The humidity of the Philippine night had been replaced by a suffocating, metallic heat that tasted of ozone and burning rubber, a sensory overload that clawed at the back of my throat. I stood at the edge of the floodlights' perimeter, the bent steel signpost heavy in my grip, while the sky above the Gateway Mall complex churned with the chaotic motion of the descending swarm. The soldiers of the Special Action Force were shouting orders that were immediately swallowed by the shrieking cacophony from above, their rifles tracking the blurred shapes of the winged horrors diving out of the smoke. My heart wasn't racing; instead, it beat with a slow, terrifyingly steady rhythm, regulated by the Beetle Vestige's endurance and the cold, geometric calculation of the Spider's perception. I wasn't brave. I was simply operating on a different frequency, my nervous system rewired by the three alien entities currently warring for dominance inside my skull.
"Hold your fire until they commit to the dive!" Lieutenant Gamboa roared, his voice cutting through the panic as he stood atop the hood of a humvee, his own rifle shouldered and scanning the darkness. "Don't waste rounds on the shadows! Wait for the eyes!"
"They're too fast, sir! We can't track them!" a young corporal yelled from behind a sandbag wall, his knuckles white as he gripped his M4 carbine. "The thermal scopes are glitching! They're running cold!"
"They aren't cold," I muttered, more to myself than to them, my eyes narrowing as the Spider's perception overlay kicked in. To everyone else, the creatures were blurs of motion; to me, they were wireframe vectors of intent and velocity. I could see the displacement of mana in the air, the subtle ripples of wind as their leathery wings sliced through the updrafts caused by the burning city. They weren't just animals; they were elemental gliders, riding the heat of our destruction.
"Kil, get back!" Mark shouted from beneath the ambulance, his voice rasping and weak. "You don't have a gun! That signpost isn't going to reach them!"
"I don't need to reach them," I replied, my voice sounding flat and distant even to my own ears. "I just need to know where they're going to land."
A screech tore through the air, sharper and closer than the rest. A creature, shaped like a gargoyle stripped of its stone skin and replaced with grey, wet leather, tucked its wings and entered a terminal dive. It was aiming directly for the corporal who had complained about the scopes. The soldier didn't see it; he was looking ten degrees to the left, tracking a decoy. The predator inside me—the Dog—snarled, demanding I intercept, demanding the thrill of the collision.
"Three o'clock! High angle! Move!" I screamed, abandoning my position and sprinting toward the sandbags.
The corporal flinched, turning his head just as I vaulted over the barrier. I didn't try to block the creature; that would be suicide. Instead, I slammed my shoulder into the soldier, tackling him sideways into the mud just as the creature slammed into the spot where he had been standing. The impact cracked the pavement, sending shards of asphalt flying like shrapnel. The creature shrieked, frustrated at missing its prey, and lashed out with a serrated tail.
"Shoot it!" Gamboa's voice boomed.
The squad opened fire. At this range, they couldn't miss. Dozens of rounds slammed into the creature's torso, punching through the leathery hide. It thrashed, black ichor spraying across the sandbags, before collapsing in a heap of twitching limbs. I rolled off the stunned corporal and scrambled to my feet, my chest heaving.
"You okay?" I asked, offering a hand to the soldier.
He stared at me, eyes wide, then at the smoking corpse of the monster, and finally at the jagged signpost I had retrieved from the ground. "You... you saw it. How did you see it?"
"Lucky guess," I lied, pulling him up. "Get your head in the game. That was just the scout."
"He's right!" Gamboa jumped down from the humvee, striding toward us with a fluid, predatory grace that commanded respect. "That was a probe. They're testing the perimeter. Reload! Check your mags!" He grabbed my shoulder, his grip like a vice. "Kid, whatever voodoo you're doing, keep doing it. Can you spot them for us?"
"I can try," I said, wiping a smear of monster blood from my cheek. "But there are too many variables. The smoke is messing with the air currents. They're using the fires to hide their heat signatures."
"Variables?" Gamboa raised an eyebrow, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face. "You talk like an engineer, but you fight like a wild animal. Which is it?"
"Does it matter right now?" I shot back, meeting his gaze. "They're circling for a coordinated strike. You have maybe thirty seconds before they swarm."
