"War, They say, is worse than hell. So, expect to see men worse than demons in the battlefield."

  -MANANG SABTANO

  A long time ago, in the land of Zubu...

  The Lord of the Longbow stood on the highest point of the hill, overlooking his burning village. He leaned forward, one hand on his knee the other on his precious bow. Sharp pain quickly crossed his face the moment he did so. His wound was bleeding again. He knew he needed to rest. He wanted to, but it was simply impossible. Not with the battle before him.

  As long as it waged on he must stand, he convinced himself. But for how long? he thought. He could barely catch his breath after battling the raiders from beyond. He hissed at himself. But he still had to do something, for no chieftain has ever won a battle by doing nothing. And he desperately needed to win this one. His life depended on it. His whole being.

  He studied the scene below him, looking for gap or a weakness to exploit and gain the upper hand against the Magalos. But he only saw the black plumes of smoke coming from the blazing huts that rose to touched the gray skies. Farther south, the heavens darkened as the carrion birds circled and swooped down to the dead men below. His men.

  He sighed. How could this happen to me? "How could I lose?"

  Things were out of his control. And it would only get worse if the storm arrived. He turned his head away in disappointment, placing a palm on the wound on his side to suppress the bleeding. The physical pain was insignificant compared to the pain of defeat. He felt it weigh his heart down like an anchor. And the shame of failure loomed behind him. He bit his lip. Will this be his last mark on this blasted earth? Will this be the definition of his name? Will they remember him as a bumbling failure? Or the fool who let thousands die?

  He let out a sigh of frustration as light rain fell from the heavens followed by the cold winds from the south of Vijayas. Time was running out for him and he knew it. His pride had to take a much needed rest for now. He grimaced as he raised his carved bow– a signal for all to retreat.

  The Lord of the Longbow gritted his teeth. Will this be my legacy? Surrendering from a fight and running away instead of dying a hero's death? A bagani's death? he asked the wind and the wind only wailed, drowning the hallow screams of his loyal men below.

  And there, the seed of despair slowly grew in his heart as each second passed, unseen and unnoticed.

  All of his remaining men saw his gesture and gathered around him with their implements of war, ready to protect him for his retreat if he chose to. His aide, who was himself bleeding, bound the Lord of the Longbow's wound using the scraps of linen that he tore from his own head wrap. There were too few of them, noted the Lord of the Longbow. To few to make a difference and too few to do what needs to be done. He gave a foul curse as the devil raiders from the south made their way towards them with their twin scimitars and barong blades, hacking those who were too slow or those who hindered their path.

  All the while his men fell. Some cried in agony while most went down without a sound escaping their mouth. It was a squander of precious lives, he thought. A wasteful thing that could've been avoided.

  He shook his head. The steep climb didn't slow the Magalos down too as they ran amok up the side of the hill putting an end to a friend, a brother, and a son. His heart bounced inside his chest. Is this our end? the Lord of the Longbow asked the heavens with teary eyes. And the gray skies answered him with more light flitting rain.

  Though their path was slick with mud the determined raiders from the south continued their ascent. They neither stopped nor paused as they sliced their way towards him and his men. Nothing would dissuade them from the victory they craved. The Lord of the Longbow's heart sank as he looked at his men's eyes. They did not say it, but fear had triumphed against them too as they all watched their foes rout and corner them. Retreating or surrendering was not a choice anymore. They would all fall here. But he would still fight. The Lord of the Longbow shrieked his orders at them, waking them from their despair and panic. They would not die so willingly, he decided. He would not die without a fight. He would fall like the bagani that he was. But the Magalos fought like the creatures from the darkest corners of Gadlum, and like feral dogs their pack overwhelmed his archers.

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  The Lord of the Longbow did his best, striking those who were too eager to get at him. Arrow after arrow bit through armor and shield, striking down devils like a bolt of white hot lightning. But sadly, his skill with the bow was not enough and he knew it right there as their foes broke and smashed through their dwindling ranks.

