"He had sought welfare and not wealth, service and not self, and his life was about to end in the unselfish spirit in which it had lived."

  ---HENRY BUTTERWORTH, (HISTORIAN - Extensively wrote about Fernao' de Magalhaes' journey to the Pacific)

  "How many?" Captain Magalhaes said after ordering his men to row faster. "How many do you see?"

  "Less than a thousand, Captain General," Delcano said as he collapsed the telescope and drew his cutlass from his scabbard. "Maybe nine hundred, maybe less."

  "They've got the numbers. But as the rajah said...they only have bows, spears, shields, and swords," Pigafetta added.

  Delcano turned to his Captain General. "How in the hell did they know we were coming, sir?"

  "Well, it doesn't really matter, Sebastian," the Captain General said before smiling. "Because it won't do them no-good."

  Even if Victoria and its armaments stayed behind to avoid the reef and the rocky outcrops barring their entry, they could still take the fight to their enemy, Magalhaes thought. And he was damned sure about it. Their boats were half a thousand yards away in the shore and closing in when Magalhaes decided to strike. He raised his short sword high for his men to see. And all of them raised their muskets and aimed for the wailing savages.

  "Make your shots count," Delcano said as he raised his matchlock pistol.

  Pigafetta nodded as he raised his own, hands trembling.

  "Remember this day men. For this day we fight, not only for ourselves but for something greater." Magalhaes turned his head towards them. "For God and for Country!" he roared, his eyes sharp as daggers.

  The Captain General dropped his short sword and pointed it at Kalipulako's men. As soon as the crewmen of the ship Victoria saw their Captain General's signal they moved with discipline and efficiency. Not a moment passed, when a loud roar from one of their fellow soldiers confirmed what they saw. And with that, they fired their cannons on the roaring barbarians.

  The hellish eruption of the artillery shook the anchored ship, and the first strike of the battle on Opon Matan was dealt. The musketeers on the narrow long boats followed suit as they emptied their weapons against their targets. And everything went from order to madness in a split second as steel and lead rained down towards the indios in the sandy beach.

  ***

  "Arrows!" Datu Sandawili shouted.

  Their invaders were too close now and there was no chance they would back off. Diplomacy was out of the table. She tried to scream again but her command was drowned by the loudest thing she had ever heard before. It felt as if a thousand volcanoes erupted beside her, making her ears ring too damn loud.

  "Dammit, shoot back-" the next words that came out from her mouth sounded like a whimper as the ground below her shook and darkness came. And then there was nothing for her as she fell.

  The rest of the warrior serf felt as though a storm landed on their heads. Sand and debris of shattered shields flew up in the air and wooden splinters fell down. War cries soon turned to cries for help. It was a day for the living to join the dead. It wasn't glorious. It wasn't heroic. It was simply war and as usual it was unforgiving.

  And hidden deep in the cacophony of chaos was the laughter of the mad gods of war and strife. But right that moment, only the dying could hear their glee. Only the warmongers and killers could celebrate and sing their praises. The rest, settled with insurmountable fear and dread so deep it could drown them all twice over.

  Gray smoke made all the warrior serfs' eyes teary and it obscured their vision as their enemies landed in their shoreline. To most of the timawas, the successive sound of cannon fire felt like deafening drumbeats from the devils of Gadlum. From the demons of hell itself.

  Lam-ag opened his eyes again as the cobwebs of vertigo and disorientation faded. He cursed as he gasped for breath. Their enemies had landed on their shores with ferocity, all clad in metallic shells. But their advance was at best, steady. It was their armor, noted Lam. It wasn't suited for the terrain as most of them sank in the knee high waters around Opon Matan, giving him and the others a time to regroup. But it wasn't going to be easy. No one was there to lead them. No Pulaco was in sight, not even the hot-headed leader of the Daragangan was there to push them on. Every second that passed added to the death toll, making the waters and the short strip of beach turn red with the warrior serfs' blood and in the anarchy more and more fell.

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  Lam stood up shield-less, only Rooster's claw in his hands. The left side of his body was covered in blood. He didn't even know if it was his or someone else's. It didn't matter anymore. He staggered a bit to find his balance. While around him his fellow warriors tried their best to survive.

  The silver glint of a blade caught his attention as it arched towards him. It was smaller compared to his sword. It wouldn't do harm, he thought. He could take it. He raised his steel to parry the short blade. But he misjudged the power behind it when both steel connected. He reeled away with a small gash on his face. The man who wielded the short sword smiled at him through his thick black beard. He was the tallest among their silver wrought enemies and his eyes was the shiny pale gray of a new knife. He was the only one who was at ease in the chaos. Lam knew then and there that he was in the midst of natural-born killer.

