In the neon streets of Cebu City, 2050, where drone taxis buzz overhead and holograms line the skyscrapers, a 17 years old Basti Lapu-Lapu was known for one thing—being the life of the party.

  He cracked jokes faster than he ran, which was pretty fast considering he'd won the regional free-running championship three years in a row (mostly on a dare). With a mop of sea-salt hair, a mischievous smile, and a slingshot always hanging from his neck like a lucky charm, Basti didn't seem like the type to take anything seriously.

  "History class? I sleep through it like a champ," he'd say with a wink. "But ask me where the best kwek-kwek stand is at 2 a.m.? I'm your guy."

  Everyone liked Basti. He was the joker, the prankster, the guy who somehow passed exams by sheer luck or wild charisma. But no one—not even him—really knew the weight of the name he carried.

  The history books barely mentioned Lapu-Lapu anymore. In school, the Battle of Mactan was a footnote, glossed over by the glitz of digital warfare and global alliances. Basti didn't mind. It wasn't like he felt any connection to a guy from 500 years ago swinging a trident on a beach.

  Basti's world was one of neon lights, late-night joyrides, and rooftop chill-outs. By day, he was a student at a tech-voc school—barely scraping by, often late, and always with a wild excuse that somehow made teachers laugh instead of scold him.

  "I got stuck helping a lost hologram find its way home," he once said.

  Another time: "I swear a drone taxi tried to kidnap me. I escaped parkour-style."

  He wasn't top of the class—not by a long shot—but no one could deny he had heart. And feet that barely touched the ground.

  When he wasn't dodging deadlines or hanging out at food stalls with his barkada, Basti was running. Up walls, across roofs, flipping over old signs like a parkour poet. Cebu's skyline was his playground, and no one knew it better.

  His best friend, Trixie, always rolled her eyes at his antics. "One of these days, you're going to fall off a building and land on your ego," she'd say, sipping boba tea while patching up his latest scrape. She was the serious one, always reading history articles on her tab while Basti played mobile games beside her, pretending to care.

  Still, he liked her readings about the old Philippines. Something about the way she talked about lost heroes sparked something weird in him—a flicker of curiosity that he'd quickly hide under a joke.

  "I'm more into modern legends," he'd grin. "Like that fishball vendor who gave me an extra stick for free. Real hero material."

  But deep down, sometimes Basti wondered.

  And in the quiet moments—when the neon dimmed and the city noise faded into a low electric hum—those jokes didn't echo back the same way.

  A tiny apartment tucked above a rundown sari-sari store, its flickering smart-lights barely working. The walls were covered in street art decals and old skate posters, but they couldn't hide how empty the space felt without the people who once filled it with laughter.

  His parents had disappeared when he was ten.

  No warning. No goodbye.

  Just gone.

  One night, they were home—his dad humming while cleaning his drone parts, his mom teasing him about his hair. The next morning, Basti woke up alone. No note. No sign of struggle. The front door was left slightly open, swaying with the morning breeze.

  They never came back.

  The police searched. Drones scanned the city. No leads. No answers. Just silence.

  After that, it was his grandfather who took him in—a quiet, weathered man who ran the sari-sari store downstairs. Lolo Isko didn't say much, but he always made sure Basti had hot rice in the morning and a light on when he came home late. His hands were rough from years of carpentry, and his eyes always held a kind of distant sorrow.

  "You're all I have now," he told Basti one night, while carving something from a piece of old kamagong wood. "So you're gonna learn how to protect yourself. Not just your body. Your heart, too."

  He handed Basti the finished slingshot a few days later—beautiful in its simplicity, smoothed by calloused hands and love unspoken. The grip was wrapped in worn leather, and etched into the frame was a wave-like symbol—something Lolo said came from "before the world forgot."

  The slingshot he wore? It used to be his grandfather's. A small thing, handmade from dark narra wood and old fishing wire, worn smooth from years of use. It wasn't just a toy—it was memory. Home. The last piece of family that felt real in his hands.

