Illustre Residence, Earthly Realm, Year 2007 of the Second Earth

That day when Lualhati returned home from school, the atmosphere in their ancestral home was unlike any other. A thick, suffocating tension hung in the air, heavy and inescapable, like the oppressive heat of a storm that had yet to break. The hallways, once bathed in the warm glow of the sun, now seemed dim, shadows clinging to the walls as if alive with unease. The flickering lanterns along the corridor cast strange, shifting shapes, their light only deepening the sense of something amiss.

"Lualhati!" her father, Jose, called from his study, his voice taut with urgency.

The word sliced through the silence like a warning bell. Lualhati's pulse quickened, and she felt an icy knot tighten in her stomach. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong.

As she stepped into the study, she found her father hunched over his heavy wooden desk, the clutter of scrolls and artifacts before him now feeling more ominous than comforting. They were relics of a time when their world had been steadier. When peace, however fragile, seemed within reach. But now, those same objects felt burdened by a weight of dread.

"Sit down, anak," Jose said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. His voice was calm, but the urgency was undeniable. Lualhati obeyed, her heart pounding in her chest.

"There's something you need to know," Jose began, his brow furrowed with concern. "The attacks... they've intensified. The fallen are growing bolder. More organized. More dangerous."

Lualhati's throat tightened, her mind racing. Whispers had been circulating among the babaylans, the village elders, and the townsfolk about the rise of dark forces. The Kapres and Tikbalangs, creatures of myth that had begun to stir with violent intent. But hearing it from her father, seeing the fear in his eyes, made the danger feel all too real.

"I... I don't understand," she stammered, trying to steady her breath. "Why now? Why all of a sudden?"

"Reports are coming in from every corner of the region," Jose continued, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of experience. "And it's only going to get worse if we don't act. We need to attend an emergency gathering of the babaylans. It's our duty, Lualhati. And you..." His voice faltered for a moment before he regained control. "You must bring your Balaraw."

Lualhati froze. The Balaraw. the blade she had trained with since she was a child, a symbol of her heritage and her power, lay tucked away in the cabinet in her room. She could feel the weight of it in the pit of her stomach, and the thought of using it against such dark forces made her blood run cold. But this was her duty. She was ready. Or, at least, she would be when the time came.

"Do you think it's that serious?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question tasting of fear.

Her father leaned forward, his expression hardening. "It's more than serious, Lualhati. If we don't stop them now, they will destroy everything we hold dear. Our traditions. Our people. Our home. Your training... it has prepared you for this moment. But you need to understand, anak, this is bigger than you and me. This is the weight of our people on your shoulders now."

Her chest tightened. The weight of responsibility had never felt more crushing, but within it, there was something else—a flicker of determination that cut through the fear. She had spent her life preparing for this. Her father had been teaching her the ways of the babaylans, of their magic, their rituals, their knowledge. This was her time.

"I will bring my Balaraw," she said, her voice growing firmer. "What else do you need me to do?"

Jose exhaled deeply, looking both relieved and burdened. "Be vigilant. Trust your instincts, and remember everything the babaylans have taught you. We will face this together."

Lualhati nodded, though her mind raced with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. As she turned to leave, a thought struck her—one that had been quietly gnawing at her heart all day.

Her mother had spoken to her father, and she had said something that made her father's voice tremble.

Lualhati is planning to leave for Venice. She wants to finish that literature course she's dreamed of.

The words haunted her. Her dream. A future in Italy, studying literature, wandering through the historic streets of Venice. It was something she had been quietly planning, something she had been putting her heart into for years. And now, in the face of this crisis, it felt so far out of reach.

She closed the door to the study softly behind her, her mind heavy with conflicting emotions. Was this the right time to make such a decision? Could she leave now, in the face of a threat so dire? Or had her path been set long ago, by the very blood that ran through her veins?

Later, in the stillness of her room, she stood before the wooden cabinet that held her Balaraw. The blade gleamed softly in the lamplight, its cold steel a reminder of what was to come. Her hands shook slightly as she lifted it, feeling the familiar weight settle in her grip. The smoothness of the handle, the curve of the blade, the way it seemed to hum with power—these things had always been a part of her, a part of her heritage.

But now, as she ran her fingers along the edge, she thought of Venice. Of the future she had dreamed of, a future that seemed impossible now. She couldn't have both. Not now.

But as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky with rich hues of orange and purple, the weight of her choices was still there, unresolved.

As she left the room, her Balaraw securely at her side, she joined her father at the door. His gaze met hers, a silent understanding passing between them. Each step they took toward the gathering felt heavier than the last, as though every footfall was echoing through the centuries of tradition, of family, of duty, and of dreams; fading into the distance.

