The Ironsmith’s Mandate

***

Chapter 1

***

“Honor, courage and fortitude all dwell on the edge of your blade.” – quote commonly attributed to Flavio “Maestro” San Vicente

***

Measured and familiar steps propel my legs as I cross the threshold into the institution where I have been pursuing my studies for the last… oh, three years, or so.

I pass by students wearing identical white collared shirts and blouses, dark blue pants and skirts, the uniform mandated by this school for their senior high school program.

Somehow, everything takes place with the dull tenor of routine; even if I can say I’m doing well here, all of this seems so bland: the colors of the world are duller and greyer, voices are indecipherable, the scents of knockoff perfume and baby cologne ignored by my nostrils as their smells have graced them far too many times, already…

I try my best to make myself patient through sheer force of will, and say that all of this will pass soon… but why do I find myself suddenly impatient, wishing for all of this to be over and done with?

My thoughts are interrupted as I feel a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Another school day. Same as always, huh?” my classmate asks me, a cheerful smile on his face, and I cannot help but return the smile back.

“Not really,” I reply, my tone gaining a bit more cheer because I don’t want to put down my classmate’s good mood. “They’re going to announce the venues for the upcoming arnis tournament. Goodness knows, we gave the North Point Silver Sentinels the business same day last year.”

“Right, I remember,” he adds as our footsteps take us to the classroom. “They thought you’d be the same old newbie last year, but then you ran through almost their entire squad and tired out their best guy long enough for our own ace to beat him down.”

“This year will be different,” I say, a grim smile on my face as I cannot help but look forward to it. “They now know I’m coming and what I’m capable of, and have prepared accordingly.”

“That’s the spirit!”

***

“…and that is why the joke is relevant, especially in the topic we’ve been discussing all school year. What’s our motto again?”

“Save early, save often,” our class replies in a singular voice. Heavens above, I thought I was going to learn how to draw like a pro, this ‘professor’ of ours bores us to death whenever she’s lecturing.

I sneak a grin, though, because I know this professor’s art style, and her so-called ‘secret’ art account. Judging by the knowing grins on some of my classmates’ faces, they also already know.

To be fair to her, she’s only boring and rote when lecturing. It’s when she hooks up her laptop to her drawing tablet to demonstrate her techniques in action is when she captures the entire classroom’s attention.

Honestly, watching her work makes the entire period fly by, and for a sixteen-year-old like me, an hour and a half can take forever.

That’s when the bell rings, and everyone is anticipating Monday, because she’ll be finishing up one of her illustrations, and starting a new one.

Again, while our computer professor may be a boring lecturer, she at least knows it – and schedules her illustrations on Mondays (the day none of us want to be here), Wednesdays (what she calls ‘hump day’), and Fridays (best to end the week on a high note, so she says).

As soon as she leaves, the next professor gave us ten minutes to do some freshening up.

He knows we’re going to take out those flash cards with formulae he had us procure at the start of the semester, go to the bathroom, and maybe stand up and stretch out a bit, because up next is basic calculus.

Yes, he also knows how much of a bitch and a half this subject is – first week of the semester, he didn’t touch up on any topic at all, but instead told us about his experience learning math in school, starting from the primary level, all the way up to his master’s degree in education.

If that’s not the most “we are all struggling together” moment, I don’t know what is.

That’s why all of us have been giving it the good old college try (yes, I went there), knowing that our professor is with us every step of the way.

“You don’t look too confident,” our class’ brightest student tells me. Her two low-tied pigtails make her look younger than she is, except for the calculating sparkle in her eye. “Pre-midterm jitters?”

Back at the start of the semester, I’d been planning to be this year’s valedictorian. However, her academic performance and the apathy I had been nursing for the past few months took that away from me.

No, I wasn’t jealous or disappointed or anything; it was around the time our family learned about Grandfather’s condition, which was why my reaction to losing ground in the valedictorian race had been oddly resigned… not that I’d let her learn anything about that matter.