  Sometimes, Basti would take it off, aim at nothing, just to feel like he could still hit a target... or maybe just to remind himself he hadn't missed everyone who'd ever mattered to him.

  Because Lolo Isko—his rock, his anchor—was gone now too.

  One day, the old man simply... vanished.

  No message. No clue. Just an empty chair by the window, his tabako stick still warm in the ashtray. It was as if the city had swallowed him whole. Police bots logged it as a missing persons case and moved on after 48 hours.

  But Basti knew something deeper had taken him. Something stranger.

  He didn't talk about it. Not to Trixie. Not to anyone.

  Basti felt a weight settle deep in his chest—one that no amount of jokes or pranks could shake. It was like the world had become a duller place without his Lolo's steady presence. The days stretched on, and the nights became longer, colder. Even with the endless hum of Cebu's neon streets, he felt a growing emptiness he couldn't outrun.

  More often than not, he found himself drawn to the shore, the place where he had spent so many summers with his grandfather, learning how to dive, how to swim. It had been their escape from everything. But now, the ocean felt different. It was quieter. More distant.

  One evening, when the sun dipped below the horizon and the ocean whispered its secrets, Basti sat alone on the pier, legs dangling into the water, staring out at the dark expanse. He hated how everything felt hollow. His phone was silent, his messages ignored. Trixie had tried to reach out, but he kept her at arm's length, not wanting to admit just how lonely he really was.

  Why was it always like this? Why was he always left behind? His Parents, a shadow in his memories, had disappeared without a word—no farewell, no explanation. And now his Lolo, his last piece of family, gone too. No goodbyes. Nothing.

  He tried to push those thoughts away, to bury them under his usual joke-filled persona, but tonight, the weight was heavier. The loneliness gnawed at him from the inside, questioning everything. It felt like every person who ever cared about him had slowly slipped away, like he wasn't enough to hold onto.

  Was he too much? Too loud, too reckless, too caught up in the thrill of life? Or was it that he simply wasn't enough to keep them from leaving?

  The ocean in front of him rippled softly, the quiet hum of the city in the distance doing nothing to fill the void he felt. It was like the world was passing him by, and all he could do was watch.

  Maybe he was destined to be alone, to drift from one fleeting connection to another, never really belonging. Maybe that was the price he had to pay for being the guy everyone liked—the one who could always make a joke, always make people laugh. But who was there when the jokes stopped? Who stayed when the facade cracked?

  And just as that thought crossed his mind, the water around him began to shift.

  At first, it was subtle—a faint current, the smallest tug pulling at his feet. Then, with a strange hum that seemed to echo from deep within the ocean, the water began to glow. Basti's eyes widened. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The pier seemed to tremble beneath him as though the very earth was waking up.

  A sudden flash of brilliant amber light erupted from the water , and a shard of Legacy Jewel—The Ancestral Shard – Lapu-Lapu's Defiance sharp and radiant—emerged from the depths, hovering inches above the surface. It pulsed with an ancient energy, like it had been waiting for him.

  His heart raced. It was like a force of nature was pulling him, but it wasn't from the ocean alone. It was something inside of him, too. Something deep—something he couldn't explain.

  A whisper—faint but powerful—echoed in his mind, the same voice he hadn't heard in what felt like forever.

  "You are not alone, Basti. Not yet."

  The shard hovered for a moment longer before plunging back into the water, leaving behind only ripples in its wake. Basti blinked, staring at the spot where it had disappeared. His breath caught in his throat.

  He stood, feeling a surge of energy he couldn't quite understand. The slingshot hung loosely at his side, suddenly heavier. The darkness of the night seemed to shift, as though the ocean itself had recognized him, had acknowledged his presence. It had responded to his need.

  He wasn't alone.

  And in that moment, he knew: whatever came next, it was tied to him, to his heritage, and to the family he'd lost.