********

The Castle of the King of the Abyss, Year 2007 of the Second Earth

ABBADON

The air in the Abyss trembled with ominous energy as Abaddon approached the great doors of his jagged castle, dark spires clawing at the shadows overhead. Each step sent vibrations through the ground, as if the realm recognized his return. The doors loomed before him, ornate and foreboding, etched with symbols of power long forgotten.

With determination surging within, Abaddon pushed against the doors, which creaked open with a resonating groan, revealing a throne room bathed in dim, flickering light. Inside, tension thickened the air, and the echoes of chaos outside whispered like phantoms.

As he entered, the commander of his army Darion, stood at attention, armor glinting dully in the low light. The commander's face was etched with concern. "My lord, there has been a disturbance," he reported, urgency tinging his steady voice. "The very foundations of the Abyss have shaken. We fear something stirs in the depths."

Abaddon's expression darkened, instincts sharpening. He felt an undercurrent of dread that chilled the air. "What do you mean? What has caused this upheaval?"

"It is unclear," the commander replied, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Our scouts report strange movements from the outer realms, but nothing we can pinpoint. The Abyss itself seems unsettled, as if a storm gathers on the horizon."

Abaddon crossed his arms, mind racing. This was no mere tremor; it was a sign. "Send scouts immediately," he commanded, voice firm. "I want to know what stirs beyond our walls. We cannot afford to be caught unaware. Danger lurks, and I will not let it catch us by surprise. Investigate and then call for the council of eight as soon as possible."

The commander nodded, expression steeled. "It will be done, my lord." He turned sharply and exited the throne room, ready to carry out Abaddon's orders.

As the doors swung shut, Abaddon stood alone for a moment, an unfathomable dread dawning within. Just as he began to sit on his throne, he felt it.

Excruciating pain pulsed in his chest, sending his hand to grasp it. His other hand reached for the tears forming at the corners of his eyes as Abaddon heaved a sob.

"My King!" Malachai saw the pain in Abaddon's eyes and rushed to his sovereign's side. "What is wrong, how can I serve?--"

Abaddon shook his head, "We are at the precipice of a new threat, Malachai. Stand firm. We shall proceed as planned." he mustered his resolve, drawing a deep breath to expel the pain, though it would not cease.

The chaos outside echoed reminders of the power he had reclaimed, yet a new threat loomed, casting a shadow over his hard-won victory, of its nature and prowess he knew not.

How did it happen and when?

Who is it going to be???

He paced the cold stone floor, echoes of his steps reverberating through the chamber. Abaddon knew that whatever storm was brewing would require all his cunning and strength to confront. With a deep breath, he steeled himself for the unknown, ready to face whatever dark tide might rise against him. The Abyss would not falter again, not while he still drew breath.

Abaddon flew to the murky lake near the edge of the Abyss, where shadows and memories danced upon its surface like phantoms. This part of his realm allowed him to revisit the past moments locked in time, rippling through the lake's dark waters like echoes in a grand, sorrowful symphony. As he looked into the lake, fragments of history unveiled themselves before him, each scene unfolding with the cries of hope and whispers of betrayal. This lake, a portal to memories, showed him fragments of times he could never forget—and some he wished he could.

Stepping onto the cold stone floor beside the lake, Abaddon paced, his heavy footfalls reverberating through the empty chamber. His gaze drifted from the lake's surface to the darkness surrounding him, his thoughts turning toward the ominous storm he felt brewing, a darkness stirring somewhere beyond his reach.

Once more, his gaze fell to the lake, and the scene shifted, revealing an era teeming with both light and darkness: the Age of Discovery. Abaddon watched with a strange mix of fascination and sorrow as humanity sought to conquer the seas, driven by an insatiable thirst for exploration.

In that fleeting disguise, he had witnessed the courage and frailty of humanity their yearning for knowledge, and the naiveté with which they ventured into realms beyond their comprehension. He had felt an odd empathy as they faced perils of both sea and soul, their ambitions as boundless as the waves, their fears and dreams alive and desperate. The memory lingered like a ghostly mist, a reminder of a world Abaddon both envied and pitied, where hope and ambition danced upon the knife's edge of despair.

The surface rippled, and he saw himself on the deck of Magellan's Trinidad, disguised as a mere deckhand. He recalled the salt-laden air, the creaking timber, and the blend of awe and fear among the men as they navigated uncharted seas. But it wasn't the conquest of distant lands that had left a mark on him. It was something deeper, something he'd found hidden in the tropics, untouched by greed and ambition.

*******