Tension simmered in the uplands.
It started with whispers—missing root crops, disturbed traps, and finally, a farmer's granary raided in the night. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, casting wary glances toward the forested slopes.
"The Ati," they said.
The original inhabitants of Panay, who had been pushed into the highlands by lowland settlers years ago, had returned quietly, unseen, and unwelcome.
When a young man was found bleeding from a gash near the footpath, fear turned to anger.
"We must respond," said one timaway. "Let them know this land is still ours."
The matter reached the attention of Datu Paiburong, the chief of the settlement. But he did not act alone.
He sent a message upriver to Datu Sumakwel, the founder of Madja-as and its highest-ranking leader.
Within a week, Sumakwel arrived by balangay, his vessel grander than any seen in the harbor. Carved with serpent motifs and lined with armed rowers, it made clear the authority he carried.
When he stepped into the balay dakû for council, the people stood. Even Paiburong bowed slightly.
Sumakwel was tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes that studied everyone and everything in silence. Though his hair had begun to grey, his voice was clear and deliberate.
"I have heard of this unrest," he began. "The forest does not forget, and neither do the people who once ruled it."
He turned to Paiburong. "You are closest to them. What do you advise?"
Paiburong sighed. "Some say we should strike first. But I know war with the Ati will cost more than rice."
Sumakwel looked around the circle. "And what of the dayuhan? The one they say fixes boats and thinks like a craftsman?"
All eyes turned to Kai.
He hesitated but stood. "If I may speak, my datu."
Sumakwel gestured for him to continue.
"I believe the Ati are acting out of need, not conquest. Their lands have become harder to live on. If we open a line of dialogue, perhaps a shared space, we may avoid bloodshed."
Some of the warriors shifted uncomfortably. One scoffed, "And if they take your kindness for weakness?"
Kai looked at him calmly. "Then we will have our answer. But it's wiser to be proven wrong by mercy than by pride."
Sumakwel studied him for a long moment.
Then he said, "I will allow this. You will go, under the protection of my banner, and speak for Madja-as. If you succeed, we gain peace. If not, we act."
He raised a hand before any could object. "And let none forget—it was by barter that we came to this land, not by blood. If the land gave way once, it may do so again."
Kai and a scout named Gani set off into the jungle.
They carried no weapons, only salt, dried fish, and betel leaves. As they climbed into the forest, they passed old trails, abandoned terraces, and finally arrived at a hidden glade, where figures watched from the shadows.
The Ati emerged slowly. Shorter, darker-skinned, their eyes sharp from generations of survival. One of them, an elder with gold-wrapped beads in her ears, stepped forward.
"You come without guards," she said.
"I come with only words," Kai replied. "I do not lead—but I have the ear of those who do."
He explained their offer: a shared field near the forest border. The Ati could plant their mountain crops there and receive tools in exchange for peace and cooperation. A symbolic act. A season's trial.
The elder listened.
After a long silence, she said, "You are not like the others. We will try. For now."
When Kai returned, Sumakwel sat waiting under the shade of the datu's house.
"They agreed," Kai reported. "One field. One season."
Sumakwel nodded. "Sometimes, a kingdom is not built with war, but with restraint."
He placed a hand on Kai's shoulder. "You were not born of this land. But today, you served it."
In the months that followed, the shared field produced more than just crops. A cautious peace formed between the two peoples. No more raids. No more fear.
And word spread—not just of Datu Sumakwel's wisdom, but of the dayuhan who spoke with both past and future in mind.