  Basti stared at the ocean, the weight of the slingshot pulling him forward. He wasn't disappearing tonight. No, tonight, the ocean had called him. And he was ready to answer.

  He didn't talk about it. Not to Trixie. Not to anyone.

  Because part of him still waited for the old man to walk through the door and say, "Tara, Basti. We got waves to chase."

  But the silence in the apartment only grew heavier. The air still smelled faintly of salt and old smoke, and the slingshot pulsed softly at night like it missed its first owner too.

  And now, with his Lolo gone, the dreams got louder. The pull toward the ocean stronger.

  But no matter how fast he ran, no matter how many walls he climbed, he couldn't outrun the weight in his chest.

  One night, after a long rooftop run that left him breathless, he sat alone under the old SkyLoop rail, tagging his initials on a rusted panel while the air smelled of oil and monsoon. A group of kids ran by, laughing. One of them yelled, "Basti! Idol!" before disappearing into the crowd.

  He smiled—out of habit. But the second they were gone, the grin cracked. His shoulders slumped.

  "Everyone sees the punchline," he muttered, tracing the slingshot around his neck, "but no one sticks around for the silence after."

  He wanted to be more than the joke. More than the daredevil. But every time he tried to speak honestly, the words felt stuck—buried beneath years of pretending he didn't care.

  He didn't know why.

  Maybe because part of him was starting to wonder...

  If he didn't feel like he belonged in this world—maybe it was because he was meant for something more.

  He dismissed it as overthinking.

  His lolo used to tell stories, back before he passed. Tales of warriors who talked to the sea. Of an island chieftain who defied a foreign invader. But those were bedtime stories, right?

  And yet—there were times, just for a second—when Basti felt it. Like when he leapt from a building and caught a ledge with perfect grace, heart pounding with joy. Or when he stood barefoot at the shore and the waves seemed to pull toward him instead of crash against him.

  Once, he'd gone diving near a forbidden part of the reef, a place the elders said was "off-limits" because of spirits or old energies or something vague and creepy. He didn't believe any of that. But when he swam down, he found something strange—an old coral-embedded carving. A face. Fierce. Proud. Eyes staring right at him.

  But the tide was turning.

  And the sea was watching.

  The night had passed, leaving behind a lingering tension in the air. Basti didn't sleep. How could he, with what had happened the night before weighing on his mind? The ocean's glow, the shard, the strange whisper that echoed in his head—it was too much to ignore.

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  The sun had barely risen when Basti found himself once again standing on the pier, the salt air heavy in his lungs, his heart still racing from the events of the previous night. The city felt different this morning—quieter, almost expectant, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

  He stared at the water, the same water that had seemed to speak to him. It was still. Calm.

  "Was it real?" he muttered to himself. "Or am I losing my mind?"

  He looked down at the slingshot hanging loosely from his neck. The wooden handle, worn and familiar. It was the last thing his Lolo had made for him, a keepsake from a time when everything had felt... right.

  Basti ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the slingshot, remembering how it had always comforted him as a child. How it had been his grandfather's way of grounding him, keeping him focused.

  "I guess... it's all I've got left of him," Basti whispered.

  A strange warmth spread through his fingertips, the cool morning air no longer biting. As he held the slingshot, it began to hum in his hands. At first, it was faint, like the beginning of a song just on the edge of hearing. But then it grew stronger, the hum turning into a vibration that shot up his arm.

  Basti stepped back in shock, his breath catching in his throat. The slingshot—his Lolo's slingshot—was changing. The wood seemed to crack, splintering with an unnatural force. The fishing wire stretched and twisted, pulling apart and reforming into something new.

  The transformation was swift. The familiar shape of the slingshot warped and grew, the wooden base shifting and elongating. The cord of the slingshot extended, lengthening into something that resembled a handle, smooth yet jagged, almost like it was being carved by some unseen hand.

