TRIDENTS NOW surrounded them on all sides. Barbed, glistening, their tips gleaming like sharpened coral under the filtered green light of the lake above. The weapons hovered inches from his face. Held by beings that obviously from this world, Gray thought. They floated through the liquid walls of this submerged world like ancient guardians stirred from centuries of stillness. Their torsos were humanoid, but something about them veered just off the edge of familiarity. Their skin glistened with a slick, sea-worn sheen, the color of river stones and shallow reef, dappled with tiny scales that shimmered with the movement of water.
Their arms ended in webbed hands, and along their necks and shoulders, gills pulsed rhythmically like the slow opening and closing of shellfish. Black hair flowed behind them like kelp stirred by tide, tied in coils or left loose, but always adorned with beads, shark teeth, or gold spun into tiny patterns like baybayin etched in jewelry. Their ears flared outward like pointed gills, as if sculpted from the same membrane as a flying fish's wing. And their jaws—
Gray blinked, breath held.
The lower parts of their faces were not solid. Instead of chins, the flesh split into long, slick appendages. They were tentacle-like strands that twitched and coiled with each movement, each wordless breath. Not grotesque, no. Something else. Something elegant in its strangeness. The texture reminded him of the deep-sea squids he'd once seen in a documentary. But these moved with purpose, like sensory feelers trained on prey... or strangers.
Their bodies tapered into powerful, muscular tails. It was long and sinuous, covered in iridescent scales that shifted from deep blue to jade-green, like the skin of a bangus catching light under shallow water. The movement was serpentine, fluid and slow, but each flick of the fin sent a ripple through the water strong enough to disturb the floating particles of silt and light. Their scales caught the glow like hammered bronze, giving off an otherworldly gleam.
Their bare torsos were draped with richly patterned long cloth woven with intricate tribal patterns that echoed old Tagalog weaving motifs. Woven belts of gold-inlaid hemp held satchels or ornaments made of shell and brass. Some wore headdresses shaped like stylized sun rays or adorned their forearms with carved bangles that resembled snake scales or twisted sea vines. It was as if the traditions of the pre-colonial datus had merged with the creatures of the abyss.
One of them hovered just inches from Gray, his trident steady in both webbed hands, gills flaring as he eyed the intruders in the dry bubble of air. Behind him, more kataus flanked the perimeter. They were above, below, behind, all around. Suspended like reef spirits. Watchful. Breathless.
Gray swallowed, his voice tight as he leaned slightly toward the girl beside him. "Are they... sirena?"
The girl's eyes never left the creatures as she answered, calm but firm. "They're katau."
Agta shifted behind them, his tone lower now, a voice of cautious reverence rather than fear. "They're not like the sirena or siokoy. They're older. Stronger. A better breed," he said. "Sirenas are solitary. Vain, even. Siokoy live like beasts—feral, cunning, but alone. Kataus are different." He gestured toward them, careful not to move too quickly. "Kataus thrive as one. A community. They fight together, hunt together, live as a pride. Siokoys, they're like tigers, hiding in the mangroves. But katau? They're lions of the deep."
The tridents held steady, and no one dared speak further.
Above them, the enchanted water of the Sangkanituhan side of Laguna de Bay rippled quietly, revealing depths the mortal side never touched. Gray could see it now, the great lake not as a shallow basin, but as a cathedral of currents, shadows, and secret lights. The other world pulsed just beyond the membrane of his reality. Here, the lake stretched deeper than it had any right to, like a sinkhole into the soul of the sea.
And in that moment, he understood: they were still in the dry space carved by magic. An invisible dome where the lake water failed to breach. But outside it, around it, kataus swam like spirits. Their tails flicking slowly, faces unreadable. Then one of them moved.
The leader.
He had not spoken. Had not threatened. He had only watched. He floated down with slow, regal strokes of his tail, parting the others in silence. His body bore the same traits, but elevated. The ridges of his scales glinted like volcanic glass. His jewelry was more elaborate: golden rings around his arms, a woven sash of deep indigo trailing behind him like a tide. His eyes were the color of the deep ocean. They were blue-green with flickers of gold, as if lightning had struck the sea and left something behind.
He raised one hand. The others withdrew their tridents by inches. Then he began to chant. "Bitawan ang tubig, yakapin ang lupa." His voice rippled through the chamber. Not loud, but resonant, like something old was listening. The glyphs etched into the walls shimmered briefly in reply.
As he spoke, the end of his great tail began to shimmer, soft light cracking over it like sunlight breaking through water. The scales rippled. Shifted. Morphed. His lower half twisted upward with a flick, spine arching as the tail split and reshaped. Muscles warped, bones snapped into place, gills closed. In a slow, elegant motion, his tail receded into two strong legs.
