Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about my promise.
If you're still wondering about the game, here it is:
This game is not about speed. It's not about death either. No, definitely not death. The true purpose of the game is to destroy, conquer, eliminate, but not kill. Never kill. At the end of each match, a new hierarchy shall emerge. On top of the food chain will be the champion's race, sometimes an organization or conglomeration they represent if a family or clan is out of the equation, a symbolic win that marks their ranking among the underground society's dwellers and inhabitants for the rest of the year. With the victory comes privilege, one that is packaged with the right to access the best resources and set foot on the topground, where the humans reign. For the rest of the year, they are free to coexist and intermingle with a species different from their own, while, of course, still upholding the imposed "balance" of things. A mindful night creature knows people check.
These creatures, which we shall call the mythfolk from now on, are not excommunicated, per se. It's just that, they live in a different world. But it helps, especially with the underground society's business owners and entrepreneurs, to extend their services to humans. They may be ghouls and monsters but a good trade is still a good trade, and a good businessperson, even if they're made up of bat wings, fishscales, claws, or fangs, will not pass up on that. Besides, there are just some things non-nonhumans can't acquire on their own.
These reasons may be important, essential even, for the underground society to thrive. A necessary course of action from a mythfolk in terms of survival in a world built in the underbelly of an even more survivalist world up overhead, otherwise known as the topground. Despite the name, it's not on top of a literal surface. It's the same difference as night and day, or good and evil. The physics is irrelevant. If you know, you know. And if you know anything, then you know that duality demands balance. And a balance that is imposed isn't a balance that's fair. On one side of this levied equlibrium, mythfolk are kept out and hidden, while on the other, humans run rampant and free.
But freedom, even in the human world, isn't for everybody. Some of us are bound to destinies out of our control. And some of these destinies strip you of your own power and cage you in set ways you may never be able to get out of. One such destiny is that of sworn oath and vindication—the kind of destiny you sacrifice your freedom for, willingly.
One such destiny had come to be Father Thomas Domingo's life.
Father Thomas makes his escape. The silver bike is his getaway vehicle. Stealing, arguably, is lower on the list of offenses Crisanto will hunt you down for. Ruining his business, however, can be extremely costly.
But that is the least of Father Thomas' concern. Right now, he had narrowly evaded Virgil's wrath. But he isn't too worried about the halfling. The initial part of his plan has been successfully executed. The operation is now officially in motion.
First step of Father Thomas Domingo's operation: weaken that shit out of that son of a bitch—
"Curses breed curses," Father Thomas mutters.
If you felt a chill down your spine, that's normal. But he isn't suddenly psychically connected to you and reading your thoughts. He is talking about what he did to Virgil in the Match earlier. We will learn more about this holy absconder in a minute. For now, let's let him flit across the giant highway that's slowly coming to life. The city is waking up. Father Thomas revs up the engine. A little too close to the speed limit. He doesn't want to get caught in traffic, not when his pursuers are much faster than any of the vehicles alongside him. They are probably up overhead, in the skies, or at the flanks, in the shadows of the Metro's towering buildings. The dark hours begin to dissolve, giving way to the early morning light.
Meanwhile, let's check up on the injured demigod.
"Son of a fucking bitch!" Virgil yowls.
We pick up where we left off. Balete St. Middle of the road. The center of the dying action. Surrounded by BCC crew and medical staff, by his just as injured opponents, lay the once glorious War God's son. He's not dead. It is quite difficult to kill a halfling with self-healing abilities. We have learned that about him already. He just couldn't move. That doesn't stop him from cursing his assailant.
"What was that?" Keres asks.
"My best guest is a Santelmo attack. You saw the fire too, right?" says Xun.
"It's not. I've never seen Santelmo fire like that. The flame didn't come from the source. It just engulfed Virgil like he was standing on top of a stove as somebody switched it on." And that, of course, was the Santelmo expert, Helmar.
"You're right. That was no Santelmo. That was a hex."
That was Mino speaking as he descended from the sky. Quite the entrance. Everyone whipped their heads in his direction. Everyone, including Andrea Magdangal, the Manananggal medic, a bony woman with thigh-length hair, beady eyes and sharp teeth, whose bat-like wings are tucked behind her, crouching over the fallen Clasher Virgil, the only one who couldn't turn his head.
"That was my guess too. He can't move. He's badly burned. But there aren't any burn marks."
Mino inspects Virgil's injuries as Andrea spoke. He nods in agreement. "You're right."
Andrea rolls up one of Virgil's sleeves and points at his tattooed arm. "His tattoos, the Batek," a traditional tattoo pattern, meant to symbolize status and mastery, "they're inflamed."
Sun, snakeskin and tongue, and serpent dragon patterns all over his arms, shoulders and wrists now glow coppery red, like rust, instead of their original soot black color.
"Your priest did this," Mino whispers just loud enough so only Crisanto could hear him.
Crisanto heaves a strained breath. Utter disbelief in his furious eyes. To get double-crossed by a priest, of all people, as an Enkanto King must be quite the shock.
"I can try to identify a print or something. If it's made by fire, there's got to be a source," Helmar suggests.
"Stop that brat, Mino. We can't let them track the priest back to us," Crisanto interferes.
Mino quickly responds to Crisanto's command by telling Andrea, "I'll take it from here," and quietly reminding Crisanto that he "better fix this" right after.
"Hey."
Xun's voice cuts through the tension. He is only in better shape than Virgil by an inch. A broken arm, cracked ribs, split lips and one eye swollen shut. But he did not mind. At least he's not immobilized by some curse like the War God's bastard.
"What about the Match? Who won?"
All three participants, Xun, Helmar, and Keres, as well as Andrea and two of her other Manananggal EMT staff, and two Duwendes, one Kapre, and one Aswang on the BCC camera crew, all wait for Mino to answer.
But before he got caught up, a gust of air breezes past, carrying a creature with the head of a stallion and the body of a human. With the swiftness of a whirlwind appears Ty K. Balang, the Tikbalang host and announcer of the game shows up to announce that the game is officially over. This year's "undeniable" first-time winner, and the 8th Champion of the annual BCC Clash Match, is none other than Father Thomas Domingo.
Everyone was left in a state. But it was the three Clashers who had the most acute reactions.
"Who?" Keres asks.
"That short dude in black robe in the silver bike? That was a priest?" Helmar interrogates.
"You got to be kidding me!" Xun simply exclaims.
Mino can already hear the collective protest from losing betters, mostly the ones who bet on Virgil to win, but definitely the one who didn't even know there was going to be a fifth player.
"That's not right!"
Despite his aching skin and paralyzed body, Virgil expostulates.
"He wasn't declared as a player at the beginning of the Match!"
Now picture this:
Mino, at the center of four monster princes' anger, is about to receive all their wrath. Despite his arguable irreproachability, he is in everyone's direct line of fire right now. A perfect target.
He glares a Ty, who merely puts up his hands in mock surrender. "Boss' orders," Ty mouths. The Enkanto King wants the message to be delivered.
"I'm your boss, too, idiot!" Mino blats before taking off into the sky.
Abandoned, silence promptly settles around the ground-bound mythfolk. Dejected, disappointed, and deceived, they are left to wonder to themselves what the hell had just happened to their yearly routine of ego display and bloodshed.