  Within moments, the slingshot was no longer a simple childhood toy. In its place, a trident stood in Basti's hands—long, gleaming, and deadly, the metal tips gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

  Basti's mouth went dry as he took in the weapon, its weight heavier than he expected. The energy that coursed through it was undeniable, like the ocean itself was speaking through him. The trident pulsed with power, an ancient force that resonated in his chest, as though it had always been meant for him.

  "It's real," Basti whispered in awe, his voice hoarse. He twisted it in his grip, testing the balance. The trident felt... natural, like it belonged there, in his hands, like the ocean itself had carved it for him.

  But how?

  The questions piled on top of each other. Why? Why now? And what did this all mean?

  Before he could think too hard on it, the ocean whispered again, this time more clearly in his mind.

  "You are the blood of the sea, Basti Lapu-Lapu. Your legacy calls to you."

  The slingshot lengthened, reshaped, reforged itself mid-air—becoming a trident the "Bagani Trident", sleek and fierce, its prongs curved like crashing waves. The shaft gleamed with iridescent blues and greens, like polished coral, and the three-pronged head was etched with ancient Visayan glyphs—symbols of tide, storm, and strength.

  It pulsed in his hands like a heartbeat.

  Alive.

  Powerful.

  Familiar.

  Basti's legs almost gave out beneath him as the weight of the realization hit him. This wasn't a fluke. This wasn't some random twist of fate.

  It was destiny.

  His Lolo's disappearance wasn't just a coincidence. He had been led here, to this moment, to this weapon, to a purpose he didn't fully understand but couldn't deny.

  His thoughts raced back to the shard that had emerged from the water the night before. Was this the legacy his grandfather had wanted to protect? Was the power of the sea calling to him because it had finally recognized him?

  Basti raised the trident, its gleaming tips catching the sunlight. He didn't know what to do with it yet, but he knew one thing—he was no longer just Basti Lapu-Lapu, the joker and the parkour king. He was something more now. Something tied to a history he couldn't ignore. And whatever was coming next, he wouldn't face it alone.

  "Guess I'm not just the funny guy anymore, huh?" he muttered, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I've got bigger things to deal with."

  And with that, Basti knew his life had changed forever.

  "What the heck..." Basti whispered, eyes wide, lifting the weapon. The weight felt perfect. Balanced. As if it had always belonged to him.

  A voice whispered in his mind—not in words, but in memory.

  "The sea does not forget its champions."

  The scream echoed through the air, rising like a cry from the deepest trenches of the ocean.

  From the dock's edge, a shape emerged from the shadows—a Wraithborn of the deep, twisted and decayed by the passage of centuries. Its bloated form was slick with seawater, barnacles clinging to its broad shoulders, chains dragging behind it like forgotten anchors. Its eyes burned with an unholy glow—storm-wrecked stars peering into Basti's soul.

  The name slipped from his lips like a whisper from a forgotten age, a name that seemed to call to him from deep within the marrow of his bones.

  "Si Lubog," he muttered, a chill running down his spine. "The one who never surfaced."

  Basti didn't feel fear, though. Instead, there was an odd, exhilarating sense of connection—like the ocean had reached out and pulled him into its depths. He could feel it now: the pulsing power of his ancestors, calling to him through the trident.

  He spun the trident in his hands, feeling it hum with life, alive with ancestral energy. The weapon wasn't just metal—it was his bloodline, it was his legacy.

  "Alright," he whispered, his grin widening. "Let's see what you've got."

  As the Wraithborn lunged, Basti slammed the butt of the trident into the dock, causing the ground to tremble as a massive surge of seawater erupted from the wood beneath him. The tidal wave struck the creature, knocking it back with crushing force, yet it refused to fall.

  No matter. The ocean didn't care whether the enemy stood or fell—it would consume them all.