When he dropped into the dome of air, it was with a low thud. Feet first. He landed with ease. Balanced. Upright. Regal. The rest of the kataus remained in the water, watching. The newly-walked katau straightened. His trident tilted downward. He took a step forward, his eyes sharp and ancient as they locked onto Gray's.
The katau stood tall, framed by the slow shimmer of the underwater light, and now that his tail had fully transformed into legs, he was no less majestic. His skin bore the hue of old bronze and river clay, shoulders marked with batok that whispered of sea-wars and blood rites. He had no crown, but his presence made one unnecessary. His hair flowed behind him like dark ink drifting in the water, and around his neck hung carved amulets of bone and shell, etched in the old writing of the sea.
"We," he said, his voice sharp and regal, deep as if it had passed through centuries of coral and current, "are the Awinawi Angkan of Kataus. From the Visayan Tribe." His Tagalog bore the stiff rhythm of a language not spoken every day, but still spoken well. "I am Butawi, the War Chief of the Anawi Angkan." His eyes, pitch-black and glassy like pearls turned to stone, scanned them with the weight of judgment. "May I ask," he continued, his fingers gripping the long handle of his silver trident, "from what tribe do you come?"
Though the question was polite, Gray could feel the tension crackling like lightning beneath still water. The air was dense. The katau war chief's muscles were taut beneath his skin, and the dozen armed kataus around them didn't flinch or blink, each holding tridents leveled with perfect precision. They did not shout. They didn't threaten. They only waited, still and calm, like true predators.
Beside Gray, Agta let out a small, barely audible tsk, so low only those closest would catch it. Gray could almost feel the regret in that breath. "This lake is a Tagalog land," Agta finally said, his voice firm and steady, but not confrontational. It was not a lie. But it wasn't the answer the war chief wanted.
Butawi didn't move, but something shifted in his eyes. It was like a wall of ice had lowered behind them. "I'm afraid you will have to come with us."
He stepped forward, and from the belt of his armor, he pulled three wooden cuffs, bound together by thick strands of twisted sea-vine. Each was carved with ancient sigils, the kind that glowed faintly under the touch of sea-magic. Gray didn't recognize the script, but he could feel its weight. Old magic. Heavy magic. Butawi circled behind them. None of the Kataus moved. They didn't need to. The threat hung in the water like a blade to the neck. One wrong move, Gray thought, and he'd be filled with holes.
The first shackle went to Agta. The second to Amara. Gray tensed as the third clamped over his wrists, cold and damp. The cuffs didn't hurt, but something in them pulsed faintly against his skin, like they were listening. No one resisted. Even Lamad, the berberoka, simply followed with low, mournful gurgles trailing from his gills, sounding like deep-water drums echoing loss. His broad frame looked even heavier now, trudging through the shifting light.
They walked. Or rather, they were escorted, flanked by silent Kataus whose tails glided smoothly through the deep. Gray realized, in that moment, just how different these beings were. Siokoys moved like beasts. Unrefined, wild. But the Kataus moved like warriors raised among temples, like the sea had trained them not only to survive, but to rule.
They descended deeper.
Laguna de Bay in the Sangkatauhan was little more than a shallow basin, but here, in the Sangkanituhan, the lakebed was a different world. They followed a sloping trench of black stone and corroded coral, past schools of spirit-fish whose scales shimmered with starlight. The water grew darker, and then lighter again as they reached a massive opening beneath the lakebed. A cave yawned before them, wide enough to swallow a ship whole.
They entered.
They walked along the stone path, slick with damp moss, that wound deeper into the cavern. The path sometimes disappeared under shallow water, forcing them to wade, the icy lake lapping at their knees. Other times, it rose into dry shelves where luminous fungi clung to the rock, lighting the way in pulsing patches.
Along the cave's walls, the architecture of the village gradually revealed itself—homes built into the rock face, their entrances carved with arcs of bamboo and wood lashed together by native rope. Some dwellings sat half-submerged, their woven awnings rising above the waterline like nipa huts split between two worlds. Ladders made of driftwood led from dry ledges to underwater passages, and small torch-like orbs floated lazily in the air, glowing faintly, tethered by strands of coral vine.
It was a village unlike anything Gray had ever imagined. Not a ruined ruin, not some ancient ghost-town lost in water—but a living place. A breathing, thriving place. Children of the kataus swam through the water tunnels, giggling in silence. Elder figures sat near fire-warmed alcoves, steam rising from stone basins. Spears, shields, and blades, all made of bone, wood, and enchanted shell, rested in communal armories carved into the rock walls.
Everything had the feel of tradition. Of generations woven into one breath. There were no iron gates or metal fences. Just stone, vine, and water. And yet it felt protected. Sacred.