  The silver-wrought warrior mowed down serfs that crossed his path like some god of war from an age better forgotten. Every swing of his blades ended a man's life. His blood-speckled armor shimmered as the sun's first light caught it. Then, he looked Lam straight in the eye and roared something the headhunter couldn't understand.

  Lam acknowledge the challenge with his own roar and both ran towards each other like rabid dogs while around them warriors fought and died. Finally, their blades collided in a soul shattering embrace. And in that moment, they saw death in each other's eyes. They pushed each other away barely containing the hate inside their hearts. Lam swung his weapon first, the will to survive giving him strength. The silver wrought warrior easily dodged it, butting him in the head. His steel helmet caught Lam straight in the jaw and it was strong enough to make the him think twice. Lam barely dodged the next succeeding attacks as he tried to regain a semblance of composure. His foe was no ordinary man. But he was still just a man. His attack was too wide and he staggered in the sand.

  So, Lam initiated a counter of his own, bashing his opponent with the hilt of his sword. The invader staggered away again. This time aware of what the other can do.

  They eyed each other with venom. It was gonna be a long day for both men. Panting heavily, they circled each other, blades held high. But Lam already knew he was over-matched. No miraculous healing could undo a severed head, he thought. So, he held his sword with both hands and attacked like a wounded beast. A desperate and foolish move to make, but it was better than accepting defeat that easily.

  ***

  Magalhaes raised his short sword to parry his opponent's blade. "I'm not going down that easy, boy!" he said, disgust in his tone. But the mangy savage with the gargantuan sword flicked it away from his hands with a strike. It landed on the ground a few feet from him.

  Magalhaes backed away from the man. He had to create distance between them. His foe's agility was incomparable. It was almost unnatural, the Captain General thought. His enemy was bloodied up but he still fought with the tenacity of a rouge tiger. It was simply unbelievable to see. It was almost inhuman.

  Another barrage of attack had Magalhaes backing away. And as he did a dead indio tripped him and he fell on his back. The savage raised his sword up high to finish Magalhaes off. In that short span of time, the Captain General wished and prayed for a miracle, a moment of respite. Another chance from the divine.

  And his plea was answered. Delcano came to his aid and struck the mangy savage on the side. But it wasn't enough. The man-devil still had fire on his eyes as he swung his gigantic sword in blurring speed. It nicked the pilot on the shoulder and it infuriated him.

  So, Delcano answered back with his own, making the savage fall back and take a defensive stance.

  Magalhaes felt the dry wind from the sea cover his face, relief flowing through his veins. It was a close one. He shifted his attention to the battle around him. Only half of his men were fighting with him. The others were still struggling through the knee high mire that was the shores of Opon Matan. He stood up, hand on his bloody cutlass. He has to fight on and give his men enough time to join him. But two savages attacked Magalhaes. He answered them with a block and a couple of feints, ending in a vicious swing from his sword punctuating his foes' lives.

  In the midst of the battle, Magalhaes collected his thoughts. They were sorely outnumbered but not outgunned. And certainly not out-skilled, he thought.

  Another volley from Victoria caught a handful of savages that strayed near its range, obliterating them to unrecognizable pieces. They still had the upper hand, Magalhaes thought. He could still be triumphant. None of the native blade could pierce through their armors. And the line of musketeers held the barbarians at bay with volley after volley of molten bullets. His risk was right and justified. It was just a matter of time. He noticed something that confirmed his predictions. There was asymmetry between them and their enemies. An imbalance. And he was willing to exploit it. He knew that victory was close enough to snatch. Now, he had to be decisive. He had to finish the savages' leader. He had to end Kalipulako himself.

  Magalhaes steeled himself and fought on. He turned for a moment to rally his men, especially those who were still on the waters. But out of nowhere a savage woman with a blackened spear smote him on the chest and knocked the wind off of him. He lurched away and covered the dented plate on his chest with his gauntlet. Another strike felled him but he regained the upper hand with a kick.

  The woman fell back on the red sands, still visibly hurt by the blow.

  A savage with a panabas blade tried to cut Magalhaes but in doing so exposed himself to the Captain General's steel. Magalhaes cleft his head with one strike, blood spraying from his wound as he fell down twitching. The Captain General turned his attention to the insolent woman who attacked him. He stood over the fallen enemy and raised his bloody cutlass.

  The sun behind Magalhaes made the skies red as blood. A fitting complement to the ensuing violence on the beach. The savages' war cry and his men's scream were becoming more defeaning as the battle waged on. But Magalhaes ignored it. He was focused on one thing alone. He eyed his foe, looking for terror. But there was no fear in the woman's eyes. She was not like the other savages. Hot, white anger rose inside Magalhaes' core. Her mere existence was a defiance of his superiority. His grip on his weapon tightened and his muscles tensed.

  Then, the Captain General roared as he swung the blade down the wretched woman. Down Datu Sandawili's head...