  With a fluid, almost effortless motion, Basti vaulted off a nearby rusted crate, his feet barely grazing the surface as he flipped in the air, landing on a higher platform with the grace of a seasoned parkour runner.

  The Wraithborn howled in rage, its anchor launching toward him like a death sentence. But Basti was already moving. He was a blur, ducking under the anchor, twisting in mid-air, and landing beside the trident, now lodged deeply in the ground.

  He yanked it free with a flourish, his grin never faltering. The trident shimmered in the dim light, and he felt it surge with power, electrifying the air around him.

  His pulse quickened as the energy coursed through him. "Here we go," he muttered.

  He slammed the trident into the puddled water at his feet. Lightning arced across the surface, crackling with energy as it surged toward the Wraithborn. The creature screamed, writhing as the electrical current coursed through its bloated, decaying form.

  But still, it didn't go down.

  It retaliated, summoning a mass of corrupted water—a swirling, oily vortex teeming with writhing sea creatures—and hurled it toward him like a living tidal wave.

  Basti didn't flinch. Instead, he felt the water beckoning him. He could feel its pull, its energy. And he answered.

  With a roar, he leaped into the air, launching himself off a nearby pillar with the force of a tidal wave, flipping through the air as the dark water crashed behind him, splintering the dock and sending debris flying. It was like the world was moving in slow motion, and Basti was dancing through it.

  As he landed, his trident spun in his hands, and the sea's energy swirled around him, forming a vortex of water currents that sliced through the air like a storm. He could feel the power building inside him—the same power that flowed through his ancestor, Lapu-Lapu, as he fought with the ocean itself.

  His eyes blazed with the light of the storm as the trident hummed in his grip.

  This was no longer just about a fight. This was about him. About the blood that ran through his veins. About his destiny.

  He raised the trident high, and as he did, water spiraled up the shaft, coiling around it like a deadly whirlpool. The weapon glowed with a brilliance that outshone the storm above, the sheer force of the ocean itself bending to his will.

  "This is the power of my blood," Basti thought, his heart racing. "This is my birthright."

  He struck.

  The trident crashed into the Wraithborn with a deafening crack, detonating in a storm of water and force. Basti was thrown back, slamming into a stack of crates, but the creature was thrown even farther, its body tumbling through the air before crashing into the sea below, smoking and defeated.

  But Si Lubog wasn't done yet.

  The Wraithborn's skeletal fingers clawed at the pier, dragging itself back toward the surface. Its glowing eyes flickered twice before dimming.

  Basti didn't hesitate. His trident hovered back to him, its glow pulsating like a heartbeat.

  He gripped it tightly, his emotions coursing through the weapon—wild, untamed, but focused now, more than ever. The ocean roared around him, its energy pulling at him as if it recognized his newfound power. His voice reverberated with something ancient as he called on the deep.

  "Enough."

  The sea responded.

  A colossal wave rose beneath him, swirling around him in a vortex of living water, crashing against the dock. Basti stood at the center, a living storm of his own making, eyes glowing with the wrath of the deep.

  With one final cry, he hurled the trident into the sky.

  The weapon split into three gleaming spears of water and lightning, each one crashing down with pinpoint accuracy—one piercing the Wraithborn's chest, another shattering its anchor, and the third impaling its head.

  The Wraithborn screamed one last time, its body bursting into a storm of salt and silence, its essence consumed by the power of the ocean.

  Basti stood at the edge of the shattered pier, chest rising and falling as the aftershocks of battle faded. The trident pulsed in his grip, still humming with the energy of the deep. The sea was quiet now, its roar replaced by a stillness that seemed almost reverent.

  He felt... powerful. Alive. Connected.

  For the first time in his life, Basti understood what it meant to wield his ancestor's legacy—not just as a weapon, but as a force of nature itself.

  "Guess I'm not just the funny guy anymore," he muttered, a wry grin creeping onto his face.