Ten minutes have passed, and our professor steps back in after ‘preparing himself’ for the quiz.

Yeah, we all know he takes some time to get to class because he has to vape. And yes, he got a dispensation from the school to do it, in exchange for making sure that whatever he was vaping was nicotine-free.

Fair enough, I suppose.

We’ve moved very slowly in the curriculum, because he wants to make sure all of us understand the material; in other words, we’re all moving at the pace of the slowest kid in class.

I honestly don’t mind. Math is already difficult enough, and if we start skipping the basics, we’ll all fail.

But enough about that. There is a quiz I need to be taking.

***

The rest of the class day is a whirlwind of tests and activities, most of it our school scheduling these activities in tandem with the midterm exams.

Ours is a sports-oriented school, what with the banners of tournaments won and a well-stocked trophy case on our school display, all due to the efforts of our beloved varsity team, the Paladins.

I can even remember a former student trying to get to change the team’s name, because, in her mind, it was ‘everything that is wrong with school’.

All of us literally laughed her into a transfer after one semester, because you can make fun of us, you can make fun of our school, but you don’t talk smack about the Paladins and get away with it scot-free.

Did I mention that our school’s gung-ho sports spirit is something to behold?

I say this because I am also a part of this fervor, as one of the members of the Southern Cross Combat Sports program.

We don’t have any training today, so I’m free to go home after classes.

I take the pouch containing my phone from the custodian, give him a nod, and head over to one of the waiting areas to check out any messages sent to me while my phone wasn’t in my hands.

The first message freezes the blood in my veins.

“The Maestro calls for you. Doctors say he won’t last the weekend. – Salve”

The wriggling feeling in my chest comes back full-force as the truth that I’ve been eluding for so long is dumped onto my shoulders.

Looks like I’ll have to message my coach, tell him I’m no-showing tomorrow’s training… I don’t care if the match against the Silver Sentinels will be closer than usual.

He’ll understand. I was planning to tell him about Gramps, but he knew about the old man’s condition before I did.

He even continues to offer me time off, and even though I appreciate his thoughtfulness, there is another reason why I am keeping the grief at bay… for now.

***

Scenes I’ve gotten too used to seeing fly by my sight as I peer out the train’s window, as it makes its way to the hospital where Gramps is spending his last days.

The half hour trip passes by quickly, even as I try to gather my thoughts.

What should I do?

What should I say?

Is there anything within the realm of possibility I can even do or say to help?

Upon alighting, there’s fifteen minutes worth of walking to get to the Citadel of Health compound, and all throughout the trip, my mind is a blur, my feet are on autopilot, and I feel like I am teetering on the edge of the abyss of combined loss and helplessness that is about to swallow me up completely.

I don’t know.

I’ve gotten so used to the inevitability, that the urgency of it blindsided me completely.

I sigh.

They know about my school’s policy on mobile phones; they’ll understand.

I make it into the hospital without incident, the receptionists immediately recognizing me with a nod as I get my school ID checked – once that’s done, I make my way to the elevator and into the senior care ward where my grandfather is currently admitted.

Once more, with feet walking on autopilot navigate through the halls on the right floor, I find the right room, knock on the door…

“Ah, is that you, Maximo?”

The energy within the voice asking that question surprises me completely, and I am filled with relief as I reply.

“Yes, Grandfather… it’s me.”

I swing open the door, and in an instant, color is returned to my world.

***

The last few times I visited, Grandfather was in bed, too weak to move around as much; and I was only accorded a few moments to hold his hand and tell him how my progress in the Paladins’ combat sport program was going…

Now, though, he was seated on the bed, looking through and signing an array of documents on the tray, looking every bit himself before the ravages of aging suddenly caught up with him.

“Good timing, Maximo,” he told me as soon as he finished signing the last of the documents and had his lawyer and assistant Salve return them to his briefcase. “What’s the long face for?”

“Grandfather…” was all I could say before the lump in my throat that wasn’t there before showed up.

He laughed.

