The journey to Quezon began not with thunder or revelation, but with the familiar monotony of provincial travel—a slow descent from the chaos of Manila into the deeper, quieter pulse of the countryside.
At the bus terminal, time thickened like molasses. Two full hours dragged by as Alex wove through a crowd of restless passengers, snoring drivers, and vendors hawking eggs in paper cones, balut, and plastic bags of boiled peanuts. He watched the terminal's giant digital clock blink sluggishly, every minute stretching into ten.
When the bus finally arrived, its engine coughed like an old smoker before roaring to life. Alex climbed aboard and sank into the window seat, the stiff upholstery already radiating heat despite the early hour. The bus shuddered forward with all the grace of a dying dinosaur.
The four-hour ride south was a test of endurance more than patience. The driver alternated between slamming the gas and jamming the brakes, making the vehicle lurch unpredictably. Static-laced AM radio hummed in the background, replaying news bulletins from yesterday's worldwide telepathic event—the one that had changed everything, yet left so much unchanged. People still argued about fares. Vendors still shouted. Passengers still dozed off to the lull of potholes.
Alex didn't sleep. He simply watched.
Out the window, civilization faded from concrete and glass to fields and bamboo fences. Trucks the size of buildings roared past them on the highway, playing a deadly game of leapfrog. He used to be terrified of morning road travel—accidents were statistically more likely at dawn. But that fear had died along with his old body.
Now? With his enhanced reflexes and Druid-class durability, he could probably punch his way out of a bus wreck. Or survive a plane crash by walking away from the smoldering wreckage.
That thought made him smirk.
By six in the morning, the bus pulled into Tiaong, a town that greeted him with the sleepy embrace of dawn. Narrow streets flanked by old houses with rusting tin roofs. The scent of garlic rice, frying eggs, and brewed kapeng barako drifted lazily through open kitchen windows. Locals swept their yards with bundled twigs, and the occasional tricycle rumbled past like a sleepy insect.
Alex stepped off the bus and stretched, rolling his shoulders until his spine gave a satisfying crack. His black backpack was slung over one shoulder, stuffed with just enough supplies for a few days of scouting. He kept a low profile, donning a weathered cap and a dark hoodie, the better to avoid unwanted attention.
His destination was a small resort just off the national highway—Villa del Luna, a name that sounded far more elegant than the establishment looked. A crumbling cement arch welcomed guests with faded letters and vines curling around the frame. Coconut trees swayed overhead, their fronds whispering ancient secrets in the breeze.
Inside, the front desk area was modest—just a wooden counter, a few dusty brochures, and a small wall-mounted TV playing reruns of a morning drama. But the place had a certain charm, the kind only time and silence could cultivate.
A cheerful woman greeted him at the desk, her ponytail bouncing as she adjusted her reading glasses. Her name tag read "Anna."
"You're lucky, sir," she said brightly, scanning his online booking. "We don't usually allow early check-ins, but no one's here today. Weekdays are very quiet, especially after… you know."
She gave a sheepish shrug.
Alex arched an eyebrow. "After what?"
Anna leaned closer and lowered her voice like someone sharing village gossip. "Yesterday's announcement. The whole... telepathy thing. Lots of folks are on edge. Some say the world's ending. Others think angels are coming down."
He gave her a polite smile. "And what do you think?"
"I think if the world's ending, I'd rather face it with a hot cup of coffee."
A short laugh escaped him. "I'll take one of those too, if you've got it."
While waiting for his coffee, Alex sat down on a wooden bench near the lobby and struck up a conversation with a middle-aged man who had been quietly watching the news on the TV. The man wore a faded cap and a threadbare blue polo shirt. He introduced himself as Mang Noel, the resort's resident handyman and, as he proudly claimed, its "local historian."
"Are you here for business or pleasure, hijo?" he asked, tapping his mug of coffee against his knee.
"Bit of both," Alex replied. "I'm an environmentalist. I'm planning to survey the nearby forests. I heard this region has some untouched spots still left."
Noel gave a knowing nod, his gaze drifting toward the distant hills. "Untouched, sure, but also unexplored for a reason."
Alex's curiosity stirred. "How so?"
The old man's eyes twinkled with something between amusement and superstition. "You ever hear of Mount Malasugat?"
"Can't say I have."
"There's a trail behind the barangay. People used to hike there—until folks started going missing. No clear explanation. Search parties went up and found empty tents… or worse."
"Worse?" Alex leaned forward slightly, the edge in Noel's tone drawing him in.
"Some came back babbling nonsense. Others didn't come back at all. And then there are the stories…"
"Let me guess. Kapres. Tikbalangs. Ghosts of Spanish friars?"
Mang Noel let out a short chuckle. "Oh, you joke, but don't dismiss old warnings too quickly. The forest doesn't care what you believe. It just is."
As if summoned by superstition, another staff member walked over—Lila, a quiet, doe-eyed woman who looked to be in her late twenties. She held a tray with Alex's coffee but hesitated before placing it down.
"There was someone from our barangay," she said softly. "A woman named Clarisse. She went hiking with friends back in 2015. They found the others, shaken and confused, but not her."
Noel's smile faded. "They say she was taken."
Alex accepted the coffee. "Taken by what?"
Lila looked down. "Something with long claws."
A beat of silence passed. The kind that made even the birds outside pause their chirping.
Alex broke it with a grin. "I'll be careful."
He took a sip of the coffee—strong, earthy, exactly what he needed—and stood.
"Thanks for the stories," he said. "If you don't see me at breakfast tomorrow… send a search party."
Mang Noel barked a laugh. "Don't worry. We've got candles, rosaries, and a manananggal-catching net in the back."
Alex waved and headed to his room, hiding his smirk.
The air in this place buzzed with unseen tension. Like the calm that preceded a typhoon. And beneath the surface of friendly smiles and folklore, he felt it: the hum of dark energy, coiled and waiting.