly stood, one by one, avoiding eye contact with Nille. Not out of disrespect, but out of recognition.
They had seen enough.
Without needing another word, they turned toward the boundary between realms. The air around them shifted faintly as they began their return to the mirror world, limping, recovering, but alive.
They were not victorious.
They were not honored.
They were returning as messengers of failure.
And they knew the punishment waiting for them would not come from Nille, but from their own elders.
Nille watched them leave for a moment longer, then turned his attention inward.
The scarf tightened slightly around him, not in warning, but in readiness.
"Magical frequency of the mirror realm is stabilizing," it informed him. "I can open entry alignment whenever you are prepared."
Nille exhaled slowly.
His gaze shifted toward the backyard, toward the unseen boundary where the world reflected itself like water.
"I'm going in," he said quietly.
Behind him, Granny Amparo's rocking continued.
And with one final step forward, Nille prepared to cross back into the mirror realm—toward the Kinabalu, the elders, and the imbalance waiting beneath it all.
Nille looked down at his bloodied knuckles, flexing his fingers once. The ache was there, but distant now, like something belonging to someone else.
"I didn't want them dead," he said finally. "But I also didn't plan to lose."
Granny Amparo smiled faintly. "And you didn't."
Silence settled between them.
Across the yard, the Mahomanay shifted slightly, still afraid to move, still processing the fact that the battle had already ended—not by their retreat, but by his decision to stop.
Nille exhaled once more and turned his head slightly away from them.
"Let them be scared," he said quietly. "As long as they remember why."
The scarf tightened and loosened once—like it understood, but didn't fully agree.
Granny Amparo watched him for a long moment, then spoke softer.
"Now… come back to yourself, iho."
And slowly, as the evening air settled over the broken ground, Nille did.
But they carried weight.
The scarf loosened, just slightly.
Nille's breathing slowed.
The sharpness in his gaze flickered, then softened.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment.
And when he opened them again,
The raw edge was gone.
Not completely.
But enough.
He exhaled slowly, lowering his fists.
The fight was over.
And the warehouse, once just a quiet place of study and growth, had become something else entirely.
A place where seven intruders came to take a man by force…
And left as witnesses instead.