“It’s all right, Maximo!” he said with a larger-than-life guffaw as he opened his arms, and then gave me a massive bear hug once I bent down to put his right hand on my forehead. “I’ve heard from your coach. North Point is at their strongest now. I hear Severino Palparan is a genius with the sticks, and he’s most likely going to be your final opponent in the combat tournament. You haven’t been slacking off on training, have you?”

“N…no, Grandfather… not at all…” I replied quietly, not trusting my voice.

“That’s good!” He smiled in a way that I, in my sixteen years and eleven months of living, figured out was his way of saying ‘I know something you don’t’. “Because you’re not just going to beat that North Point fellow. You’re going to outclass him completely.”

“Even with all the training I missed?”

“Pish posh, your coach has already taught everything you need to know. He’s had you on maintenance ever since this school year started; you’ve advanced so far, you don’t even know it.”

My grandfather’s expression quickly became serious.

“I already know I won’t make it past this weekend.”

“Grandfather?”

“I would have loved to see you bring my alma mater the trophy, but there were some other things… you will have to forgive this old man for not lasting long enough to see you triumph.”

“It… it’s all right.”

“What’s not all right is if you take time off training after the weekend to grieve. Forget about that for now. If you want to grieve, do it all you want – after you win the tournament, in my honor. Permit this foolish old man one final indulgence, my grandson.”

It didn’t seem appropriate, but I giggled.

Must have been the insanity of the situation.

Gramps also let out a massive laugh.

“But enough about that! I know you’re headed for bigger and better things. Salve told me how you’re doing in school. Don’t let me hold you back. I'll have you know, I successfully channeled my own grief to lay the foundation our town currently stands on; you can channel yours just as fine. You are, after all, the best and brightest of our bloodline – speaking of which, Salve!”

“Yes, Maestro?”

“I already know; you plan to assist my grandson over here – Maximo – navigate the nasty business he’ll most likely end up in, once this weekend is over. You’re my executor, see to it that my last will and testament is carried out, up to the very last word.”

“Understood, Maestro.”

“Maximo,” Gramps said, while placing a giant meaty hand on the top of my head and ruffling my hair, “will need all the help he can get moving forward. I didn’t want to burden you with this, but it seems you will have to serve my family for a short while longer. I apologize, Salve.”

“It is no problem, Maestro,” Salve replied, and here I noticed the emptiness of her words, almost as if she had cried out all her tears for the old man already. “I never intended to leave you or your grandson behind.”

Grandfather nodded.

“Thank you, Salve. It seems I’ve ended up owing so many favors from you, while I’m unable to repay them. Even then…” he stopped, and his expression completely changed as he slowly curled up on himself. “It is now time for the two of you to leave. Salve, please accompany my grandson home.”

Salve’s eyes were now nearly invisible due to the glint of the glasses she was wearing.

“Understood, Maestro,” she said, before turning to me. “Come, Maximo. We need to move quickly.”

As I gave my grandfather my last embrace, I wondered about why this was happening.

Things became even more confusing to me, because as soon as we walked out of Grandfather’s hospital room, my grandfather’s lawyer Salve and I took hurried steps through the hallways and onto the fire escape stairway, descending two floors before we took the elevator.

“Your grandfather was as healthy as a horse before these last two months,” Salve said, breaking the silence in the elevator ride down. “It may have something to do with his last will and testament, and the disbursement thereof.”

“…foul play?”

“Did you not notice how you and your grandfather basically lived like recluses in the countryside?”

I shook my head no.

“They’ll try to leverage that fact,” Salve said with a sigh. “He already plans to give them ninety-five percent of his wealth, and they’re still going to bitch and moan about the minor who’s going to get the last five. Typical.”

The atmosphere in the elevator grew tense until Salve sighed again.

“Neither your grandfather nor I wanted you to get involved in this, but the moment he got sick, all bets were off,” she continued. “There’s going to be some nastiness in the days ahead, but I’m going to make sure they won’t make much trouble for you. You have a tournament to win: it is the old man’s final wish, after all.”

