First Cultivator of the Philippines

The morning light spilled into the hotel lobby as the professors gathered the students, the bustling energy of the class contrasting with the ominous storm visible in the distance. Thunder rumbled faintly, a reminder of the mysterious events brewing beyond the horizon. Yet, for now, the focus was on the present it was an exciting cooking challenge that aimed to immerse the students in local culture.

The professors explained the rules: each team would create a dish using the main ingredient they purchased. For everything else, they had to venture into the nearby mountains and forests to gather fresh, natural ingredients. Our team chose to prepare laing, a Bicolano specialty made of taro leaves and coconut milk, complemented with shrimp paste or meat. Our main ingredient? Fish. But instead of buying it outright, we decided to catch our own near a tranquil lake nestled in the woods.

The sun hung low as we set off, the soft rustling of leaves underfoot mixing with the chatter of classmates. The forest air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. Emilia, Jose, and I led the way, with Arthur following reluctantly behind, his frustration barely concealed. He muttered something under his breath about my "luck" in teaming up with Emilia, but I chose to ignore it.

Jose, ever the practical one, broke the tension. "Let's divide tasks. Jiro, you and Emilia can gather taro leaves and coconut while I look for the shrimp paste vendor near the market. I'll meet you by the lake for the fish."

"Sounds good," I said, though Arthur's glare suggested he didn't think so.

As Emilia and I moved through the forest, the quiet between us was surprisingly comfortable. She occasionally pointed out plants and landmarks, her knowledge of the area impressive for someone who hadn't grown up here.

"You know," Emilia said, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from her face, "I've read about Bicol in books, but experiencing it is something else. The forest feels… alive."

Her words held a double meaning, and I couldn't help but agree. There was an undeniable energy in the air, as though the land itself was watching us.

The first challenge was finding the taro leaves, which grew in dense clusters near marshy areas. It was trickier than it sounded that the plants were surrounded by thick undergrowth and buzzing insects that seemed determined to chase us away. At one point, I slipped on a muddy patch, nearly tumbling into the water. Emilia burst out laughing, her clear voice echoing through the trees.

"Careful, Jiro," she teased, offering me her hand. "We still need you to cook."

"Thanks," I grumbled, accepting her help. "Just you wait. I'll show you some real survival skills when we catch the fish."

She smirked. "I'll hold you to that."

Next, we had to find a coconut tree. Spotting one wasn't the problem but reaching the coconuts was. I climbed up, the rough bark scraping my hands as I struggled to maintain my grip. Emilia stood below, offering encouragement with the occasional sarcastic remark.

"Don't fall," she called. "I'd hate to explain to your grandparents why you broke your neck collecting coconuts."

"Not helping," I shot back, finally dislodging a couple of coconuts. They hit the ground with a satisfying thud.

When I climbed down, Emilia was already cracking one open with a small blade she carried. "Impressive," I admitted.

She smiled, her cheeks slightly flushed. "A knight must always be prepared."

By the time we reached the lake, the sun was high in the sky, casting shimmering reflections on the water's surface. Jose was already there, holding a makeshift fishing rod fashioned from a sturdy branch and some fishing line he'd brought along.

"You're late," he said, grinning. "Hope you're ready to get your hands dirty."

We fashioned two more rods and got to work. Fishing, as it turned out, required patience a quality Emilia and I didn't have in abundance. While Jose calmly reeled in one fish after another, Emilia and I struggled. Her line kept tangling, and mine didn't seem to attract anything.

"You said you'd show me survival skills," Emilia said, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't say I was an expert fisherman," I muttered, focusing on the line.

Suddenly, there was a tug. My rod bent sharply, and I nearly lost my grip. "I've got something!" I shouted.

Emilia scrambled to help, and together we reeled in a wriggling fish the size of my forearm. She cheered, her enthusiasm infectious.

"Not bad, Jiro," she said, her hand brushing mine as we untangled the fish. I felt a warmth rise to my cheeks, but before I could respond, Jose interrupted.

"Hate to break up the moment," he said, holding up his own catch. "But we've got enough fish. Let's head back."

As we made our way back, the atmosphere shifted. The vibrant sounds of the forest grew muted, replaced by an eerie stillness. A faint, unsettling laughter seemed to drift through the trees, though none of us could pinpoint its source.