Gray stumbled once on the slick ground and caught himself before falling, the cold splash reminding him that he had no idea where this was leading. He looked up, and for a brief moment, caught a glimpse of the surface of the lake far above through a skylight-like gap in the ceiling. Fish shimmered past. A distant shaft of sunlight pierced the depths like a single divine eye, watching.
They were deep now.
As they walked deeper into the flooded hollow of the katau's lair, the water lapping at their legs in rhythmic pulses, Gray leaned slightly toward Amara, keeping his voice low. "What tribe was that katau talking about?" he whispered, careful not to let his sarcasm sharpen the edge of the question too much, though it still leaked through in tone.
Amara didn't look at him. Her eyes remained forward, locked on the back of the war chief who was leading them down another curving passage. Her reply came quiet, like she was speaking to no one at all. "The archipelago has many gods," she said. "And so, many tribes. Your tribe depends on the gods you follow. The Tagalog tribes, like us, serve Bathala and the old deities that came from the mountains and the skies. The Visayan tribe, like these kataus, worship Kaptan."
Gray blinked. "Right. So it's less of a 'united nation' thing and more of a 'religious Cold War' with sea monsters and ancient magic?"
Amara didn't laugh. She didn't even blink.
He didn't press further.
Soon, the path curved again and dropped them off in a hollowed-out part of the cave—darker here, quieter, as if even the water knew better than to ripple too loudly. The cell was carved straight into the stone, its front sealed by thick wooden bars lashed with cord and nailed with shark teeth. It smelled of mildew and time. Algae clung to the lower half of the walls, and the water inside was ankle-deep, rippling around scattered bits of coral and the shells of old, long-dead crustaceans.
Butawi didn't speak. He simply uncuffed them, one by one, his eyes never leaving Agta's. Then, without another word, he and the other kataus disappeared back into the water like shadows retreating into deeper dark.
For a long moment, the three of them stood there in silence, surrounded by stone and stale water. Then Gray crossed his arms and said, "Do tribes hate each other or something? I mean, what's with the Visayan group acting like we burned their village in a past life?"
Amara finally looked at him, but it was a weary glance. "You weren't really taught anything? Not even the history of your own kind?"
Gray shrugged. "All I got was prayers, earthquake drills, and a vague warning to never follow white ladies into the woods."
She sighed and sat down on a smooth, damp rock, hugging her knees. The echo of dripping water filled the cell.
Agta, still standing, looked toward the barred door as if expecting it to shift at any moment. His voice came low, like it was meant more for the stone than for them. "Thousands of years ago, long before the Dakilang Hiwalayan, the gods of the islands waged war through their tribes. Each region, each bay, each mountain grove had its own pantheon. Kaptan of the sky. Bathala of the heavens. Gugurang with his fire. Manama. Mebuyan. Sidapa. Each with their chosen people. Each demanding blood."
Gray leaned against the damp wall, watching him.
"It wasn't just a war. It was the Dakilang Digmaan—the Great War of Tribes. A war that didn't last a year or a generation, but centuries. Wars fought not only in the forests and the seas, but in dreams, in storms, in childbirths gone wrong. Entire islands burned. Entire lineages vanished. Gods died. Or worse—went silent."
Gray tilted his head. "So... what? One of the gods finally got tired of playing chess with humans?"
Agta's eyes narrowed. "No. It wasn't a god who ended it. That's why he was remembered."
He turned to face Gray fully now.
"It was a man. No magic. No divine blood. Just a mortal with a voice that carried through tribes and tempests. He walked into temples alone. Crossed borders that swallowed men whole. And in time, he bent the ears of gods. He convinced them to stop. Or maybe they just grew curious. Or afraid. That man forged the first Peace Treaty among the tribes. Not because he fought well, but because he refused to fight at all."
There was reverence in Agta's voice now. Not the worship kind, but the kind laced with awe. The kind that only someone older than they looked could carry.
"It's been thousands of years since," Amara added softly. "Thousands since the peace began. But peace doesn't kill hatred. It just buries it. And the tribes still remember. Especially those who lost more than they gained." She paused, then said, her voice just barely above a whisper, "Now, the halimaw are stirring. And something older than tribal pride is waking with them."
There was something in the air then. Not fear. Not tension. But that strange hush that falls before a story turns into a prophecy. Gray didn't reply. He just looked up toward the dripping ceiling of the cavern. Somewhere above them, he imagined the lake. The surface. The sky. Somewhere above that, gods were watching. Or maybe sleeping.
The cell creaked.
Somewhere in the deeper parts of the cave, a distant groan echoed through stone and water. Not a voice. Not quite. But something old. Something cold. Something remembering. And Gray, without knowing why, suddenly felt very awake.
Then, a new voice emerged.
"Amara Vicente?"