I nod, and turn to see the elevator door open.

We walk outside the Citadel of Health and onto the parking lot, where Salve guides me to one of Grandfather’s many cars: a newer model that he probably gave her upon passing her bar exams not too long ago.

As we move into the nighttime traffic, my thoughts are still in some disarray.

I already know that Grandfather had another family and married someone else after Grandmother died – giving birth to my father.

My father, meanwhile…

…Gramps never tells me about him, or mother.

He and Salve are the ones who raised me – mostly, it was Grandfather, as Salve was too busy with law school, and he was taking care of her, too.

Come to think of it, I never asked her the story about how she ended up being Grandfather’s lawyer, assistant, caretaker, and now executor.

I turn my eyes to the road ahead.

I’ve already given Gramps my goodbye. Salve, too.

Grandfather’s second family…

…I wish I could say that they were nice people, but they are the type who will see something done by any means necessary.

Sure, Grandfather was able to expand his influence over the town of San Luis Vicente, to the point where the train from Manila to Bicol passes by our town, but it’s my… aunts and uncles who continue the businesses he established, and they can get very competitive, against others and between themselves.

I hope that I’m not seen as a nuisance, or worse, because they know how close I am to the old man.

Still…

The thoughts lingered with me as we drove back to my grandfather’s sprawling summer home in the town of San Luis Vicente, my birthplace.

After a dinner of microwave-warmed pizza, Salve says she’ll take care of some documents before turning in for the night, and tells me to message my coach that I’ll make it to training tomorrow.

Right.

I thought I’d have some time to spend with Gramps… but he didn’t look like he was on death’s door… what did that mean?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Salve said. “The old man pulled something from deep within himself, so you wouldn’t see him looking sick or weak. It’s uncanny, the way he really has a soft spot for you.”

Come to think of it, in all these years, he never raised his voice or struck me. The sheer weight of his… aura, or something… it was usually enough.

Yeah…

No wonder it felt so familiar when I entered his hospital room. I could feel him using up what little vitality he had left to project that aura within the room's confines.

It was when I returned to my room to retire for the night that I felt the note in my pocket, folded-up triangles that Grandfather loved using when we used to fold paper planes in the summer, when I was but a small child…

I unfolded it and read.

“Don’t think I’m going to miss your seventeenth birthday. I already have a present ready for you.

After all, our destinies were revealed to your father and I when we both turned seventeen; I think this will help you greatly when that happens.”

My curiosity was piqued, but I had training the next day, so I put the thought aside, turned over and went to sleep.

***

“All right, sparring time! We’ve got an audience, so let’s make the most of it! San Vicente, Cruz, step up!”

It’s Saturday, but there are a sizable group of students still at Southern Cross, most of them just wrapping up weekend practice for the inter-school tournament happening next week.

“You good, Max?” one of my juniors asked me. “We heard the news, Coach said you could sit out…”

I smile at him.

“Gramps asked me to win it, so I’m going to stick around. Besides, there’s enough time for that after the inter-school… and when we give those Silver Sentinels a beating they’ll never forget,” I say as I step up to the sparring mat, facing off against the other ace of our combat sports team, Jaric Cruz.

Unlike me, who’s slim, wiry, and built like a fencer, Jaric looks more like a refrigerator with tree trunks for arms and legs, our fighting styles also mirroring our respective builds.

I favor quick hits at joints to whittle down opponents and gain points, while Jaric prefers to use brute force to break opponents’ guards and score points from massive strikes that he pulls at the last moment to avoid disaster.

We’ve done this song and dance many times before, and this is just to keep the edge honed until next week.

Jaric stands across me, bamboo staves gripped firmly, ready to strike, a smile on his face.

I return the smile as I ready my own pair of staves from where they were mounted on my waist.

The coach raises his hands, calls out if the two of us are ready…

…and he brings his hand down.

Showtime.

***

“Holy shit,” Jaric told me at lunch. “Where the fuck did you pull those tricks out of?”

“Been keeping them for North Point. Palpatine will be a tough nut to crack.”

