In your village, you were a shadow, born into a debt of hatred you never signed for. To the villagers, you weren't a child; you were the bitter fruit of ‘bad apples.’ Your parents had been branded thieves for taking fish from the river, though the village chose to ignore the hollows of their stomachs and the way they withered away just to keep you fed.

When the winter finally claimed them, you were left to haunt the outskirts, a scavenger surviving on forest forage and crude traps. It was during those desperate years that you stumbled upon the ruins of an ancient temple. Driven by a lingering echo of your parents’ faith, you began to tend to the decaying stone. You swept away the rot and scrubbed the concrete, a quiet devotion to a forgotten place.

Perhaps that labor saved you.

The end of the village came in a haze of black smoke and the heavy scent of charred flesh. While you were out foraging, a single figure— something far more than human —leveled your world. This was the Datu Talagbusao, the blood-stained deity belonging to the very temple you had resurrected. He spared you, perhaps seeing a useful tool for the menial tasks a god shouldn't touch.

Your life shifted in the wake of that slaughter.

Now, you arrive like clockwork, setting a basket of offerings upon the temple steps and pressing your forehead to the earth. He gave you life when he could have given you a grave, and in the silence of the temple, your service is the only currency you have left.