"Did you hear that?" Emilia asked, her voice low.

I nodded, gripping the bundle of ingredients tightly. Jose's expression was serious now. "Stay close," he said. "The professors mentioned forest protectors, but it's better not to take chances."

We quickened our pace, reaching the bus just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The professors took a headcount, realizing that one student was still missing. Their expressions darkened, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the forest wasn't done with us yet.

For now, though, we had everything we needed to cook laing. As we climbed back into the bus, Emilia glanced at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and determination.

"Jiro," she said softly, "there's more to you than you're letting on. I'll figure it out eventually."

I met her gaze, unsure whether to feel flattered or wary. One thing was certain but the real challenges were only just beginning.

The trek down the mountain was uneventful until a sudden glow caught our attention. Just off the path, a woman dressed in flowing white stood amidst the trees, her presence exuding an otherworldly aura. Her skin shimmered faintly, and her hair seemed to flow as though caught in a perpetual breeze. She was a diwata, a forest deity, and her beauty was breathtaking.

Our team stopped in awe, the weight of her gaze settling on me. Her glowing eyes met mine as if she had found what she was searching for. Without a word, she nodded, her expression unreadable, and then vanished into thin air, leaving a faint shimmer in the air where she once stood.

"Did you see that?" Emilia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Jose said. "That was… something."

They all looked at me for answers, but I could only shake my head. "I don't know what that was about."

Before we could linger on it, my watch buzzed, reminding us of the contest deadline. We pushed aside our curiosity and hurried back to the base camp, our focus shifting back to the cooking competition.

By the time we returned to the campsite, the open field had transformed into a bustling outdoor kitchen. Each team was assigned a station equipped with portable stoves, cutting boards, and cooking utensils. A long table displayed the main ingredients each team had chosen, along with a selection of spices, herbs, and other basics.

"Alright, team," Jose said, clapping his hands together. "Let's do this. We're making laing. Emilia, prep the taro leaves. Jiro, you're on coconut milk and spices. I'll handle the fish."

Arthur's team, stationed a few spaces away, was preparing Bicol Express, a fiery dish made with pork, shrimp paste, and chili peppers. The air was already thick with the aroma of sizzling meats, boiling broths, and sautéed garlic as other teams worked on dishes like sinigang, tokwa't baboy, and adobo.

The professors circulated among the teams, offering advice and observing the students' techniques. The energy was electric which is part competition, part celebration of Bicolano cuisine.

The challenge of laing was in its simplicity. A dish like this required precision and care. Too much coconut milk, and it would be soupy. Too little, and it would be dry. Overcooking the taro leaves could make them mushy, while undercooking them would leave an unpleasant raw taste.

Emilia carefully washed the taro leaves, her hands swift yet delicate. "You have to do this gently," she explained, "so they don't tear. It's like handling fine fabric."

Meanwhile, I cracked open the coconuts we had collected earlier, draining the water into a bowl before scraping out the meat. Using a traditional coconut grater provided by the professors, I turned the meat into fine shreds, which we pressed to extract the rich, creamy milk. The first squeeze gave us thick cream, and the subsequent squeezes yielded thinner milk, both crucial for layering the dish's flavors.

Jose cleaned and filleted the fish, seasoning it lightly with salt and calamansi juice before setting it aside.

As the taro leaves dried, I heated a pan and sautéed garlic, onions, and ginger in a bit of oil. The aroma was mouthwatering, drawing the attention of nearby teams. I added shrimp paste and chilies, stirring until the mixture turned fragrant and slightly caramelized.

"Jiro, you're a natural," Emilia said, watching me work. Her compliment caught me off guard, but I hid my embarrassment by focusing on the pan.

Once the base was ready, we layered the taro leaves into the pot, adding the thin coconut milk to simmer them gently. Jose added the fish, nestling the fillets between the leaves. Finally, I poured the thick coconut cream on top, letting it seep slowly into the dish.

Cooking laing was a test of patience. The dish needed time for the flavors to meld and for the taro leaves to absorb the creamy richness of the coconut milk. As it simmered, we adjusted the seasoning, balancing the saltiness of the shrimp paste with the natural sweetness of the coconut.