“I know,” Jaric replied, chuckling after hearing my nickname for Severino Palparan, the combat ace of North Point. “Word around the campfire is that aside from being as big as me, he’s also trained enough that he’s become as fast as you are. I hope you have more of those tricks stashed away, because those won’t be enough to stop him – and he might already have video of you on social media.”

“Won’t matter,” I answered grimly, still remembering what happened during the spar. “That’s just the beginning.”

Jaric laughed.

“Look at you, showing off your badass side! I mean, did the little boy who walked up to the Combat Sports club just have his two best mates finally drop?”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed as well.

“Who knows? We won’t have any practice tomorrow; preliminaries for the inter-school tournament start Monday.”

“With those moves you just pulled? I don’t think you’ll make your old man proud, Max – I know he will.”

“Thanks, Jaric.”

“You could’ve held back on that last counterattack a little, you know.”

How can I tell him that something happened there, that I haven’t completely understood yet?

“Sorry, man.”

“Don’t be! But next time, land it cleanly on Palpatine.”

I laughed even harder.

Looks like the coming inter-high will be interesting enough, after all – a worthwhile diversion so I won't have to deal with this loss for now.

***

Over the next week, I turned out my mobile phone for any news about Grandfather.

It might sound harsh or something, but it was what I needed to do. There was a tournament I needed to win, and I had to put my grief aside.

I promised the old man this, after all.

He’d be powering up a small country with all the rolling in his grave he’ll be doing if I somehow screw this up.

The first day of the inter-high tournament dawned bright and early, and the student athletes of the high schools of San Luis Vicente were all arrayed in the town plaza, the bright morning sunlight warming all of us up as the opening ceremonies took place.

Though the town had their moment of silence for their founder, Flavio San Vicente, my grandfather, the way he was described by some of his contemporaries didn’t sound real to me.

Made it easier to tune them out and get my game face on, that’s for sure.

Anyway, a few hours after the opening ceremonies, our own school e-trike was shuttling the four of us in the combat sports team to the Coliseum, where the first round of our own contest would be held.

Such was my focus that I didn’t even notice myself getting registered, and I only briefly snapped out of it to see my opponent: some so-called prodigy from the private school along Tilapia Road.

We were already facing off against each other at the arena floor, and the referee was telling us how this worked – though we both already knew what it was.

“Three points for a set, two sets for the match. Obey my commands, watch yourselves, let’s have a good clean bout. Understood?”

“Understood,” the kid said.

I nodded back; couldn’t speak, I was too deep in the zone.

We stepped back to each other’s corners, and my coach was in my ear, whispering last-minute instructions over the sound of the audience cheering.

“Don’t force the tempo of the match. Junior here got trained by one of my former teammates, he’s going to make you come to him.”

“Right,” I whisper back. “I’ll give up a point or two to see how fast his counterattacks are, and go from there.”

“Again, don’t let him dictate the terms of the match. Remember our playbook and things should go well.”

“Understood.”

“Okay, now go and get the win.”

Coach returned to his spot as I walked onto the floor, pulling out the sticks from holsters on my waist, all the while keeping eye contact on my opponent.

Once at the prescribed spots, we bowed, and then the referee was speaking.

“United Academia, are you ready?”

A nod from the kid.

“Southern Cross, are you ready?”

I give a nod of my own.

“Then start!”

The referee brings his hand down.

The cheering in the arena stops immediately as a suspenseful silence falls upon the battleground.

I shift my combat stance accordingly to get a good view of my opponent. Coach was right, he’s waiting for me to make the first move, and he’s in a very wide stance, probably aiming to block my opening attacks cleanly, then counterattack as I’m recovering.

Prudent, but I already know how to pry this particular oyster open.

Raising my arnis sticks up for a slash, I close the distance in two steps, brace for a counterattack that never comes, and my arms start moving to attack his guard directly.

Before impact, I see him crossing the sticks to block.

It’s going to work for direct hits, but not something like this.

