It began with the boats—the balangay.
Each morning, Kai joined the boatmakers under the shade of coconut trees, where the great wooden hulls of balangays lay propped on logs. They weren't simple dugouts, but plank boats lashed together with fiber ropes and wooden pegs. Wide enough to carry thirty men, and strong enough to cross seas.
Kai marveled at the craftsmanship. "No nails," he said aloud.
Timuay Banag, the old boat master, grunted beside him. "Nails rot in the sea. Fiber breathes."
Still, Kai noticed the time it took to patch even a minor break. A split plank could delay a boat for days.
"We had something similar," Kai said, drawing in the sand. "We layered thinner ribs inside the frame—easier to repair, less strain on the outer hull."
Banag frowned. "We've built this way since our grandfathers' time."
Kai hesitated, then built a small scale model using discarded planks and woven abaca. He added light interior ribs to support the shape, not replace it. Days later, the model floated smoother than expected—and even Banag took notice.
He didn't say a word. But the next week, one of the smaller bangka (scout boats) had ribs installed.
Kai's second idea came from the rice paddies.
He watched as farmers used wooden dikes and footpaths, planting by hand and letting water flow naturally. It worked well—until it rained too much.
During a storm, one farmer's plot flooded and washed away half the young stalks.
"You need a raised overflow," Kai said, showing them how to dig a drainage trench near the dike's edge with a stone filter at the bottom. "Let the extra water out without losing the field."
It took effort, but when the next rains came, that paddy was the only one that stayed intact. That farmer gave Kai his first gift: a bundle of steamed rice wrapped in a palm leaf. He bowed as he handed it over.
It wasn't much, but it meant a great deal.
Word spread.
He suggested placing stones under storage jars to keep them off the damp floor.
He showed the potters how to create interlocking lids for long-distance trade.
And when a boy caught a fever from bad water, Kai explained how boiling river water or letting it sit in jars before drinking helped.
People began calling him something new: "Kaayuhan"—the one who improves things.
Even Datu Paiburong noticed. One evening, he summoned Kai to the great balay dakû.
"You think like a man who shapes the future," Paiburong said. "Not just a man who fixes the present."
"I just use what I know," Kai answered.
"Then use it more," the datu said. "We will soon sail to Harampangan, where datus speak of trade, tribute, and threats. You will join us. Not as a warrior. But as a mind."
Kai bowed. "I won't disappoint you."
Paiburong's smile was brief. "You haven't already."
That night, as the moonlight shimmered across the anchored balangays in the bay, Kai stood silently on the shore.
He wasn't just living among them anymore.
He was helping them move forward—one plank, one field, one idea at a time.