  The ocean roared in approval

  Then, with a voice like gurgling tides and storm-drenched whispers, it spoke:

  "You think you've won, child of Lapu-Lapu..."

  Its head lifted slowly, barnacles cracking away from its jaw.

  "But you fight only the waves... not the storm."

  Basti took a step back, the trident tightening in his grip.

  "Malvado rises... deeper than you know... older than you believe."

  "He does not conquer lands..."

  "He poisons memory... and drowns legacies..."

  Si Lubog's form began to collapse into sea-mist and shadow, its voice a final rasp caught between this world and the next:

  "When the seventh shard bleeds light..."

  "...the Forgotten King will return."

  "And the nation..."

  "...will kneel."

  With that, the creature dissolved into the water—leaving only silence, ripples, and a lingering chill in the air.

  Basti stared at the waves, breath catching in his throat.

  "...Cool," he muttered, but his grin faltered this time.

  "Totally not ominous at all.

  The trident returned, humming with the spirit of the deep.

  "...Okay," he said, panting, soaking wet, half-laughing. "So maybe history is kinda cool."

  And somewhere, deep beneath the waves, the spirit of Lapu-Lapu stirred.

  The sea had chosen its champion once again.

  That night, Basti couldn't sleep.

  The trident—now wrapped in cloth and resting beside his bed—hummed faintly, like waves lapping against the hull of an invisible ship. The moonlight filtered through his apartment window, casting long, rippling shadows across the walls. And in the silence, something stirred.

  The air grew heavy with salt.

  The lights flickered.

  Then, without warning, the room was gone.

  Replaced by the sea.

  He stood barefoot on the shores of Mactan—not the beach from the travel brochures, but something older. Wilder. The sky overhead churned with storm clouds, and the water glowed with a ghostly blue light.

  And standing before him, tall and unshaken, was Lapu-Lapu.

  The warrior's body was carved from strength and resolve—muscles coiled like anchored ropes, skin adorned with ancient tattoos that seemed to shimmer like ink under starlight. He wore no armor, only a woven sash and a carved pendant around his neck, etched with symbols of sun and sea. His hair was tied back with copper rings, and in his hands he held a massive trident, its trident singing with spirit.

  But it was the eyes that struck Basti still.

  They burned—not with anger, but with purpose.

  With memory.

  "You carry my name."

  The voice was deep, patient, like waves against stone.

  "But you run from what it means."

  Basti's breath caught. "Wait... wait, this is a dream, right? I had some bad fishballs or—"

  "This is no dream," Lapu-Lapu said, stepping closer. "This is remembrance."

  The waves crashed behind them as the sea darkened.

  "Your laughter hides a brave heart," the old warrior said. "But courage is more than smiles. It is sacrifice. It is standing your ground—even when the tide comes to break you."

  Basti opened his mouth, but no words came. For once, the jokes didn't rise.

  Lapu-Lapu placed a firm hand on his shoulder. The air between them trembled with energy.

  "You are more than a shadow of my name. You are the sea's answer to the storm."

  Suddenly, visions flooded Basti's mind—of the Battle of Mactan, of colonizers wading ashore, of Lapu-Lapu standing unbent against the impossible. He saw the sun glint off blades, heard the roar of warriors who refused to kneel, and felt the pain, the defiance, the pride.

  When the visions ended, Basti dropped to one knee—half from awe, half from sheer weight.

  Lapu-Lapu leaned in close.

  "The enemy you face is not just darkness. He is erasure. He will try to drown your story... as they tried to drown mine."

  "Do not let him."

  A gust of sea wind blew across the shore—and when Basti looked up, Lapu-Lapu was gone.

  Only the trident remained, embedded in the sand before him, pulsing with light.

  Basti reached out, hands shaking, and pulled it free.

  The storm was coming.

  But now...

  He wasn't just a joker.

  He wasn't just a descendant.

  He was Basti Lapu-Lapu.

  And the sea stood with him.

  Author's Note:

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