  Even though he often denied the truth, there were better warriors than him. There were better men. And it was most evident now.

  The devils continued and his nightmare didn't stop. Bad blood soaked the green grass as more loyal warriors fell one after another. Their corpses formed a mire slick with gore. All was lost, the Lord of the Longbow said as he finally conceded. It was a losing battle and there was nothing more he could do. So, he accepted the fate that the gods decreed. Death was always better than shame, he thought. He closed his eyes and dropped his bow and quiver. They were too heavy and cumbersome for him. He dropped down on his knees and waited for his executioners to swing their hungry blades upon him. He waited and waited but his end didn't come. And then, a loud great horn resounded, breaking the screams and war cries. And all became still as a grave- struck in place like carven idols.

  He opened his eyes again and saw fear in the faces of his adversaries. And they all turned their backs from him one after the other as another conch shell horn reverberated from a distance...

  The Lord of the Longbow stood and scanned the foot of the hill and saw a man bend the verdict of the gods as he fought his way through the ranks of the devils. To call the man a bagani warrior will never be enough for he was greater... Perhaps, a warlord would suffice. If you strip it down to its core the Lord of the Longbow knew he was right. The man was different in all the ugliest of ways as he weaved through his enemies' blades and danced the dance of death with fury and finesse, defying destiny itself. There was beauty in every man's art and even the Lord of the Longbow couldn't deny that the man below him had mastered his. The man raised his head and for a moment their eyes met. The Lord of the Longbow's blood ran cold and a pit formed in his stomach as he felt the man's thirst for blood. In that outstretched second, he knew him in a more primal way.

  And the seed of fear grew deep inside his heart, latching at it like thorny vines, strangling him slowly... silently... helplessly.

  The battle continued on and the warlord mowed down one enemy Magalos after the other like the embodiment of the gods of war and strife, Ynaguinid and Macaduc. If he was not a devata himself, then, he certainly had the ferocity and war-lust of the gods. His blood-streaked face snarled at the enemies as he struck them dead with his single-edged sword. His men followed his wake doing their best to keep up with his ungodly speed. And like some miracle from the anitos and the devatas in the heavens, the tide of the battle changed.

  Slowly, the raiders from the south dwindled in number. Some even ran, leaving their honor behind the battlefield. This would shame them all. This would cling to their souls and haunt them in their silent hours. This was how grudges grow.

  A smile sliced through the Lord of the Longbow's weary face. This was surely a miracle. Or a dark jest from the capricious devatas. He searched for his answer, studying the scene below, as the defiant warlord's men routed the devils, hewing one head after another until only the faint cries of the dying remain.

  He watched his men, and all those who were fortunate to survive the raiders rejoiced in victory. They screamed and howled until their voices drowned the whimpering of the defeated. But not all shared their enthusiasm.

  The Lord of the Longbow's smile turned into a scowl as he eyed the defiant warlord. They both knew that it was not the true victory that they sought. They knew that it was only a short respite. Or a mere postponement of grander things to come. Of days of more pain and of days of more strife.

  The Lord of the Longbow stood up on the highest point of the hill, overlooking his burnt down village. The place was reduced to ash, but it didn't bother him. Surely, they could build another one. Bodies of friends and love ones littered the battlefield. But he simply ignored them. Grieving will have its time later. There was nothing he could do and it was senseless to mourn them right now.

  He looked down at the gash on his side from a devil's blade. The pain that radiated from it was unremarkable compared to the pulsing hate and jealousy he felt towards the defiant warlord– the very one who stole his bagani's death from him. He sighed and stood there watching and scheming his next move against the real adversary. Against the real threat. Against the man who promised them a swift victory, but only brought death and despair to all kenadatuans of Zubu. Against the man who was worse than the devils himself. The man that would be known as Kalipulako.

  And finally, the seed of hate and envy grew at the core of the Lord of the Longbow's heart. Among all the seeds of war, it grew the fastest and it consumed the man fully. One could say, it devoured Datu Zullah's whole being.