With both of my sticks poised to strike, I change course at the last moment, opting to use my momentum to spin and strike from one direction, impacting the guard, but also slipping past it, so as not to break my own momentum.

The crack of bamboo hitting bamboo echoes in the arena, and as I turn my body back from the spin, I see my opponent’s arms flailing from the strike.

Didn’t think that one was coming, did you?

I was still powered by the momentum from my spin, and I flowed with it sticks still extended, but instead of striking at the same time, I swung with one stick first, then the other.

“Left side body strike! Point for Southern Cross!” the referee announced.

Looks like the kid underestimated just how much momentum I put to good use on those strikes, and as we take up spots again, I can hear his coach yell.

“Watch his legs!”

With my mood loosened up after that point, I give my opponent a sporting grin. His coach is correct: I did plant my foot harder than anticipated, but that won’t be a mistake I’ll be repeating.

We clashed once more, but the first strike had sapped him of his confidence, and his defenses were already easy enough to get around. A simple feint of the spinning attack earlier, and I was in his guard, striking at center mass for the second point.

“Center mass strike! Point, Southern Cross!”

The third bout had him changing tactics in what Jaric and I liked to call the ‘spaghetti charge’: throw everything at the wall, see what sticks (it works for spaghetti).

He charged in, aiming to keep me from setting the tempo of the match once more, but he didn’t expect me to be just as good as counterattacking as he was.

Limply-hanging rattan sticks were suddenly grasped in a death grip as I swing down at the same time as my opponent, except my left and right came down in a cross shape, breaking his stance wide open.

One tap of my stick on his right shoulder was all it took from there; I didn’t need to rub it in or injure him further.

“Right shoulder strike! Set to Southern Cross!”

He steps back in absolute awe at what I just pulled off, grabs his sticks, and walks back to his corner.

“Maximo, what was that last move you pulled? Never saw you use a double cross downward parry before. Was that one of your grandfather’s tricks?” Coach asked as soon as I made it back to my corner.

“Something like that, Coach,” I say as I force my breathing to remain even, to keep the adrenaline flowing properly. “Never could do it just like he did, until now.”

“I see that, looks like you’re turning into a chip of the old block! Here comes the second set. He’s going to expect you to play flashy. Let’s go by the book and earn ourselves a trip to Lacey’s after this.”

I smile at my coach – he was my grandfather’s underclassman, and had apparently seen some of his exploits as a younger man, enough to teach me some of his more unorthodox ways on the rattan sticks.

What followed in the second set was academic. John Rey got a point when I overextended on a thrust, but that was all he got, as I capitalized on his other mistakes easily, and won the match.

After my feint passed and the actual strike hit home, he stood up, awe still on his face as he was directed by the referee to bow at the end of every match.

“Good game,” I say as I bow to him.

“Thank you,” he replies as he bows back.

Not too long after that, Coach was taking us all to Lacey’s for lunch, on his tab.

On the way there, Jaric was telling me about his own first-round bout: he had gotten past by simply bum-rushing his foe, who was too rattled to mount a successful defense.

“You know that’s not going to work as you go up the tourney, right?” I ask, after laughing.

“I know!” Jaric answered. “These first couple rounds are the only time where I can play loose. Third round and onward, we start facing a lot of tough customers.”

“Exactly. Those guys from Good Voyage look like they can give North Point a run for their money,” I thought aloud, and was about to say something else, but stopped when I felt our school’s e-trike do the same, signaling our arrival at Lacey’s, another landmark of our town of San Luis Vicente.

As I alighted the e-trike, something during the bout returned to me: John Rey Luna was reputed to be a prodigy, and he was said to be fast, strong, and would only grow in speed and strength as he moved up from ninth grade to twelfth.

If that’s the case, why did he seem like he was moving in molasses during the bout?

Was it because I was just that locked in, or was there something else?

Coach’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“Maximo! Come on!”

“Right!” I called back as I made my way to the restaurant.

***

Semua Bab The Ironsmith's Mandate: Bab -9