Gamboa stared at me for a heartbeat, weighing my utility against his suspicion, before nodding sharply. "Alright. You call it, we kill it. Don't make me regret trusting a civilian."
"I'm barely a civilian anymore," I muttered as he turned away.
"Mark!" I yelled over the rising din of the swarm. "Stay under the ambulance! Do not move unless the vehicle catches fire! Do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear!" Mark yelled back, his voice trembling but distinct. "Just... don't die! I can't carry your corpse home!"
"Here they come!" I shouted, pointing toward the cluster of high-rise condos to the east. "Multiple bogeys! Two distinct groups! They're flanking!"
"Fire team Alpha, left flank! Bravo, take the right! Suppressing fire on my mark!" Gamboa ordered, his voice calm and professional amidst the chaos.
The next ten minutes were a blur of noise and violence. The sky effectively fell on us. The winged creatures—dozens of them—descended in a chaotic spiral. I became a living radar, shouting coordinates and vectors, my voice growing hoarse. Occasionally, a creature would breach the line of fire, and I would be forced to engage. I used the signpost like a spear, driving it into wings and chests, relying on the Beetle's armor to absorb the glancing blows of claws and tails. I wasn't fighting with technique; I was fighting with the brutal efficiency of the Vestiges, letting their instincts guide my hands while I desperately tried to keep my own mind in the driver's seat.
When the last screech faded and the gunfire finally sputtered to a halt, the silence that returned was heavy and ringing. The loading dock was littered with the corpses of the winged beasts, their black blood mixing with the oil and water on the asphalt. The soldiers were panting, checking their bodies for wounds, their eyes hollow with the shock of survival.
"Clear!" Gamboa shouted, lowering his rifle. "Sound off! Casualties?"
"Two wounded, sir! Private Reyes took a claw to the leg, and Santos has a concussion!"
"Get the medic!" Gamboa barked, then turned to look at me. I was leaning against the concrete wall of the mall, my signpost resting against my shoulder, trying to control the shaking in my hands. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in my bones.
"You're bleeding," Gamboa said, walking over to me. He pointed to my arm, where a fresh cut was welling with red blood, distinct from the black and green ichor staining my shirt.
"I'll live," I said, wincing as I shifted my weight. "Are we secure?"
"For now," Gamboa replied, pulling a cigar from his vest pocket but not lighting it. He just chewed on the end, staring at the carnage. "But we can't hold this position. The noise alone will draw every crawler in a five-mile radius. We need to move the civilians to Camp Aguinaldo. We have trucks incoming."
"And Mark?" I asked, looking toward the ambulance.
"He goes with the wounded," Gamboa said. "And you... you should go with them. Get checked out."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
"You're not fine," a sharp, female voice cut in from the side.
I turned to see a woman approaching us, wiping her hands on a rag that was already stained crimson. She was small, maybe five-foot-two, but she walked with a rigid, furious posture that made her seem seven feet tall. Her hair was jet black, pulled back into a messy bun that was slowly unraveling, with loose strands sticking to her forehead with sweat. She wore a chaotic mix of civilian clothes and tactical gear—an oversized EMS vest thrown over a blood-spattered scrub top, baggy cargo pants, and muddy hiking boots. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones and dark circles under her eyes that spoke of days without sleep.
"Who's this?" I asked Gamboa.
"This is Sofia Alcantara," Gamboa introduced, sounding almost deferential. "Volunteer combat medic. She's been patching up my boys since the first rift opened in Marikina."
Sofia stopped in front of me, ignoring Gamboa completely. She reached out and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes were dark, intense, and analyzing me with a clinical detachment that was unsettling.
"Pupils are dilated," she muttered, shining a penlight into my eyes before I could pull away. "Pulse is visible in the carotid. Respiration is controlled but shallow. And your skin..." She dropped her hand from my face and grabbed my wrist, her fingers pressing into my pulse point. "You're burning up. You have a fever of at least forty degrees, but you're not sweating. Why aren't you sweating?"
"I run hot," I said, pulling my wrist back gently. "Genetic."