Around us, other teams were bustling. Arthur's team was expertly slicing chilies and pork for their Bicol Express, their pan sizzling loudly as they cooked the meat in shrimp paste and coconut milk. Arthur kept throwing smug glances our way, as if daring us to beat him.

Meanwhile, teams working on sinigang tasted their tamarind broths, and the smell of soy sauce and vinegar filled the air from teams making adobo. The professors moved among the stations, nodding approvingly and offering tips.

When it was time to plate, we carefully spooned the laing onto a serving dish, garnishing it with a sprinkle of crispy garlic and a wedge of calamansi for a touch of acidity.

As the dishes were presented, the professors tasted each one, their expressions ranging from impressed to contemplative. When they reached our station, they took small bites of our laing, nodding as they whispered to each other.

"This is excellent," one professor said. "The balance of flavors is spot on, and the fish is perfectly cooked. Well done."

Arthur's team also received high praise for their Bicol Express, though I noticed Emilia giving a small, satisfied smile when our dish was mentioned.

After the contest, as everyone relaxed and shared their dishes, Emilia leaned closer to me. "You're full of surprises, Jiro. First the forest, now cooking. What else are you hiding?"

I chuckled. "Guess you'll have to stick around to find out."

Her cheeks turned slightly pink, but she didn't look away. For a moment, the competition, the storm in the distance, and even Arthur's constant glare faded away.

In that quiet moment, amidst the laughter and camaraderie of our classmates, I couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was brewing—something far beyond a simple cooking contest.

As the evening settled in, the camaraderie from the cooking contest slowly began to wane. The professors announced the winners, our laing earned second place, while Arthur's Bicol Express took the top spot. He gloated just enough to make me roll my eyes, but it was hard to take him seriously when Emilia gave me an encouraging nudge and whispered, "We should've won."

Despite the lighthearted banter among the students, I couldn't ignore the storm clouds gathering over the distant island. The lightning flashing across the sky seemed unnatural, almost rhythmic, as though marking the pulse of something alive.

Back in our assigned hotel rooms, the class was buzzing with excitement and exhaustion from the day's events. I tried to relax, but my mind was racing with thoughts about the diwata, the storm, and the strange energy I'd been sensing ever since we arrived in Bicol.

Jose knocked on the door and stepped inside, his usual serious expression softening for a moment. "Good job today," he said. "But I'm guessing you're not thinking about the contest."

"You'd be right," I replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. "That storm isn't normal, is it?"

Jose shook his head. "It's not. And it's drawing everything toward it, creatures, energy, even people. That island… it's like a beacon, and not just for us. You need to stay on guard, Jiro."

Before I could respond, Emilia entered the room without knocking, her usual composed demeanor replaced with urgency. "We need to talk," she said, glancing between Jose and me. "There's something I didn't mention earlier. My family has been tracking the energy on that island for generations. It's tied to Excalibur, the sword of my ancestor, King Arthur."

Jose's eyebrows shot up, but he stayed silent, letting her continue.

"The sword's power is vast, and if it falls into the wrong hands…" She paused, her eyes meeting mine. "We believe the storm is tied to the sword's awakening. If that's true, then the creatures around it will do anything to protect or claim it. I need to know, Jiro, what's your connection to all this? That diwata earlier… it was looking for you."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and demanding. I didn't have an answer, but I knew one thing and I couldn't keep pretending I was just an ordinary student. "I don't know," I admitted. "But I'll find out. Whatever's happening, I won't back down."

Emilia nodded, her gaze steady. "Good. Because I think we'll need you."

Later that night, as the students settled into their rooms, I stepped out onto the balcony for some air. The storm on the horizon seemed closer now, its lightning illuminating the waves in eerie flashes. I could feel the energy crackling in the air, faint but unmistakable.

A movement in the distance caught my eye, a dark figure standing on the roof of a nearby building, watching me. I tensed, ready to call for Jose or Emilia, but the figure disappeared before I could react. My instincts screamed that this was just the beginning, that the storm was bringing more than just bad weather.

The next morning, the professors announced the day's itinerary, a visit to Barangay Tagbon, where we'd learn about local culture and traditions. The class was excited, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the storm and the island were linked to something far bigger than a school trip.

As the bus rolled out, I caught Emilia's eye. She gave me a small nod, a silent acknowledgment that we were on the same page. Whatever was waiting for us in the Bicol region, we would face it together.