Iliya traveled deeper into the highlands, the peaks rising like quiet gods around him. Days passed in mist and silence, broken only by bird calls and the rustle of leaves.
In the shadow of a banyan grove, he found shelter in a ruined watchpost stone worn smooth by wind, its roof long swallowed by vines. There, under torchlight, he unrolled Ina Laya's scroll again. But this time, he saw more than glyphs.
The mark on his chest pulsed faintly. And the ink shimmered revealing hidden symbols.
The scroll was not just a spirit path. It was a map of the Three Realms.
The Three Realms of the Diwa
Kalibutan — The Mortal Realm
The world of people, beasts, and waking land. Spirits here are Anito — guardians of trees, rivers, hearths. Minor and local, but powerful in groups. They feed on prayer and memory.
Dayawlan — The Sky Path
Home of the Diwata, ancient spirits of creation, balance, and light. Givers of rain, wind, stars. Distant, rarely seen. Their will is kept by Babaylan who perform high rites in sacred places. Some say the Diwata have begun to fade.
Dalom The Deep Below
The oldest realm root-deep and bone-cold. Forgotten by many. It is said the Unbound Ones dwell here spirits twisted by broken oaths, abandoned worship, or cursed pacts. Their names were once sung… and then erased.
"To remember them is to call them. To call them is to invite their hunger."
The Forbidden Pacts
The scroll's margins held a warning, circled in dark ink.
"No spirit can bind without offering.
No mortal may receive without asking.
No pact may be made in silence."
But Iliya had bled, not spoken. And something had accepted that blood.
He realized then: the mark on his chest was not from a willing pact but from a silent one. The most dangerous kind.
Classes of Spirits (known by the old tribes)
Anito — everyday spirits (household, rice, trees, river crossings)
Diwata — ancient, majestic spirits tied to nature's core (mountain guardians, stormcallers, fate-weavers)
Makaalim — spirits of wind, smoke, and war; sometimes mistaken for diwata
Kaluluwa — wandering souls of the dead, peaceful or lost
Talimughat — spirits corrupted by time or broken faith; twisted, silent, dangerous
Limlunan — name forbidden. Bound deep. Unseen. Whispered to be the first oathbreakers.
That night, Iliya dreamed of a city carved into mountain stone, a ruin, half-buried. People kneeled in a spiral courtyard. At the center was a pillar of bone, wrapped in golden roots.
And a whisper:
"The First Echo waits beneath what was never named. Seek the shrine where no voice dares to call."
Iliya woke up gasping.
He didn't understand the dream yet but he knew its direction.
The Echo was real. And it was waiting.
The highland air thinned as Iliya climbed, each breath laced with pine and stone. The path twisted through old terraces long overtaken by wild grass. No one farmed this far up anymore.
At the ridge's edge, he saw it.
A village, half-swallowed by the mountain.
Huts made of crumbling clay. Stone pillars cracked in half. Weeds grew from abandoned hearths. No smoke. No sound. Just the wind and the faint smell of old ash.
He entered slowly, whispering the protection chant.
"Sa ngalan ng liwanag, huwag n'yong saktan ang hindi gumising sa inyo."
His mark tingled not with warning, but memory.
He found charred bones in a house's center, arranged in a circle. Not a massacre. A ritual.
At the edge of the plaza stood a cracked stone arch with glyphs partly erased.
He rubbed charcoal across it to reveal the lines:
"We broke the vow to silence the sky.
Let fire claim us before the Deep Below does."
Iliya sat by the remains of what might have been a shrine. A single wooden mask, intact, hung from a beam. It bore the same spiral mark as his chest.
The wind shifted.
And then... it spoke.
"You who carry the root, do you remember what we burned?"
The voice came from behind the mask.
A spirit.
Ash scattered across the plaza, rising like mist. From it, a figure formed thin and flickering, cloaked in soot and broken feathers. It carried a staff made of blackened wood, its voice echoing like a dying flame.
"I was once called to serve. But when the Pact was broken, we were forgotten. So we burned the memory."
"What was the pact?" Iliya asked.
The spirit pointed at him. "Your blood remembers. You carry the mark of the oathbearers. But are you an oath-keeper... or oath-breaker?"
Then it attacked.
Not with claws, but with memory.
Iliya staggered back as visions slammed into him, voices pleading before a great tree, a war between Diwata who chose balance and those who hungered for worship. Cities drowned in roots. The Pact shattered.
And then silence.
Iliya fell to one knee, overwhelmed.
But his mark flared not in fear, but defiance.
"I don't remember yet," he whispered, "but I will. I'll carry it."
The spirit paused.
Its shape calmed.
"Then carry us, too," it said softly, placing the blackened mask into his hands. "Let memory live in you. Let our oath be seen."
It faded.
The ash settled.
And Iliya stood alone, holding the mask of a forgotten servant.
As he left the ruins, he tied the mask to his pack. Not as a trophy. As a promise.
The Diwata war wasn't just myth. It was the beginning of this unraveling.
And he was walking through the remnants step by step, memory by memory toward whatever truth the Echoes had buried.