"That's medically impossible," Sofia snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "Unless you're going into heatstroke, in which case you should be unconscious. Or dead." She looked at the signpost, then at the dead monsters, and her eyes narrowed. "Or you're one of the 'special' cases. Like the ones the government is trying to hush up."
"Special cases?" I asked, feigning ignorance.
"Don't play dumb," Sofia said, her tone biting. "I've seen three people today who could lift cars or shoot fire from their hands. All of them had the same look in their eyes that you do. Like they're high on something."
"I'm just tired, Doc," I said, stepping back. "Is my friend okay?"
"The boy with the taped glasses?" Sofia's expression softened slightly, but the suspicion didn't leave her eyes. "He's stable. Concussion, dehydration, and minor lacerations. I gave him an IV and something for the pain. He's asking for you. He's annoying."
"Yeah, that sounds like Mark," I said, a genuine smile cracking through my mask of exhaustion.
"He's in the second truck," Sofia said, pointing to a convoy of military transport vehicles rumbling into the loading bay. "We're moving out in five minutes. If you're coming, get on. If you're staying to play hero, write your next of kin on your arm so we can identify the body."
"Charming," I muttered.
"I'm a realist," Sofia shot back, turning on her heel and marching toward the wounded. "Try not to die. I'm running low on body bags."
Gamboa chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "She likes you. Usually, she just tells people they're already dead."
"I can see the appeal," I said, watching her go. "So, Camp Aguinaldo. That's the plan?"
"That's the order," Gamboa corrected. "Secure the civilians, regroup, and wait for the Americans or the UN or whoever is supposed to save us. Rumor has it the President is already in a bunker somewhere in Mindanao."
"Nobody is coming to save us, Lieutenant," I said quietly, looking back at the rift over the Coliseum. The purple light was pulsing rhythmically now, like a heartbeat. "You saw the pillar in Rizal. This isn't a disaster relief situation. It's a conquest."
Gamboa followed my gaze, his face grim. "Maybe. But my job is to keep these people breathing until I'm told otherwise. You coming, or are you going to run off into the dark again?"
I looked at the convoy, then at the dark streets of Cubao. The hunger in my gut—the urge to hunt, to consume more orbs—was strong. The Vestiges were restless. But Mark was on that truck. And honestly, I didn't know how much longer I could keep the monster side of me on a leash without rest.
"I'm coming," I said. "I need a ride."
"Good," Gamboa clapped me on the back. "Get in the truck with your friend. And bring that spear of yours. Something tells me we're going to need it before we hit EDSA."
I climbed into the back of the military truck, the canvas cover offering a meager shield against the nightmare outside. The interior was packed with civilians—huddled families, crying children, shell-shocked office workers. The air smelled of diesel, fear, and unwashed bodies. Mark was sitting near the cab, his head wrapped in white gauze, looking pale and small.
"You made it," Mark breathed, a wave of relief washing over his face as I sat down opposite him.
"Did you doubt me?" I asked, resting the signpost between my knees.
"Constantly," Mark quipped, though his voice lacked its usual energy. He looked at the other refugees, then leaned in close, whispering so only I could hear. "Kil, seriously. What is happening? The news... before the signal died... they were saying this is global. Tokyo, New York, London. Rifts everywhere."
"It's global," I confirmed, closing my eyes and letting my head rest against the vibrating metal frame of the truck. "The rules have changed, Mark. Money, grades, careers... none of it matters anymore."
"So what matters?" Mark asked, adjusting his taped glasses.
"Essence," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. The Vestiges hummed in approval. "Power. Survival."
Mark stared at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "You sound like a video game character. A really edgy one."
"It's not a game," I opened my eyes, letting the faint glow I couldn't fully suppress flare for a second. "Games have balance patches. This... this is just slaughter."
"Excuse me?" A timid voice interrupted us.
I turned to see a young woman holding a sleeping toddler. She was staring at my hands, her eyes wide with fear. "Are you... are you one of the Awakened? Like on the news?"
"Awakened?" I repeated the term. It sounded sanitized. Heroic.
"That's what they're calling them," Mark interjected. "People who got powers from the rifts. Some are helping. Some are..."
"Some are just trying not to die," I finished for him. I looked at the woman. "Yeah. I guess I am."
"Thank you," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "For saving us at the mall. I saw you fight that beetle thing."
I didn't know what to say. I hadn't fought the beetle to save them. I fought it because it was in my way, and because the thing inside me wanted its energy. The gratitude felt misplaced, heavy. I wasn't a hero; I was a cannibal of monsters.
"Don't thank me yet," I said softly. "We're not safe until we're behind the walls."
The truck lurched forward, joining the convoy as it began to snake its way out of the loading dock. The journey to Camp Aguinaldo should have been a five-minute drive. Tonight, it felt like an odyssey across a hostile alien planet.
As we rolled onto Aurora Boulevard, I peered out the back flap. The city was burning. But amidst the flames, I saw figures moving on the rooftops. Not monsters. People. Watching. Some were holding weapons. Some were glowing with faint, colorful lights—blue, green, red.
"We're not the only ones," I murmured.
"What?" Mark asked.
"Nothing," I said, shifting my grip on the signpost. "Just... lots of competition."
The truck hit a bump, and everyone groaned. Sofia Alcantara appeared at the back of the truck, climbing in from the trailing jeep while the convoy moved at a crawl. She moved with surprising agility for someone who looked ready to collapse. She squeezed past the civilians and crouched next to Mark, checking his IV line.
"Fluid is flowing," she muttered. "How's the head?"
"Still attached," Mark said, trying to smile. "Thanks to you, Doc."
"I'm not a doctor yet," Sofia corrected, checking her watch. "Final year resident. Technically, I'm just a glorified student practicing without a license."
"Join the club," I said. "We're all improvising."
Sofia looked at me, her gaze lingering on the dried ichor on my shirt. "You need antibiotics. And probably a tetanus shot. That metal stick you're carrying is a biohazard waiting to happen."
"It's effective," I said defensively.
"It's dirty," she countered. "When we get to the camp, you report to the medical tent. No arguments. If you turn into a zombie and start eating people, I'm the one who has to put a bullet in your brain. I'd rather avoid the paperwork."
"You're very focused on paperwork for someone in the middle of an apocalypse," Mark noted.
"Structure keeps us sane," Sofia said, her voice tight. "Rules keep us human. Once we stop following protocols, we're just animals fighting over scraps."
She looked at me when she said it, and I knew she had seen the hunger in my eyes earlier. She knew. Or she suspected.
"I like rules," I lied.
"Good," Sofia stood up, grabbing a strap as the truck swerved to avoid a burning car. "Because where we're going, the military is going to have a lot of them. And they don't take kindly to people who think they're above the chain of command."
"I'm not looking for trouble," I said, looking out at the passing ruins of Cubao.
"Trouble found you, Riftwalker," she said, using a term I hadn't heard before. "Now you just have to decide whose side you're on."
"Riftwalker?" Mark asked. "Is that a thing?"
"It is now," Sofia said grimly. "That's what the radio chatter is calling the ones who can enter the nests and come out alive. You're a rare breed, Salvatierra. Don't waste it."
She moved back to check on another patient, leaving me with the weight of her words. Riftwalker. It sounded better than "monster," but it carried a burden I wasn't sure I wanted.
The convoy turned right, heading toward the massive gates of Camp Aguinaldo. Even from here, I could feel the concentration of mana. The military base wasn't just a fortress of concrete and steel; it was becoming a beacon. There were others there. Powerful ones.
My chest tightened. The Vestiges sensed the challenge.
Dominance. Territory. War.
"Shut up," I whispered to the voices. "We're just here to sleep."
But as the gates loomed ahead, guarded by tanks and spotlight towers, I knew sleep was a long way off. We were leaving the jungle and entering the cage, and I had a feeling the politics inside would be just as deadly as the spiders outside.
"Mark," I said, looking at my friend. "Whatever happens inside... stay close to me."
"Always," Mark said, closing his eyes. "You're the one with the glowing eyes and the magic stick. I'm just the sidekick."
"You're the moral compass," I corrected him. "Don't lose that. I might need it."
The truck passed through the gates, and the heavy steel doors slammed shut behind us, sealing us in with the remnants of the Philippine government and the uncertain future of a world that had moved on from humanity.